#i forced myself to finish SOMETHING

[junosmindpalace]

Hiii I'm not sure if your requests are still open but 🧑‍🦲🧑‍🦲 can you do angst x reader 🧑‍🦲🧑‍🦲 like a songfic or something with 'The Scientist' by Coldplay 🧑‍🦲🧑‍🦲 (with senku ofc) 🧑‍🦲🧑‍🦲 preferably set before everyone was petrified 🧑‍🦲🧑‍🦲🧑‍🦲 ty ♡

the emojis in this request made me laugh THANK YOU for your request! i love love songfics.

Senku Ishigami is first and foremost a scientist. He, like all scientists, considers, observes and acts logically. He doesn’t do illogical as a man of science. Giving into illogical nonsense is just…well, illogical.

So when he first considers his romantic feelings for you, he does so from a logical perspective.

You spend a lot of time together, you share common interests, and beyond that, you were a caring, kind and passionate person. You and Senku clicked, and it made sense why. 

However, Senku found himself thinking about how logical it was to be involved with you romantically; as a couple, you and Senku didn’t make sense at all. 

Senku was reserved about his feelings outside of his typical enthusiasm over science and deadpan when it came to certain people, while you were the opposite. And so the two of you clashed horribly when it came to intimacy.

How was it that two people could be so similar yet so different? 

Throughout your possibly (mostly likely- Senku’s still considering) illogical romance, Senku was cold toward your affection, which hurt you greatly. All you wanted to do was be close with your boyfriend. You wanted to be by his side, get to know him on a more personal level, but Senku’s lack of reciprocation of your affection only saddened, and over time, offended you. 

You grasped at straws for any sort of affection you could manage out of him. Weren’t boyfriends meant to spend time with you? Ask you about your day? Be vulnerable and open and affectionate?

Each attempt at vulnerability with Senku led to the man of logic falling short, casually dismissing your efforts and resuming his talk about something science related. You did your best to be patient. These new levels of intimacy and trust took time to build. Each time, however, your heart grew heavier and heavier when your boyfriend made no sign of budging from his usual emotionally reserved nature. 

And so, eventually, you stopped putting in the effort.

You started mimicking him near the end of your relationship. You distanced yourself emotionally, and you spent a lot of the time you’d usually spent with Senku on a science gadget to focus on your own interests.

He just doesn’t care, you would think sadly to yourself. We just don’t work. 

And so eventually, the two of you broke things off. 

Your friends were encouraging and insistent, however. “Every relationship has some roadblocks,” your friend Yuzuriha tried to reason empathically after you had vented your frustration and sadness to her, “you two just need to work together. You love each other a lot.” Somehow your friend saw something that you just couldn’t. 

“How could you be so cold toward Y/N, Senku? I thought you liked each other.” Taiju had asked with all the genuinity in the world, but something about the question made Senku suppress a shudder. “I guess it makes sense. You aren’t into the whole romance thing.” 

Senku isn’t a tin man with a missing heart no matter how much it may seem that way, however. His feelings for you were genuine, he wouldn’t have been in a relationship with you if they weren’t. He had approached your relationship as if it were a complex puzzle, when in reality, science and logic just didn’t fit in this equation. He had been looking at it all wrong. 

To be logical didn’t simply mean to look at the cold hard facts. It certainly didn’t mean disregarding emotion from the equation all together. If anything, it was an important variable. He had a bad habit of getting so caught up in himself that he tended to forget such important details. But at this point, he was too late. He had realized his mistake far too soon, and now you were gone to him. 

He’s lost another important variable- one that makes the whole equation fall apart. He spends a lot of time reflecting, and the entire time he knows, logically speaking, that the two of you weren’t meant to last for various reasons. Yet still, he realizes that he'd been trying to approach something that's illogical logically. His relationship with you wasn’t science, and he was a fool for ever thinking there was anything to compare. It isn't some complex formula or even some video game. 

Did he really need to have a logical reason for liking, loving a person? Enjoying their company, admiring and cherishing them? 

You didn’t want to take it too personally, however. Friends were what the two of you were better off as.

Yet over 3700 years pass and Senku finds that he has an overwhelming desire to start over. His heart, embarrassingly, yearns for something more. To try it all again, to repair his mistakes. It’s only enhanced the more time he spends around your brilliant mind, witnessing your kindness and empathy over and over, especially when it's most needed during troubling times. 

He turns away when he feels guilt bloom in his chest. His attentive eyes can see from your lingering stares and wide smiles that you too would want a do-over.

The cycle of going through the motions would rinse and repeat to the point of exhaustion; this was Senku’s biggest fear, that this hypothesis would be proven true. He hoped that this was a theory he could disprove.

[the---hermit]

26|07|2024

Still reading My Best Friend's Exorcism by Grady Hendrix and I feel a bit disappointed. I definitely like better the other books I read by him, but at the same time I might be part of the problem. While reading this I realized that tho I like the idea of a horror novel dealing with demons and possession, I haven't found yet a book with these elements that I like. Not that I have read many, but when I read The Exorcist a couple of years ago I also found it to be slow and less focused on the supernatural than I'd expected. I still have 100ish pages to go with this book, and I am assuming that most thing will start happening now, but still I was hoping for something different.

[wimbledon2008]

many books may try to be captive prince but there's only one c.s. pacat

[romanoe]

quick doodle before i start commissions

[cryptic-underground]

The gremlin man has been finished! :D

Took a bit but I'm really happy with it. I was wanted to make him look like he was a cool trading or tarot card and I think I succeeded!

From my two second Google search of: the hanged man tarot card meaning, I got that it usually represents "an ultimate surrender, sacrifice, or being suspended in time." I don't know how fitting it is for os! Mac's character but oh well!

I originally wanted something like the hunger because of backstory things, I couldn't really find any results of it being an actual tarot card(since I'm semi basing from them) so I went with a different one. Still happy with it though.

I wanna draw at least two more things for overshadowed au, also tarot card related, just working out composition for them.

(AU by @lego-sand)

[kheprriverse]

Y’all thinking about an older Ares has RUINED me

[dracocheesecake]

Kai's Hair Routine

A drabble inspired by @skauni

Kai let the water pour over his head. Usually, he didn't bother with this-bathing, even at the end of a campaign, felt lavish on the edge of frivolity- but there had been a comment made by a certain someone that he couldn't let slide.

He took out a bottle of the rice water he had made (rice water! During the war, like he was some sort of noble in the Emperor's court!). It was poor stuff, really, having been fermented only a day, with water from nearby streams and rice from his own provisions- of which there was plenty. All that the soldiers ate most days was just rice.

Kai gritted his teeth as he poured some of it over his head, and smoothed it into his mane. It felt somewhat sticky, and he wasn't certain that this would even work- but if it knocked that smug look off of that lip-smacking wannabe buddha's face-

He grumbled and combed his hair out with his fingers (as best as he could- it was thick, and heavily tangled). This was a long process, but by the end he felt he had done something right. He rinsed himself off, dried as quick as he could, put his hanfu back on, and reentered the yurt he shared with his co-general.

Oogway was reading a report, but looked up when Kai's form blocked his light. Kai smirked down at him, his hands on his hips. His mane, freshly dried, hung over his shoulders in shining, black tresses that curled slightly at the ends.

"See?" He said, "I do know how to wash it."

Oogway chuckled. "Yet you still haven't learned to brush it."

Kai's eyes widened. He grit his teeth, flushing to his ears. "I did too!" He snapped, "It's just-"

His jaws shut again. Then he crossed his arms and turned his face away. For all the fearsome titles he had acquired, at that moment he looked like a pouty toddler. Oogway laughed again, but there was a more gentle lilt to it that made Kai soften.

"I know. Come here and we'll see if it can be amended. Maybe you'll end up looking like we can present you at the next treatise signing."

Kai's ears flickered back. He grit his teeth again. "I didn't look that bad," he grumbled. But he still sat down on a mat in front of him, his back turned towards the tortoise so he could work. Oogway picked up a nearby lacquered box, green and gold, and opened it. Inside was a selection of shubi- combs of different fineness.

From amongst these he plucked the largest, a thick-toothed shu of polished jade. He hummed again, then took up a section of Kai's mane, brushing it.

"You were still covered in blood," Oogway noted colloquially, "and mud, and who knows what else. And your mane caught fire after you passed the torches and stayed lit, probably because of all of the grease in it."

"It. Wasn't. That. Bad," Kai insisted. He crossed his arms again, huffing and grumbling under his breath. Oogway rolled his eyes, but dropped it for now. After a moment he continued humming.

"It was thoughtful of Lord Boqin to send you these combs," he said as he worked, rooting out each tangle- and there were plenty of them. Kai snorted.

"And those calligraphed scriptures for you. But if the terms we lay down tonight go over- they will, he doesn't have a choice- he'll be sending assassins next."

Oogway separated the layers and pinned them back with a few fine-toothed bi. "Oh, undoubtedly. But at this point, that just comes with being a warlord. Have to get them first."

He paused after he said this. There was something in his mind that seemed to ring every time he thought like this, every time this subject came up, something that had been bothering him more and more throughout their bloody career; something he would never bring up in front of Kai, of course...But sometimes he wondered: did it have to be this way? Why? Where would it all lead?

Was there another path they could follow, one not so full of bloodshed and treachery, one that would lead them to a life of peace and fulfillment that the glories of war could not provide?

He had been so caught up in these thoughts that he didn't pay mind to his brushing- not until Kai cried out. Oogway blinked out of his reverie, the worry dissipating like a cloud in the wind. He smirked.

"You didn't so much as groan when you got stabbed by a spear," he said, "but you cry when someone tugs on your hair."

"I'M NOT CRYING! YOU'RE TRYING TO PULL MY SCALP OFF, YOU FU-"

Oogway pulled the comb, pulling the mane taut, and Kai's head followed. He winced. Oogway chuckled and eased up some. With more gentleness this time around, he ran his claws through the knots, untangling them. A few more moments, and he began to remove the rest of the combs, finishing by tying Kai's mane partially up in a top bun.

"There. Now you look like one of the Supreme Warlords of All of China," Oogway teased lightly. Kai snorted and rose.

"As long as it doesn't catch fire again," he murmured.

"Well, that depends on how often you wash your hair." He seemed to think for a moment. "...You know, actually- don't wash your hair anymore."

Kai looked at him, tilting his head. "What? Why?"

"I was thinking that maybe we could start gathering the grease from your hair. We might be able to save on lantern oil- don't hit me!" He dodged Kai's blow, giggling.

[iinryer]

i want to get my brain in writing mode again, so if you would like to send me a prompt from this list and like 2-3 emojis… i will attempt to write a quick scene

[parallelpie]

>)

[leqclerc]

Outside the window, the world is dark, with only the occasional twinkle of a distant city or a star breaking through the velvety blackness. ↳ Charles and Bean and five birthdays over fourteen years Bean AU Words: 2527 *

She’s tiny, so small that she doesn’t even fully fill the cradle of his arms. 

Charles takes in his baby’s little button of a nose, the perfect seashell of an ear, the sweep of her delicate eyelashes, her rosy cheeks. He’s pretty sure she weighs less than the trophies he’s held aloft on the podium. 

One of the baby’s fists escapes the soft cocoon of her blanket. There’s a thin plastic band adorning her wrist that reads Baby Girl Leclerc.

He touches a finger to the ridge of her knuckles, feather-light. The loop of her hand closes around it with surprising tenacity. 

She’s awake and alert, looking up at him with the same intensity with which he’s gazing down at her, his wonderment reflected back at him in her big, slow-blinking eyes. Logically, he knows that he’s little more than a hazy image swimming across her blurry vision, but it still feels a lot like I know you. I remember you.

Of course she does—for months her entire world had been narrowed down to just him, and the timbre of his voice, and the warm steady beating of his heart and the oxygen they both shared. He’s everything she’s ever known; the first person she’s ever met.

It’s an all-consuming, dizzying thought. He hopes he doesn’t disappoint her. He’s not perfect, but he can be better. They did okay, so far, didn’t they, to get to this point.

“Béatrice,” he murmurs. “Chérie.”

one

Charles flies out of Amsterdam on Sunday evening. On the jet, he takes stock: the race was—okay. It could’ve been better, but mostly, it could’ve been worse. 

He’d ended up on the podium, at least, but he’s under no illusion that this will have any bearing on his championship hopes—those fizzled out before they ever had a chance to be fully-formed, the garage already resigned to another year of next year.

Bean’s already asleep by the time he arrives at the apartment to relieve Pascale of her babysitting duties. He leaves his bags in the hallway and goes to check on her, like he always does. 

She had been asleep long enough now that she had starfished over half the crib. The glow-in-the-dark stars—a staple of his own childhood—form a galaxy overhead, with her at the heart of this makeshift universe. She looks so soft in sleep. He wonders what she’s dreaming about.

✿

The morning sun filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the nursery. He allows Bean to wake up at her own pace, then guides her through her morning routine as usual. 

“Happy birthday, mon petit chou,” Charles says softly after she’s changed and dressed and ready to start her day. He lifts her high above his head, kissing both of her cheeks as she laughs, before settling her on his hip. Though unaware of the significance of today’s date, she easily picks up on the mood, her excitement mirroring his. 

There’s a celebratory cupcake waiting for her on the coffee table in the living room, a single candle perched in the center. Charles carries her over, leaning in so she can get a closer look. He watches as she stares at the candle with wide eyes, mesmerized by the flickering flame.

“Are you ready to make a wish?” He gently takes her small hand in his, helping her to understand what they’re about to do.

They successfully blow out the candle, the flame reduced to a tendril of gray smoke. Well—it’s mostly Charles doing the work as Bean lets out an amusing little puff of air in an attempt to mimic him. Still, he claps for her to show her she did well in an encouraging, positive affirmation kind of way. She giggles, clearly pleased with herself, and Charles can’t help but laugh along with her.

six

The Vista jet cruises smoothly through the night sky, the soft hum of the engines providing a gentle, rhythmic backdrop to the otherwise quiet, dimly-lit cabin. Charles sits in one of the plush leather seats, the glow from a single overhead light casting a warm, faint circle around him. Outside the window, the world is dark, with only the occasional twinkle of a distant city or a star breaking through the velvety blackness.

Bean’s curled up on the seat across from him, sleeping off another busy, excitement-filled day in the paddock. The blanket he draped over her has shifted, so he leans over and carefully tucks it back around her, making sure she’s comfortable.

As Charles sits back, he glances at his watch, noticing the time. It’s just past midnight, marking the official start of Bean’s birthday in their timezone. A soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he realizes it’s already her day, and here she is, sleeping soundly, completely unaware. 

There’s a perceptible shift in the weight of Bean’s body when she falls asleep—even now, when she sometimes dozes off in his arms and he has to carry her to the car, her limbs going loose like she’s giving her whole self over to Charles. It’s an achingly artless kind of trust.

Tonight, in the quiet cocoon of the jet, it feels as if time has blessedly slowed down, just for a moment. He reaches over and gently brushes a curl from her forehead, careful not to wake her. The soft rise and fall of her breathing is steady and soothing.

In just a few hours, they will land in Nice, where the city lights will greet them as they descend toward the coast. They’ll celebrate her birthday properly then, with cake, presents, and all the things she loves. But for now, Charles is content to sit here in the calm of the night, watching over her.

eleven

Charles retreats to his driver’s room after the Sunday morning strategy meeting, glad for the respite, a moment away from the bustle of the race weekend. He glances at his phone again, his thoughts drifting to his daughter.

It’s her birthday today, and for the first time, they aren’t spending it together. Instead, Bean is miles away at a karting circuit in the south of France, competing in one of the biggest races of her blossoming junior career.

His heart tugs as he imagines her, blonde curls wild under her helmet, focused and determined, not unlike him. He knows this is exactly where she wants to be, doing what she loves, but it doesn’t make the time apart any easier. He’s always been there for her birthdays. Not being there today feels strange.

Charles sighs and taps his phone, pulling up FaceTime. He waits a moment, hoping she’s not on track or too caught up in pre-race nerves.

A few rings later, Bean’s face appears on the screen. She’s sitting in the paddock of the karting circuit, green eyes bright with excitement, cheeks flushed from the heat of the day. The sight of her, even through the phone, makes Charles smile.

“Happy birthday, ma puce!” he says, voice warm.

“Thanks, papa!” Bean grins, her usual exuberance shining through. “Ready for the race?”

Charles chuckles. “Always. But today’s not about me, it is about you. How are you feeling? Nervous?”

“A little,” she admits, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “It’s a big race, and... I kind of wish you were here.”

His chest tightens at her words. He hates being apart on days like this, but he knows how much karting means to her, and this is an important milestone in her young racing career. “I know, Bean. I wish I could be there too. I’d give anything to watch you race today.”

She smiles softly, though he can see a touch of sadness behind it. “It’s okay. I get it. You’re doing your thing, and I’m doing mine. I mean, it’s kind of cool we’re both racing on my birthday, right?”

“It might be a sign,” he says. “Two Leclercs racing on the same day—it’s got to be good luck.”

Bean laughs, her mood lifting. “I hope so. I’m going for the win today.”

“I am sure you’ll do great,” Charles reassures her. “You’ve worked so hard for this. Just trust yourself and enjoy it, okay?”

She nods, her confidence slowly returning. “Yeah, I will. And you? You better win your race too. It’ll be like an extra birthday present.”

Charles chuckles. “No pressure, huh?”

A brief pause follows. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I’m not there, Bean. I wish I could’ve made it work. But I’m proud of you for everything you’re doing. Always.”

“I know, papa,” she says softly. 

A beat, and then: “I miss you.” There’s a startlingly vulnerable expression on her face, eyes big and guileless. “But I’m okay.”

He smiles, feeling a swell of emotion. “That’s my girl.”

Suddenly, someone in the background calls her name, probably one of her karting team members. She looks over her shoulder, then back at Charles. “I have to go now, I think. I’ll call you after the race?”

“Of course. I want to hear all about it,” he says. “Good luck, chérie.”

“Thanks, papa. You too.” 

Charles stares at the screen for a long, lonely moment after the call ends, feeling a mess of conflicting emotions.

fourteen

The lights at the hotel’s two-Michelin-starred restaurant have been dimmed for the dinner service. A gentle murmur of conversation floats through the air. 

Béatrice’s gaze drifts to the name card that sits beside a bouquet of fresh water lilies—its elegant lettering marking her place at one of those reservation only tables—and then beyond it, at the expansive windows that afford sweeping views of the impeccably manicured hotel gardens, bathed in the moonlight. She longs to excuse herself, to step outside and drink in the night air, but forces herself to stay seated as the first course arrives: a delicate plate of lobster carpaccio, thin slices of tender meat arranged artfully with microgreens, lemon zest, and a drizzle of olive oil. It’s one of those dining experiences where the dish is dwarfed by the size of the plate it’s served on. 

The meal is rich and flavourful, as expected, but her sour mood has sapped her appetite. She takes a few bites, then resorts to subtly pushing her food around the plate as her eyes drift to Charles.

He’s sitting next to her, but his attention is elsewhere. She watches as he makes polite, uninspired conversation with sponsors, wearing a practiced smile as he nods along to some business magnate’s stock market analysis. She doesn’t recognize the man, vaguely wonders if she should. He’s like everybody else here, just another face in the sea of well-dressed guests that surrounds them—models, executives, and industry moguls mingling easily, all gathered for Giorgio Armani’s exclusive event. Everyone seems so absorbed in their glamorous world—except her.

The second course is a perfectly cooked filet of beef, topped with shaved truffle and paired with a side of buttered potatoes and seasonal vegetables that looks like it came straight from a painting. It melts in her mouth, but it still doesn’t feel right. She shifts in her seat. The straps of her Chanel ballet flats bite into her ankles. 

She understands—these events are important for his career. It’s just. It’s not how she imagined spending her birthday. 

Dessert is an intricate chocolate mille-feuille with layers so fine and precise they look almost too perfect to eat. It’s accompanied by a tiny scoop of Tahitian vanilla gelato—and she has to admit, it’s delicious. But the grandeur of it all only makes her long for home that bit more.

As Charles leans in to chat with one of the executives seated beside them, Béatrice glances at her father. He looks handsome, as he always does in formal attire—crisp white shirt and tailored black Armani suit, the smoky, earthy notes of Tom Ford’s Oud Wood lingering long after the conversation has ended. But she can see the faint tension in his smile, the subtle weariness in his eyes. He’s working, even now, appeasing sponsors with casual banter and posing for photos whenever someone approaches their table. He makes the politesse look effortless, but she knows better. This isn’t how he wants to spend the evening either.

She sighs softly, glancing down at her watch. It’s well past 10 p.m., and they’re still at the table, with no sign of the event winding down anytime soon. She twirls a strand of her curly blonde hair absentmindedly, her eyes wandering the room, taking in the unfamiliar faces. 

Charles, catching her fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, places a gentle hand on her arm. “Okay, Bean?” he asks quietly, his voice soft with concern.

She nods but can’t hide the weariness in her expression. “I’m fine,” she says, though the truth bleeds through her words. 

Charles frowns, guilt creasing his brow. “I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend your birthday, mon cœur. I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he says, squeezing her hand gently.

Béatrice offers him a small, understanding smile. “It’s okay, papa.”

He nods, his heart heavy as he glances at the surrounding tables. The guests are still engrossed in their own conversations. With a deep breath, Charles makes up his mind. They’ve done their duty, fulfilled their obligation. Now it’s time to leave.

“Let’s go,” he whispers, standing up and excusing himself from the table with polite nods to the sponsors.

Her eyes light up with relief as she grabs her small handbag and follows him out of the restaurant, the cool night air hitting her face and easing the tension she hadn’t realized had built up in her shoulders. A sleek, black chauffeured Mercedes waits at the hotel entrance, the driver opening the door for them as they slide into the back seat. Charles gives her a tired smile as the car pulls away from the hotel, heading towards the airport.

She leans her head against the window as they speed through the quiet streets of Milan, watching the city lights blur past. By the time they arrive at the airport, the weight of the evening has caught up to both of them. The private jet is waiting on the tarmac, ready to whisk them away. 

She claims the familiar window seat, and he settles into the seat beside her, leaning back and watching as she makes herself comfortable, curling up and resting her head on his lap, like she used to when she was small. He cards a soft hand through her hair as they lift off into the night sky.

✿

Charles surprises her with a silk Hermès Équateur scarf, the one with the vibrant jungle print. He smiles, watching her trace the shape of each animal with something akin to reverence. And then Sebastian’s just unbearably old school about it, gifting her a curated CD mix of songs he thinks she might enjoy. 

They sit on a bench overlooking the Limmat, eating a selection of pastries from a local café—schnecken, with cinnamon and hazelnuts, nussgipfel, and warm, buttery croissants. The water is calm. The pastries melt in their mouths. Béatrice leans against Charles, resting her head on his shoulder, content in the moment. Sebastian sits beside them, stretching out his legs and tilting his face up towards the sun.

[irkinsblog]

[todayisafridaynight]

Share Mine notes please I beg (and on the arakawa fam if you have the timefkfd)

forgive me if these are messy as all fuck i'm not good at making notes BUT here's everything i generally keep in mind when drawing mine and hijikata + the reference sheets i look at when drawing them :)

arakawa family notes + references below:

(more notes about aoki + sawashiro's faces ft. ikumi here)

[quietlyblooms]

tonight i’m resting and keeping to myself bc i just need a minute, but tomorrow i think i’ll tinker with my rules and tidy up this blog overall. i’ve been thinking about a few things that have likely contributed to me feeling overwhelmed here, and i need to sit down and drop old drafts/asks, clean up my followers list, and set a lil boundary. hopefully after i do, i can get back to writing and bugging y’all at a normal pace 💜

[lion-buddy]

yay

[lycanr0t]

the other day V read me a post that was talking about perfectionism and half assing something while being a perfectionist is like whole assing something by most ppls standards and ive been thinking about it non stop

today i said to V that people seem to always think that perfectionists actually can achieve perfection, that theres a payoff to it. that its worth it. Perfectionists in fiction are hard workers and they DO make things perfect but i said the reality is that most perfectionists don't and can't actually get anywhere close to that. they hold themselves to a standard that's quite literally impossible to achieve and the mental weight of that leads to fucking up and over complicating things or simply never trying at all. because if people are going to be disappointed anyways you might as well save yourself from the time/effort/etc being wasted, right?

I guess like what I'm saying is perfectionism can appear like an unwillingness to try at all and it can appear like you're just not putting ""enough effort"" in and its not something that does actually have a payoff because perfect is not only subjective but also impossible. so cut yourself some slack and half ass shit life is way to short to spend fretting over every single detail

[dandydevildog]

Abigail Stardew my beloved