#even if its just a little color and shapes exploration :-)

[codecicle]

Heard this guy made A Tribute to Minecraft (and loves cod, tekkit, and dayz. those are lamer though)

[sincerely-sofie]

*silently slides Twig/Ark content onto your dash* *scurries away into the night*

(Read the rest under the cut!)

[your-local-simp-writers]

Ghosts and S’mores

Word Count: 1743

Warnings: None

Dick Grayson x Fem! Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The pumpkin patch was a vibrant tapestry of fall colors, a lively spectacle filled with families and friends enjoying the crisp autumn air. As you and Dick wandered among the towering rows of pumpkins, laughter and chatter surrounded you, weaving a tapestry of joy that was infectious. The sweet scent of hay mingled with the spicy aroma of cinnamon from nearby stalls selling warm apple cider and baked goods. It was one of those perfect October afternoons that felt like a scene from a movie, and every moment felt imbued with magic.

Dick was clad in his favorite leather jacket, the one that seemed to radiate his effortless charm. His dark hair tousled in the gentle breeze, he flashed you a playful grin as he strolled beside you. “Look at this one!” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees beside a pumpkin that was surprisingly large and oddly shaped, with deep grooves and a slightly crooked stem. “This one’s perfect for carving! Just imagine the scariest jack-o’-lantern in Gotham with this bad boy!”

You laughed, shaking your head as you picked up a smaller pumpkin, perfectly round and smooth. “As much as I love your enthusiasm, I’m not sure Gotham is ready for a pumpkin that terrifying,” you teased, turning the smaller pumpkin in your hands, contemplating its carving potential. “I think we should aim for something a little more charming. You know, something that reflects our style.”

Dick stood up, brushing off his knees, and approached you, his mischievous glint unmistakable. “We should do matching costumes this year. How cute would that be?” he suggested, leaning in closer, the excitement in his voice palpable.

You raised an eyebrow, holding the pumpkin to your chest, feeling your heart warm at his enthusiasm. “Alright, Mr. Grayson, what are we dressing up as this year for Halloween?” you asked, a smile dancing on your lips.

Dick’s grin widened as he dropped his hands on his hips, striking a goofy pose. “How about this: I’ll be a graham cracker, and you’ll be a marshmallow! Together, we can be a s’more!” His laughter echoed in the air, infectious as he picked up a pumpkin and held it up to his face like a mask, the playful absurdity of the idea sending you into a fit of giggles.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics, shaking your head in disbelief. “I love you, I swear I do, but there’s no way I’m dressing up as a marshmallow. I have my dignity to think about!” You teased, though your heart danced at the thought of being a couple in matching costumes.

“Oh, come on! Just think of the photo ops!” he insisted, doing a little twirl with the pumpkin as if it were a trophy. “Imagine it—two adorable treats, making everyone else jealous with our cuteness!”

Rolling your eyes but unable to suppress your smile, you responded, “Fine, fine! But we have to come up with something better than that. You’re the horror movie expert. What do you think?”

Dick glanced at the pumpkins around you, mock-serious as he crossed his arms. “How about you dress up as Sidney Prescott and I’ll be Ghostface? I can totally pull off the scary vibe!” he suggested, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

You laughed, nodding in agreement. “That’s actually a great idea! I could even carry around a fake knife to chase you with!” The thought of him running away from you, feigning terror, made you giggle even more.

He feigned a look of horror, eyes wide and hands up in mock surrender. “You wouldn’t actually stab me, right? I’m your boyfriend, not your victim!” he exclaimed, stepping back dramatically, making you laugh even harder.

“Just saying, it depends on how convincing you are in your role!” you replied, your playful banter making the atmosphere even more cheerful. The two of you continued to explore the patch, debating over which pumpkins would serve best for carving.

After a bit more wandering, you finally settled on a pumpkin, holding it up triumphantly. “What do you think? This one has the perfect balance of cute and spooky!” you announced, turning it slightly to show off its unique shape and texture, your excitement bubbling over.

Dick nodded appreciatively, his gaze softening as he looked at you, then at the pumpkin. “I think it’s perfect! But if we’re doing Ghostface and Sidney, we have to go all out. I can’t just wear a mask and call it a day.”

You grinned at his determination, leading the way to the checkout area with your chosen pumpkin in tow. “Agreed! We should definitely take the time to make our costumes look awesome. This is going to be the Halloween to remember!”

Once you paid for your pumpkin, Dick insisted on carrying it back to the car. “This baby is all mine! I’ll guard it with my life,” he joked, cradling the pumpkin like a precious trophy. As you made your way to the car, the sunlight bathed everything in a warm golden glow, and you couldn’t help but glance at him, feeling your heart swell.

Later that evening, you found yourselves in your cozy kitchen, the soft glow of fairy lights illuminating the space and creating an inviting ambiance. You spread newspapers across the table, lighting pumpkin spice candles that filled the air with a comforting scent, crafting an atmosphere perfect for a cozy night in. Dick set the pumpkin down with exaggerated care before turning to you with a playful gleam in his eye.

“Alright, I’ll get the carving tools!” he declared, bounding to the kitchen drawer. You watched him rummage through the utensils, his enthusiasm contagious. As he turned back with a small carving knife and a spoon, he struck a dramatic pose. “Prepare to be amazed by my pumpkin artistry!”

You leaned against the counter, watching him work, the way his brow furrowed in concentration making your heart flutter. “Just don’t mess it up too badly. We need to impress the other partygoers,” you said, a teasing lilt to your voice.

“Mess it up? Please!” he scoffed, pretending to be offended. “I’m the king of pumpkin carving! This pumpkin is going to be the talk of the party.”

You smiled, moving to your own pumpkin as he continued to sketch his design, a mix of horror and humor. The rhythmic sound of carving filled the kitchen, punctuated by laughter and playful jabs at each other's artistic choices. You shared stories about past Halloweens, recalling funny moments and childhood costumes, the atmosphere light and filled with joy.

“I remember one year, I tried to be a vampire but ended up looking like I had a bad case of toothpaste on my face,” you said, laughing as you recalled the memory. “My mom still has pictures of me, and it’s one of the most embarrassing things ever!”

Dick burst out laughing, putting down his carving knife to clutch his stomach. “That’s too good! I can’t wait to see that picture! I can totally picture you with a little cape and fangs that are too big for your mouth,” he teased, moving closer to get a better look at your pumpkin.

“Shut up! I was only eight! I thought I looked cool!” you retorted, trying to sound indignant but failing miserably. His laughter was infectious, and soon you found yourself laughing along.

“Okay, but let’s be honest. You were probably the cutest vampire ever,” he said, leaning in closer to inspect your work. “And I’m not sure what’s scarier: my pumpkin or the thought of you with a cape.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at his compliment, a flutter in your stomach as he leaned in to examine your pumpkin closely. “Thanks! I’m going for spooky-cute, you know? The perfect balance,” you said, focusing on carving the jagged smile.

After a bit more back-and-forth, you both paused to admire each other’s work. Your pumpkin had turned out beautifully, the jagged smile and piercing eyes giving it a menacing yet charming look, while Dick’s creation was… well, unique, to say the least. It featured a goofy, lopsided grin that was more silly than scary, and you couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

“I think yours might scare off all the trick-or-treaters!” you teased, pointing at his pumpkin. “It looks like it just got done running a marathon!”

Dick chuckled, feigning a pout as he crossed his arms. “Excuse me, but that’s exactly what I was going for! The ‘scary but adorable’ vibe.” He gestured grandly toward his pumpkin. “This little guy is going to steal the show!”

You shook your head, still grinning, but then your expression softened as you looked at him, your heart swelling with warmth. “Honestly, I love it. It’s so you—full of fun and unexpected charm.”

His gaze met yours, the playful energy shifting into something more intimate. “And I love you,” he said softly, moving a little closer, his expression sincere. “I love how you make everything more fun. You’re the one who keeps me grounded, even when I’m pretending to be a horror icon.”

Your cheeks flushed at his words, and you leaned in closer, playfully nudging him with your shoulder. “Well, I’m glad to keep you on your toes. Just remember, I’m still the one chasing you down at the party!”

“Only if you promise to keep it PG-13,” he said with a laugh, leaning back against the kitchen counter, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’d like to leave some mystery for the next Halloween party, after all.”

With the room filled with laughter and love, you both settled into a rhythm, finishing up the carving and lighting candles to place inside the pumpkins. The flickering flames illuminated the room, casting playful shadows and filling the kitchen with the warm, cozy glow that made everything feel perfect.

You admired your handiwork, the warmth of the candles reflected in Dick’s eyes, and you couldn’t help but smile. “I think we make a pretty great team, don’t you?”

He nodded, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Definitely. Here’s to many more adventures and memories together. I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else.”

You both leaned in closer, sharing a gentle kiss, the world outside fading away as the glow of the pumpkins surrounded you in a cocoon of warmth and love. In that moment, everything felt perfect, the bond between you deepening as you embraced the spirit of Halloween together.

[1800titz]

HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic. 

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 

It’s a cute shop. 

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 

Yeah. 

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 

“Right. Thanks�� thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 

This is The Turning Point. 

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked. 

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 

Christ. 

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 

“Thank you. What now?” 

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

[yandere-sins]

Do you still write for yandere omega? That piece was soooo good oml, can you write an aftermath or just a snippet of day to day life with them? Yan omegas are so rare and they are rarely explored and tours really set a tone on what they could do. Its the ultimate ploy, nobody can suspect an omega desiring a simple beta, simply too outrageous to think

I never really stop writing for anything (that might be the actual problem, lol). Thanks for your request!

Warning: Yandere, Sexual Content!!

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Tap, tap, tap.

Their fingers swept over the keyboard on their lap, restless and excited, generating countless words per minute. A smile played on the omega's lips, giddy and amused as they scrolled and replied to endless comments, the flood of new notifications never-ending. The success of their latest video—a video showing you and them immersed in heat and rut for hours to no end—was something that not even they could have expected. Still, they kept their online banking up, watching donations and premium membership fees roll in by the second, putting a wide grin on their face.

Humming in satisfaction, they halted their fanservice, glancing up from the blinding laptop screen to you, sitting on the chair next to them, still dazed as you ate your cereals. You two had been holed up for days in your nest, the whole production of your very first video having ruthlessly dragged you through all emotions known to mankind and leaving you exhausted. Not exhausted enough to refuse the food your omega procured for you, but enough so that you didn't argued or cried anymore while shoveling colorful, animal-shaped cereals and milk into your mouth. 

Even like this—disheveled, still a little crusty (since you didn't want to get out of your curled position and shower with them after they stopped the recording), and sore—you were no less their beautiful beta than you were down in the love nest, ravaging your omega like a goddamn beast. 

You had visibly turned off reality around you, sitting there completely out of it as you ate, heading your omega no mind. What you must be thinking about was as puzzling as it was unconcerning to them, their own thoughts had always been louder in their head. However, as they watched you, they grew antsy, missing your full attention on them like when you two were buried in sheets and in the spotlight of their production, even though it had been painful at times. But even pain was beautiful to some, and your pain was a gift to them, just like your love was. They missed your hands all over them, spit and sweat mixing as your bodies moved in perfect harmony with each other. Now, despite sitting close enough to you that they could easily reach out and hold your hand, it was not close enough.

They hadn't brought you here for you to be away from them. All the money and time that went into building, securing, and completely erasing the location of this mansion had not been so you two would be apart from each other. Not for you to have that kind of freedom, one that the omega didn't want for you or for them. 

It was bittersweet to abandon their beloved fans for you, the very same people who made it possible for you two to be together. Who supported and encouraged the omega, no matter what, as they worked their butt off for more and more of their attention. And yet, the omega announced their farewells for the day, promising more exciting content to come tomorrow before logging off and closing the laptop.

It was your attention they wanted. Only yours. 

It had only ever been you they desired, from kindergarten well into adulthood. They had always clung to you and pleaded for you to claim them long before your diagnosis. It was such a shame that you didn't present as an alpha when the time came; otherwise, their place at your side would have been surely secured. This way, they had to go to drastic lengths to be with you, even though the effort hadn't been in vain. Now they had you right where they wanted. 

Their hand sliding up your arm, you halted your movements, spoon hanging in mid-air with milk dripping from its rim. There was a slight shake in your hand, growing more and more intense the higher the omega's hand traveled. Until they gripped your shoulder, the spoon clattering on the designer table, milk and cereals going everywhere as you winced in pain. 

Their grip was merciless, considering the many, many marks and bruises they left on your body, the pain only now registering that you were out of the drug-induced rut. Your whole body was practically mauled by your omega's teeth and sharp nails, fists they used to get you in position when you were too high to listen to their demands. Everything hurt, and when they climbed on your lap, tears shot back into your eyes, their hands freely roaming your chest and arms without remorse about what they did to you. 

In fact, they were proud feeling the indents through your t-shirt. A shirt they rubbed all over themselves before helping you into, marking you with their scent. Had you been an alpha, it would have been so easy to make sure you smelled like your omega. But you weren't. So they needed to use more drastic methods to mark you. The omega could think about a good handful more ways but decided to keep those for the next time they'd put you in front of a camera. Until then, a shirt and their body rubbing against yours had to suffice. 

"You did so well," they cooed, longing for nothing more than to hear you praise them as well. But perhaps they had to show you first how to take care of an omega, so, once again, they took the lead, just like they always had in this relationship. "Fucked me so good, made me feel so full ~ My pretty little beta. You enjoyed it, too, right? We made such a lovely video; now my fans love you too."

"Ah- No more..." you gasped weakly, gripping the omega's waist and trying to push them off you. They grinned at your little, helpless defiance, the bite you had after arriving in your new home now muzzled after days of fucking. You had so many more beautiful sounds to give them than your screaming and crying—moaning, whimpering, begging. Their hips were grinding over your legs and into yours, the pain etched into your face of no concern to the omega as they kept disturbing all the sore and wounded parts of your body.

God, you were beautiful. 

Day, night, evening, morning, you were always fucking stunning. Happy, smiling, angry, crying, needy, drooling, hurt, and despairing. There was no moment they didn't love you. You were only made for them, your beauty belonged all to the omega. Even god must have meant for you two to be together. 

"Hush, it's okay. There, there..." your omega muttered, leaning forward to kiss your tears away, licking up the salty trails they left behind while their hips picked up speed on top of you, causing some blissful moans from the omega's lips. Nothing in this world turned them on like you did, even sitting at the table, crying pathetically over the pleasure they gave you. You were so seductive, even when you were hurting. Anything they gave you, pain or pleasure, you had to accept it just like the omega did. Pain, acceptance, being close to each other no matter what—all these feelings you harbored for them, you had to accept the same way they did. That's what love meant.

Sliding their hand down your chest, they dug under your waistband, sliding further and further. You let out a beautiful gasp, followed by your body shifting and hands trying to stop the passionate grind of the omega's hips. But latest when they had their hand on your sex, making you flinch at the touch, you slowly stilled, merely trembling as your breath turned ragged. 

"That's it, baby!" the omega cheered, your pleasure becoming their own as they used their hand to get both of you off by grinding against it. "Come for me, Darling! You'll do it, right? Come for me? Come like a good beta from your omega's hand?"

They'd turn all this hurt into more and more love. Your pain would soon cease when you realized they were doing what was right for you. Their hand was slick with your juices, confirming that the omega was right—they were the best and only option for you to thrive in this life, just like the thought of you had driven them to success. It would turn you into an alpha despite your genes, at least one in mind. Now that they had you, they would never let you go. They'd never abandon you and take a real alpha; there was no need for it anymore when they could shape you into what they wanted. 

Slipping their hand out of your shorts again, they licked off the remnants of your orgasm, watching as your body collapsed beneath them. That's right, they thought, just let yourself fall. Once you'd learn to leave behind all the bad thoughts and drown in the pleasure and love they'd give you, everything would get better. You could live your life with them, secluded and confined in your togetherness, in peace and harmony. 

Your omega would do what you needed to realize this.

"I love you," they murmured against your lips, licking over the bloody marks of your own teeth that had bitten into them, kissing away the pain. Soon, there would be no need to hold back like this. No need for hostility against them. Everything would go back to how it was before your diagnosis. You two would finally be happy. 

"I love you so much," they sighed, ignoring the jolt in your body as they began to grind again, not yet done with you. Mouths mixing in a one-sided kiss, the omega moaned into it, ignoring every flinch and your whining when they bit into your lips as well, combining your mark with theirs and tasting what belonged to them. 

They knew they might have to ruin you some more to achieve their goals. Break in the old belief that you two could never be together, and let it crumble like a house of cards by showing you how they could take care of you. Bring out your real potential as their partner. Claim you until you were too weak to refuse them as your bonded partner. 

It was a rocky road until then, littered with more arguments, nights of silence, tears, and them getting what they wanted no matter how much you suffered. But they had gone through much worse to get to where they were now. The extra effort would not stand in the way of your happiness. After all, that's what devotion was.

And your omega would always be the one and only for you. 

[noideabutsims]

Donut Co.'s Dream-Build-Play Blocks: Expansion Edition

🚨 Calling All Simmers! The Wait is OVER! 🎉 Donut Co.'s Dream-Build-Play Blocks: Expansion Pack is FINALLY HERE! 🚨

Dust off those creative hats and prepare for a playtime EXPLOSION because the Dream-Build-Play Blocks are back and better than ever! We've crammed a whopping 80 new items into this expansion pack, guaranteed to transform your Sims' homes into vibrant, block-tastic wonderlands.

🚀 Blast Off to Imagination Station:

20 Unique Dollhouses: Prepare to be WOWED. From towering castles to bustling town centers, there's a miniature masterpiece for every Sim's imagination. Race cars on the Runaway Racetrack, explore the cosmos with the Rocket Up-and-Away, or rule the kingdom from the majestic Clock Tower! Each dollhouse is a portal to a world of endless possibilities.

🏡 Build-Your-Own Clubhouse Kit: Calling all aspiring architects! This kit is your Sim kid's blank canvas. Plop down the invisible base, then let their creativity run wild with 20 colorful building blocks. Design sprawling clubhouses with secret entrances, cozy reading nooks, or even a mini stage for impromptu dance parties!

🏰 2 Pre-Built Playhouses: Need a little inspiration? We've got you covered with two pre-built clubhouses that showcase the endless possibilities of the Build-Your-Own Clubhouse Kit. (Psst... Dreamhouse Decorator required!)

🌈 13 Decor Block Piles & 10 Single Decor Blocks: These aren't just blocks, they're instant bursts of personality! Scatter these colorful creations around your Sims' homes for a playful touch. Or, unleash your inner builder with the single blocks and the magical "bb.moveobjects" cheat – the sky's the limit!

👶 14 Nesting Blocks: Tiny hands, meet big fun! These soft, colorful blocks are perfect for your littlest Sims. Watch them giggle with glee as they stack, nest, and explore a world of shapes and textures. Learning and development have never been so adorable!

🎉 A Rainbow of Possibilities:

We're celebrating creativity in all its forms with two vibrant color options for EVERY block item. Choose from classic brights for a burst of energy, or soft pastels for a touch of dreamy sweetness.

💖 Why You'll LOVE It:

Endless Fun: This set is PACKED with play value, guaranteeing hours of entertainment for Sims of all ages.

Sparks Creativity: Encourage your Sims to think outside the block with open-ended building and imaginative play.

Kid-Approved: We designed this set with little ones in mind, ensuring safety, durability, and maximum fun!

So What Are You Waiting For?

The Dream-Build-Play Blocks: Expansion Pack is available NOW! Let the building bonanza begin! Don't forget to share your Sims' amazing creations with us – we can't wait to see what you build! ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Downloading: If you download the zip, pick EITHER the merged file, or the unmerged packages in the folders - you cant have both, they're the same. The merged file has EVERYTHING! For other refrence images, and to see all 80 items laid out - you can check the preview here: https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/760676067863412736/simmers-get-ready-to-unleash-a-world-of?source=share There are 2 functional playhouses (Dream home decorator required), a playhouse base, 20 functional dollhouses, 43 décor items, and 14 nesting blocks. All ages can play with the dollhouses, toddlers and up can play with the playhouses. Dream home decorator is REQUIRED to use the playhouses, the merged file includes them automatically so if you do not have it - please use the unmerged files HUGE thank you goes out to@TaurusDesigns because they have continuously helped me out with my meshing/making of objects, and they're a wonderful CC creator! Make sure to check em out! <3 (All of our CC can be found by typing " Donut " into the search bar!) All 80 items are New meshes, and have all shadows and LODs. There is a slight glitch in the shadows on a few objects, but it only occurs BEFORE placing them down in game. Once they are placed, they are perfectly fine! Same as the last set! <3 If you wanna check out our other block sets, you can find them here: https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/754033695218909184/8-new-fun-toys-for-sims-4-infantstoddlers?source=share https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/754032309525774336/tons-of-functional-new-items-for-sims-4-toys?source=share

Infants that can sit up can play with all dollhouse block items, toddlers and kids can play too! Most of my images have my reshade on - it changes the color minimally, so white may look a little off in photos, but in game it will look white/normal!! In images you can find the non-reshade example! <3 You can size them up and down using the bracket keys. [ ] <- these ones.  I personally, use the tool mod to size my items up and down, and specifically with these if you are wanting them to be "perfectly sized" i would recommend you grab the tool mod by twistedmexi! If you would like to use it in build-buy mode, you'll need BBB!) Re-colors, and using this item as a mesh/base is fully allowed! you can include the mesh, and do what you please with the item, as long as you link back to the original. There are posts for all of our cc on our main 3 platforms (Tumblr, curseforge, patreon. ), So there is no reason not to link back!

Will be releasing more content soon! stay tuned! ❤️ (NOT affiliated with EA or Maxis in any way! We just make CC! ) DOWNLOAD: ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CurseForge: curseforge.com/sims4/build-buy/donut-co-s-dream-build-play-blocks-expansion Google Drive: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1E2ELomt_YIWhofi4wC4niJHzvkKNlMpx/view?usp=sharing

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/111578246?pr=true ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**** Small tidbit about support, we really appreciate the read if you don't mind!**** We would love to be able to do this full time, but sadly without it bringing in an income, we can only do so part time. We LOVE making CC, but we NEVER want to force our supporters to pay us - just to access some items we made. Due to our items NEVER being paywalled, we have to now ask that if any of you could, we hoped you would consider downloading on Curseforge - if you do, you can help us be able to afford to keep making CC! If all or even a majority of the people who always download our items were to download on curseforge or sub to our $1 teir on Patreon - we could afford to turn this into a job. I know not everyone can, and that's ok, but if its possible it really really does help us out. It funds fixing our computers to be able to continue making cc, helps pay our bills, and even helps us fix our car and bike, and just in general when things happen. It really does mean alot to us, so supporting our patreon, or downloading via curseforge are amazing ways that you guys can help us! Thanks so much for all of your support!

[lokorum]

Your art so surreal, did you take inspiration from African masks it’s amazing. You have probably gotten this question before but what’s your process and how do plan these beautiful pieces out. I am a beginner artist and would like some advice on how start doing digital painting.

thank you for bringing me back from the dead with your kindness, (i was so sad today ughhhh i think watching vampire diaries starting to affect me hjkhjk), i really, really deeply thankful that you spend your time to write something so sweet (also sorry it took me literally ages to reply phphp THE USUAL)

yeah, in buryatia shamanism like the big thing, so when i went to search what's out there in the masks department - google's mess of the results for once was helpful and showed this massive collection of beautiful african masks. the one that was inspo for tiisha lived in my head rent free for weeks before the character was even born phphph now i cant even imagine her without it 

(here is little tiisha for you before i'll proceed to be not helpfull phphphph)

oof advices are not my strong side , like..........my process mostly is just sleep through the whole thing i guess..........................i very rarely do sketches, i hate study anatomy and perspective, drawing cubes makes me physically sick etc etc my approach to drawing were "fuck around and find out", always about chill and fun and barely ever about learning. imho thats why im so shitty at drawing simple things but not bad at coloring. so yeah, my biggest advice always and forever will be - be gentle to yourself, please

digital or traditional or whatever else is out there, dont forget you make it for yourself and for yourself only okay? it supposed to be fun, not sad tiring and competitive 

advices for digital specifically tho - very objective, apply with caution

learn all the keyboard shortcuts, ideally to press them without thinking 

explore more instruments than just brush. it will be tedious and sometimes feel like a chore so mb pick one victim once a month and browse youtube for a stuff like SECRET ULTIMATE TIPS ABOUT MAGIC WAND TOOL THAT WILL SAVE YOUR LIFE (they indeed will save your life) 

check if your drawing program has artboards - turning it on will give you more freedom over canvas positioning  and your refs will always be there and not in the separate window 

idk about others but using auto tone, auto contrast and auto color often gives me well needed perspective on what im doing 

in 99% cases be sure that you can reanimate even the most messiest artpiece you ever did. working in digital gives you the chance to mess with shapes, colors and perspective at any time so if you dont want to gave up on something - you absolutely didnt have to

from time to time while you are still learning - go out there in the wilds and search for the new brushes. tweak with them if you want. i have like ~500 and i use 6 max, but those 6 i found by at some point trying to draw with all of the 500

MADE. BACK UPS. and i mean not like save layers just in case before merging them (tho that's too will help) no, i mean click SAVE AS once an hour and create A NEW FILE. PLEASE. i lost so much stuff to sudden power outage. its never pretty and you loosing will to work for days

watch at least one tutorial about the whole rgb srgb and cmyk thing - i did, understood not a thing, but at least im not playing dora the explorer with my colors after the export now 

uh idk think thats it? tried to think about those that id hope i knew when i started so hopefully something will help 

have fun with your drawings!! 

[old-daemon-farts]

Is daemonism safe?

Daemonism, when broken down to the bare minimum, is a mental and imaginative exercise. It's not meant to push yourself into anything potentially unhealthy. You are not forcing hallucinations and there shouldn't be any dissociation of identity or losing control of yourself.

Let's Start With Projection

Projection is applying mental images overlaid on your surroundings. It is using your imagination and relying on your ability to visualize outward what is being produced by your mind's eye. With practice, you can make your projections quite vivid, and after a while you may not even register that you are still seeing right through them. The apple exercise is a good example. Lets say you picture an apple on a plate in front of you, but the apple is fleeting and inconsistent. Its shape, colors, and size flickers rapidly or fizzles out entirely. You *know* it's not there. There's little presence or weight to it. If this was glass, it would be described as crystal clear. But, with practice, it becomes more consistent. You can now see one shade of red and the size remains the same. Perhaps you have even added details like a shadow. Now, if this was to be compared to glass it would be glass with a light tint added. You can still see right through it, but you also know something is there. You don't have to be a daemian to be able to project. Concept designers, artists, architects, althetes... projection is a type of visualization. It's a creative tool. It's not a hallucination, nor is it intended to be one.

Extreme vividness can be from hyperphantasia, but if you worry projecting may trigger or influence hallucinations then you are welcome to avoid it! Projection is fun, but not a requirement, and you should do what is most comfortable, healthy, and safest for you. Daemians who experience projection as hallucinations already have a history of them from what I have seen within the community.

Fronting and Dissociation

These are experiences usually seen within DID and other plural spaces. Daemonism doesn't focus on switching with your daemon, and you likely won't find resources specifically about it. Of course, you can switch who's in front, and some plural daemians may have advice for how to accomplish that, but again, that's not the point or focus of daemonism at large. They are usually hands off within our lives. We are the ones in the driver's seat while they are the backseat drivers giving us direction. They aren't expected to take the wheel from us. There isn't anything wrong with wanting to or being able to switch with your daemon, just to be clear. I'm only pointing out that getting daemons to front is not a priority like it is in other plural spaces. This is another reason daemonism is very easy to get into and something I consider much safer and easier to manage for the average Joe.

Dissociation isn't something that is associated with the daemon experience either. Dissociation *can* occur, but there are likely other reasons you would be experiencing these things and not just because you have a daemon. Dissociation from ADHD, stress, illness, or DID are just a few examples. Switching with your daemon could just be masking, or perhaps your mind is already comfortable sliding your daemon into front because you have DID. Again, if you are worried having a daemon could trigger dissociation or a loss of control then please do what is in the best interest for you. You know your health and history best. But, there a *many* daemians who are systems and quite happy and comfortable having daemons. Daemons have even been known to help with dissociation and sense of identity!

Talking to Yourself

Is 100% a normal, human experience. There's been a surge of exploration in self-talk and how it affects us, and talking to yourself in 2nd person even has proven benefits. You also don't *have* to talk out loud to your daemon; you can keep it all internal. Just know that splitting your own mental monologue into a dialogue isn't unhealthy and it's something many of you already do even without a daemon.

TLDR

You do only what you are comfortable with here. If something sounds risky, then don't do it. Daemonism is meant to be a healthy and fun activity.

You want to form find but not separate your daemon from yourself? Awesome.

You want to only talk to your daemon and avoid projection? Neato.

You want to project but not talk to your daemon? Perfect.

You want to learn how to switch with your daemon? We ain't really the community for that but you are free to if you are comfortable!

You do what's best for you. It's meant to fill whatever you need. Healthy mindset, growth, or just straight-up something fun to do.

Topic spawned from a question on Discord over the difference of imposition and projection as well as some differences between us and other techniques out there for headmate creation. Cleaned up and formatted better for Tumblr.

[comicaurora]

Out of curiosity, how far ahead are you on the comic? I mean, you must have it all planned and written out, but I imagine that you are drawing the future of Aurora even while we're reading it.

So is Arc 2 already illustrated and ready for upload while you're on like Arc 5 or something? I'm by no means undermining your need for a break; I'm shocked that you've been uploading continuously for over 4 years at this point. I'm just interested to know how long it takes a person to make something this great. And also if you change any details in the final edit?

Basically: what's the workflow like?

Also I think you low-key inspired me to pick up painting as a hobby. I'm ready to pour so much money into creating things that I know I'll hate. :)

God, arc 5? That's a very generous assessment of how fast I can draw!

Typically, when the comic is updating regularly, I keep a buffer of 10 to 20 completed pages. Right now, in the interest of taking a break, the buffer is 0 completed pages.

Chapter 1 of Arc 2 is completely storyboarded, meaning it's sketched out, the dialog is all mostly finalized barring last-minute rephrasements, etc. It can be read in its current form, it just looks unpretty. In fact, just for fun, here's a sneak peek!

In the next month I'll go through and finalize as many pages from this chapter as possible - which means locking down the panel borders, fleshing out the backgrounds, lining, shading, coloring, polish, etc. - which will be the process of building up a new buffer for when the comic starts back up again in January. During that time, I'll also be storyboarding Chapter 2 and as much of the following parts as I can manage.

I have the next several chapters and sub-arcs planned out in loose timelines - event A happens at location B leading to consequences C and D, stuff like that. Chapter 2, being the closest, is a little more fleshed-out, with a more detailed bullet-pointed timeline and various character ideas I've had that might or might not make it into the final version.

What exactly the chapter breakdown is going to look like is a little more complicated. Initially I'd planned for Chapter 1 to be low-stakes downtime and Chapter 2 to quickly kick off the high-octane adventure again, but when I started bullet-pointing out the stuff I wanted to do in Chapter 2, I ended up with a big pile of slower-paced character moments I thought were well worth exploring, so the runtimes might stretch a little.

Translating those brainstormed notes into storyboards and dialog is what I would classify as the "writing" part of this process. It happens at an erratic pace largely determined by the whims of whatever muse decides to get me in a headlock that day; sometimes I go weeks with no storyboarding progress, sometimes I hammer out fifteen pages in one day.

It's kinda like weaving, to me. The soon-to-be-arriving parts of the story are the most finalized, the most densely woven. A little ways beyond that, things get looser - some patterns may be locked down, but the actual work that'll hold it together hasn't been done yet. And in the far-flung future arcs, it's just the basic bones of the story and a pile of the threads I've planned to use. I know the shape of it, but in order for it to be fun and engaging for me to make it, I need to give myself room to be creative when I'm putting the whole thing together.

I actually have a file called the "Toolbox" that contains every random character or subplot idea I've had, and sometimes when I'm debating where to go with a chunk of story, I'll crack it open and scan through to see if anything jumps out begging to be used. Lotta fun stuff in there that may or may not ever see the light of day. Dropping stuff in the Toolbox is one of the most fun and freeing parts of the process for me!

[faretheeoscar]

The Therapy Droid

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Content: grief, discussions of parent death, angst , comfort, fluff, mentions of panic/anxiety. Art is happy, but the fic is not really. Let me know if I missed any!

I got inspired by this reddit post I read a while ago about how BB-8 was once a therapy droid for Poe.

A/N: English is not my first language so I'm sorry if there’s any mistakes.

Word Count: 4.2k~

The jungle of Yavin 4 hummed with life as the sun dipped low, bathing the sky in hues of orange and violet. From the top step of their modest home, Poe Dameron sat hunched over, a model starfighter clutched loosely in his hands. His fingers traced its sleek wings and sharp edges, but his eyes were distant, fixed on nothing in particular.

It had been two months since his mother, Shara Bey, died.

For a boy of nine, grief was an incomprehensible thing. It wasn’t just sadness—it was a hollow, consuming ache that dulled every sound, every color. Poe barely touched the toys and star charts he once obsessed over. The jungle no longer called to him, nor did the excitement of exploring the Rebel base ruins nearby. Everything felt wrong without her.

His father, Kes Dameron, watched from the doorway. The death of Shara had left a hole in both their lives, but Kes had always been better at hiding his pain. He was a soldier, after all. He knew how to keep marching, even when the weight felt unbearable. But Poe? Poe was still a boy, one who had lost not just his mother, but his light.

Kes had tried everything to help—encouraging words, distractions, he had stayed on Yavin to try to spend time together with his son—but nothing seemed to break through. That’s until he spoke to some officers on Shara’s old team that contacted him with a New Republic doctor, a sympathetic Mon Calamari, who had suggested something new.

“Hey Flyboy,” Kes said gently, stepping out onto the porch. The boy didn’t move.

"Poe..."Kes crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking. You’ve been through a lot... and I know that lately I haven’t been here for you, that you’ve stayed with your grandpa but… I think you need someone who can really be there for you, to help you.”

“I don’t need anyone,” Poe muttered, his voice sounding a little bit more sharp than it intended. His grip on the model starfighter tightened.

Kes hesitated, then pressed a button on the remote he’d been holding. From inside the house came a soft whirring sound, followed by the distinct chime of a droid powering on. A moment later, a small spherical astromech droid rolled into view, white and orange plating recently polished. Its head, a dome balanced impossibly above its ball-shaped body, swiveled with curiosity.

Poe’s brow furrowed. “Who… is this?”

“This,” Kes said with a small smile, “is BB-8. He’s a therapy droid. The New Republic’s been rolling them out for people who’ve had... a hard time.”

BB-8 beeped softly, his head tilting as if studying the boy. Poe’s brows knit together, suspicion tinged with annoyance. 

“I don’t need a droid” Poe said flatly.

“You might not think so,” Kes said, his voice steady, “but sometimes, having someone—something—to talk to helps. BB-8’s not just a machine. He’s designed to listen, to keep you company. To be your friend.”

BB-8 trolled softly, rolling a little closer. Poe eyed him warily, but the droid didn’t press further.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Kes said, standing. “But BB-8’s here for you. Give him a chance.”

BB-8 didn’t leave Poe’s side.

At first, Poe ignored him. When the droid tried to engage him with cheerful beeps or small tricks, Poe would turn away. But BB-8 wasn’t discouraged. The little droid had been programmed with patience and persistence, and he used both.

One evening, BB-8 followed Poe into the jungle as the boy wandered aimlessly, his head bowed. The droid rolled beside him silently, only chirping softly when Poe stumbled on a root. 

Poe paused his walk. “Why are you following me?” He demanded, spinning around to glare at the droid trailing behind him.

BB-8 let out a sequence of beeps that translated roughly to, Because you need me.

Poe’s scowl deepened. “I don’t. Go back to the garage or something. Leave me alone!”

BB-8 let out a sarcastic whistle, a sound that practically oozed droid sass, before speeding up and deliberately rolling into Poe’s shin with a firm thud. He then spun in a tiny circle around him, this kid clearly needed some tough love to get the message. BB-8’s stance made it clear: You’re stuck with me, kid.

Poe stumbled back, staring at the droid with wide eyes.  “Ow! What the—are you serious? You’re lucky my dad insists on keeping you around. If it were up to me, I’d leave you out here to rust!”

BB-8 responded with a smug, elongated chirp, leaning back slightly on his spherical body.

Go ahead. You’d miss me within an hour.

Poe groaned, running his hands over his face in frustration. “You’re the most annoying droid I’ve ever met. And I’ve met Chopper.”

BB-8 let out a dramatic warble of protest, offended by the comparison. His head swiveled: Take that back.

“I’m not taking it back! You’re annoying,” Poe shot back, his voice rising in exasperation.

BB-8 emitted a sequence of defiant beeps, the droid equivalent of, Fine. Say whatever you want, I’m staying. Without missing a beat, he continued rolling alongside Poe, as persistent as ever.

Poe groaned again, throwing his hands in the air as he resumed walking. “Unbelievable. You’re impossible.”

BB-8 chirped brightly, almost cheerfully, Glad you noticed.

BB-8’s beeps followed Poe as he wandered deeper into the forest, the droid a persistent presence just behind him. Poe sighed, half-exasperated, half-amused at how the little droid refused to leave him alone. 

As they pushed through the dense underbrush, Poe’s eyes caught a flash of metal glinting through the green. A moment later, they came to a clearing where the remnants of an old X-wing cockpit lay half-buried in the dirt, vines creeping over its edges like a tangled web. 

“Stars, this is amazing!” he whispered, a grin spreading across his face as he clambered inside. The seat was weathered, moss-covered, and the controls were worn, but to Poe, it was perfect. His small hands traced the familiar layout of the console, fingers brushing over switches and dials as if they might come alive at his touch. He sat down, imagining what it would feel like to fly—like his mom did in her own ship, racing among the stars, the hum of the engines beneath him. For a moment he felt at peace, in that cockpit, and something urged him to start talking, mostly to himself, but still aware of the fact that the droid could hear him. 

“My mom taught me how to fly,” he said almost absentmindedly. His voice wavered, the words carried a weight too heavy for his little heart. “She used to say the sky, space was freedom.” 

Poe’s lips curved into a faint smile as he brushed his fingers across the throttle. “She was amazing, you know? She’d let me sit in her lap while she flew. I could feel every little turn, every little bump. It was like the ship was alive. Like it was... part of her.”

BB-8 tilted his head and let out a soft beep, as if urging Poe to continue when he saw him struggling to speak again. Poe took a deep breath deciding that maybe he could trust the little round droid with his mom’s precious memories.

“She’d tell me stories about her missions—like this one time she out-flew three TIEs through an asteroid field. Dad always said she was crazy for trying it, but I thought she was the coolest.” Poe chuckled lightly. “She wasn’t scared of anything.”

The smile slipped from his face as his gaze drifted to the canopy of the cockpit, now cracked and clouded with age. “When she died...” His voice faltered. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the edge of the seat. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye. One day she was here, and then... she wasn’t.”

His mind drifted to the memory of her funeral, a simple ceremony held around a fire on the jungle floor of Yavin IV. The night was warm, the fire crackling softly as the gathered pilots of Green Squadron shared stories of Shara Bey. It wasn’t the first time Poe had heard about her final mission, but hearing it from Captain L’ulo brought a sharp pain to his heart. 

L’ulo had spoken hesitantly at first, his voice weighed down by the memory. He recounted the chaos of the mission, the near impossibility of holding their ground against the Empire’s relentless assault. “She wouldn’t leave until she’d done what she came for,” L’ulo had said, his hands tightening on the flight gloves he held. “She said the navigational data in the droids couldn’t fall into Imperial hands. We all tried to get her back to the ship, but then…” He trailed off, his gaze distant, fixed on the flames.

“We begged her to let us stay, to fight for her, but Shara... She was Shara. She wouldn’t let us risk ourselves for her. Told us to go. Ordered us to go.” The words came slower after that, his voice trembling. “And then... she told me something else. She said to tell Kes that she loved him. That he should kiss Poe for her the next time he saw him.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackling of the fire. L’ulo shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I have delivered a lot of messages, but I think this is the hardest I’ve ever done… I’m–sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Kes had turned away from the fire, his shoulders shaking as he fought to hold himself together. Poe had felt frozen in place, the weight of his mother’s final message settled over him like a weight, heavy and suffocating, pulling at the edges of his heart. Even as L’ulo had finished speaking, and the others had started to share their own stories of Shara– with tales of laughter that could cheer up the mood, all Poe could think was how much he wished he could have been there, to hug her one last time, to tell her that he loved her too.

“Poe, come here.” Kes called for his son, his voice breaking. Poe came close to his father, shoulders slouching and his head tilted down.

Kes’s hands trembled as he reached into the pocket of his flight jacket, pulling out a small, silver ring that gleamed shinner than the stars that night. He cupped it in his palm, holding it out to Poe to take.

“This ring,” Kes said, “this was your mother’s. She wore it when she married me, and she always kept it on when she flew. She said it reminded her of what she was fighting for—us, the family she loved more than anything.” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat, eyes searching Poe’s face. “It’s yours now. To remember her by.”

Poe’s eyes widened as he took the ring, turning it over in his fingers, tracing the cool metal soft surface of it. Tears welled up, blurring the firelight before him as he slipped the ring around his neck, letting it rest against his chest where it felt right—close to his heart.

“Thank you, Dad,” he whispered, three words, it was the most Poe had spoken ever since the news of Shara’s passing had come to their ears. Kes’s eyes also glistened with tears as he pulled Poe into a tight embrace that felt like it lasted forever. After a moment, he pulled back just enough to press a kiss to Poe’s forehead, then stood, watching as his son remained at the fire, fingers clutching the ring against his chest.

The jungle seemed to hold its breath, the sounds of creatures and insects fading into the background. Poe’s face crumpled as tears welled up in his eyes. He buried his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. "I feel like... like there’s this big hole in me, and nothing fills it. I try to remember her face, her voice, but... it’s getting harder.” His words grew quieter, as if speaking them out loud might make the memories fade faster, anxiety making it harder for him to breathe. “I don’t want to forget her.”

BB-8 chirped softly, rolling closer until he was right beside the cockpit. He extended his small manipulator arm and poked gently at Poe’s arm. When Poe didn’t respond, BB-8 let out a deliberate sequence of exaggerated beeps.

Poe sniffled, lifting his head just enough to shoot BB-8 a questioning glance. “What now?”

BB-8 repeated the beeps, slower this time, and Poe blinked. “Wait... what? Did you just say... ‘Why did the droid cross the road?’”

BB-8 let out a series of triumphant whistles, delivering the punchline: Because it rolled with it!

A laugh burst out of Poe, sudden but cutting back his tears. “That’s so bad, BB-8. Like, terrible.”

BB-8 trilled proudly, And yet you’re laughing. He spun in place and bumped his dome against Poe’s arm playfully, making the boy laugh harder.

Poe wiped at his face with his sleeve, “You’re impossible” His tears mingled with a reluctant grin. “But... thanks.”

BB-8 gave a gentle chirp, a comforting sound that filled the silence like a warm hug. Poe reached out to rub the droid’s head, his heart a little lighter despite the ache that still lingered.

“You’d like her, you know,” Poe said quietly. “And Mom. She’d love you.”

From that moment, something shifted. Poe still didn’t talk much, but he stopped pushing BB-8 away. Slowly as their conversations grew more natural, filled with sarcasm and teasing, but also an unspoken warmth. Poe found himself trusting BB-8 in a way he hadn’t trusted anyone since losing his mother. 

Weeks turned into months, and BB-8 became more than a companion—he became Poe’s anchor. The droid’s gentle persistence pulled him out of his shell, coaxing him to engage with the world again. 

When Poe felt lost, BB-8 would roll ahead, guiding him through the jungle paths as if to remind him to keep moving. When Poe was restless, the droid would engage him in small tasks—repairing gadgets, organizing tools, or tinkering with scrap—quietly keeping his hands and mind busy.

On difficult nights, BB-8 would activate his tiny light projector, filling the room with soft, shifting patterns of starlight to create a sense of calm. When Poe woke from nightmares, gasping for air, BB-8 would roll to his bedside, nudge him gently, and Poe, still trembling, would place a hand on BB-8’s dome. And when sleep reclaimed him, BB-8 remained there—a constant, steady presence, guarding his peace through the night.

By the time Poe turned ten, he and BB-8 were inseparable. Together, they explored the galaxy of Poe’s imagination, flying pretend missions in the abandoned ship, building little trinkets at home or mapping out constellations on the jungle floor. BB-8’s programming evolved to meet Poe’s needs, adapting to the boy’s growing confidence and rekindled spark.

Kes often found them in the garage, a small, cluttered space attached to their home. It was a place Shara had once used to tinker with her A-wing’s auxiliary systems, and now it had become Poe’s workshop. The smell of lubricant and metal filled the air as Poe crouched beside BB-8, giving the droid an oil bath.

“Hold still,” Poe said, his voice animated. He held a rag as he worked a polishing cloth over BB-8’s rounded body. “You know, if we ever get into real trouble on a mission, you’re gonna need to be faster. We could mod your servos—make you the quickest droid in the Galaxy!”

BB-8 gave a hesitant chirp, tilting his head.

“Oh, come on, it’s not dangerous,” Poe insisted with a grin, not pausing in his work. “I mean, probably not. I’d test it first, of course.” He leaned back, squinting at a particularly stubborn smudge before rubbing it away.

“And speaking of missions, wait until you hear this new plan I have,” he continued, his excitement bubbling over. “Remember that old ship that’s buried? What if we start bringing the parts here? We could totally try to do some of the repairs ourselves. Grandpa can probably help us get replacements—or better yet, we could just borrow Dad’s ship now that he’s back. Do a quick trip to a scrap yard, grab a new computer, hyperdrive, everything we could need. I’ll make a list! We could sneak out at night—nobody would even notice. It’s totally safe, foolproof, and we get to build our own ship. What do you think?”

BB-8 trilled a skeptical response, his dome tilting dramatically ready to deliver a lecture You’re ridiculous. You’re ten. You cannot fly a ship by yourself. We are not going to a scrapyard. I’m not playing nanny. It’s not foolproof. It’s not doable. It’s hothead thinking.

Poe laughed, scrubbing at a streak of grease on BB-8’s dome. “What, you don’t think I could pull it off? I bet Mom would’ve let me try. She always said we’d build a ship together for me to fly—and that she’d let me do the testing, too.”

His voice softened, and his hands slowed, the cloth resting against BB-8’s dome. “And with all the stuff she taught me when she let me take laps? I think I’m ready to fly on my own, BB. Really.”

The playful banter faded, leaving behind a quiet stillness. Poe’s words lingered in the air, and with them came memories—flashes of Shara Bey’s face, radiant as she smiled down at him in the cockpit of her A-wing. He could almost hear her voice, warm and steady, guiding him as his small hands gripped the controls for the first time. “Feel the ship, Poe. Let it become part of you. Trust yourself.”

The ache inside of Poe returned, sharp and raw. No matter how many days passed, no matter how many distractions he found, that hollow place in his chest never fully healed. His heart? It would always belong to her, bound by every moment she’d spent teaching him, loving him, being everything to him.

Poe’s breath hitched as his hand slipped from BB-8’s dome to the small ring hanging from a metal cord around his neck. His fingers closed tightly around it, the cool metal grounding him. He stared at it, his vision blurred by unshed tears.

It had been hers—her wedding band, worn through countless battles, always a part of her even when she was far away. Now it was all he had left, a fragile connection to the warmth and love that once felt unbreakable.

His chest constricted, and a wave of dizziness swept over him. The memories came rushing back—her laughter, her steady voice, the comforting touch of her hand as it guided him. They swirled in his mind, overwhelming him, dragging him into the ache of her absence, his hands started shaking, the weight of feeling alone in a galaxy that suddenly felt too big, too quiet, threatening to drag him down.

BB-8 let out a soft, worried chirp, rolling closer to nudge him gently, a reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone. The sound broke through the haze, Poe blinked rapidly, swallowing the lump in his throat. BB-8 chirped again, this time a quick, deliberate sequence, trying to lift up the mood.

Poe froze, blinking. “Wait... what? Did you just say—‘What do you call a Wookiee with bad manners?’”

BB-8 let out a series of exaggerated beeps and whirs that were unmistakably the punchline: A Chew-bad-a.

Poe stared at him for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter that echoed through the room, shaking his head as the pain in his chest eased—just a little. “You’re ridiculous,” he said with a grin, rubbing at BB-8’s dome again. “But thanks, buddy. I needed that.”

BB-8 gave a proud whistle, spinning his dome. Poe wiped at his eyes, his laughter filling the garage.

“You’re impossible,” Poe said, shaking his head but smiling brightly. “Seriously, buddy, if you had ears, they’d fall off with all the junk I tell you. But you win in the dumb department, because you come up with things like that.”

Kes appeared in the doorway just in time to catch the tail end of the laughter. Arms crossed, he leaned against the frame, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched them. The boy who had once been so silent, his grief a heavy shadow, now talked nonstop to a droid who somehow understood exactly what he needed.

“You two throwing a party in here, and I didn’t get an invite?”

Poe turned, grinning as he wiped a smear of grease from his cheek. “Nah, no party, Dad. Just me and BB-8, talking about missions, but yeah, we’re just hanging out.”

BB-8 let out a small chirp, swiveling his head. He was trying to ask me to go to—

Poe cut him off before he announced his not so innocent plan “Shut it! You metal Batuuan clementine”

BB-8 emitted a sharp, offended beep at being compared to an orange fruit. He quickly extended his manipulator arm and poked Poe in the side.

“Stop! Stop!” Poe burst into laughter, trying to fend off the pokes as BB-8 persisted. But in his attempt to evade them, Poe accidentally knocked over a can of oil, spilling it onto the floor. “See what you did? Stop, BB!” he chuckled, wiping his hands on his grease-streaked pants.

Kes chuckled as he stepped forward. “I remember when you two didn't get along, now he’s got you wrapped around his circuits, kid.” He ruffled Poe’s hair, earning a half hearted groan of protest.

“Yeah, yeah, he is the best or whatever” Poe muttered with a grin as he headed towards the workbench and grabbed a rag to clean up the spill, leaving Kes alone with BB-8.

Kes knelt beside BB-8, placing a hand gently on the droid’s polished dome. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. “For taking care of him. For bringing him back to us.”

BB-8 chirped softly in response, tilting his dome slightly. It’s my job. And for Poe? I’ll do it anytime.

Kes smiled, patting the droid gently. “Well, you’re part of the family now. Don’t let him boss you around too much, though.”

BB-8 emitted a smug, drawn out beep, I’d like to see him try.

Kes laughed quietly, glancing toward his son, who was now diligently scrubbing the floor with a rag while muttering under his breath. For the first time in a long while, Kes felt a small, genuine warmth in his chest. They weren’t whole—but maybe, just maybe, they were starting to heal.

Years later, as Poe stood on the bridge of a Resistance cruiser with BB-8 by his side, they were moments away from taking off. They had just abandoned the Yavin 4 base after a First Order bombing, and Poe could see the planet shrinking in the distance, unsure if he would ever return home.

He thought back to all his time there—his home, his childhood, his family. Through  all the stress and chaos that surrounded him, every battle, every loss, one constant remained: BB-8.  had been there—a steadfast friend that reminded him of the resilience inside him, the one that his mother had instilled in him.

BB-8 rolled forward and bumped Poe’s shin, urging him toward the main platform where his X-wing awaited, ready to launch and join his squadron’s defense.

“Ow—do you always have to do that?” Poe groaned, rubbing his shin. BB-8 chirped urgently, insistent. “Rude? Don’t say that, and yes! I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Poe strapped himself in and started running the preflight checks as fast as he could, trying to really focus on the task at hand. But there was still that nagging feeling of hopelessness that followed him around sometimes when things got tough. With the First Order on their heels, the pressure threatened to push him into a full-blown panic

BB-8, ever perceptive, sensed the shift in Poe’s demeanor. The droid beeped from the back of the ship, his sounds coming through the comms on Poe’s helmet. BB-8’s voice crackled through the comms, full of concern, Poe, you okay?

Poe blinked, the sudden question snapping him out of his reverie. He looked down at the controllers and switched some of them, swallowing the unease pooling in his chest. “Yeah, buddy,” he said, voice wavering just a little. “I’m fine, fine, go ahead with pre takeoff.”

Don’t you dare go back to that dark place. BB-8 insisted, not being convinced by his owner’s tone.

Poe took a deep breath, one that caught and held like it was the last one he’d have for a while. The weight in his chest lightened, if only for a moment, by the simple, unwavering presence of his droid. His shoulders rose and fell as he steadied himself, a tightness in his jaw relaxing. “No, I’m not going back there,” he said, more to himself than to BB-8.“I’m not.”

BB-8 let out a dramatic whistle, the kind that would have made Poe laugh if the moment had been different. Good. Because I’m tired of being a therapy droid, and you’re starting to test my patience.

Poe chuckled despite himself, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You’re more than a therapy droid, buddy.” He said as his x wing engines came to life, and the ship started going forward to take off. “You’re my family.”

Last Post of Poevember, I had a blast making stuff for my favourite pilot, thanks to all who supported Baby Poe stories and art, really means a lot to me!

HAPPY POEVEMBER! See you all next year!

Thanks for reading! Reblogs and comments are kindly appreciated!

@eyelessfaces @howellatme @ierofrnkk @silvernight-m @ingoldthewizard

@winniethewife @midgardian-witch @ominoose

[ilovejeongintoo]

𝔽𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕎𝕒𝕪

!WARNING NSFW Content ahead! !MDNI!

Genre: Fantasy, Kitsune Mingi x Reader, Smut Wordcount: 3544 words Not proofread

I literally got this idea after making a bunch of Moodboards for Ateez and became kind of obsessed with creating more and more.

Summary: You get lost in the woods, trying to find a way out, you stumble upon something that you only believed existed in legends.

Almost tripping again, you adjusted your backpack for what felt like the nth time. You only wanted to go explore the woods near your grandparents’ lodge, being as it was the middle of summer, nothing bad could happen.

What you didn't account for was, how unfamiliar the terrain would be. You've been here countless of times before, summer vacation, festivities, get-togethers. But none of these dirt trails branched to the house.

It was only after listening through half a playlist and the sun shining even more brightly than when you first left, you noticed. You've tried basically everything, going back the way you think that you came from, marking trees and just straight up yelling for anyone that would be close.

Finally getting enough of all this walking and almost tearing a muscle in your ankle, you sat down on a big root coming up from an even bigger tree.

The sun was thankfully not shining directly onto your skin and frying you, but that didn't help all that much, considering that you were still covered in a thin sheen of your sweat.

Getting your water bottle out to try and calm your heart that wasn't just racing from the exhaustion of climbing a few hills, but also from finally realizing that you might be in actual trouble if you dont find a way back.

Leaning back against the tree with your head and closing your eyes, right hand still holding the open water bottle, you managed to relax a little.You opened them again when you heard a rustle in some bushes right next to you, looking into that direction, nothing was there, absolutely nothing.

Though the leaves rustled again, this time your eyes stayed on the foliage. Then it happened again and again. Curiosity was making your legs itch to go take a look as to whats making all that noise. You stood up, slipping off your backpack and closing that bottle. You slowly stepped up to side, reaching out for the plants planning to look what would be there, when something jumped out.

It startled you so badly, that it caused you to let out a loud shriek and tumble onto the floor. In a very ungraceful manner, great now your shorts were covered in dirt and sweat, just fantastic. You turned your head trying to catch a glimpse of what almost gave you a heart attack, and there it stood. A pure white fox, snow-white fur on display, not a speck of dirt. Which is weid considering it should be a wild animal. It stared right back when your eyes didn't move from its fluffly looking form, deep and dark eyes almost hypnotizing you.

Slowly you came to a sit on your haunches, your knees still touching the natural floor, as to not startle the little thing. "Hey, it's okay, I'm sorry for startling you." You called out softly, as if it would somehow understand what you're saying. It continued to stare for a few beats before it turned with a quick whip of its head, running off.

You don't know what possessed you to do it but you immediately got you things not even putting it into your bag, holding it in your hand and going after the little pale fluffball. You were hoping that it didn’t run too far off, and you were right, just in the distance you saw it jumping and climbing a few rocks.

You put your whole body into following, trying not to lose sight of it. Though when it took an unexpected turn into more bushes you scrambled into the same ones a bit later. Instantly you stopped though, faced with a pretty shrine that looked in pretty good shape considering that it was in the middle of nowhere.

There was a long pathway made out of rock pads reaching just up to a flight of indigo-colored stairs. It looked like a traditional Japanese shrine, the ones you saw at historical attractions. From the curved roof to the straw looking walls, it felt so peaceful situated so deeply in the forest. The natural lighting of the sun gave it an almost mystical feel.

You went along the path, looking around your surroundings, taking in everything. Even the air here felt different. The stairs didn't even creek when you put your feet one after another up them. The sliding door in front of you looked very tempting, you paused your hand just before it. Hesitating if it was really such a good idea to go exploring a building like this, abandoned, even if it didn't look like it. Though you quickly shook that thought out of your head when you saw the sun now a deeper orange color gave you an answer.

You opened it, being greeted with the smell of tea, and… the white fox. It rested in a small ball of its own fur, curled into itself, seemingly asleep.

You put your bag down with one hand after quietly sliding the door shut. The inside was just what you expected of the room, traditional looking paintings hung on the wall, some compact plants. There was a round, maroon table situated just on the left of the foxling, it was clearly meant for sitting down at it and enjoying a cup of tea, since there were small utensils to drink and some sweets on a plate on top of it.

They were clearly used a moment before. You decided to wait here, hoping the person that got those snacks would shortly make their way back. Though after a few minutes or so, you grew bored quickly and tried to reach for the fur of the fluffiness next to you now. Though just before your fingertips could brush that same fur the door behind you opened with a loud noise. With it followed a loud scream, which made you yank your head in that direction.

You were greeted by the sight of a tall man, very tall as you dragged your eyes over him. That wasn't what surprised you the most, it was the black ears on top of his head that perfectly matched his hair that left you speechless. A coplayer? A pretty immersed cosplay as he was wearing a traditional Yukata. His outfit was well coordinated, as a whole, dark but it seemed to have lots of layers, or maybe he must have a lot of muscle.

"What the hell is a human doing here" His eyebrows furrowed as he took you in. Okay, now he was even playing up the speech. This was getting weird, no matter how good looking he was. You stood up, noticing the fox left and stayed at the man’s side.

"Hey look, I'm not here to cause any trouble. I got lost in the woods and that little dude over there-" You pointed to the fox, "led me here." "You can continue your little cosplay session, I just wanna ask where the nearest city is? Or if I could use the phone here, if there is one?" You looked around a little. Training your eyes back on him after not getting an answer from him after a while. He was still stood there… now just staring at you.

"I don't know what you're playing at, but I'm not gonna fall for the "I'm lost" scheme, I know people like you."

Like you? What the hell was he going on about? Before you could respond he continued: "You people come here, trying to steal offerings, disrespecting a sacred place." He had his arms crossed now, just radiating an energy that told me to leave. So, you got your backpack, not willing to deal with a weirdo that's cosplaying in the woods and that thought he was some kind of god of this place.

"If you don't want to help, just say so. But I really need to get back to my family, so either you make this fast so I can be out of your hair faster orrrr, you can make this more difficult so I can stay longer." You were starting to get irritated with this guys’ attitude yourself. He gave you another scrutinizing look, trying to figure out if you were lying, before sighing and opening the door. One foot was out the door when he turned his head, jawline on display he asked, "Are you coming, or do you actually want me carry you back to civilization?"

You got the cue to pick up your backpack and followed him out. He even walked like he was straight out of a comic, hands behind his back, weirdly resembling an old grandpa.

Now that you were just keeping up with him, his legs making a big distance with each step, you got the chance to really look at him. Mostly straight only slightly arched dark eyebrows, that were complimented by small but feline looking eyes. And a sharp nose that led to a set of very plump pink lips, angular jaw and smooth skin. He looked more unreal by the second. You snapped out of your thoughts when you remembered, this was a full-grown man, and you were alone here with him. Besides his poor attitude to you kind of trespassing on his property, if it even belonged to him, he didn't seem all that bad. You could slowly start to recognize some flowers that you definitely remembered from your previous stays here, so he must be leading you in the right direction somewhat.

The silence was starting to kill you, kind of starting to feel bad for not trying to deescalate the situation before, now it was becoming awkward.

You pursed your lips before speaking "Look, I'm sorry that I interrupted you with whatever you were doing, clearly it was something important. I've been tracking these paths for hours and I just wanna get back to my house and have shower and get some food."

Your legs ached from the amount of walking you had been doing the whole day, now even more because you had to stay right next to him, to be able to make conversation.

"I'm sure you just wanna get back to taking your cosplay pictures or whatever roleplay you were doing before I showed up, you must get my frustration." You flailed your arms and breathed heavily. At that he fully stopped making you halt a few steps in front of him now.

"Cosplay? You think this is a costume I am wearing?" He let out a laugh and put both of his hands at his waist, which was tiny looking in the outfit and had you distracted for a moment.

"Okay look, enough with the weird behavior, it's one thing that you're wearing something straight out of a historical drama. The way you talk is as if you're fully convinced of being some sort of… I don’t know a fox spirit or anything like that." You shook your head.

He stepped towards you until he was just a step in front of you. He leaned towards you, staring right into your soul. You could smell him, he was that close, pine and straw. A strictly traditional scent. "Why don’t you convince yourself of how real I am dear? if you think I'm so crazy."

Okay he must have actually lost it, your eyes widened. He turned his head to give you better access to his "ears", further encouraging you to touch him.

If it would satisfy him, you'd do it. You reached one hand up, the other gripping your bag for dear life out of nervousness.

You grasped the one ear into your hand, caressing it after feeling how soft it felt. It felt like actual fur, even the inside had the feeling of it resembling skin, even from the looks of it, you couldn’t see a hairband or any clips that would fixate them on his head. You rubbed them until the base, making sure that they were real. You pull your hand back as if it had gotten burned. Stepping away from him backwards, your back hit a tree.

He wasn’t lying about it, He was not lying about it. "Convinced now?" He spoke up ripping you from your thoughts. "I'm the real deal, darling. Everything about me is real. And I make sure little humans like you don't disturb that sacred place I live in." He pointed at you when he said "humans" and then pointed back with his thumb the way that led to the shrine.

He took slow strides towards you, effectively trapping you against the tree. It made you catch your breath, looking up into his eyes from this close proximity, made it more intimidating. You felt something warm stir in your stomach., a tingling sensation.

Your face started heating up, your face for sure a soft pink now. "Now that you know this secret of mine and I should be leading you to your relatives, that deserves some kind of reward on my part, doesn't it?"

He said leaning into your neck breathily whispering. You could feel his lips brush against your skin from time to time. As the words came out of his mouth.

Your heartbeat was quickening by the second out of excitement and pure arousal. Your pupils were filling out and your mouth fell open a little, relaxed.

"I don't typically involve myself with humans but you're so small like a bunny, that it makes me want to devour you." "Makes me want to bury myself into you and see how much you can take"

He kissed your neck after sounding out the last word taking a soft hold of your nape and pulling himself from you a tiny amount, he met your orbs.

"Would you like that pretty? Hmm?" He was gazing down at you, the sheer difference in stature had you in a chokehold. You nodded not trusting your voice to make any non-embarrassing sounds.

"Mingi, that’s my name, remember it well" He said before this time leaning towards your face and kissing you. It was so soft, just how his lips looked. His other hand snuck up to your waist to have a firm grip on it, as he pulled your body more into his. You could feel the hard muscle underneath and you quickly put your hands on his shoulders, arms his neck.

It turned heavy immediately and you could feel Mingi nip on your bottom lip once in a while, when you were catching your breath. He pressed you more into the tree and that's when you felt something hard against your stomach. A shockwave went through your core, and it pulsed. Slicking you up, anticipating what was about to happen.

His big, veiny hand on your nape made its way down your body, to side, to your hip and then went along the waistband of your jean shorts. He popped the button open and slipped into you pants and panties in one swift move, caressing what was inside.

You felt yourself jolt a bit at the first contact, his hand a little cold but quickly warming up as he continued to massage your clit and labia. He moved his lips down to you neck again, kissing and sucking there. His hand never stopping and finally slipping a finger inside after getting a loud frustrated whine from you.

"Patience we have all the time in the world, why the rush?"

He quickly added a second one after pumping the first for quite a bit. You could feel the stretch a little and you were sweating a little from all the closeness combined with the hot weather. It went fast after that quickly adding a fourth finger and making you leak down the inside of your legs. You were so wet, so ready, you needed him inside you. His fingers could fill you up heavenly but his dick seemed to be even bigger hidden by the yukata, was an obvious bulge.

You reached for the tie around his robe, pulling on it and letting it fall open. Than going straight for the draw string as best as you could while Mingi was fingering you pussy to death. It fell down his legs and you couldn't help but admire his length a little, pretty that’s all you could describe it as. And long, it looked like it would just about to reach the perfect place.

If you weren't so intent on having him in your pussy right this second you would have gladly given him the greatest blow job on the dirty forest floor, but you were really just too desperately for that itch in you to get filled up.

You reached for his veiny shaft and planned to align him with you hold yourself. Shrugging your shorts further off of you tried to take him into your hand, just to be get your wrist grabbed by the man himself.

You whined, his fingers stopping their thrusting motion when he grabbed you with his other hand. "Not even going to ask? Pretty rude to me don't you think? Do you believe you deserve this after giving me such a hard time?" "Ask for it"

Your core clenched around his fingers. You were so out of breath from all the kissing and all your emotions were heightened. "Please Mingi, please"

"There you go~~" He smiled, eyes making little crescents and teeth poking out. You didn't even notice how he had aligned himself with your entrance and pushed in, until you felt that familiar stretch not just more. His fingers may have prepped you, but it’s still burned a tiny bit, adding to the pleasure of finally being filled.

He started thrusting in a stable rhythm hitting that spongy spot on your walls, he groaned every now and then. Gripping your waist with both hands he slid them down to your ass, pulling you in, mid thrust. Mingi then picked you up, hands on grasping the back of your knees, pushing you against the tree.

You moaned out loudly at the action, gripping his hair and pushing it back from his forehead, which was sweaty from exertion. Now you were looking down at him, as he thrusted his hips up into you and letting gravity pull you down onto him. Your high was approaching incredibly fast you kept chanting out little omgds and pleads. He changed his pace, making his thrusts harder and faster. He reached down as he noticed your moans picking up in volume, rubbing your clit to get you over that blissful edge.

You felt it build up for so long and then it snapped, you felt yourself tighten up and your toes curled, as your cunt pulsed over and over again. He kept moving throughout your orgasm making it last longer than it ever has before. When you clenched down on him you also felt something warm leak into you, filling you up further than you thought was even possible.

And his hips stuttered a little, groaning and panting against your ear. It took a few moments, but he didn’t directly put you down, he first looked at your face again and closed the distance again. A kiss much softer than the ones shared throughout this whole time.

And then he slipped himself out, you winced still sensitive from your orgasm. And you clung to his shoulders when he started to put your feet down on the grown, wobbly, and barely stable.

You felt his cum trickle out of you and down your thigh, slightly disgusted now. He made quick work of your clothes putting them on without words but a few kisses here and there.

You were still in a slight daze after the whole thing and Mingi woke you up with a gentle hand taking yours and leading you somewhere, which you didn't quite register.

"From here this little path goes straight to your house" You took in his words; this was indeed one of the pathways that would take you back. Now you didn't want to leave that badly anymore though. Grasping his hand, a little tighter in yours. And looking at the ground. "Hey, you'll see me again pretty. Anytime you’re here and ger lost, I’ll be sure to find you and get you safely back"

He pushed your chin up to look at him, his eyes looking a lot softer. "How do I- I mean how do I find you when I want to meet you and not get lost?" A little smirk pulled at his lips, and he said in a hushed tone: "I'll get to you, I'll know." In the distance you could hear your family yelling out to you, probably noticing that you've been missing for a while.

His words made you feel better, and you let go of his hand after stealing a quick kiss from his lips and running off into that direction. "I'll get back Mingi, I'll find my way to you!" You yelled with a big smile turning to him quickly and then back around to go run down the path to the house.

He kept smiling until he couldn't catch sight of you anymore and made his way back to his shrine. He muttered to himself:

"Oh, I know you will."

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Headcannon - Fyodor paints + little scenario with his s/o

I got the idea from this reddit post. Irl Dostoevsky drew faces, architectural details, and doodles in the his manuscripts as he worked on them. (see more)

So, I think that, in addition to playing the cello, Fyodor would also paint from time to time. Once I had that established, well, I fell down a rabbit hole and started to question things: What would his art style be like? Would he focus on realistic detail or lean toward deeper, symbolic meaning? How would he paint his s/o?

I am here to answer all of these questions!

Note that this is an oversimplification

In exploring Fyodor's art style, I took a closer look at two key art movements from the 1800s: Neoclassicism and Romanticism. Both of these styles were in vogue during irl Dostoevsky's time. Neoclassicism is all about order, harmony, and ideals inspired by ancient Greece and Rome, with its focus on balance, clean lines, and rationality. In contrast, Romanticism celebrates intense emotion, individual expression, and the beauty in raw, untamed moments.

At first glance, Neoclassicism might seem to suit Fyodor. He desires order and speaks of a "pure world," so he should like balance and structure. However, his means of getting there—violent, chaotic, and deeply extreme—do not at all correspond with the calm, reasonable ideals of Neoclassicism. His approach is emotional and powered by passionate conviction, aligning him much more with Romanticism.

Romanticism thrives on chaos and dramatic intensity, capturing the sublime—a mix of beauty and terror that inspires awe. This perfectly reflects Fyodor’s presence. His vision of transformation through destruction rejects the symmetry and reason of Neoclassicism, embracing instead the emotional turbulence Romanticism values.

This connection deepens when we consider the real Dostoevsky, whose works are realizations of Romantic ideals. The novels of Dostoevsky struggle with morality, faith, and human complexity—all themes central to Romanticism. Similarly, Fyodor inherits these traits: he has a fascination with existential struggle and the darker side of humanity.

Ultimately, Fyodor's art would reflect chaos in his vision: symbolic and dramatic.

Examples of Neoclassical and Romantic art.

Now that we have that settled how would he go about painting his dearest?

To him, capturing his s/o on canvas wouldn’t be about mere realism but about portraying the essence of who they are (the soul, if you will)

The act of painting would be a quiet, shared experience. Fyodor might speak occasionally, but most of the time, there’d be a thoughtful silence as he works. He’d glance up from the canvas now and then, not to check proportions but to meet his s/o’s gaze, a rare, unguarded softness in his eyes

For Fyodor, painting his s/o would be an act of devotion, a love language that speaks through creation

His strokes might highlight the eyes, focusing on the way they seem to “see through him”; while the background would be muted dark colors with swirling patterns (to empathize his s/o even more on the canvas)

He could paint his s/o from memory if he wanted to

Fyodor would focus on the use of light and shadow to create depth and emotion, akin to Caravaggio’s chiaroscuro. His pallet would consist of rich, moody tones—like browns, greys, deep reds and dark blues

“Do you think beauty is inherent, or is it something we create by how we see the world?”

His brush slowed, pausing mid-stroke as his eyes lifted and met yours. The faint scratching of bristles against canvas ceased, and the question just lay there, soft but profound, and for a moment he said nothing, his head cocked a little to one side as though weighing the thought with due care. Then, in a contemplative tone, he replied, “I think it’s something we create, something we shape. But perhaps… there’s beauty in the act of creation itself.”

The words hung in the air, stirring something within you. You glanced at the brush in his hand, the way it moved with careful precision, as though coaxing life from the canvas. “I think beauty is a reflection of love,” you said softly, finding your voice. “When you love something—or someone—you can’t help but see the beauty in them. It’s like love polishes the lens through which we see the world.”

His brush hovered above the canvas, his gaze flickering back to you. The room was hushed, as if even the air were holding its breath. His dark eyes looked into yours, a flicker of something tender crossing his face. “So you believe beauty cannot exist without love?” he asked in a low tone, almost probing, as though the question was as much to himself as it was to you.

You shook your head gently, the corners of your lips lifting in a soft smile. “Not quite. Beauty is everywhere, even in what we don’t understand. But love… love makes us stop to notice it. It makes us care enough to see.”

His brush resumed its delicate dance, leaving trails of colour across the canvas. The sound of the bristles was faint but rhythmic, like a heartbeat shared between the two of you. His gaze lingered on you, not for reference but as if to commit the moment itself to memory. “You always do this,” he murmured, the faintest edge of warmth in his voice.

“Do what?” you asked, tilting your head curiously.

His eyes traced along the curve of your face, the brush in his hand moving in fluid, purposeful motions. “You take my abstractions and give them warmth,” he said, his tone caught between frustration and awe. “It’s maddening.”

A laugh escaped you, soft and fond, the sound weaving into the quiet intimacy of the room. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said lightly, though your heart ached with a warmth you couldn’t quite name.

His lips quirked in a smile, his brush continued to craft the image of you—his muse, his paradox, his heart laid bare in strokes of light and shadow.

[thefaiao]

Hi, firstly I just wanted to say that I love your art, especially with the way you use dynamism and angles in character sketches. It's really beautiful and I always look forward to seeing more black and white pieces from you.

I just wanted to ask, as a beginner artist whose been drawing on and off from 2017 onwards and hasn't seen much improvement, are there any resources or books you would recommend for someone still trying to grasp form and shape? Especially in creating 3d forms with line? I'd love to be able to draw characters in a similar way that you do but my cubes and cones never seem to come out correctly and humanoid shapes are even tougher. Thanks again for sharing your art.

Hello! Thank you very much for the compliments. Up until somewhat recently the B&W pieces were my favorite things to draw, so I get you. I did fall in love with coloring eventually though.

Alright, there are lots of things that can be done. I have had some classical training, and done human figure studies live, but honestly not nearly as much as I probably should have. You definitely should still do figure study as much as possible, especially in person. I'm just prefacing to say it may not get you to draw the way I draw I suppose, as its only part of what I've done to improve my drawing ability.

There are a few good resources to start with, notably the Loomis method, which a lot of artists use as a base. That's how you should use it too, ideally. It's not about copying his work exactly, it's about understanding just how the human body is proportioned, and adapting it from there. It doesn't have to define your thinking, it's just a good guideline. It's possible to structure a body quite differently than Loomis (and there are many many books for that), but the truth, which is, the proportions of the human body, is still there in all mindsets. Once you understand that, you can understand the reason for each approach, and even forego them to express something more unique, abstract and visceral.

The biggest thing you should do though, is always be observing the world around you, both online and offline. Figure studies are nice but they remove one of the most important things, and that is context. I find that people who will use those large libraries from people who pose professionally with bows and swords and the like will often draw technically impressive images, but they still feel like a fake pose. It doesn't feel like the person is holding onto the weapon like their life depended on it, or like they have a relationship with the object, that they pose and move in a certain way that reflects their personality. Live study with strangers helps rectify this somewhat.

Online you should also be following lots and lots of different artists! Don't limit yourself, pay attention to how they construct their drawings, how they go about things. It's important you follow a lot of people, see how they evolve. They are not only a point in time, they are also learning and evolving just like you. It's especially good if you can have artists friends to draw and share stuff with. I have a deep-seated belief that we draw art for others, to express ourselves to them, so they need to see it.

It may sound weird for me to say if you want to draw like me try to draw unlike me, but I'm just saying what I've done. I follow a lot of people and draw from a lot of places. Ultimately the main appeal of my forms is their dynamism and volume as you've said, but it's good to be versatile so you can always explore new avenues!

Now, you've done all these things, you are practicing them constantly. Now is the most important part. Keep drawing!!! Just keep drawing no matter what, no matter how bad you think it looks. You have to believe you have something to say, to express, no matter what. You say you haven't improved, but I don't believe you! Maybe you are faster, maybe your technique is better, maybe you have better habits, maybe you are a little more patient. There are a million ways to improve which don't even appear in the image. You have to keep drawing, NO MATTER WHAT!!! You have to believe you were born to do this and you will do it well, don't worry about what others think.

I can only draw such dynamic forms because I have kept drawing and masticating and elaborating this idea that is called my style. When you are drawing you are developing your own little language, and only when you are fluent you can start writing good books with it. Being fluent will take many years, you must accept that. If you take breaks, take breaks so you can keep drawing later. Take care of your health so you can keep drawing. You will only get to see your drawings become beautiful if you live long. To live a long and healthy life is to keep drawing.

That is my ultimate advice really, let that frustration build up, but keep drawing anyway. You will force yourself to find solutions to release that frustration as you do so, and improve. Maybe it's simple, but it's the only thing that is true no matter what. Don't worry about AI or whatever, none of that matters. Just keep drawing!

[victimeyez]

Pity Party

Chapter 18 of Professional//Victim - Masterlist

Tommy celebrates his 30th birthday, five years after his capture. But it's his party, and he can cry if he wants to.

Content warnings in the tags.

_____________________________________________________________

At the top of the stairs Tommy stopped, frozen, the blood draining from his face. His chest had seized, and he only remembered to breathe again when Caius gave him a thump on the back. 

He was forcibly turned by his shoulders back to face Caius, starting to hyperventilate while anxiety paralyzed him. 

“Look at me. Hey, look at me.”

Tommy wheezed, barely able to drag his eyes from the scene. The best he could manage was a fuzzy, unfocused stare towards Caius’s mouth. No eyes, just the mouth, just the mouth that told him what to do. 

“You don’t have to think about it. Stop making things harder for yourself all of the time. I will guide you, focus on that lifeline. You’re going to sit at the table, and you will be courteous, and gracious, and you’ll get the fuck over yourself for once and enjoy it. Play along. Show me you can do that.”

Tommy was seized with a violent coughing fit, doubling over. His eyes watered and he struggled to breathe, gagging on the air he did manage to get in. 

“Jesus christ Tommy, this is not what is going to do you in. You have gone through the fire too many times to be getting this choked up over some cake. You’re too old for this shit.”

Even Caius winced a little at the last line, realizing a moment too late the poignancy of drawing attention to his age. 

Something about it struck Tommy as funny. He couldn’t say what, but it stopped his panic attack in its tracks suddenly, like flicking a switch. He felt slightly dazed, surprised by his own sudden drop. A long, silent moment passed between them before Caius’s hand returned to his shoulder. 

“Thatta’ boy. Come on, come.” He guided Tommy to the table, but he handled him with a light touch. Tommy was feeling quite delicate himself, like porcelain worn thin from years of use. Whatever stopcork was blocking his meltdown, he felt like it could slip at any moment.  

His total guests consisted of Caius, Rory, and Sam. Tommy sat at the head of the table, feeling distinctly small. He felt a little heady, suddenly exhausted from the rush of emotions. He idly felt the top of his head, half expecting a birthday hat to be perched on top. If anything, he had expected streamers, balloons, some mockery of a little kid’s birthday party – Courtesy of the nearest dollar store, for sure. 

Instead, it was…actually kind of nice. They usually left the table bare for use, but the wood was dressed in a clean, cream colored tablecloth. He rubbed the edge of it absently, feeling the material thick and silky in his dry hands. The table was set with paper plates and plastic cutlery, of course, but cloth napkins were rolled and tied with ocean blue ribbons, folding in a few sprigs each of dried lavender for decor. Plastic champagne flutes at each place were filled with a light golden bubbly. The cake in the center was of a smooth, light purple frosting, freckled with real vanilla bean. The top was decorated with a few more sprigs of lavender, sweet and simple.

“Michelle couldn’t make it, so he made your breakfast. We have a few things for you today, though.” Caius told him with a serene smile.

Sam smiled a mean smile, and slid him a card.

“Yeah, Tommy, just a chill day with the boys,” he agreed.

Tommy looked to Caius, who nodded meaningfully.

Play your part.

Tommy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to reset the scene in his head before opening the envelope. Inside was an oddly shaped card featuring Dora the Explorer.

YOU’RE 3o! She exclaimed in the speech bubble. Or rather, she said, YOU’RE 3! But Sam had sharpied in a quick 0 after the three.

It actually made Tommy chuckle, even though he felt like cracking a smile might crack him in half. It was so perfectly stupid, and honestly much closer to the party he had been expecting. Open humiliation and cruelty was far more familiar territory than when Caius pretended to be nice.

He opened it, and a five dollar bill fell out. Inside, the original message printed in the card was scribbled out, and a brief handwritten note was penned in.

Towards your retirement. 

He assumed the abstract swirl afterwards somehow spelled out Sam’s name. He chuckled in spite of himself.

“Wow Sam, uh, your terrible handwriting is the first proof I’ve seen that you’re a real doctor.”

Caius and Rory laughed, sharing a brief look of surprise. Sam made a sour face, but when Caius gave him a playful push to his shoulder, he broke into a tense grin.

Tommy took a sip of his champagne, hoping it wasn’t obvious his hand was shaking. It was shockingly sweet, reminding him of some off-brand Halloween candy from his youth. 

“Open Rory’s next,” Caius encouraged, reaching over to push the only other envelope slightly closer to him. 

Tommy tore it open, fumbling it slightly before he pulled the card free.

The front of the card featured a picture of an elderly woman standing in a cucumber patch. She was smiling proudly, holding aloft a massive cucumber that had grown into a conspicuously phallic shape. 

Underneath, a text box said, “Hoping your BIGGEST wish comes your way this year!”

“Oh my god, he’s blushing!” Rory laughed, and Tommy covered his mouth with his hand nervously. He flicked the card open with his thumb.

Don’t take shit so seriously

Never turn down a joint

Hit the gym

Work hard, play hard

Keto will give you the runs

The list was penned in by hand. Rory leaned over, stealing a peek inside, and groaned.

“Shit. I forgot I wrote that. Caius was saying something about - imparting wisdom for turning thirty. I guess most of that doesn’t really, uh…apply here, exactly. Seriously though, fuck keto. Never again.”

A friend has given you a funny card. He’s…a loveable scamp. Probably a fan favorite. Tommy’s Life is filmed before a live studio audience. Queue the tinned laughter. 

Oh, that ol’ Rory!

Tommy chuckled, smiled.

“It’s great, thank you.”

He set it aside and sipped his champagne. He felt warm. He didn’t think he was throwing it back that hard, but it was drained before he realized.

Tommy pulled it away and looked at it in surprise. He supposed it was a pretty small flute. He realized he’d never actually drank champagne out of a champagne glass, just out of the bottle, passed around the circle with the band after their EP release show.

God, he hadn’t thought about that in ages. It hit him with such a strong nostalgia,a longing for just sitting on the couch with the missing leg in Greg’s apartment. G’s cat had shredded the shit out of the whole side of it, and it was worn down to a soft fuzz. 

They had this great recording of Greg yelling at Mr. Meow Meow for clawing at it again, right at the end of the song, and Jazz totally losing it in a fit of giggles. They’d left it in, all of it, letting it finish out their five song EP. Fuck, which song was that? 

“I’ll get you a refill, bud.”

Sam interrupted his little flashback by snatching the plastic flute out of his hand. Tommy realized he had tears in his eyes, and wiped at them with his sleeve self consciously. 

Just allergies. The show goes on.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. Caius gave him an approving thumbs up. Tommy smiled weakly back and cleared the thickness from his throat.

Sam put on some music while he was up, and something emo started playing.

“What kind of music would you like to listen to, Tommy?” Caius interjected pointedly. Sam scowled at him.

He was tempted to say it doesn’t matter, but he had limited access to music. Caius gave him an odd assortment of tapes and records, even some CD’s, but he knew the most recent one was from 2010. 

It’s my birthday, and I’ve got the aux.

“I used to - I like Bad Guys Win. Have they put out anything since Strander?”

Sam groaned, but Caius promised they would check. He gave Sam a meaningful look, and he dutifully changed the track.

It was a little distracting, because Tommy really wanted to listen to it in silence, but he managed. They chatted idly and drank champagne. They stuck to safe topics - things that didn’t involve work talk. 

Tommy’s favorite was when they told him about horror movies he hadn’t seen. Sam described the entire movie The Human Centipede, much to Tommy’s grossed-out delight and Caius’s grossed-out chagrin.

Rory insisted on cutting the cake, cursing as he attempted to saw through it with a plastic butter knife. He rustled through some drawers in the kitchen before proudly holding a trowel-like utensil aloft. 

“We are using a cake server proper. These bitches work pretty good for pizza, too,” he announced to his audience, before using it to deliver an enormous slice of the cake onto Tommy’s plate. Tommy stared at it wide-eyed, the mountain of fine pastry set before him. He didn’t usually even get lunch, and breakfast had already been too good to be true. He knew the sugar might make him sick at this point, but he had zero qualms about the stomachache being worth it. 

He needed something in his stomach, anyway. He was nursing his third glass of champagne, and while he didn’t think the alcohol content could be very high, he was already feeling it. His face felt very warm and flushed, and he felt like his heart was pounding, even though he was about as safe as he could be here.

Current threat levels: low. 

The cake was sweet, but well balanced, the herbal taste of the lavender sweetened with a bright vanilla mascarpone that melted in his mouth. It’s not something he probably would have picked on his own, but it was delicious. The other guys appreciated it too, and Caius recommended the pastry shop he’d gotten it from. Tommy forgot it as soon as he heard it - it wasn’t like he’d be visiting. 

Sam moved to top off Tommy’s glass, but he raised a hand to pause him. 

“I think I’ll just have some water, please.”

“I’m not going to let you be a lightweight for your birthday,” Sam teased easily, and whisked away his cup in spite of his protests.

Tommy sucked the frosting from his spoon, lifting a hand absentmindedly to his forehead. He did feel warm. Just his luck to get sick on his birthday. No, it must be the alcohol and the sugar, it made him jittery. 

Caius noticed he hadn’t finished his piece of cake.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, no it’s very good. I think I might just, uh, be getting a little bit of a sugar rush here.” He gave Caius a sheepish smile.

His lips felt oddly numb, and he had a sudden feeling of dizziness.

“Honestly? Worth the diabetes, or whatever,” Rory piped in. 

Sam poured shots of whiskey for them all. Tommy stared at the russet potion, and nausea ate at his stomach just from the smell. He pushed it away from himself without thinking, turning his nose. 

God, has whiskey always smelled this bad? What the hell is this stuff?

“Oh come on Tommy, it’s good stuff. Try it,” Sam encouraged, tipping his own back in one oversized shot.

Actually, he was very nauseous, and the room suddenly seemed so bright, he had to squint. 

“I have the last couple of preparations to do. You boys behave!” Caius told them, givinf a wave as he left for the stairs. 

“Wait,” Tommy whispered, but Caius was gone. His stomach clenched with anxiety.

Don’t leave me alone with Sam.

Sam leaned over at the table, leering at him.

“What’s wrong? Not feeling well?”

“‘M drunk,” Tommy tried weakly. “I just need to lay down, I think, could you-”

“You’re not thinking very clearly. You just need a little hair from the dog who bit ya.”  Sam slid his whiskey closer to him. He positively oozed smugness, and Tommy had a strong sense that he was playing into a cruel joke he hadn’t picked up on yet. 

The room felt hot. He pulled his shirt out from his chest and realized he was sweating. The temperature had felt fine before, but somehow it now felt sweltering.

“Jee Tommy, you don’t look so good. Too much freedom for you, buddy?”

“Was the cake an edible or something?” Tommy managed. 

“Like I'd waste good weed on you. You’re just being a spazz.”

Tommy squinted against a particularly bright spot in his vision, off of the-

The cake server.

The cake server was metal. 

Blunt, and thin, but it was real metal. 

“Knock it off.”

They both turned when Rory spoke. His hand was clenched around his whiskey, glowering at Sam, who spat back. 

“Take a joke man. Have a seat until your number is called.”

“Let Tommy have his day, man. Caius put this together, you don’t want to piss him off.”

Sam laughed harshly, turning fully towards Rory. Tommy was grateful for the respite from his attention, but he didn’t want to be caught in the middle of them any more. Sam was not deterred.

“Hey Rory, we’re sharing stories. Tell me that one again, about how you got kicked out of Yale. How much did that one cost your daddy?”

“A lot less than medical school and a string of malpractice lawsuits, I’ll tell you that. You would know all about that though, Doctor – I’m sorry, Mister Snow.”

Uh oh. Honestly, it was amazing they’d gotten along for a few hours. Usually, they just skipped right to the dick measuring contest. 

Where the fuck was Caius?

“I’m gonna go see if Caius needs help,” Tommy mumbled, trying not to interrupt too much, but knowing an attempt at a silent exit would only stir them up. He started to stand, pushing himself up from his hands on the table to rise. 

He just wasn’t fast enough. 

He’d barely started to turn away before Sam’s hand grabbed his wrist and yanked, pulling him closer instead, and knocking over Tommy’s untouched whiskey in the process. 

“Tommy, you’re my patient, you know I’m a good doctor. If I wasn’t, you’d be one hell of a Freddy Krueger looking motherfucker, wouldn’t you?”

The spilled plastic cup rolled in a semicircle, a pool of pungent whiskey soaking into that soft cream tablecloth. There was something wrong, though, a streak of color clouding the liquid.

“-Tommy?”

His heart was pounding in his ears. His head throbbed along with it. He picked up the goblet with the hand that wasn’t being crushed in Sam’s fist, and held it up to the light. 

There. Just a little, in the bottom. A pink, chalky residue - all that was left undissolved of whatever Sam had slipped into his drink. 

Thud thud thud thud thud - his heart was beating so loud and so fast, his chest ached.

Rory seemed to put it together at the same time.

“What the fuck-”

Sam wrenched Tommy over, his body pressing against his, too close, too hot. 

“Look at the fucking mess you’re making!” he hissed, his voice dangerously close. 

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU GIVE ME?!” Tommy shouted into his face, helpless tears spilling over. 

“Your birthday gift.”

Fuck, he was cracking, all the grief and anger he’d held back erupting all at once. 

Tommy shoved at his chest, ripping free just to make it two steps before Sam dragged him back by the arm, and then by a hand in his hair, and the room tilted crazily around him. Tommy’s head exploded in pain as he was slammed against the table’s surface, the cloth runner little comfort as his face was ground into the whiskey soaked linen. 

“It’s okay Tommy, I’ll just fix it! Like I always fucking do. You know what would fix you, Tommy? A fucking lobotomy. I think I’ll schedule the operation with your owner today, yeah!” Sam’s voice was slightly slurred. One thing he had in common with Rory – he was a mean drunk. 

The impact had dazed Tommy a moment too long, and his resistance was weak when Sam flipped him, bending him backwards over the table and pinning him by his hands around his throat.

Rory was shouting something, but Tommy couldn’t make sense of it. The light above him was blinding, he couldn’t breathe – he thought his head would burst from the pressure of Sam’s hands digging in under his jaw. He clawed at his wrists uselessly while Rory backed away from the table.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING MAN? HE WASN’T EVEN DOING ANYTHING YOU PSYCHOPATHIC–”

Tommy could hear him, faintly, barking and barking, but he was only moving further away from them. 

HELP ME, HELP ME- 

With unbreakable will, Tommy released his grip on Sam’s wrist and raised a hand above his head, feeling blindly along the table. Nothing, nothing - and then his hand sank into the gooey remains of his cake, ruined now under his fingers.

“I’m gonna put a hole, right here–” Sam jabbed at the inner corner of his eye, forcing it closed as he twisted his finger hard against his sinus, miming screwing something into him.

Tommy’s fist closed around the handle of the cake server.

“-And I’m gonna carve the thirty-year-old loser right out of your body.”

Tommy drove it into the top of Sam’s hand curled around his throat. 

Sam shrieked, dropping him immediately, but Tommy stabbed it again into his chest. Sam stumbled back, but Tommy was a live wire now, righting himself before the rush of blood back to his brain could even catch up with him. He swung his weapon down at Sam’s chest again, another hit narrowly missing with a wild slash as the good doctor retreated. 

Rory finally lept into action, hooking his arm around Tommy’s at the end of his arcing strike, halting his attack. Sam was back on him in a second, pinning him back over the table with his arm barred across Tommy’s throat. Tommy gnashed his teeth, trying to struggle out from under Sam, as Rory tore at his frosting-covered grip on the cake server. 

“WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK IS HAPPENING HERE?!”

At the sound of Caius’s voice, Tommy’s resistance abandoned him. He went limp under Sam, and Rory pried the cake server from his fingers. Sam let him up and he took an agonizing breath in, falling to the floor when the other man stepped back. He curled into a ball on the ground, screaming uncontrollable sobs into his hands. 

The other three shared a moment of stunned silence. Caius threw his hands up in bewilderment.

“Didn’t I tell you all to behave?!”

~

NEXT

Taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg  @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

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@light-me-on-pyre @slighlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @knivestothroats @paperprinxe

Thank you all so much for reading, I cannot tell you what it means to me.

[tourettesdog]

Concept:

Danny and his friends go missing and Jazz (werewolf, cause vibes) starts exploring the GZ to find him. She's never been there before and only has a journal Danny left behind to go off of as she tries to navigate who is friend and foe. 

Wulf eventually becomes her travel companion.

I also wrote a story blurb to go with this (using speech to text while I worked on the shading lol) Word count: 1532 Warnings: isolation

A frigid wind wrapped around her, stirring the snow and ice. Jazz had never much liked the cold, always preferring relaxing spring days and warm summer nights. Always a bit too cold in their house, where the chill from the lab seemed to creep its way into each corner.

The cold didn't bother her as much now. It hadn't for a long while, not with thick fur to guard against the chill. Still, in the endless field of snow, even her thick pelt did very little to ward off the freezing temperature. 

It stung at her ears, lashed at her snout, and worked its way through the tough pads of her feet until they were numb. The specter speeder lay behind her, the metal hull already being swept beneath the wind-tossed snow.

This was it, Jazz thought. She had finally found her most promising lead, made her way to the far icy reaches of the Far Frozen that Danny's journal mentioned with such reverence, and here she would fall.

Lost in an endless expanse of snow. Buried where none would find her. Forgotten, even by the ghosts.

Lost like Danny was.

Jazz stumbled onward, focusing only on putting one foot before the other. It was all she could do. She could see nothing, save for the white glare of snow, dappled with a green and blue hue that swirled and rippled with the flow of the ectoplasmic sky.

It was beautiful, in its own way. In the strange way that an abstract painting could be beautiful, with its hapless array of colors and shapes. Jazz stared up at it, wondering if it would be the very last thing she ever saw.

Wondering if it was the last thing Danny might have seen.

She still didn't even know if he was in the Ghost Zone. She still didn't know where to start looking for him. Every ghost she had met so far, from the cruel to the kind, had no leads.

No one had seen Danny and his friends, or at least no one was willing to say that they had.

Her legs ached with the effort of sifting through the snow. Great weights dragged at her each step, and it was all Jazz could do to make another. She wanted to rest. She wanted to turn around and go back to the specter speeder, sinking into the seats where she might find at least a trace of warmth.

Jazz turned her head to look for the speeder, but she could no longer see it. She hadn't gone very far, yet the one thing tethering her to the outside world had left,  lost to the swirling white snow.

She took another step.

When jazz was ten-years-old there had been a large blizzard in Amity Park. It happened in late February, just after Valentine's Day, and had buried the town in a sea of snow. Jazz remembered how excited Danny was when it first started to snow. He was gleeful that they had a few days off of school and was prepared to throw himself into the snow with Tucker and Sam for the duration of it.

He hadn't had much time to enjoy that snow.

(Not that Time ever cared how much it gave to Danny.)

The ice on the power lines had left them without power, and without a stove to cook on the already-questionable meals that Maddie prepared became even more so. They huddled up by the fireplace with blankets, staying as warm as they could, but Danny still managed to get sick .

(He was never very lucky.)

Those five days off of school hadn't meant much when Danny spent the majority of them lying in bed, shivering and coughing, and Jazz spent that time worrying over him while their parents worked by candlelight in the lab.

Tears welled at the corners of Jazz's eyes and she couldn't be sure if they were from the sting of the wind or the ache in her chest. 

She took another step.

Jazz wondered what the Far Frozen yetis were like. Danny had described them quite a lot in his journal, much more than many of the other ghosts, and much more kindly at that. He had mentioned a Frostbite, a massive yeti with a frozen arm. He sounded nice, though the name 'Frostbite' felt awfully cruel and ironic to her now.

Maybe they would find her, at least. If she couldn't find Danny, if she was truly doomed to freeze, maybe this Frostbite would find her and be able to give Danny some closure.

(The same closure Jazz so desperately sought now, if nothing else.)

Jazz's chest constricted with a cold that had nothing to do with the frozen tundra around her, just imagining Danny endlessly searching for her.

(Following in her lost footsteps, she supposed.)

Jazz would sooner consign herself to endlessly wander the Far Frozen than she would have Danny fruitlessly search for her.

(And what if her own search was fruitless to begin with? What if she had thrown her life away searching for not even a ghost?)

The horizon blurred together, the crisp white snow melting with the hazy green of the sky until it was all a swirl in her mind. Ectoplasm and ice, every bit a reminder of who she had failed to protect.

Jazz tried to take another step, but her knees buckled.

She hoped that, wherever Danny was, he still had Sam and Tucker beside him. They were always close. Always willing to have each other's backs, no matter what stakes they were facing. 

Jazz wished she could have been a part of that more. Maybe then she would have found Danny sooner. 

They could have been home already, wherever home was now.

The snow piled around Jazz. She no longer had the energy to stand, and hardly had enough to sit up.

Maybe she'd return as a ghost, at least. There was certainly enough ectoplasm to sustain her as one here, and Jazz felt enough aching desire to keep going that she thought it more than possible.

Maybe she'd just rest for a little while. Sink into the snow, which was already blanketing her more and more as she slumped into the drift.

Surely, Danny was never this cold. A cold beyond cold, sinking into a hollow numbness that had Jazz's mind drifting with the wind.

The sky shifted, the sea of green above flickering with streaks of deep blue, an aurora borealis if ever she saw one. 

She remembered how Danny had described it in his journal. He hadn't done it much justice .

The snow shifted, warping, moving. Jazz could hardly keep her eyes open, her thoughts slipping with the drifts of snow.

She wondered what sort of ghost a werewolf would make. Danny had mentioned a wolf ghost in his journal, though Jazz couldn't be sure if he was a werewolf in life or had simply taken that form upon his death. Ghosts could be strange like that.

The roar of the wind was distant, hardly more than a whisper now. Jazz thought she could hear the crunch of snow and the echo of voices lost on the wind.

At least she would get to rest. Maybe not for a long while, but enough time to shut her eyes before she accepted whatever form fate would give her.

Eyes shut, numb to the strange world around her, the snow swallowed Jazz whole.

Warmth. She couldn't remember the last time she felt warm, lost in the zone without a sun to warm her back. Jazz had grown used to the cold, even before the snow of the Far Frozen claimed her. 

And yet she was warm. 

Jazz could remember falling into the snow, accepting her fate… and yet she was warm .

Opening her eyelids was a Herculean task, made no easier by the bright glare that welcomed her bleary sight. Jazz shut her eyes tight again, groaning as she turned her head to the side.

A murmured voice reached her ears, followed by another. Jazz heard a creaking sound and felt the air shift beside her.

She tried once again to open her eyes, this time squinting and finding that the glare had diminished somewhat.

"I'm pleased to see that you are awake at last," a voice said. It was a low rumble, almost more of a growl than a humanoid voice, but the words rang through clearly, as kind and gentle as any voice so deep could be.

Slowly, aching moments that stretched on for ages, the world swam into view. Rich blue hues, underscored by vibrant whites. Fractals of ice, deliberately shaped around dark stone. It looked as though they were in some sort of cave, though it had been altered into a living space with draping furs and woven tapestries.

A hulking form sat beside her. If Jazz ever thought that there was a creature fit to be called a yeti, it was them. He had snowy fur with gray markings, a cloak of deep blue, and icy horns that matched a frozen arm. 

Frostbite. The name suited him; he was every bit the ghost Danny described in his journal. 

[toadslug]

Sapphires: Chapter 1

A fanfic/AU/whatever you want to call it I'm going to explore with Orca's statue! I've never really done writing like this before, so we'll see how this goes. Might try out websites like AO3 to host this on??? But I'm sticking to what I know right now. Anyways!! Here's what I've got so far.

"She was so young..."

The heavy stone doors of the Royal Hatchery scraped open. The grating noise was by design, ensuring intruders could not sneak in.

Dim blue light traced the silhouettes of two dragons at the entrance.

"I don't know why she didn't wait a couple more years." One of the dragons conveyed through flashes and gestures, paddling forward.

"Mm." The other lazily flickered back, straining to shut the doors behind them and sealing the room into inky darkness.

One by one, the dragons lit their bioluminescent patterns. The electric teal glow discovered dips in the floor where clusters of eggs awaited, comfortably tucked into tidy seaweed nests. The shells appeared as a muddied grayish-blue, but under proper lighting, they would have glimmered like droplets of brilliant amber. They were arranged by sex—males on one side of the room, females on the other—in spiral shapes.

"Looks like they're all here." The tired SeaWing gestured, turning to leave.

"Looks like you're begging to get your teeth smashed out." The other gestured back, peeking at each nest and counting the eggs. That was meant to be a joke, but they both knew it was hardly far from reality. The queen was fiercely protective of her eggs. The tired SeaWing grumbled but wearily set to work.

There was a lapse of silence. The chatty SeaWing gave small talk another shot: "... That statue is a lot creepier now, huh." His voice was a little stiff.

The tired SeaWing did not answer.

The coral heating tubes that twisted along the walls quietly bubbled.

Hesitant at first, the chatty SeaWing drifted towards the sculpture at the center of the hatchery. He wasn't sure why.

It had been installed less than a week ago. She had insisted it be placed here.

He brought the light from the banded patterns on his arm up to the statue, squinting at its features. It was regal; imposingly majestic. Masterfully chiseled from empress marble; frighteningly realistic. He angled the light further up, revealing an astute face. Various undersea plants intricately weaved around its curving horns—the webbing that flowed down its spine and wing membrane also followed this design.

And the eyes.

They looked just like her eyes.

He rarely saw her eyes. Partially because none of the royals really bothered with him. But her eyes were always elsewhere. Always focused on her next masterpiece or her mother (though, in hindsight, she had probably been focusing more on the throne her mother sat on); however, the few times her eyes parted, he found himself both intrigued and perturbed by them. They were a divine blue. An enchanting blue that compelled you to unlock their secrets, but a haunting blue that would curse you if you ever found the key. A distant blue, but a blue that lingered with you forever.

Her fathomless ocean filled those sapphire eyes.

"Done checking?" The tired SeaWing flashed, startling the chatty SeaWing. "Almost." He forced himself to quickly regain his composure, though his even face betrayed how unnerved he was all of the sudden. Before resuming his duties, he felt drawn to give the statue one more glance.

His eyes fell to the glittering pedestal it perched on. To the name engraved upon it.

Orca.

Couple of headcanons I worked into this (in case you were confused):

• SeaWings eggs look a little more like fish eggs (round and orange). Since deep water filters colors like red, they appear more blue here.

• SeaWings use sign language along with their bioluminescent scales to communicate.