#i’m not even drawing i’m just finger painting but whatever it’s fine

[kinokoshoujoart]

ibispaint x just gives you process video of your drawing????? automatically??? that’s kinda cool (a feeling of being watched increases) anyway please take a speedpaint ft the song that inspired it

[dira333]

Glass Heart, take flight - Asahi x Reader

A/N: Soulmate AU, requested for the Follower Celebration, tagging @screamin-abt-haikyuu because DUH!

You’ve got a Glass Heart tattooed just below your left ear. 

It’s small enough to hide behind your hair or a pair of earrings if you want to. 

You don’t know when you’ve got it. It’s what happens to people who are too young when they meet their soulmate. You're pretty sure you know who it was though, not that it helps.

-

Gravel flies everywhere as you fall off the swing. You’d meant to fly as high as you dared, when someone grabbed chains from behind, bringing you to an abrupt stop. You fall face first, tears spilling over your bruised cheeks way before you can start wailing.

“Are you okay?” Someone asks, picking you up with ease. For a moment, you think it’s someone’s parent, but when long fingers carefully grab your chin and turn your face around to inspect the damage, you see it’s a boy, maybe a few years older than you, lanky and long-haired. 

His touch is soft and tickles, surprising you enough to stop crying.

“Who are you?” You ask.

Your words break whatever spell there had been. He jumps back, blushing.

“I, uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

He moves back, step after step after step. You try to grab him, what for, you don’t know yet. But you miss, nothing but air between your outstretched hands.

“I’ll go grab your Mum,” he insists, jogging away. 

-

“What school are you going to next year?” Miri asks over Lunch.

Your fingertips find the little heart beneath your ear that appeared last night. 

“Sekodai,” you tell her as confidently as you’ll ever be.

“Ah.” She nods. “They’ve got a great Volleyball Club, or so I’ve heard.”

“Yeah.” You shrug. “But I’m more into art.” And cute guys. But you don’t say that out loud.

-

“Hi. I’m from Class 1.5. Could I draw you? It’s for the Art Club.”

You watch as he blushes, the redness reaching even the tops of his ears.

“I…” He stammers helplessly.

“Dang, Asahi!” One of his classmates whistles lowly. “You’ve got game!”

“I…” His voice’s barely a voice anymore. It sounds more like a kettle whistling. Well, at least you know his name now. He cut his hair shorter and it’s wavy, framing his face in a way that makes you want to drag your hands through it. Or paint it, whatever he’ll allow.

“Please?” You ask. “It won’t take long. It’s just a sketch.”

“F-Fine…” He’s still red-faced when he arrives for the session, relaxes only slightly when he realizes that he’s not the only one. 

Most students have asked their classmates to sit for their panting. He’s not the only third-year, but the teacher eyes him curiously. 

“Do you need something?” She asks. “We normally don’t have high schoolers visiting.”

“I-I… I’m a student here.” Asahi stutters helplessly. “Third year.”

“Oh.” She blinks. “How old are you then?”

“He looks older than he is.” You interrupt, reaching forward to take his hand, to pull him away from the discussion he’s clearly dreading. 

Asahi pulls his hand away like you’re a snake, ready to bite.

It hurts more than you let on.

He barely speaks as he sits for his portrait. Today’s lesson is meant to be in black and white and while you’re glad he agreed to sit for you, you hate the fact that all his blushing is lost to you. You can do nothing more but hope the image will burn itself into your brain, for that you’ll never go without it.

When you’re done and you turn the canvas for him to see, he stills. 

A multitude of emotions flickers over his face, each too fast for you to catch before he bows so low you fear for his spine.

“Thank you for considering me.” He presses through his teeth and darts from the room and you pretend you don’t notice that he takes a few extra steps to avoid the risk of touching you.

-

The sound of a whistle cuts through your heart.

Below you, Karasuno loses, Dateko wins. 

Asahi’s grown taller in the two years you haven’t seen him. His hair has grown out too. 

But there’s added weight on his shoulders, you can tell by the way he walks. 

Your fingertips reach for the Glass Heart below your ear. You wonder how it’s holding up now.

“Are you sure you wanna go to this school?” Miri asks next to you. “I mean, you don’t have to come to Aoba Johsei with me, we’ve been friends for long enough, but you got a ride to Shiratorizawa.”

“No, I want this one,” you say, your voice firm. 

Miri sighs. “Well, at least the Art Club there isn’t bad.”

-

Barely one week into the school year you get the chance to deliver some papers to the Third Year Classes.

Well, the task had been meant for the “strong boys” in your Class, but you’re too stubborn to take the hint. 

Now you’re sweating under the weight of too many folders to count and your hair is sticking to your face in a way you hope is looking cutely disheveled instead of ready-to-murder-you.

“Ah, thank you. That looks pretty heavy, didn’t Takeda-Sensei send someone with you?” The teacher asks. You ignore her words and let your eyes run through the Classroom. There, a little bit further back, sits Asahi.

When your eyes meet his there’s instant recognition. You’d be proud about it, proud that he remembers you even two years later if he didn’t turn away right after. Your heart plummets all the way to your feet, but you need to keep up the facade as well as the weight of folders in your arms.

“Azumane,” his teacher orders. “You’re tall and strong. Help this student out, will you?”

He blushes furiously, but he gets up nonetheless and walks out stiffly.

You pull your sweater over your hands, one by one, so that he won’t have to fear touching you before you offer the folders for him to take.

“I…” He starts, but he doesn’t finish his sentence.

-

It happens. There are Soulmates who don’t fall in love. 

You never thought you’d be one of them.

If only you’d have been born without a stubborn head as well.

It would make everyone’s lives easier.

-

“Can I walk you home?” You ask, stepping out of the little shed that holds the bicycles.

Asahi flinches away like you’re the one towering over other people.

“What? How? I..” He stammers. 

You shrug and pull the straps of your backpack a little tighter to hide your shaking hands.

“Can I?” You ask again.

He stares, wordlessly.

“You don’t have to agree, I can just follow you home on my own, two steps behind you so you don’t see me sneaking.”

That brings something like a smile to his face but he turns away to hide it the moment it flickers over his lips.

But he starts walking and you rush to catch up to him, taking two steps everytime he takes one.

“You know,” you say, a little breathlessly when you need to tackle an incline, “As much as Hinata’s going on my nerves, I think he’s good for the team.”

Asahi stops again. “You know Hinata?”

“Uh, yeah. Everyone knows Hinata. Also, I’m a First Year.”

“Right.”

He walks two steps before stopping again.

“You know about the team?”

“Yeah?” You huff, trying to hide the fact that you’re already out of breath. “The only reason I’m not a manager is because I’m way better at art than I ever was at managing.”

“Why don’t you play?”

You point at yourself, still unable to take a proper breath after less than five minutes of jogging next to him. He doesn’t seem to understand.

“I’ve got the Athletic Genes of a Muffin,” you translate when you can breathe a little better. On the other side of the hill, the sun sets the sky on fire. “But I think it’s all the same. It doesn’t matter if you paint or play Volleyball, really. Humans have no wings, so they search for other ways to fly.”

When you look back at him, there’s something in his eyes you haven’t seen before. It makes you nervous and you swallow thickly, try to regain the composure you’ve had before.

“Do you… do you believe in Soulmates?” You ask, your mind running on empty.

“Sure.” His voice sounds weirdly detached. His face is tinted golden from the sunset. 

“Is this why you don’t want to be touched?” It’s a guess, really. He could still be a germaphobe. But he flinches like you’ve caught him.

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

“It’s a great burden,” he admits, quietly, staring at the sun. “What if they touch you and then you’ve got a mark but they don’t like you like that? You’d always be tied to them, whether they wanted that or not. I’d rather not put that on anyone.”

“It’s a bit late for that.” The words slip out your mouth too fast for you to catch them. You’d wanted to say something else, to put it differently. But he understands nonetheless, his head snapping over.

You pull your hair back to reveal the Glass Heart below your ear. 

Whatever you thought would happen, doesn’t. 

Asahi takes a step back instead of forward. You can see the doubt cloud his mind.

“Please.” You step forward, lunge for his arm like you’ve done all those years before on the playground.

This time, your hand closes around his wrist. It tickles.

But Asahi is taller, stronger, faster than you. When the turns to run, you’ve got no chance to follow.

-

The boy is about as tall as Hinata, dark hair with one bleached strand that makes it look like he’s being hit by lightning.

You remember hearing Yamaguchi talk about him, but his name is lost on you.

“Can I help you?” You ask rather rudely. You haven’t slept well ever since that evening. It’s been a week and it’s starting to catch up to you. 

You wonder if you’ve left a mark on Asahi. Maybe you’d read it all wrong. Maybe you’d run after the wrong guy all these years.

“Are you in the Art Club?” He asks.

“Yeah? Why?”

“You’re really pretty.”

“Thanks?” 

He grins, gives you a thumbs up and leaves. Whatever that was, you don’t have the energy to deal with it right now. 

It takes two more times of him showing up until you learn his name.

Nishinoya-senpai is weirdly adamant about getting to know you. He’s also hilariously bad at it, spending most of his time telling you about how great he did at training today, how he almost couldn’t save a ball Asahi had spiked, or how their manager is the prettiest being in the whole wide world.

“Why are you here?” You ask when he catches you after school. You’re in the middle of washing your brushes and you’d like it very much if your heart just gave in. But it has been two weeks and you still cannot stop thinking about Asahi. Even though you haven’t seen him since that evening. Has he stopped going to school?

“I’m a friend of Asahi.” He tells you.

“Aha.”

“He talks about you a lot.”

“Sure he does.” The sarcasm in your voice would be enough for two more people.

“No, really, he does. I think you’re Soulmates. But you know, we didn’t win against Dateko last year and… well, I think he needs to prove to himself that he’s worthy- Are you okay?”

You can taste the salt of your own tears. You nod, hoping he will leave you alone. He doesn’t.

“What does it matter?” You ask. Not necessarily Nishinoya, but if he’s not willing to leave you alone, he’s going to have to deal with it. “What does it matter if he wins or loses? Isn’t he worthy no matter what?” You try to dry your nose on your sleeve but the tears just won’t stop.

There’s a more pressing question to it all, a question you hadn’t dared voice before but it won’t leave your mind so why not give it the room it craves?

“Am I even worthy?” 

When your tears finally dry, Nishinoya is gone. 

Well, you’ve always known that not all boys are created equal. Some just cannot deal with tears. 

-

“Can I walk you home?” Asahi asks, stepping out of the little shed that holds the bicycles.

You flinch. You thought you’d be the last one to leave.

“You don’t have to agree,” he stutters. “I-I can just follow you home on my own, t-two steps behind you…”

“Why?” You ask, voice a little hoarse from crying.

“Nishinoya told me… About what you said.”

“So?”

Asahi stretches out his arm. His shirt is pulled back.

On his wrist is something you haven’t seen before. Two black wings spread out on either side, like a bird taking flight.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner,” he tells you. “If you want, you can take my hand.”

You move to grab it, half expecting him to pull away again. But his hand is warm, big enough to swallow yours and he squeezes back even as he blushes furiously.

“What about Dateko?” You ask, not willing to let go. “What about being worthy?”

“I tend to get lost in my own head,” he confesses. “I doubt that will ever change. But, I- I want you to know that I never doubted that you were worthy. I knew ever since we met for the first time, well, I hoped, but I… I didn’t want to-”

“Put a burden on me, I know.” You nod and squeeze his hand at the same time. “You’re going to have to get used to it, you know? I’ve got pretty strong shoulders.”

You can’t see the sunset from where you’re standing. But the way Asahi smiles makes you think you don’t need to anyway. He’ll always be golden anyway.

-

“Careful, door opening.” Asahi announces, one arm on your back as he guides you into the coffee shop. 

Your eyes are glued to your phone screen, but you trust your fiancé that he will keep you safe on your early morning hunt for breakfast.

He orders for the two of you, squinting down over your shoulder every once in a while to check in on your live feed.

Your newest art project hasn’t been online for long and the comments are flowing in almost too fast for you to read.

It’s only when Asahi awkwardly clears his throat behind you that you look up. You spot it right away.

“Excuse me?”

The Barista looks up right away, flinching slightly when she locks eyes with you. 

“He asked for oat milk. That’s soy.”

“Sorry, I mixed that up.”

“No worries, just making sure.” You smile as Asahi deflates behind you, leaning all his weight onto your shoulders.

“Thank you,” he mumbles into your ear. “I wouldn’t have been able to say anything.”

“I know.” Your right hand finds his, squeezes tight. “That’s why we’ve got each other.”

My Kofi if you want to tip me

[callsign-rogueone]

the south star

sawyer henrick x reader part two of sawyer and peach's story words: 1.9k 🏷: no book spoilers (yet) and no warnings. just these cuties figuring out how to make this fake-dating thing work. it's totally definitely fake, right? falling in love with your childhood best friend would be crazy.

It’s easy to spot Sawyer on this side of the school — he’s the only one dressed in head-to-toe black, and by far the tallest student around.

Not that there’s many people here at this hour. You’ve both already had dinner, and a few of your classmates who have early morning shifts tomorrow have already gone to bed. 

He settles into the seat across from you, offering you a warm smile that turns into a frown when he sees the book you have open in front of you. “Did I keep you waiting? I’m sorry.”

You finish a sentence and set aside your notebook. “Not at all. I was just getting some studying in — this botany course is harder than I thought it would be. What did you want to talk about?”

He takes a breath, deciding to jump straight into it. “Boundaries. We need to decide — you need to decide, really — how far you want to go with this. I don’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable— that’s why I’m here, because he’s making you uncomfortable.”

Easier said than done. Where do you draw the line? Where does he want to draw the line? What if you make him uncomfortable by crossing it? You don’t want to ruin your closest, longest-standing friendship. Closest if you don’t count that big gap of the last two years when you’d only spoken to each other once — but before that, he had been your best friend — and at times your only friend — since childhood. He still knows you better than any of your healer friends.

He can see the gears turning. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching across the table. His hand stops an inch from yours, because you still haven’t said anything. “If you don’t want to do this, I get it. My friends meant well, but they can be…” he trails off, looking for the right word.

“No, it’s okay,” you say after a moment. “I’m fine with whatever you are. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You move your hand closer, setting it on top of his. He cradles your fingers in his palm, his thumb brushing over your knuckles gently. It takes everything in you not to shiver at the gentle touch. 

He smiles, shaking his head. “I knew you’d say that. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Ridoc, it’s how to commit to a bit. I’m locked in. I’ll take this as far as you think it needs to go.”

That’s all this is, a bit, an act. You know that, but why does the reminder sting?

He’s still holding your hand, thumb still idly stroking your knuckles. His eyes catch on your nails, lingering there a moment, admiring them. “You’re really good at that. The paint is so neat.”

You feel a little squeeze of pride at the compliment, but you don’t admit that you’d spent extra time on them this week, to make sure they were perfect — filing the tips into perfect ovals and cleaning up the edges with a tiny brush, putting an extra coat of gloss on top. 

“Polish, not paint,” you say with a soft laugh. “And healers need steady hands, don’t we?”

“I didn’t think about that. I guess so.” He realizes that you still haven’t answered his question, still haven’t drawn a specific line in the sand. “Just think about it, okay? And if I ever do anything that crosses a line or makes you uncomfortable, even if it’s something we agreed was okay earlier, you let me know, okay?”

You nod, taking a moment to find the words to respond — you’re lost in his eyes, in the soft concern there.

Has he always been this beautiful? 

“Okay,” you finally answer, more quietly than you’d intended. “I’ll think about it. And thank you. For agreeing to do this, and for being so nice about it.”

He offers you a shy smile. “Of course. Now, my first official act as your totally real boyfriend.” He lets go of your hand, laying it back down on the table gently. 

There’s that stinging feeling again. You push it away, looking up at him. 

“I won this in my first challenge fight, my first year,” he says, unsheathing one of the knives from his hip, “and now I’m giving it to you.”

You raise your eyebrows, amused. “Is this some rider’s tradition I don’t know about? Giving people knives as a romantic declaration?”

“Not that I’m aware,” he answers, “I just want you to have something to defend yourself with.” 

Your joking smile immediately falls. “I don’t know, Sy…”

He flips it around with ease, extending the hilt to you. “Just hold it for a second.”

You take it carefully, weighing it in your hand. It feels entirely different from the small knives you’d use to prepare ingredients; this isn’t made to chop up leaves, but to cut skin, and not in the precise and delicate way that a scalpel would, but with the intent to cause damage.

He reaches out to adjust your hold on it, gently moving your fingers into the proper grip and wrapping his hand over yours. 

You feel the metal warm up under your palm, your breath catching as it moves — molding itself to the shape of your hand, making four groves the perfect size and shape for your fingers. Your eyes snap up to his. “Did you just…”

He realizes he never told you about his signet. “Yeah,” he says shyly, letting go of your hand. “How’s that feel?”

“Better, but still… wrong.”

“I know it feels weird. It’ll take some getting used to. And I hope you won’t ever need it, but you should still have something. Just in case.”

“Okay,” you agree, setting it down on the table and reaching into your bag. “But then I want you to carry this around.” You set a length of stretchy cord down beside it, along with a roll of bandages.

It’s his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Bandages, and… rope.”

“A tourniquet,” you correct. “If someone’s losing a lot of blood—”

“Wrap it around as tightly as you can and tie it in a knot,” he finishes for you, pocketing them. “Got it.”

“On the side of the wound that’s closer to the heart,” you add, and he nods in understanding. “Good.”

“Now, if I want to teach you how to use that, I’m going to have to learn how to do stitches, aren’t I?” He asks, nodding toward the dagger.

“Stitches might be a bit advanced. But I’ll think of something.”

He gives you that sly smile you’ve missed so much. “Are all of our dates going to be educational?”

You flush, realizing that this is technically a date, even if you’re just sitting here talking. “Not all of them. We need a break sometimes. Which leads me to our next order of business. We both have the day off tomorrow, so we can stay up a little longer. C’mon.”

You stand, shouldering your bag and leading him down the hall and through a door he hadn’t noticed, onto a small patio.

“I like to come out here sometimes and just look at them,” you say quietly.

It takes him a second to realize what you’re referring to — but then he follows your gaze up to the sky. The August evenings are finally darkening at a reasonable hour, hundreds of tiny twinkling stars visible overhead. 

You sit down on the sun-warmed stone, Sawyer settling beside you. 

He’s the first to speak, starting the conversation quietly. “After that whole mess at the land-nav exercise, I did some more reading about celestial navigation. You see that one really bright one, over there on its own? That’s the south star. It doesn’t move with the seasons like the rest. The others come and go, but it always stays in the same spot.”

“Do you think it gets lonely?” you ask softly, lying down to look at it better. “Always staying in one place?”

“Only you can make a star millions of miles away have feelings,” he says with a soft laugh. “Maybe. But its friends come to visit every year, and it has the moons for company.” He looks over at you. “But this isn’t about the stars, is it?”

You sigh, shaking your head no. “I want to be here, I really do, but sometimes I feel terrible for leaving them. Especially this time of year.”

He doesn’t need to ask who ‘they’ are; your distant upward gaze at the moon is enough to clue him in. You’re talking about your family, feeling guilty for heading off to school and missing the harvest.

You continue in a whisper. “I know they all encouraged us to go, but… I worry about them, how they’re doing, if the harvest was enough to pay the bills. I know they wouldn’t tell me if it wasn’t, because they know I’d drop out and go back the moment I heard they were in trouble.”

“I think about that a lot. And now that I don’t have that option, and I’ll be gone for four years, not three…” he sighs. “I never told them I had to repeat. I just don’t want them to be ashamed of me.”

You turn your head to look at him. “They could never be ashamed of you, Sy.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” you answer, rolling onto your side to face him properly. “Their son is a dragon rider, not to mention the executive officer of his squad, and he can literally bend metal without even touching it. I know you’re around a bunch of badasses with magic powers every day, but to us normal people, that’s really damn cool. So what if it took you a little longer than your friends? You’re the real deal. You’ve got the relic to prove it.”

You realize that he’s never really shown it to you, and that you definitely just admitted to checking him out that day in the infirmary, but you brush past it quickly. “But all that aside, you’re kind, empathetic, funny, strong… you’re a great guy, Sawyer, and an amazing fake boyfriend.”

He flushes even redder.

You smile. “I could go on, but you look like you’re gonna catch a fever, so I’ll stop for now. Just know it’s the truth, every word.”

He looks back up at the stars. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

“Of course, Sy.” You reach out across the stone, brushing your hand against his. Your heart races as he intertwines your fingers.

“For what it’s worth, you’re an amazing fake girlfriend too.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. That was a world-class pep talk. And I feel very safe with my new rope.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Hey! I was serious about that. You guys are always showing up and getting blood all over the floor. It would be nice if you could keep it in. Especially now that Nolon’s out all the time and it’s just us normal folk around to help.”

He laughs, squeezing your hand gently. “I promise I will keep as much of my blood inside my body as I can.”

“Good.”

You pull your gaze away from the constellations on his cheeks, looking back to the ones lighting the dark, just in time to see a streak of light cross the sky.

“Make a wish,” you instruct, closing your eyes.

Neither of you say your wishes aloud, but you both hope they’re the same.

[comet-forgot-you]

Can you please write bottom river x fem reader 🙏🙏🙏

crave

river x fem!reader

summary: river fucks herself on your fingers. (based on this.)

warnings: 18+ pls, smut, fingering, degrading, begging, think thats it tbh.

a/n: another one thank you. enjoy this river fic, its the last you’ll EVER get. no its not i’m just a jokester. enjoy. do not repost for any reason.

work was killing you. constant paperwork piled up for you to do, forcing you to work it out on your off days. when river was at your house, the time you were meant to be spend with her was spent on your computer typing away at whatever stupid work your boss had given you. it made river so mad.

she missed your gentle touches, missed hearing you talk about whatever, she missed laying in silence watching whatever movie the two of you had heard about, and fuck did she miss the way you fucked her.

she was so pent up, it had been weeks since you had touched her and she was starting to go insane. she had never craved you more than she did now, and seeing you, blue light glasses perched on your nose, in an oversized shirt you had stolen from her, and those pretty panties that just barely peeked out from the way you sat, it only spurred her need further. she needed you, and she needed you now.

she set the glass previously full of water down into the empty sink, eyes trained on you. her fingers gripped the edge of the counter, you were so hot and you weren’t even trying. river let out a huff of air, pushing herself away from the counter. you looked up at her as she made her way across the living room, sitting down right next to you.

“hmm?” you hum, returning your attention to the laptop in your lap. river shrugged, her shoulder rubbing against yours as she did so. you look over to her, the familiar look of want painted on her face. her eyes were darker than their usual shade of brown, a slight pout on her lips, it sent a wave of heat throughout your body. you sigh, “river, i can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s up,” you whisper, setting your laptop down on the coffee table.

its quiet for a moment, river’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “just need you s’ bad,” she murmured, leaning closer to you and pressing featherlight kisses against your neck. she takes your soft hand into hers and guides it to cup her cunt, a soft whine falling from her lips.

“fuck,” you mumble, eyes shutting tightly at the feeling of her hardly clothed cunt.

“you won’t even have to do anything, i’ll do all the work, just need you s’bad.” her voices is breathy and needy against your ear.

“fine,” you mutter. river smiles against your neck. she’s quick to pull her underwear off and straddle your lap. you cant help but run a finger through her wet folds.

“fuck,” she hisses, bucking against your fingertips. she grabs hold of your wrist, guiding you to her dripping hole. she sinks down on your fingers, grinding into the palm of your hand, drawing a needy moan from her lips.

she bounces on your fingers, grinding so your fingers hit that spongey spot that has her eyes rolling back. “you’re such a slut riv,” you mumble, curling your fingers as she grinds into your palm. “so fucking needy, look at you, your fucking yourself on my fingers.” her walls flutter around your fingers at you degrading words. a high pitched whine leaves her throat at your teasing words.

she keeps a steady pace for a few minutes before she’s breathless, moans falling from her lips. she wraps her fingers around your wrist, guiding you to fuck in and out of her. “please, can’t do it, need your help s’bad,” she whispers. you let out a humored huff of air.

“really? said you’d do it all by yourself and look at you now.” you roll your eyes at her and her walls flutter around your fingers once more.

“stop being mean, please js’ help me,” she whines, contouring to fuck herself with your fingers.

“really want me to stop being mean? i know you like it, don’t try to hide it,” you mumble. river groans at your words, letting go of your wrist to continue riding your fingers. your free hand is quick to grip her hip to halt her movements.

you curl your fingers inside of her, your free hand lifting her shirt over her breasts. you wrap your lips around her nipple, fucking your fingers in and out of her at a fast pace. moans fall from river’s lips uncontrollably as your thumb moves to circle her clit roughly.

“fuck.. fuck- i’m so close, please, can i? please js’,” her words are cut off by a loud moan, “i’m gonna cum, please, baby. need to cum so bad,” she whispers, her fingers wrapping in your hair.

you let off of her nipple with a loud pop, looking up at her blown out eyes. “go on, slut. cum on my fingers,” you murmur. her eyes roll back and her orgasm washes over her.

“fuckfuckfuck,” she whines, bucking into your palm helplessly.

“such a fuckin’ slut,” you murmur, pulling your fingers from her leaking cunt. she whines at the emptiness, head falling to your shoulder.

“needed you s’ bad, baby. you dont even know, fuck,” she whispers, pressing kisses against your shoulder.

reblogs much appreciated :D

[c-e-d-dreamer]

A/N: Nesta has had many metamorphosises within the series, but one of my favorites is her relationship with her sister and how that has changed, especially Feyre. And when Noah dropped Stick Season and I heard Orange Juice, I just knew that it was Nesta and Feyre's song. This is short but hopefully sweet. Hope everyone enjoys! cc:@nestaarcheronweek

Read on AO3

The streets of Velaris are strangely quiet this time of evening, most of the residents either wrapped up in their homes or holed up in one of the local taverns for the night. The street lamps and building windows all flicker with golden fae lights, only adding to the ambiance. The first snow of the season falls in soft swirls, catching in Nesta’s hair and eyelashes and further adding to the quiet peace. Even her footfalls don’t make a sound against the snow dusted cobblestones as she walks.

The wrought iron fence that surrounds the River House comes into view, ivy twisting around the metal and up the stone of the home. Just the sight has Nesta’s heart pressing up into her throat, memories breaking free from their cage in the back of her mind and threatening to overwhelm her again. Her skin crawls at being back here again, standing in this place again.

For a moment, the snow melts away around her. For a moment, it’s green grass and flowers. For a moment, raucous laughter floats through open windows and billowing curtains. For a moment, it’s six months ago.

Shaking her head against the cloud of memories, Nesta unfolds the piece of parchment in her hands again, reading the slanting, looping script of her youngest sister.

Come over, please? The party’s gone slower

With a soft sigh, Nesta folds the parchment again, slipping it back inside the pocket of her dress. She swallows down the emotions welling in her chest and pushes through the front gate, following the footpath up the steps and to the front door.

She barely has to knock once before the door is pulled open, Feyre standing on the other side. She’s dressed comfortably with a soft looking sweater and leggings, golden brown hair the same shade as Nesta’s own tumbling down along her shoulders and spine. Though the sleeves hang long, Nesta can still spy paint flecks stuck to the skin of her fingers, can still spy the short nails that are indicative of the habit that still clings to her youngest sister from when they were girls.

“Nesta,” Feyre breathes, offering a small, friendly smile. “I’m so glad you could visit.”

Feyre steps back, gesturing with her arm for Nesta to step inside. Already, Nesta’s eyes start to flit around, noting everything that’s changed. Everything that hasn’t. Her eyes linger on the portraits in golden frames lining the large staircase, lining the hall that leads to the large living room beyond.

“There’s orange juice in the kitchen,” Feyre continues, drawing Nesta’s attention back to her and leading her down a different hall. “We bought it for Nyx, but it’s yours if you want it. I know you got sober.”

“Six months,” Nesta offers, following Feyre into the large kitchen. “On the dot.”

Feyre’s steps pause, and she turns to smile over her shoulder. “That’s great, Nesta.”

She continues deeper into the kitchen and toward the ice box, pulling the door open. Her hands hesitate, and while her back is turned, Nesta recognizes the way Feyre’s fingers curl and twitch, the way her shoulders stiffen. It’s clear that her sister is frowning at whatever she sees, more likely what she doesn’t see.

“Just tea is fine.”

“Right,” Feyre breathes, letting the door fall shut again. “Tea.”

Feyre turns her attention to the cabinets, rummaging to get the kettle full and placed over the flame. The clink of dishes, the shuffle of tea leaves, it all fills the space between them, breaking up the underlying tension threatening to bubble up and stifle them both. With a soft sigh through her nose, Nesta lets her gaze drift back toward the kitchen doorway. Toward the faces and voices she hasn’t encountered since she moved away from the city. They float down the hall and into the kitchen like ghosts on the breeze.

The whole city is like a ghost town, roots and branches twisting like limbs reaching toward her. Shadows creeping out from every corner and alleyway. Nesta feels as much as a stranger in Velaris now as she did six months ago. As much a stranger as she felt in her skin. As much a stranger as she felt in this family.

And if she closes her eyes, Nesta can still see that hillside she passed when she arrived. She can see the white stone, glistening as brightly as the snow that swirled around it. Can see the monument that rises like a beacon, like a ghost all its own.

“I saw father’s grave earlier,” Nesta comments, her voice quiet.

Feyre nearly drops the teacups in her hands, but steadies herself and she sets them down on the counter in front of Nesta. “Elain had the monument built. She tends to the flowers around it every week.”

Nesta hums, taking a sip of her tea. It burns almost as much as the anger flaring through her veins. Almost. No matter the time that’s passed, it still fills her like a raging sea, still scorches like those silver flames she’s tried to swallow down. There’s no escaping it some days. No way to stop it from pulling her and drowning her through her silent screams.

“You know,” Feyre begins, sliding the tip of her finger along the rim of her teacup. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you to come home for so long.”

“Velaris isn’t my home,” Nesta reminds her, dropping her gaze to the swirling liquid of her tea so she won’t see the expression she’s sure will take over her youngest sister’s face. “Besides, we both know I’m third in the lineup to your lord and savior of a High Lord.”

“That’s not fair, Nesta.”

“It doesn’t matter anyways.”

Feyre sighs, a sound that Nesta knows well, one that tells her that her sister clearly disagrees but is swallowing down her argument. “I didn’t think to ask you where you ended up after you left… or why you left in the first place.”

She says the last part quietly, her voice trailing off, and guilt roils through Nesta’s gut and cloys up her throat. But she refuses to let its roots twist around her ribs, refuses to let it settle. Because she still remembers how it felt six months ago. She still remembers every cut, every bruise, every open wound that festered beneath her skin. Every ache that weighed down her soul. She still remembers the way her heart felt changed until it was little more than an unwelcome intruder in her chest.

“After the war… after the Cauldron, really, everything changed,” Nesta explains, finally raising her gaze back to Feyre’s.

“I know that everything was difficult for you…”

“No, you don’t understand. The world had changed. My life had changed. My heart and my very soul had changed, and yet you hadn’t changed at all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you find it strange that after everything that happened, you just went ahead and carried on? You came back here and celebrated as if nothing had happened. Everything had changed irrecoverably for me, and for you, it was just another day.”

“Nesta–”

“Did you know that the last time I drank, I was right here in front of your house? That I passed out right there in your lawn?”

Feyre’s entire face shifts with the admission, pain spilling through her blue eyes. “You–I didn’t know.”

“Gods, I must look like crow to you now compared to everything you have. Just pulling you down.”

Nesta pushes her half finished tea away from her, moving to step back and head toward the door, but fingers curl around her forearm, holding her in place. Feyre’s expression is pleading, but there’s understanding flickering beneath it as well. It’s the sort of look only a sister can give. One who shared the teeth and the claws. One who can recognize and see through any mask or bullshit.

A mirror in the truest sense.

“It wasn’t your fault, what happened to father,” Feyre tells her quietly.

Emotions clog up Nesta’s throat until she fears she won’t be able to breathe. But she doesn’t dare break away from Feyre’s eyes, doesn’t dare pull away from her sister’s grip.

“You didn’t put those bones in the ground.”

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

the boy is mine (H's Version)

hi, no long no see in this fandom. but @carolmunson put out a call for writers and I wanted to dive in! see her prompt: here.

It's a romantic night in and that means that sometimes a lot of feelings come out.

Eddie Munson x Gender Neutral Reader

CW: This is a lot of fluff, but some minor heated moments. Post S4, cannon divergent.

______________

The day was boiling--no breeze to cut through the stiff air. But now, as the evening settles, the curtains from the open windows billow just a little. The air is a whisper on the back of your neck as you bring your knees up to your chest. The notebook slips down just a little on your thighs, but you push it back up to get the right angle. Eddie will undoubtedly have a snide remark about your position, but you know the moment he settles back down on the couch, he too will be curled up. Most likely around you, and you’re praying the night gets just a little bit cooler to withstand the walking furnace that is Eddie. 

“Fuck me,” Eddie groans. 

You look up from the work you’ve been doing in coloring in the drawing Eddie sketched out earlier in the day to find Eddie frantically swinging open cabinet doors. He opens another door, without closing the other. Disaster flashes before your eyes. Stitches, a bloody puddle on the floor, should Eddie not be careful and--

Thunk! “Son of a bitch!” Eddie howls, holding the back of his head. In all his hurry, he popped up from the cabinets at the bottom only to smack his head on the corner of one of the open cabinet doors. 

“How many fingers am I holding up?” you call out with a giggle. 

“Looks like 16,” Eddie calls out, eyes narrowed in a squint. There’s only four fingers up. 

“Hmm, I think you’re fine,” you laugh but push up off the couch. There’s the slight shuffle, the almost silent peel of feet off the tiled over kitchen floor. Part of it due to the whatever waxy cleaner you’ve convinced Wayne to use. “Let me see,” you command gently after your approach.

“Careful now, I’m fragile,” Eddie pouts but pulls hand away from the spot. 

“Gonna need a flashlight to get through this thicket,” you tease but gingerly touch at his scalp. There’s nothing damp so you don’t think there’s blood. Eddie tenses under your touch. “Sorry,” you whisper. It doesn’t stop the assessment, but you are more mindful of the pressure you’re using. 

“It’s okay,” Eddie returns his voice soft like yours. 

“What are you even looking for?” So far, you don’t think he broke skin. One good thing, but you are a little worried about something deeper too. 

“A cup. I could’ve sworn I did dishes,” Eddie huffs. “I’m running out of, like nice cups.” You watch Eddie point to the plastic cup on the counter--ones that you’re pretty sure were holding some sort of soda from a gas station in their first life. “Those are the only ones left.”

“Honey,” you coo, urging Eddie to turn around. He doesn't budge, but you press into his back, right above his hip and he turns then. “Those cups are fine.”

“No they’re not,” he sighs. 

“And what makes them not okay, huh?”

“You deserve your Coke in a chalice. Not the 7-11 trash.”

“Perhaps I consider 7-11 cups a chalice,” you return, pressing Eddie’s cheeks together. His lips bubble at the force and you plant a kiss on them. He tastes vaguely like vanilla. The frosting off the cupcakes you two shared earlier still paints his lips sweet even though it’s been a couple hours since they’ve been consumed. 

“You know you don’t and so do I,” Eddie whispers against your lips. His hands find your hips. 

“Hmm, I think I could be convinced.”

“You sure they’re okay?”

“Cups won’t ruin the night, I promise.” 

You don’t need anything fancy. You never have. But you get it. You know Eddie’s always going to want to give you the best. The thing you just wish you could convince himself off is that it’s his best that matters. Whatever Eddie gives you is the best because it’s him--it’s him giving it to you. But you don’t think the words will penetrate. Eddie’s hard headed in his own way, stubborn to his core when he wants to be so you hope that actions do speak louder than words. 

You seal your lips around his again and hum into the kiss when Eddie tugs you in closer. He’d promised a night in--dinner, movies, laughs, anything and everything as long as it was just the two of you. And he’d delivered thus far. Pizza had been called and delivered promptly. When you asked if he had any more Cokes from the case you brought over a week ago, he proudly declared he’d left the last two just for you. Your requests for a cup is what started this, but cups don’t mean a thing when all you’re thinking about is how the scent of Eddie presses against your nostrils and into your lungs like heaven. 

You’ve missed him--missed this. Your new job took more time than your old one. Not a bad thing considering that it was only an extra hour, but it meant having a new routine. It meant one hour less in your day for you to get through the slog of laundry, and dishes, and bills, and errands so that you could sit like a schoolgirl on the phone, twirling your fingers around the cord to talk to Eddie on the phone when you couldn’t visit him. Weekends now are more sacred than ever and you cherish the thought of being able to spend quality time with your boy. 

Eddie’s fingers press through the cotton of your shorts. He tugs you closer, and closer, and closer to his body. He’s warm--as always. But beyond that, beyond the wild curls that always call out to your fingers to be tugged on, or just caressed, Eddie is real beneath your fingers. Through the cotton of his t-shirt, you know what lies beneath. But you are grateful that the t-shirt is still warm. Arousal settles into your stomach, tightening your muscles as Eddie drags his fingers up your spine. But you pull back, the wet echoing smack of a broken kiss hanging between two of you as you both pant. 

“If you don’t stop, we’re going to have a problem,” you laugh as Eddie’s teasing touch moves further and further south on your body. 

“Maybe I’m looking for a problem,” he teases. 

“I am looking for a cup to put my Coke in to have pizza with my boyfriend while we watch movies we’ve seen a billion times. Because you are trouble.”

“You started it,” Eddie squawks indignantly. “You kissed first!”

His hand doesn’t stop traveling. He’s cupping you over the shorts and the ache hits you--bone deep but you don’t falter in your resolve. “Pizza. Movie.” It’s all you say before peeling yourself from Eddie’s hold. “Bring the chalices please,” you call out over your shoulder as you walk back to the couch. 

Eddie snorts but you hear his shuffled steps behind you and you know he is following. The lid to the pizza box is flipped back and the melted cheese greets you with a hefty waft. You grab a slice, the cheese pulling slowly away from its neighboring pieces. Eddie grabs a napkin and holds it just under the slice which you can only assume is threatening to drip grease onto the carpet or your lap. 

“Three good things,” Eddie commands as he reaches for his own slice, asking for the details of three good things that happened in your day. 

You hum around your bite, the pizza still hot just a little as you recount the day. “I’m no longer on the probationary period at work as of yesterday which is great. No one’s breathing down my back anymore. I finally got those jeans hemmed. And I get to enjoy pizza with my boyfriend. Three things--your turn.”

“I got the interview for the record shop,” Eddie starts. “I actually finished a drawing, speaking of which, I swear if you get grease on it,” he laughs pulling the notebook from your lap and tossing it floor away from the coffee table. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you rush out. “I’m still working on coloring it though. Forgot.”

“No harm, no foul. And lastly, I, too, am getting to enjoy pizza with my lovely partner, who did not do such a great job at making sure I wasn’t concussed.”

“I’m newly licensed to sell insurance. I am not licensed to make sure you’re not a walking threat to your own safety.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek--wet and greasy, but you don’t shy away from it. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Oh, I know,” you laugh, turning to look at Eddie. His gaze is soft, big eyes dripping with sincerity. You think you can feel the adoration radiating off him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I love you, you know.”

Your first inclination is to shove it off with a joke. But you can imagine how well that would go--not well at all. “You’re going to make me blush,” you huff, ducking your head. 

“Aw, no, don’t be like that. Let me see it. Let me see you blush,” Eddie laughs, reaching out to bring your head up by a gentle tug on your chin. 

Your face is hot; you can feel it warming the longer Eddie takes you in. His gaze is intense, eyes taking in everything from hairline to chin. You watch the flick of his gaze, as he stares down at your nose, back up to your eyes. His smile is soft and sweet, like the stroke of his thumb over your bottom lip. 

“I’m going to make you proud,” Eddie whispers unlike his normal bravado. Where you know Eddie carries himself with the mask, the loud and brash man unafraid, the quietest remarks are the ones that usually send you into a flatline. 

“You should make yourself proud,” you correct. You’d be a flimsy goal--something akin to trash billowing in a strong wind. It could change all in an instant.

“Making you proud makes me proud.”

“I’m already proud of you.” 

It’s Eddie’s turn to duck, hair falling into a wavy curtain around his face. You discard your crust--which you’re more than likely never going to fish--to a corner of the box and find Eddie’s face behind his hair. “No, you can’t hide either.” Your thumb strokes along his jaw and his eyes flutter close. “Tell me,” you return softly but it’s clear you want an answer, “Do you like that? Being told you’re making someone proud?”

“And you’re telling me you don’t?” Eddie scoffs. 

“Oh, no, I do. But I just want to hear you say it.”

“I like being told I’m making someone proud.” The sentence wavers at first, like Eddie might not be sure he can even get the words out. But the end is strong. Like the mere utterance is enough to solidify the truth within. 

“I’ll make sure I tell you more often then, okay?”

“Okay.”

His gaze drifts down and you know what he’s asking for, so you press in, lips sealing his again. A kiss soft enough that even you think twice if it’s real or not. Eddie hums this time, when you pull away, his head pressing into your shoulder. You can feel the smile on his face as his lips brush over your bicep. 

“Your slices are going to get cold,” you tease when Eddie stays buried in your shoulder for another minute. The third slice you’d been reaching for will go cold too, but that matters much less. 

“Let it,” he hums, burrowing now in your armpit. 

You grab the TV remote before you reach behind yourself to make sure the throw pillow is in place against the arm of the couch for an added layer of cushion. Once you’re sure that it’s in the position you want it, you recline back and open your arms for Eddie to crawl into. He wastes not a second to settle his head onto your chest. 

“Good thing we’ve got microwaves now, right?” you tease, pressing play for the VHS.

[earthry]

Affirmations For Papa | Secondo x Reader

Content / Warnings: Papa Emeritus II/Reader, SFW, 1.1k words, Secondo Angst

Author’s Note: Much thanks and love to @angelohspeak who encouraged me to post this <3 this is also definitely heavily influenced by our talks about Secondo <3

You introduce affirmations to Secondo and he has trouble accepting them.

“You’re not even trying, are you?” You’re sorely unimpressed with Secondo’s first few attempts; like a school boy blurting out whatever apology he was forced to give without any self reflection. You prop yourself up with an elbow, turning in bed to give him a leveled stare. He doesn’t look even remotely sorry, but he does scowl.

“What the fuck does that mean?” He looks frankly, a little insulted under the candlelight, his brow pronounced and furrowed in a furious manner. You do your best to soothe his ego with a sweet voice, brushing your thumb against his angry little wrinkles. You love the feeling of his skin against yours; some nights you’re content to just map out his body, traveling hands warm to the touch as you explore your lover.  

“It’s not that I think you’re lying, mio caro. I just mean, you have to take it seriously. You have to think it and say it at the same time, you can’t just spit it out like it’s a rotten tomato.”

“Might as well be–” He mutters, eyes cast elsewhere before wincing when you give him a little kick under the blankets. “Satanas, woman, alright I’ll do it!” 

He curses and rubs his leg with a wounded huff and the night echoes with soft petals of your laughter. You continue to gently massage his forehead and cheeks of wrinkles from his scowl. A few moments of silence pass as you settle, before you nudge him. “Well?”

“I’m… I am.. enough.” He mumbles so quietly you have to strain your ears. His body is still tense against yours, rigid as a board. Like he doesn’t understand why you’re doing this, like he doesn’t understand why it’s so hard to say something so simple with confidence. In front of anyone else, he knows he can shoulder it, knows he can announce it to the whole ministry if they asked. But with you he crumbles, with you he can’t lie. It’s not only because he knows you’d see through the lie within a heartbeat, but also because he cannot bring himself to. 

Even in the dim lighting, you can see the turmoil warring across his features and reward him with a kiss to his nose for his troubles, which scrunches despite the pleased hum it draws from him. His shoulders are still tense, a violin string taunt against it’s foundation.

“Again,” You coax, voice soft. Your fingers trail down his cheek and he leans into your hand only marginally more relaxed. 

“I am enough.” It’s louder, but you know him well enough to hear the hesitancy in his voice. This time you place a kiss to his temple. 

“Again.”

“Cazzo, haven’t I said it enough?” He speaks harshly but you hear it for what it is: a plea. You can feel him begin to pull away but you don’t let him. “Per favore amore mio, why are you doing this,” he says roughly. He’s sat completely up now, and you push yourself off the bed as well, leaning against the headboard as you regard your lover.

“Because I love you, and you deserve to, too.” Your answer draws a sharp inhale from him, and he lets his head fall onto you, forehead resting against your shoulder. 

“This is stupido but fine. I am enough.” 

“Thank you.” He receives a soft kiss to his lips that he chases until you pull too far out of reach. Your grouchy lover swears up and down that he never pouts but right now? He is definitely pouting. “Mm, we’re not finished yet. Next one, okay? I am doing my best.” There’s a heavy sigh against you before he mutters it back to you. You know how hard this is for him, so you let that one slide and reward him with his kiss. Slowly, you begin cycling through your list, your kisses traveling between his cheeks to his forehead to his hand to his lips again. He savors each one, and with each phrase, you try to paint him the way you see him. You wish he could see it too. 

I am worthy of love. I am more than a body. I can accept love from myself. Everything that I am is enough. I am allowed to choose myself.

It’s that last one that does it. He’s gotten quieter and quieter but that last one he can’t even finish– he just can’t do it no matter how hard he tries to shape his lips around the words, no sound comes out and before he knows it, his cheeks are wet. 

Papa Emeritus II is not a crier.

But tonight, he is laid bare in more ways than one. His voice strangled, tapering off as he shuts himself down. You can see wide shoulders curling in on itself protectively, little tremors making themselves known. He’s not a crier, he doesn’t sob or sniffle or wail. He’s quiet and you pull him into your arms. He’s no longer alone, and you wrap your arms around him and for a second his body is stiff before it practically melts and he collapses into you. He’s still silent, but you can feel the wetness against your neck and you hold him together. 

He doesn’t talk about it often; doesn’t even like it being mentioned most days, but sometimes when he looks into a mirror he doesn’t recognize himself. Doesn’t recognize the shape the church has push and pulled him into.

“I feel a little... used,” He admitted one night in the safety of your bedroom, in the safety of the darkness that swallowed the two of you. You hold him close and he buries his face in your shoulder. “Everything I’ve been taught has been by the church, for the church and this message they want to send the world. I don’t really know anything outside of what they’ve given me.”

It wasn’t as if he hated it. He had his own visions for the church, he loved his followers, his people. He enjoyed partying up to the early hours of the morning, loved indulging in the carnal pleasures of papacy.

But the mornings, the comedown?

It was like it was another man in that hotel bathroom mirror staring back at him with smudged paint and lipstick marks. They might as well have been tattooed to his skin with how hot they burned.

“I feel so detached sometimes, that I don’t know what to do.”

The room is still except for Secondo’s shaking shoulders and your comforting murmurs. You tell him to take as much time as he needs, you tell him you will always be here, you are always on his side. (His side. His side and not the church’s, isn’t that a wild thought?)

But most of all, you tell him what he cannot bring himself to say just yet, you tell him the one thing he's never been told before by anyone. Not his mother, not his father, not the church or sister imperator. Not a single soul until now.

He's allowed to choose himself.

And maybe, just maybe-- maybe he begins to believe it.

[inkheartedwanderer]

hold the sun || r.b.

robin x fem!reader (obvs!)

content:  fluff! a lil bit insecure robin (blink and you’ll miss it) and that’s all i believe. happy pride everyone! i’m a bit late, but i want guys to know this is a safe place for you. i see you, i hear you and i love you. 

this one didn’t turn out exactly how i wanted it to, but hope i made robin some justice, she’s my favourite girl and i want to start writing for her too.

word count: 1.1k

In the quiet of a particularly hot summer afternoon, the only things you can hear are the water of the lake softly kissing the shore a few feet ahead of you, the shrill singing of cicadas, and Robin's low, mindless humming.

The sunlight paints swirls on the back of your closed eyelids, it makes the skin on your cheeks tingle, and you know you’re probably going to get sunburnt, but you can’t be bothered to get up, walk all the way back to the car and try to find your yellow hat.

You don’t want to move. Robin’s leg is casually thrown over yours as the girl lies by your side on the blanket, and you would feel embarrassed about how fast your heart is racing if your brain didn’t feel so mushy right now. 

You’re not even sure she’s doing it on purpose. Shielding your face from the sun with your arm, you open one eye, nose scrunched up, and sneak a peek at Robin. 

She looks lovely in her navy blue swimsuit, the one she bought the day you two decided to go shopping after work.

Her hair, still damp from your swim at the lake after lunch, shines like gold in the daylight and sticks to her bare shoulder and back creating patterns you feel the sudden urge to trace with your finger. You don’t. Instead, you settle for looking at her as discreetly as you can. 

Freckled nose and long lashes, a slight tan from all the afternoons you've spent just like this one, far away enough from Hawkins, in your secret spot by Lake Jordan. Remnants of her mascara smudged around her eyes. Fingernails painted red.

She’s drawing something on her sketchpad, her strokes short and certain, lips pursed in concentration; absentmindedly singing a The Cure tune under her breath.

It’s funny, you think. 

A few weeks ago you didn’t even know her name, didn’t even know she existed. She was just another number in Hawkins High’s demographics, and you were just one of the unfortunate few who would spend two endless, sticky-hot summer months working a shitty part-time job instead of going on holiday. 

At The Palace Arcade, no less.

It smells like old candy and stale popcorn, chlorine and sunscreen. The carpet is old and tacky and it has stains that won’t go away. Kids go in droves to find respite from the burning midday heat and scream and scream until you get a headache.

You don’t make enough money, that’s for sure. But having met Robin one cloudy day while you were both on your respective lunch breaks makes it well worth it.

“You’re staring.”

Caught.

You blush furiously and look away, your so face hot from the sun and the embarrassment that you don’t dare to make eye contact. “Am not.”

“Are too.” She puts her pencil and sketchbook away and chuckles under her breath. “It’s fine, I get it, I would stare at myself too.”

She’s bluffing, and you both know it -she can be as insecure as any teenage girl in this day and age, but her boldness has caught you by surprise. You stammer. “Yeah… Whatever, Buckley.”

Robin’s amused smile turns soft when she notices the red on your cheeks. She leans forward and the fleeting feathery feeling of her lips on the corner of yours only makes your heartbeat pick up.

It’s curious, the effect she has on you still, even after so many nights spent together stargazing, so many afternoons at the Lake, so many stolen kisses in the water, and in your car, and behind the building where you both work, when it’s dark and empty.

You blame the butterflies in your chest for the way turn you turn your head and chase after her mouth, one hand reaching out to rest on the crook of her neck and pull her closer to you. She tastes sweet, like the watermelon ice pops you had after lunch and her vanilla chapstick; and the tips of her hair, lightened by the sun, tickle your face.

Robin sighs a happy sigh and rests her head on your shoulder. 

The silence that follows it’s comfortable, easy. Things are easy with Robin. Her breath is warm where it touches your skin, and you’re almost certain you’re breathing in synch. Your hand finds hers blindly, knuckles brushing against each other, 

“I don’t mind you staring.” She says, at last, her voice barely a whisper.

You humph. “I wasn-”

“It makes me feel pretty.” If her boldness was surprising, the badly-hidden shyness in her voice is downright shocking.

You twist your head to look at her, bewildered. Her face is hidden between your arm and the blanket, which surely can’t be comfortable and which makes you pout. Your free hand finds her chin and you softly pull to make her look at you.

“Aw, Robs. But you are pretty.”

It’s her turn to blush. “Am I?”

“Yeah. Beautiful, I’d say.”

“Shut up.” You giggle when she does, snort when she hits you, jokingly, on your shoulder.

You and Robin lean forward at the same time, both eager to close the gap between you again. She kisses you firmly, like she has something to prove. You kiss her back hoping you can prove to her how much this, her means to you.

Breathless when you finally pull away, you lie down again, a dopey smile making its way across your face. Robin smirks and goes back to her sketchbook. 

“Can I see?” You ask, the side of your face pressed against the soft fabric of the blanket, one eye squinted to shield it, once again, from the light.

“Hmm?” The girl hums, lost in thought and concentration.

“The picture.”

“Oh.” Robin shows you. Your own face greets you, laughing, eyes half closed. It’s a rough sketch and you don’t think your haircut is exactly like that, but it’s obviously you and you look so happy and so beautiful. “Wow, Robs. It’s great.”

She brushes her hair away from her face -you swear it shines on its own, a golden crown, a halo, and then she kisses your nose. “It’s not great.”

You smile. “It’s perfect.”

                                                           🌷 🌷 🌷

a/n: this definitely didn’t take me 2 weeks to write and i’m definitely not having the worst block rn :( i hope it’s not to bad. 

likes, reblogs, comments, anything is welcome!

[pieroulette]

CAMELLIA'S FATE

"Would you come?"

2023 | 13+ | ONESHOT × 6k | TATTOOIST! PARK JAY × READER

SUMMARY was it a string of fate when your bestfriend claimed your art as her own, that not even after six years does it suffice the desire for revenge blooming in your heart, claiming it as a call for making it even—that you stumble upon a tattoo studio, and your eyes falling upon the same flower on a young man's neck.

WARNING/GENRE emptiness, lost of passion (?), slight profanity, angst, fluff, romance, reader is a painter!

AUTHOR'S NOTE a short story I wrote during a period of writing and art block. well, it ain't that short anymore 💀

“Huh.. What should I do?” You pouted with your head buried deep inside your arms as another art block hit you like a truck.

Studies had by far consumed your life to the point you couldn’t grab the paintbrush between your fingers and create something, and now that the semester had ended, that you had free time laid across in front of you like a vast ocean waiting for you to swim through it, you couldn’t.

It was as if something is holding you back which had you wondering if this was the end for your childhood passion?

Draw something simple. You thought. But it seriously ain’t that simple to brush the tips of your paintbrush against the gigantic canvas. Still.. You lowered your neck, utimately focusing your orbs onto your paper, hoping or waiting for something to come out of it.

What would it be? A person? A furniture? The nightsky? The empty can on the edge of the desk beside you? What is it?

Your finger swayed the paintbrush across the canvas over and over again but to your dismay, nothing came out of it — only scribbles of something you couldn’t comprehend, in which you originally thought of a house.

Your phone's screen turns on with a notification popping up along the lockscreen.

[11:49PM] Somi<3: hiyaa, the competition’s gettin close :( i’m nervous

[11:49PM] you: that’s fine *patpat* you’re so good at art, pretty sure you’ll get top 1 yk

[11:56PM] Somi<3: reallyyy? ><

[11:57PM] you: ofc ofc, now just get to your hmw and just keep practicing :3

The flamboyant flower showcasing it’s magnificent beauty up on the ceiling, the engraved pattern across your ceilings, you remember that you once stepped on the ladder when your parents were renovating your room and you took the chance to did so despite the danger. Painting over the ceiling with the pink-stained paint brush between your tiny fingers, with a smile so wide and bright, eyes crinkling to half moons as you did so.

Well, the flower you drew turn out horrible to say the least, with the outline wavery and inconsistent, the colours were not bold enough on some parts and some of them going past the outline.

Eyebrows twitching upon the sight, you scoffed in a lighthearted laugh. No matter how ugly it was to be honest, it had managed to stay that long.

Long enough to not be erased by the changes of time, the plants grew old, the furniture had their paints peeled off, the tv in the living room had begun glitch off, the store you’ve been to had been shut down for whatever reason, and even the star in the sky exploded to ashes when the time has come. But for whatever reason it has, the flower you drew on the ceiling yet still manage to look as beautiful as ever. You let out a giggle at the thought of that maybe the drawn flower had a purpose that’s why it was still boldly alive in sight.

Without much thought and the smile still ever so bright on your lips, you begun to draw on the paper with the flower in thought—wishing for your efforts to pay off, cause that's how it works right?

However, jokes on you, your efforts was futile.

Truly futile.

Your vision turning into a field of vagueness as your tears drowned you into the deep ocean — those that held spike up thorns below the sea.

Why are you crying? Why aren’t you fighting back?

Tightening your fist so tight that your nails began to hurt your palms, there was nothing really left to fight back anymore since you aint got nothing left anymore when the fruits of your efforts were ripped away from you with no mercy nor one glance of contempt for all of their eyes were on—

Her.

“Somi! Congratulations! You did really well!”

A giggle so loud and so annoying it clutches your heart within, there she was in her brightest glory; bouquets of flowers beneath her arms, bright blonde silk hair going down her uniform skirt—those that you once brushed with a hair comb back then. That piece of beige hairband that had the signature butterfly pattern on it, one that matched with the one on your hair right now.

Seeing her gave you nothing but resentment and anger.

One by one, each and one of them in line up in the stage as they congratulated her for winning the top prize of the masterpiece of an art, something she said was her own.

Bullshit. It wasn't yours. Thus you screamed in the back of your mind, head so low you could see nothing but your tears staining the red carpeted floor. The raging applause submerging you into more pain, pain and pain! You couldn’t take it anymore, the scene that mocks you to your very core; the girl that you claim as your bestfriend stole everything from you and yet, and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to stand up and walk straight to her and give her a piece of your mind.

For it’s no use, the only thing it would do was ruin your reputation and you can’t do that. You know you can’t do that. You can’t..

You stood up on your feet with eyes glaring deep at the girl herself, who in turn finally noticed you after awhile. Your breath hitched in so deep when you observed the corner of her lips tugging up to her cheeks, and her brown orbs stared at you in a mere contempt.

That alone was sufficient for one sentence to arise inside your starving soul for revenge, You’ll fall. Just like that flower behind you. One day you will.

At last, you turned your back out of spite–full in rage as you did so. With the spectacle of a scene behind you holding a thousand emotions of joy, flashes of camera filled the entire room.

“Somi! Look at here!”

“1, 2..” flashes of the camera consumed the entire space every few seconds, “3!”

“The painting truly is breathtaking, isn’t?” two women from behind marvels at the colossal canvas before them.

“Truly it is, that painter is so talented it’s making me jealous.” The other in turn, giggled.

“Well, it does takes an effort to reach such prestigious level.”

You returned home, dropping your bag on the ground as you did so, taking the jug to pour a water in the glass. The dim light from outside reflected against the glass, forming a sea-like diamonds. But you knew, it didn’t came from the glass.

Your source of inspiration, your muse. All was vain, truly futile. Hoping that it would turn out well. Except it didn’t turn well.

Your very source of inspiration and effort had been stolen, now leaving you with nothing but emptiness. You were nothing and you had nothing now.

The wooden paintbrush snapped into separate pieces as you smashed it against the floor, a mockery metaphor of yourself. It has been months. Months it was since that incident occured and ever since then you couldn’t find the heart to lay the tip of the paintbrush against the canvas anymore.

As if something was missing from your heart, what is this? It felt like you no longer have the love for painting anymore, it felt like there was nothing to let out anymore even when you have dozens and dozens of ideas kept hidden in your journal, something you occasionally wrote onto whenever you had burst of ideas.

And yet, when you took them out, when you tried to paint again—there was no beat that rang through your ears and hug your heart. It’s suffocating. It’s too empty.

“I don’t like.. To paint anymore?..” a question you laid out against yourself, merely vibrating through the entire studio. Your dark orbs fell on your palms as you splayed it before you, “Please.. Come back.”

“Give it up, (Name). There’s no way you could do anything against her parents..” your classmate mumbled as she took another bite from her ice cream. "You can always make another painting again?"

Those words rang deep in your mind, mocking your very soul. It ain't that easy. Pouring your entire soul to a creating a piece is like raising your own child with utmost affection and care, and to have it mercilessly rip apart from you is akin to ripping your soul away as well.

A hollow, hollow hole inside your body that you were unable to see—only grew even bigger and wider.

Weeping in the corner of your room, as you buried your face in comfort of your arms. “W-was it my fate that it had to be this way?”

「6 YEARS LATER」

“I apologise but we don’t take any customers who don’t do an appointment first.” the man apologetically bow down, surprised you were but didn’t protest.

How could you? You gulped down your throat in embarrassment as your orbs darted around the studio's signboard;

Quite a bit embarrassed to say the least that you didn’t plan it first but what can you do? You bow down parallel to the ground, turning towards the street as impatience consumed you. You raise your wrist, staring at your watch with the small arrow pointing towards 11 am—a few hours left before 4pm—the ticking clock signifying the end.

You couldn't afford to wait another week and find another tattoo store. Not anymore.

It has been 6 years since that fateful day, a horrendous fate you simply wishes you could forget but life is too miserable to let you to even do so—not when your eyes fell on the devil—your ex best-friend's face was splattered on the billboard, interviews, offers, every single thing had her on the pinnacle of the world.

Because of your artwork. From the very beginning, it’s not that she wasn’t good at art, heck she was talented in it but didn’t care enough to put an effort for the final competition. She even told you and persuade you to join instead, but foolish you were that you didn’t realise she was a double edge sword. Two parts of you were wishing for her demise, and another wishing that she would soon realise her mistake and come begging at you but you know that won’t happen.

The world, and it’s people are far too prideful to admit their mistakes, after all. We all trample on each other, and only very few people can manage to be selfless. It’s not that being selfish is bad, nor being selfless is—and there will be a time where we are forced to put ourself or another, yet what you couldn’t accept was when they deliberately chose to do so.

That’s what you can never forgive. It’s unforgivable.

6 horrendous years of lifetime wasted upon a single betrayal—back then you were 19, now you were 25.

Since the days of your spring, you always wanted to have a tattoo, not a flamboyant one, a simple one that is for a simple reminder to accompany you throughout your life but now you couldn't have thought that it would be through this way.

A few days ago, you've heard that Somi's public fansign will be held at the city, which is today. You've been waiting for this very day. Clutching the labeled tiny bottle in your hands had you taking a deep breathe, fear consumed your veins as you imagine how her face would evaporate once you threw this on her. Sure, you were breathing but there was no root of life anywhere inside you anymore, so why would she?

Today should be her last day, however she should be grateful as she won't be alone in the underworld, after all. You'll escort her back to where she truly belongs judging by what she did to you.

“Miss!" You paused on your tracks immediately. "You don’t have to leave, I can do it for you.” a breathless sigh emits from the man behind you.

“But—! That’s against the rules. You knew Sir. Park would-”

“It’s okay, I got my last client done so I’m free anyways. Plus, you wouldn’t blow up my cover, wouldn’t you?”

The other guy ruffled through his hair, simply sighing in return. “Ugh, fine.”

A chuckle emits from the person who called for you. “I knew I could count on you.”

You slowly turned to the man in question—jet black shirt, rolled over sleeves, tall frame, black slicked hair, pair of silver round earrings, metal piercing on the top of his ear, tattoos of what you make out to be florals adorning the left side of his neck since his collars hid almost a part of it, and that radiant smile of his. His eyes glowing and his cheeks growing—a stark contrast from his outer appearance.

Hot. That's it. He's drop dead hot.

"Miss—" the man's gleaming eyes fell on your shorter frame, pausing for a millisecond before clearing his throat, gesturing his hands inside the studio. "This way."

"U-uhm, thank you."

He guided you inside the shop where a leather foldable chair was laid across the centre of the room, and a bunch of containers with tools specifically made for tattooing was placed on the table.

You sat on top of it, making yourself comfortable but somehow you choke on your saliva when the boy sat on another chair, leaning a tad bit close far to your own liking. Or was it just really your first time that the close proximity caught you off guard?

"So?" almost akin to a dropping melody, your stomach evaporates with his voice much to your surprise. "What kind of tattoo would like to have on your skin?” He asked, still having radiance adorning his face, the question were voice out too lively and joyous for no reason.

He's hot. You gotta admit that, but drooling at this point won't get you anywhere. Too bad, you met him a tad bit late or else you would've make a first move.

"M-miss?"

"Oh! My bad, my bad." You brush it off nonchalantly, clearing your throat.

Seems like this type of job doesn't do any justice to him, in your opinion. You’d expected that tattooist would perhaps be cold and indifferent, however he was no close to your impression of one. But does your opinion matter? So you kept it and stayed silent from voicing out such hasty words just like before.

“A flower.” you fiddled through your bag, mentally cussing yourself for a whole minute before your fingers came into contact with the cold metal—finally swiping through your gallery and handing your phone to the man.

His dark brown orbs beams alike the sun rays as a noticeable grin pulled up within his cheeks which made you raised your eyebrow in confusion.

"I have the same tat, if you want to see just for example of how it would look like on yours." Excitement laced his voice.

Appalled by his suggestion, you simply replied. "Sure."

Jay didn't expected you to simply agree so quick, which had him letting out a few coughs in attempts to conceal his initial shock.

Quite flustered inside but his outer demeanour remain calm and composed as his fingers made their way through the hem of his collars, each one unbuttoning his shirt till it was enough for his collarbone and chest to be half exposed, revealing the masterpiece adorning his skin.

You didn't expect yourself to be this surprised or even speechless, yet it was truly gorgeous over how the patterns were carefully drilled into his skin and how the outline were so bold and lively despite its colours being only grey and black. You almost forgot that you loathe this flower alot, to be honest.

You inhaled a deep breathe, blinking utterly slow to take in the beauty. "So pretty. D-did you got this from someone or?"

"I did it myself.." Jay replied in a nonchalant manner, yet goosebumps washed over his skin as you leaned closer observing his tattoos in amazement. His orbs rattled against the walls, trying his best to avoid looking at you. Now that he wonder after an eternity watching the walls, has it always been this dirty? Gulping with his lips pressed tight. "W-would you like the exact same as this then, or something different?"

He breathe a long sigh after you fixed your posture, his hands fiddled the hems of his black sleeve to dampened his rampant heart—wondering if you could hear it a moment ago.

"Something like this, however I think.. It would look like we are having matching tattoos then.” You let out a small giggle at that thought, rosy hues dusted off his cheeks when you mention that particular sentence. “Ah, I want it to have a color then. That way, it won’t seem like it.”

Jay's nails dug under his chair, his arms frozen as he processed your words from within.

"Did I said?.."

"No, no— Nothing wrong with that." You observed him pressing his lips tight in an awkward manner as he stood up, the chair creaking as he did so. Standing he did, before the shelves filled with numerous ink bottles of all colours and shades. His hand gestured over them, attentive he was you observed, seemingly waiting for your answer. "I’ll get the color for you then.. Which one?”

"Hm,” pointing your index finger towards the ink bottle with the label, “Red”

His fingers quickly wrapped itself around the bottle, focusing on the label for a good three seconds looking back at you, pulling up a small smile. “Red, I see? That’s a pretty good choice. It’s apparently rare for me to have clients choosing red for tats.”

“Really? That’s new to me.”

“Yep, then.. what kind of red would you like on your camellia?” Again, he stood before a shelf with red ink bottles with all different shades.

Sighing, you stood up, brushing the bottles but not almost to avoid being rude by touching someone’s else personal tools and supplies. It didn’t go unnoticed how the young man beside you, were immensely focused at where your fingers go on about.

“How about ruby?” you gestured your index finger towards the specific labeled bottle, a memory of the gigantic canvas flashes through your mind. “ I don’t like it too bright, actually.” Better if it’s darker in shade—that it would serve her mind till engraved in her soul, the very fruit of her own actions towards you.

Jay lapped his tongue over his lower lip, gulping down his throat as he nodded. “Very well then.”

Nodding as you went back to your seat, it caught you off guard when your eyes fell on the man. Clearing your throat to get his attention, "U-uhm, sir?"

His left eyebrow raised in confusion, doe eyes enveloping your form and it didn't help at all with what you're seeing right now.

"Your shirt.." you held the need to say anything further considering how his eyes ogled out at his exposed torso, giggling awkwardly he did as he buttoned his shirt back. "L-let's get it started then?"

"Alright!"

"So, where do you want to have it on your skin?" He asked, which to you was a bit vague. "On your arm? Your hand? Or.. your back?"

"Hm?" Your eyebrow furrowed at every body part he mentioned, and it only deepens the more your brain processed it. Oh fuck, right. How did I even forgot? "H-ow about m-my neck?"

Pain, that's all you thought. But you seriously wanted the tattoo to be as obvious as fuck for your ex best friend's eyes to ogle at. So you were in utter dilemma. "It.. doesn't hurt that bad, right..?"

"The neck is the most painful part to get a tattoo."

Well shit, I'm screwed. You whimpered as your back slouched in devastation, forget about revenge—you're seriously a dumbo for doing a last minute plan. Your eyes darting over the wall and to the patient man standing before you, you held the need to pout.

Jay noticing your dilemma, cleared his throat. "How about the side of your neck? Just like mine? It doesn't hurt that bad, actually."

"Are.. you sure?" Forming a comforting smile, he nodded. "Alright.."

"Alright! So.." Jay held the need to blink like a maniac as he gestured to your collar, "Your collar, we need to tattoo the side.. of your neck right?"

"Huh..?"

Oh.. right. How did you even forget? Your cheeks began to heat up by the thought as you slowly unbuttoned your shirt, your shoulders slightly exposed as it dangled off.

Your body froze on it's own when his delicate touch brushes against your bare arms, his right hand pulling up your right sleeve back to your shoulder. You didn't realise him closing the distance with you as you were in your deep thought, holding your head low in attempts to avoid his dark grey orbs looking into your soul. Yet his voice causes tingles around your neck, goosebumps washing over your skin.

"We just need the side of your neck, okay..?" Delicate to touch, the twinkles of his eyes met yours. "Relax."

Those blooming bouquets—a symbol of mockery to you along with the gigantic canvas you've created with nothing but pure efforts were presented before everyone as her's. Those silky blonde hair that dangled off her shoulders simply flooding your eyes with tears. That smug look of hers that resurfaced after people were gone, which was evidently for you.

A set of bustling applauses filled the space, a melody to her ears and a mockery to your existence—causing the ground beneath you to shatter into a neverending hollow sinkhole.

“Agh!-”

The sight of the beige-coloured ceiling was what met your wide shot eyes for a whole minute before the drilling pain brought you back to reality, causing your mouth to hang apart—whimpering with every contact of the needle.

“It might hurt, but it has to be something you got to bear if you want the camellia on your skin..”

You almost forgot, how could you even? Your dazed orbs slowly fell on his face as he keeps talking to you even when you couldn't really understand him—his voice soothes the strings of your heart so much it had you calm down instantly despite the tip of the needle punching under your skin every millisecond.

Vagueness encircled around your vision, yet his portrait remain crystal clear due to the close proximity—his faint cherry lips moving with motion as he uttered inaudible words, the set of dust particles fleeting across the tip of his nose, hitting the sun rays from behind him. His eyelashes fluttering in a delicate motion as he remained immensely focused—he seems fitted enough to be your muse, doesn't he?

"You slept really well." He said, causing your cheeks to burn in embarrassment. Now that he mentioned it, you did slept judging by how much time had passed since the session started.

Your eyebrows furrowed at his words, wondering if you were his only client that fell asleep during session. Holding the need to cringe as you imagine yourself sleeping ever so comfortably before a stranger. "U-uh? Am I the..?"

He hummed in return, but before you could even explode. "It's nice though, that's how I know I'm doing good." The apples of his cheeks grew wider, melting your heart to a dripping honey.

At some point, the pain was nonexistent, partly of it because of his advice, and partly was observing him throughout the entire session.

“If I may ask, why do you want to have a flower as a tattoo?” He asked, which to you was kind of abrupt.

“Don’t you have any customers that like a flower tattoo before?” you asked him suspiciously in which he let out a soft giggle, amused by your reaction.

He shook his head ever so little as he smiled, “Of course I did, just a bit curious about.. you.”

Huh, flirty I see. You hummed inside your head, a bit amused.

"I could say the same thing to you too, why of all things—a flower was your last pick?" you asked him.

"It saved my life."

Ha, saved his life? What a stark contrast that flower did to you and him. While it saves him, it brings destruction to you instead. These ferocious petals serve a whole different meaning to you and him.

"You?.."

“There isn’t anything interesting in particular, just something I..” you paused in between, trying to carefully pick out your words, “Have to do in order to make something alive again.”

“I understand.” his lips tugged up in a small smile, and the rest soon formed into a calming solitude. You expected him to raise another question out of curiosity but to your surprise, he didn't. Somehow, it brought a calming river to your heart that he simply choses not to.

You weren’t quite sure if he notice since he was too absorbed in what he was doing which is pretty understandable, either way you watched him as if he was a scenery or more like a season, if it was a season then—cold spring would be the perfect season to describe him altogether.

He’s hot, you gotta admit. Not that you were so into him, but you gotta give it to the fact that he had that aura that somehow pulls you into wanting to know more about him, atleast, or you can call it curiosity at the best.

“Your name?” you blurted out without much thought. After all, what could go wrong in asking a simple name? After all, this would be the last time.

“M-my name?”

“Hm.. yes.” you raised your eyebrow at him, noticing that he’s a bit slow at picking things up despite his cold upfront aura.

“Jay. You can call me Jay.” he looks down, eyelashes fluttering.

“Mr. Jay.." the name tasted like melody on your tongue, "Suits you pretty well.”

You could notice that he was truly shy, a stark contrast from the tats adorning the side of his neck and down to his arms. “What’s yours?..”

“(Name).”

“It suits you too, (Name).” Simple and straightforward, yet it felt so comforting to hear him imitate your way of speech.

“Thank you-” your breath caught in the back of your throat when his pretty dark orbs looked deep into your soul.

“S-sorry.” He mumbled as his eyebrows knitted together.

“Never mind bout it,” you brush it off, but appalled by those unusual reactions that you can’t seem to get used to. “I-it hurts.. though."

“Oh right-”

He hummed in the back of his throat, those chords of his voice vibrating through your eardrums as the passage of time flowed. The chill atmosphere enveloped your form—despite the drilling tool under your inner skin—hushing you back to slumber despite your efforts trying to resist it. However pitch darkness consumed your vision, and you heard his voice echoing through your slumber. "Sleep well, miss."

Jay observes your eyes falling into deep slumber, taking another look at the labeled 'ruby' bottle for a few moments and back again to your ragged out form that he somehow founds to be emitting solemn. You seem tired, sad, and that you seem to have been crying for god knows how long, it was a baseless assumption, for sure. But he could feel it. Somehow, you reminded him of the day he was like you before.

Softened breeze a few minutes ago has formed into a harsh punch to his face, that belongs to a particular someone as he to felt it against his skin.

“You can’t see a thing! How can you even paint? How can you even?!”

Cans of filled up paints scattered on the floor, while the the dripping colourful shades dripped from his splayed fingers to the ground, biting his lip in desperation, he answered in full blown outrage.

“It’s not my fault that I can’t see anything! Besides, color is not the only medium for art!”

“This won’t do, this is hopeless. You’re hopeless.” The man shook his head, eyes filled with both contempt and annoyance, and with that he stormed off. “Give up, people like you who can never see colors aren’t fitted for this industry. Just give up, Jay."

The thought of his father's words voicing it rang like an ominous bell across the empty labyrinth of the mind and heart of the young man himself.

The door slammed before his solemn, broken form, drenched on colours he could never had the chance to differentiate.

Voice so hoarse it sound so pitiful with the mixture of the empty nightsky. He looks up to prevent any more tears to fall down his cheeks. "What a joke..” a breathless sigh puff up in the air mixing with the tiny dust orbs, tears of moonlight called out for help. “Ah. Was it fate that I had to be born this way?”

He turns his phone open after a short sigh of pain, ragged fingers and chip nails scrolls through the countless pictures of stranger splattered across the internet—smiles, laughter, eyes crinkling akin to half moons with their fingers wrapped around the shiny wine glass as they raise it up to the ceiling, another one has their parents standing on their either side for their graduation photo, swipe down a tiny bit more—and a sweet picture perfect of a small family reflected against his dark orbs.

“Huh..?” the tip of his finger glued against the glowing screen as his eyes hovered on it, pupil dilating as it continued to observe the painting slowly. His breath caught to the very back of his throat, his lungs tightening as it took all it got, tongue remain frozen to the edges of his teeth as his mind tried to make out of what he was seeing.

Monochromes. The shades akin to a graveyard and the deafening silence of crow engulfing his sight but.. Intricate patterns of something flew across his eyes, where was it? He looked up, head snapping to where that object flew to. Gone. Gone it was.

What was that? He looked down at his phone again, the painting; the canvas was massive, with dried acrylic paint on the edges, and the composition laying on between where it’s main character was no man nor woman, nor a child nor an animal, neither a furniture nor a statue but..

A single flower standing out against everything.

“It’s so b-beautiful..” sniffing as he stuttered, pausing in between as he finally kept his eyes closed, not noticing that he had it opened wide and bright in taking the colossal beauty of it that it had grew dry with the wind hitting right against it. As he fluttered it open, his eyes was greeted by the mesmerizing beauty once again.

He couldn’t make out of what kind of color it was yet it’s wholly captivating, perfectly showcasing the artistic skills of the creator—efforts evident, and passion enveloping the gigantic canvas.

“I wonder what is it called?”

An unnamed flower unfolding it’s monochrome robes to the core of his heart, it felt as if he finally had a reason to live for.

"Camellia." Jay breathe out as he meticulously drilled the ink into your skin, taking a form of the flower he wholeheartedly adore. Flowers, it was surely not his first time to have a client wishing for a flower as a tattoo, and surely you won't be the last client either. But the fact that you asked for a specific flower that holds a tremendous meaning to him—brought him inner solace and bliss that you gave him the chance to do so.

For sure, it wasn't probably your intention. But Jay still would like to think of that, nevertheless.

Imitation is the best form of flattery, it shows how you're adamant and determined to be as skilled as the one you look up to regardless of art form. As the passage of time stretched even further, so does the artist himself; each soul grows to their own uniqueness.

And to Jay, himself—he aspires to be as good as the artist that created the painting—the fact that the artist had such blazing passion and skills that it brought the whistles of life to his soul, brought him a tiny doses of envy. But it was those emotions, that kept him going through all seasons despite the obstacles.

His eyes fell on your sleeping face once again, wishing for you to be happy once you see it, hoping that it would bring you the same effect the way it did to him. "(Name)."

"Just give up," familiarity yet indifference laced the blonde haired's aura, her crimson lips pulled up to her cheeks—forming a menacing smirk. "No one would believe you, (Name)."

Rattling orbs shot wide open, your hands clutched your chest—rampant heart behind those ribs vibrating through your eardrums. The dream, no the memories—pulling you back to your ugly reality.

Confused, you raised your eyes—looking for Jay, yet he was nowhere to be found in the midst of the silent space. Your eyes fell upon the clock on the wall before you, it’s arrows pointing towards a sunset hour making your jaw dropped slightly.

2:54pm—exactly one hour left before the fateful hour. You faltered for too long, didn’t you?

"Hey, you're awake." Jay's long fingers fiddled deep his pockets, approaching you from behind.

"Oh, um. Why didn't you wake me up?"

Taken aback but regained his composure just as quickly, "Just.. you've been sleeping really well. So I thought I'd let you get a few more hours, you know."

"Ah," you found yourself a tad bit wavered by his words, tucking the hair strands covering your vision behind your ear. A genuine smile adorned your lips, feeling grateful for his seemingly insignificant consideration. "Thank you.."

“No p-problem, so why don’t you look at it?” Jay's eyes darted over the chair beside him, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked back at you again, on a particular spot on your neck.

Only then you realise the stinging pain on your collarbone. You turned towards the mirror behind you, stroking your finger against the faint red and stinging spot.

It hurts. But it was worth it as the engraved intricate petals adorning your neck, was a sugary sight to your eyes. “It’s so pretty.” you swallowed a lump of saliva down your throat in attempts to prevent the salty tears forming in your eyes, for it truly was breathtaking to look at.

You captured the sight of his familiar beaming smile harmonising with his eyes as always from the mirror's reflection, evidently proud of his artwork adorned on your skin.

Smiling at yourself, you swiftly turn the chair facing him. Standing up on your feet, you leaned in closer—not that close, but enough to take some reaction out of him that you wanted to see once more before you go. One last time.

“Thank you, Mr. Jay.” you said, "If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have the chance to.. you know."

“I-it’s my pleasure, Miss (Name).” he looks away, abashed in silence yet the rosy hues on the apple of his cheeks were giving it away for you.

“Well then, I’d have to go.”

You weren't sure if it was a fragment of your imagination—that his dark grey orbs seems to lose sun rays within it. However the twinkles of his eyes returned as he gave another smile to you clenched your heart this time, as you walked through the hallway you entered a few hours ago. Feeling a bit emotional, unfortunately.

Pausing just before the entrance's edge, turning your heels around to take another look at your favourite smile, “I wish you a good day.”

"Have a good day, too." Jay nodded, feeling a bit lost at the sight of the soft strands of your hair flowing down the twinkle of your half-moon smiles as it reflected in grey hues of the sunlight.

Facing the long street ahead of you with a decided destination, you raise your arms—waving your hand at the boy without looking back. You weren't sure if he was still there, maybe.. he wasn't looking anymore. You didn't dare to turn your head so as to not raise any hope, not anymore. Not gonna lie, you wish you could stay a bit more.

A destination that leads to the root of your destruction, would you atleast try to hold yourself? Maybe not, this tattoo on your neck serves a reminder of your ruined life—to finally get it even with her.

Coal washes over Jay's vision like fleeting dust.

He, himself, had always been in a state of dust particles washing over his monochrome vision. Just like right now as he watches your figure walking off the street— fleeting particles follow you from behind, encircling around your motion. The colours he couldn't see are for sure muted and distant, however your energy brought this monochromes into blooming hues.

Somehow it also feels odd to see the flower he adores on a girl he barely knew, a simple name that he can only taste on the tip of his tongue.

But all it was to him, was akin to ashes of coal in different shades. However, you stood and went away in the brightest shade of coal despite the colourless land. Your hair swaying with the breeze as you walk off, the way you carried yourself was something that he couldn't fathom.

Somehow, an ominous thought washes over the back of his mind, constantly pushing it further; would you float away like the passing clouds and never return again? He shakes off the thought, letting out an awkward chuckle. What would he gain from this either way? You were just another client, after all.

Another client.

“Miss!”

Feet stuck on the ground after his voice flew into your ears, your stomach grew butterflies as you turned your head over your shoulder to look at the distraught boy.

“What’s the matter.. Mr. Jay?”

Jay gulped down his throat, avoiding your gaze as he approached you like the motion of fleeting petals. His feet betraying his initial thoughts, causing him to look even more distraught. “I— ah.. forgot to say, but.. you have to come here next week to check your tat twice just for safety measures, you know.”

“Next week?..” raising your eyebrow at the thought, you were appalled that you even hesitated. There’s no more next week, nor a tomorrow—it’s all pointless. Your glistened orbs fell on your dappled yellow shoes. “I don’t think I can. But I appreciate it, Mr. Jay."

His hands behind his back formed into a slight fist.

"B-but.. I don't think the camellia's gonna survive if you let it just like that, you know." Jay took two steps closer, his feet stuck on the ground as the firm breeze brushed the monochrome petals on the side of his neck, just like the freshly engraved on yours. "The colours, I mean."

"Huh..?"

Now that you look at him with the golden hues of the sun infused in his eyes like honey, you've come to notice the desperation, determination and hope evident inside those softened orbs, and most importantly—the silent blooming of affection.

“Would you come?”

「 talesofyuan on tumblr 2023 」 all rights reserved. do not copy or post without permission.

[unknownzapy]

HII!! I saw your requests are open so I wanted to request a matchup if that was alright, im looking for a platonic relationship if that’s fine and since I saw that someone requested for helluva boss I would really like that and also the amazing world of gumball and FNAF ^^ so now I shall introduce myself✨

My name is Joey I go by a nickname which is Asmo (as Asmodeus), im 14, i use he/him pronouns, im transgender, aromatic and unlabeled, my MBTI is ENTP, im also adhdtistic and I’m 5’6 with brown shoulder length hair, i wear glasses and im pretty much in between skinny and chubby? i dress in a lot of styles actually which are goth (trad goth, romantic goth, mall goth and nu goth), gyaru (hime gal, himekaji, agejo, rokku, manba, and kogal), scenemo and also ouji and lolita

My personality is ENTP but I’m usually pretty awkward when I meet someone so it may take some time to get used to the person before I start emoting freely, i love to ramble about my interests to people that I’m comfortable with, im also not afraid to get snarky if someone bothers me to much, im also pretty protective of the people I love and my interests LMAO, also I love making sexual jokes and I love making the goofiest jokes to exist like “im the ohio god” and I also love to make fun of kids on voice chat in roblox

My hobbies/likes: anime/manga, fashion, art (drawing, pottery, painting, digital art, animation, etc), cooking, learning new languages (like Japanese and Spanish), i also like to do gym which most people don’t like, listing to music/making music (I’m a vocaloid producer), musicals, hanging out with my friends, gaming, going shopping, and hotels

Dislikes: negative mentions of my voice, comparing me to people/saying stuff like “you remind me of ____”, also spiders I scream whenever I see one… no joke, insulting what I love, fish, uncomfortable places like sleeping on a couch

Thanks!

Helluva Boss Matchup Is…Loona!

Let’s be honest here, Loona and you would be friends immediately. The both of you are quite awkward when trying to put effort into meeting new people you like, have similar fashion senses (*cough cough* More so on anything Goth, Emo, or anything remotely “edgy” and “cool”), and finally both of your protective natures for your loved ones, even if Loona doesn’t show it that much.

At first, the Hellhound didn’t care for you as much as any other bystander, seeing you only as another sap living in Hell (or Earth, if you prefer). But then again, she’ll warm up to you and give a new friendship a chance, Loona couldn’t help but laugh at your vulgar jokes and vibe to your music tastes, which is a rarity in the I.M.P Business.

Blitzo, on the other hand, is rather protective of his daughter after realizing that she’s becoming slightly more extroverted lately, though he is happy that she’s making friends on her own and having a social life outside of the business.

Face it, Blitzo would definitely join you in the sexual jokes and light banter after a week of meeting you. Though, if you’re uncomfortable with him egging you on about these unfiltered puns, then he’ll back off entirely and potentially diminish your friendship with his only kid because of it.

Anyways, onto other details. Loona loves your body shape and doesn’t really care what you look like, as long as you're cool in her book, even if she’s snarky about it with her fellow coworkers (such as with Moxxie). Speaking of being snarky, Loona feels as though she can be her true self with you without any form of consequences, especially with the two of you playfully going at each other’s throats over video games or face to face.

Whenever someone else gets smart with you or tries to bully you for whatever reason while she’s in the room, The Hellhound will pause her fingers above her phone and stare at the one who offended you, giving them a bombastic side eye and silently daring them to repeat what they just said to you. If the offender continues to mock you, then Loona will forcibly take matters into her own hands and kick their ass, literally and figuratively.

She’s the type to watch over your shoulder slightly as you work on your favorite hobbies, and maybe even tries to do some of them herself. However, she admires you for doing pottery and art better than she can, seeing as though you’re more crafted in the subjects than she is. Please gift her a piece of your talent, I’m begging you 🙏🏼 🥺 Loona will definitely keep a drawing you did for her on her wall in her bedroom because she sees you as her younger sibling as this point.

As a transgender person, The Hellhound was pretty open minded and accepting, given the fact that her dad is having an affair with an already married man, but that situation is for another time to talk about. It’s complicated as it is. With you, however, Loona always opt to use your proper pronouns and surprisingly remembers them without mistake.

If anyone isn’t aware of your preferred pronouns or simply refuses to use them for whatever reason, then you can bet your ass that she’s standing up for you until the other person backs off. On a completely unrelated note, I’d also like to add that the two of you horse around like real siblings, rough housing and all, if you’re down of course.

For your sexuality, on the other hand, Loona was a teensy bit confused, but with enough explaining, she understands completely and is quick to question others if they decide to bring you harm because of it. She knows when push comes to shove real quick, so don’t worry about your safety too much, she works with an assisation group after all.

For Millie and Moxxie, they sort of see you as their own nephew and treat you as their own. Of course, the I.M.P are your new family now, so get used to a lot of action and various forms of platonic love 🥰.

Five nights at Freddy’s Matchup Is…Ballora!

At first, Ballora was the one who confronted you firsthand for whatever reason she may have had, though realizing your discomfort, she backs off and takes her time speaking to you. She is an unfiltered and honest character, which is why she hates “playing pretend” (or in my mind at least), May it be bad or good is entirely up to you.

She’ll most likely remind you how talented you are, wanting you to be your best, authentic self, despite what others may think of you. However, Ballora can’t force you to do something you are uncomfortable with, and will hold back with her advances.

In theory of the FNAF fandom, She is the mother and wife in the Afton Family, and her maternal personality will be directed to you as well, even in death. If the theory is false, then Ballora will treat you similarly to the children that come and go, though with more respect of course, considering that you’re a little older.

Now, onto your appearance. I feel like she’s the type to admire and adore someone despite their looks, and will tell you how amazing you look. For you, though, she’s astonished that you have varying clothing styles that even she hadn’t realized existed before. She’s beyond flabbergasted and speechless, which is a good thing; Plus, she wishes to dance with you someday in these clothes and show you off to the minireenas, even if you aren’t good at dancing at all.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but Ballora will show your art (and yourself) off like each one is your best prized possession. Though, she will avoid giving you the limelight if you seem to be uncomfortable with her high praise and try her best to take it back a few notches. She’ll most likely keep your art on her walls in her Gallery room, however kept in a more secluded area where kids, or anyone in general, can take them down. Only she can admire them, so she hates it when someone rips them up; Ballora learned the hard way.

For your singing and music tastes, Ballora will most certainly dance to it. You sing, she dances, the perfect duo 💪🏼. Sometimes, she allows the Minireenas to show off their own skills as well or join in on her dancing too. Wholesome, is it not?

When it comes to your gender and sexuality though, it takes some time for her to understand due to the fact that she was built in the late 80’s, where people were closeted for many reasons. Plus, she basically “lived” under a house for god knows how long. Though, I doubt Ballora will dislike you simply for your own preferences, and a matter of fact, Ballora has a newfound respect for you. Personally, as stated earlier, I feel as though she is the type to value honesty above all else, however will not push you to do something you’re not comfortable with. So with the fact that you trust her enough to reveal this information, Ballora can’t help but feel honored.

If anyone brings you trouble for who you are and what you like, her Minireenas (and maybe some Bidybabs, too, if Baby allows it) will take care of the offender, don't worry too much. Also, she can’t leave her stage during the daytime unless rented out, so the news of what happened will depend on the day. By the end of the day, Ballora will always be there to comfort and soothe you as best as she can if need be.

Lastly, your sense of humor. I feel as though Ballora has a dry sense of humor, while yours is more “wet”, if that makes any sense at all. Her laugh is similar to that of Fenneko from the anime “Aggretsuko”, but she genuinely will laugh at your Ohio jokes, even if her steel face says otherwise, so being an animatronic has its faults for being non expressive.

Ballora, as a whole, admires for who you are and supports you through and through. She’s the animatronic to praise you, even in your lowest of lows, she’ll be there to comfort you.

The Amazing World of Gumball Matchup is…Tobias Wilson!

As the best for last, Tobias will treat you with absolute royalty in a way that spoils you rotten. For example, he will buy you the art supplies you wanted for a year now or even go as far as to (platonically) “rizz” you up with incredibly, yet ridiculously, expensive gifts that no one else is able to buy and show off his “buff muscles” along with it.

At first, Tobias genuinely thought you hung around him purely because his family was rich as hell. The more the two of you did hang out, however, the more he realized that you actually wanted to be his friend, albeit in an awkward manner from the start.

From that point on, the little guy tried his best to act like a real friend and not be a jerk for once (like in the show itself), so it takes him a hot minute for him to be more of a decent person. Instead of buying you expensive items, and depending on your (platonic) love languages, Tobias will try to meet your expectations as a friend from then on.

When it comes to hobbies, Tobias will stare at you like “👁_👁” in amazement and astonishment, mesmerized by your talent. May it be your pottery, cooking, or even learning a second language, he tries to either show off to get your attention or one up you in a playful manner, covered in clay, paint, and pride. Tobias probably summoned his paralysis demon in Latin by accident thanks to you, so there’s that/j.

Tobias will always question you as to how you got so many hobbies and still manage to create masterpieces, even if he does watch you create them like a child wondering how the Detachable Thumb Trick works, despite it being explained to them more than 12 times. Homeboy will praise the literal floor you walk on just by this alone 💀.

When it comes to Gym class, though, he will definitely get competitive with you while everyone else is exhausted, especially with Dodgeball. The two of you are wild with it, either you throwing the balls and him dodging with ease or the other way around, making the both of you that “one kid who becomes Goku” in Gym class. During this, most of the class will choose sides as to who would win or record the scenery before them. By the end of the period, everyone left with stunned bafflement and amazement, all in a good way. Now these classmates have a reason to go to Gym now, all thanks to the both of you, lol.

Besides this, Tobias totally vibes with your humor, especially the sexual ones. He’s the best one on the list with your sense of comedy and the type who would egg you on like a wingman, though if he accidentally goes too far with someone such as offending them or making them mad, he’ll immediately apologize and find a way to make it up to them. Especially if they were a friend of yours or a loved one, seeing as though he does try to be a better friend and person in the canonical show.

Understanding your sexuality and gender is a whole thing of itself. Considering his age, he’s new to all this, but understands the meaning behind them on the first try, absorbing this information like a sponge. Surprisingly gets your pronouns right on the bat, and will definitely swing at anyone who misgenders you. Tobias will treat you the same like always, but his respect for you has risen by 9,000. The rainbow child understands you the most when it comes to this stuff, so the two of you are immediately best friends from then on.

When it comes to other people giving you trouble with your interests or gender identity (or any part of you at all), Tobias will defend you like a white knight in shining armor. But in all seriousness, he’ll be by your side through thick and thin, even if he isn’t the best athletic and physically built person in the school.

By the end of the day, Tobias is your best friend until the very end. He deeply respects you the most out of everyone around him, most likely outweighing his envy for Gumball and his wild adventures and that’s saying something. Which is a good thing, by the way.

Additionally, He would never be the type to put you into situations where you’re uncomfortable, including to subject you to your fears (spiders, in this case) or compare you to someone else. Even if he did, it would probably be by accident and will apologize profusely after realizing this mistake.

While Tobias spent some time with you, he genuinely changed for the better; Not flirting with girls (even when they’re explicitly taken), showing off his money and “muscles”, ect. and decides to just be a relatively normal kid. He still has his moments but it isn’t as bad as he used to be, plus he always backs off when a girl tells him “no” or shows hints of uninterest.

Tobias became more of a class clown overtime, knowing when to take a joke and being the subject of a quick laugh. After all, Who wouldn't want to be friends with this rainbow goofball 😉.

[rosethreeart]

Okay. Another prompt then maybe >:3

1.Ned got injured doing something dumb but Abigail thinks it is really serious. (Broke a few fingers or whatsnot oopsies) during work or what and comes home with a cast on the place he hurt himself.

2. Ned forgets to do his hair up all day (for whatever reason) and it is a world meeting day and Abigail doesn’t point it out to see people’s reactions to Ned w his hair down.

I went with 1 :D!

It's here on Ao3 too!

Summery: Ned takes a fall, and Abby is there to kiss it better.

Word Count: 726

Title: A Broken Hand is a Good Way to Get a Kiss

Concern was the first thing he was greeted with the minute he had walked into the door. Rapid questions were fired from all directions as Abigail flit about him, assessing any and all damage; the smallest of cuts or bruises would not go unnoticed as long as she's there. 

“Abigail—”

“Are you okay? What happened? How bad is it? How—”

He grabbed her shoulders. 

“Abigail.”

She slowly looked up as her breathing evened, hands still fidgeting, desperate to coddle. Even though he was the injured one, she was the one who looked like she wanted to cry.

That was one thing he loved about her. She was always so kind and caring towards others, always willing to put even complete strangers before herself. That type of kindness was rare amongst their kind. He was glad he gets to see it regularly now because of her. It’s even begun to rub off on him. Which was how he was even in this situation to begin with.

He took a deep sigh, eyes crinkling due to his soft expression as topaz met what was currently a royal blue. “I’m fine. I promise.”

Her shoulders seemed to sag slightly as she reached for his left arm, which was currently wrapped in a cast, “Can I ask what happened?”

He takes a few seconds to answer, too entranced by the way her small hands barely fit into his. How gentle and soft they were. How warm they felt….

She squeezes his hand slightly, worry now drawing back on her face as if relief was merely an eclipse. 

“I’m alright I just…” He hesitates a moment, blushing slightly. He was never very good at expressing himself verbally.

He stammers a bit, “I..uhh..mm..”

Her head tilts slightly to the left.

He looks at the floor.

He needs to clean the carpet. The dishes need to get done too. Oh and of course the laundry—

“Lars?”

“Sorry, it's a little embarrassing.”

“That’s alright sweet pea, you don’t have to talk about it?”

He fails to force down a slight grin when that affectionate little pet name of hers rang in his ear. 

“Truthfully I broke it falling off a ladder in the studio,” he finally admits. 

He never really was one to brag about things he actually enjoyed, Abigail being one of the few exceptions to the rule, but he was quite fond (and very good) at oil painting. He had a small little studio nearby which he would occasionally rent out for cheap for local artists.  

“Why were you on a ladder? What could an almost 7 foot-tall man need with any more height?” Abigail's eyes glistened as she teased, her lips pressed into a thin line trying to hold back a grin and laughter.

“I was trying to fix the curtains to let in some more natural light but…it seems I might have to go buy a new one…and a new curtain rod…and maybe a few buckets of paint...and a shelf…”

He was just happy the paint didn’t land on him, he would have looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. How embarrassing that would have been!

Oh how pitiful he felt, especially with that expression she gave him, as if he was a lost little puppy on the street who just walked into a wall. 

“Aww I’m sorry babe, anything else hurt or just your hand?” She dusted and smoothed out his shirt, which had wrinkled from its usually pristine condition due to the…incident. 

“Besides a bruised ego and some sore muscles?” I don’t think so.”

He leaned down as she stepped on her tipsy-toes to place a gentle kiss on his lips. Somehow he started feeling better already. Maybe he should get some more of those. Who knew? Maybe kisses could be a cure after all.

“Alright-y lets get you something for the pain and some warm food in your belly before you start feeling any worse,” She says, not waiting for an answer as she gently guides him into the dinning room.

Some food and something for the pain would be a good cure too though…

That beautiful portrait of her surrounded by a field of forget-me-nots and tulips could wait a while, he supposed. Besides, he’s got the real deal in front of him right now. The real Abigail was much better than a painting.

[magic-hcs]

Hii Sora!! I absolutely love your interpretation of the characters!! congrats on the 200 followers, and it's very sweet of u to do match-ups! I hope you're doing well :D

Multiple matches is fine, and I don't mind poly! do whatever u want :)

Gender: Genderqueer

Pronouns: Any!

Sexuality: Omnisexual

Appearance: I'm tall, broad, chubby, i have short n shaggy light brown hair, blue eyes, i wear glasses, i have acne scars, and a few piercings. I have a deep voice with a slight southern accent. my clothing style could be described as grunge and y2k

Personality: introverted, loyal, quiet but talkative at home, sarcastic, a bit intimidating, blunt, hardworking, compassionate, silly, and confident

Soul Trait: Integrity

Hobbies: cooking, drawing, painting, singing, playing piano, studying, finding new music, and playing video games

Likes: music of all kinds, rainy days while staying inside, fidget toys, fluffy blankets, cartoons, candles, learning about random topics, early mornings, pasta, sweets, those so obviously fake that it's funny ghost videos, comedy, storytelling, dogs, cats, and other animals

Dislikes: unexpected loud noises, crowds, arguing, certain textures/sounds (I got sensory issues), and bigotry

Hope that's good, thank you so much!! ^_^

I’m happy you enjoy my interpretations of the boys! Also thank you! I’m doing well, I hope you’re doing well too. Thank you for being patient!

Matchups are closed!

~~matching…~~matching~….~matching~~…~DING~

You match with Mastiff and Red!

✨✨

(SF Papyrus) Mastiff:

Your compassion, bluntness and confidence drew Mastiff to you. But your silliness and loyalty made him stay. Loyalty is a big thing to Mastiff after all, he has a hard time opening u0 to people because of his trust issues. So you being loyal will definitely aid you in the journey of cracking open Mastiff’s guarded shell.

Mastiff is one of those guys who has an intimidating resting bitch face who doesn’t react a lot with his face and instead with his body language. But he’s also that kind of guy who would snort at a fart joke and create chaos with his gremlin tendencies. So when you’re friends or even more, you’ll be getting the honor of seeing this side of him often.

Snorts whenever you get sarcastic, he’s just watching from the sidelines almost eating popcorn as you direct your sarcastic remarks at others. He doesn’t mind if you direct those comments at him, Razzle is a sarcastic ass so it won’t offend him.

Mastiff is not really talkative, he listens more often. Sometimes throwing in a few words but he mostly just enjoys listening to you talking about everything and nothing.

You two often play video games together, sometimes Coal decides to insert himself in your video gaming sessions just for fun, or to tease and be a menace to his brother when Mastiff has a crush on you he has yet to acknowledge.

You got a free taste tester right here if you ever decide to make something new. Mastiff never passes up a good meal, nor does he waste it!

He’s quite interested in those fidget toys you got. He has tried a few out and thinks Coal would really enjoy them too. Whenever he spots some new kind of fidget toys he takes it with him and gives them to you.

Mastiff will always make sure that Razzle talks a bit softer when you’re around because Razzle can be one very loud boy when he isn’t conscious of his own volume.

✨✨

(UF Sans) Red:

With Red too, loyalty is very important. Without it one can’t get very far with Red.

He likes your silly attitude and likes to joke around with you. This man will legitimately snatch a taste from the food you’re making when you’re not looking.

Red likes to watch you play the piano, he can’t help but be enthralled with the way your fingers move across the keys. The moment you offer to teach him and lay your hands upon his Red’s a goner.

You two are so competitive when playing video games. It doesn’t after if you’re not competitive normally, Red is capable of pressing the buttons that make you competitive.

You two often cackle at those horribly fake ghost videos. Be prepared for Red to bash and roast everything. He’s a bit of a video nerd, don’t mind him.

Red doesn’t like crowds too, so with him you don’t have to be worried about having to be forced into a crowd because he can just shortcut you guys to a more calming place.

✨✨

I hope you enjoyed!

[stuffielovinhours]

hi! i’m 18 and i’ve been privately interested in age regression for a long time - i think i’ve even unconsciously started to regress slightly because i get in a weird headspace and seek specific activities and stimulus (like music, shows and books i watched and read as a toddler, stuffed animals, even increased and more childish stims) when i’m feeling certain ways. I go partially nonverbal and i get more sensitive and clumsy. despite all the research and “unexplained” draw to it i’ve had, i kind of don’t know where to start. i don’t know how to tell if i’m regressing, i don’t know how to do it intentionally, i don’t know my age range or if it’s even something i’m capable of at all. i’m not very comfortable being taken care of in this specific way, i can’t be vulnerable enough with a potential cg to have that kind of relationship. even though its something i crave, i’ve gotten very good at self-soothing and self-governance. i’m also autistic, and already have trouble identifying my own emotions, so it’s a little bit of a non-starter. do you have any tips for someone falling into age regression with no understanding of how to be intentional, or someone who wants to try it out and doesn’t know how to get there?

Hello lovely! I'm sorry it took me so long to get to this ask, I was trying to figure out the best way to word my advice and then life distracted me from my inbox ><

First of all, know that it's completely okay to be unsure if you're regressing or not, and there's no pressure to label your headspace as anything if you don't want to. You don't even have to have a specific age or age range to regress to! "Younger" is a perfectly fine way to describe your age :3 To see if you can do it voluntarily you can maybe actively partake in the stimuli you tend to seek out, even when you don't feel the urge to, and see how you like it in your usual headspace. Does it make you feel floaty and tiny like your involuntary sessions do?

I too crave the comfort of a cg, but I'm comfortable being on my own and taking care of myself. I choose to not seek out a cg and although I'm getting better at being vulnerable, I don't see myself letting anyone take care of me in that sense. You can be a regressor, age dreamer, noncom tiny - whatever you choose to call yourself, without a caregiver. That's valid. Super valid.

For tips, all I can say is let yourself do childish things. Indulge your inner kid! And do it on purpose! You could recreate things you did as a child, or try out new activities. Finger paint, cuddle lots of stuffies, watch new cartoons, fun ones and weird ones, really get in touch with your likes and dislikes. Experiment! Looking up resources and finding others' experiences in the community can also help you get a feel for your own emotions. I know some autistic people who take to age regression, age dreaming and similar coping methods to help with life.

At the end of the day, your headspace is just that, yours. Do what makes you comfortable and happy.

(As an end note, to my understanding: agere is when you cognitively regress to a younger age, agedre is when you behaviourally regress and do childish things without feeling a change in your mental age, and inner child healing is a similar coping method used in therapy. Experiment to see what you experience, and most importantly, enjoy yourself <3)

[love-fireflysong]

God it sure has been a while since I did one of these huh? Whoopsies. Just been busy, busy, busy over here with working all night and sleeping all day I guess. (Hell, honestly I’m going to bed the second after I’m done writing this which will be like after noon lol.)

Unfortunately writing has been very slow going with me, but I thankfully was able to get out of my slump the other week and have been able to get some words down every now and then. Enough words that I’ll share some snippets from TWO different fics I have started since then! First one from one of the writing prompts that was requested back in September (and that I had intended to complete before my brain decided to short out and turn into goop).

“Fucking hell, I’m sorry about that. I thought for sure that you heard me coming in, I swear that I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Already feeling some of the heat from the embarrassment leaving her face, Abi shakes her head as she loosens her tight hold on her sketchbook and relaxes back into the chair again with weak laugh. “It’s fine, really. Must have just gotten so absorbed into drawing that I didn’t even notice the door opening. What are you doing in here?”

Almost the second the words leave her mouth, the embarrassment that had just started it’s retreat is back to it’s original level as she tries to stammer out what she hopes will be a placating and entirely reasonable explanation. “I mean, not that you can’t be in here of course. It’s not like I have a monopoly on the library after all. Anyone can come in here whenever they went, even you.” Nope, never mind. Instead she’s just continuing on digging that hole deeper and deeper with every following word. Because clearly accidentally insulting Nick and even implying he’s stupid so someone like him would never deign to set foot in a library of all things is the perfect way to ask anyone (much less one’s summertime crush) why they’ve come to see you.

The second fic is one that I just recently took a break from cause it was a halloween centric piece and it felt silly to keep working seeing that I completely missed finishing it for the holiday oops. Both Chris and Ashley had been aware that Josh had decided on the haunted house/graveyard combo earlier in the year, and just like always he had clearly spared no expense on making his vision come to life. Aged shutters had been installed to hang broken and crooked from every cracked and shattered window. Withered ivy climbed the sides of the house, the once bright blue paint (that Chris himself had helped Josh pick out earlier that summer) now dull and peeling, if not missing entirely from some areas of the wood siding. In the corner window on the top floor (which both knew immediately to be the bedroom that they had shared for years before they had moved out shortly after the wedding) was the almost uncomfortable silhouette of a body hung and swaying gently side-to-side in the dim light of the room. On the front of the garage door that housed Josh's extremely macabre props workshop, someone had sprayed various warnings to 'KEEP AWAY' from the 'SUPER HAUNTED' house else they encounter whatever 'GRUESOME DEATH AWAITS YOU' for themselves.

The front yard was no less embellished. The once neat and tidy wooden fence that surrounded the boundary had been replaced entirely with a rusted and nearly broken metal one, every foot or two was a sharp point that looked to be almost deadly, and random ones proved it as they looked to be stained with something nastier and darker than rust alone. What looked like actual gravestones and wooden crosses were scattered throughout the yard, some broken—if not almost entirely demolished—with the names inscribed on them near unreadable. Ashley had even pointed out a cross in the front corner of the yard where the dirt had been freshly turned, as though implying that a new body had been added just recently. A thick and heavy fog rolled across the ground, smoke curling like long, spindly fingers at as it reached the edges of the yard, with the source of the fog curiously emanating from the large, bare oak tree in the center of the yard. The tree that Josh had seen fit to cover in a wide assortment of (unsurprisingly) realistic bats as a raven perched amongst the highest branches, occasionally letting out a loud and discordant caw in irregular intervals.

And yet, despite clearly blowing every other house out of the water, it was easily the tamest that Josh had ever decorated for Halloween in his entire life.

And cross-stitch time! Less headway than I would have liked solely because eagle-eyed peeps may notice that the shades of pink on the right side just above the mareep has changed shade entirely. Realized that the colours I had been given did not match at all with the ones for the next page and the new ones being offered were a much, much better match than the vibrant, almost neon ones I had been given before. But when I went to remove the threads I accidentally managed to completely snap one of the weaves of the material which made it absolutely impossible to sew anything on that line. So I had to preform some minor surgery by re-weaving a new thread to try and replace it and sew on top of that so it would (hopefully) stay in place. And thank god it worked almost perfectly! The only issue that was left is that you can kind of see where it was done cause a couple of squares of thread are *slighty* raised higher than the rest with a small bit of the white peeking through. All in all, a complete success if I say so myself (and I definitely do lol)! After that, it only took me another day or so to finish the page off finally, and all that black was done in two, with the hopes of finishing off the rest of it Thursday night when the new episode of critical role airs!

[cophene]

xi. interlock.

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pairing : p. fugo x gn reader summary : after finding a pensive, choleric ghost, a sales clerk must do everything in their power to help him cross over. but that becomes unfairly difficult when it's so easy to forget that he's already dead. notes : 20th century au, multi-chapter fic, sfw, doesn’t follow canon plot word count : 2.2k+

⊱ FUGO’S ROOM MUST HAVE BEEN cleaned at some point; the sheets on the bed looked freshly made, and the room smelled soft and airy. Still, the maids probably had it easy. Fugo’s room was spartan. There were only the bare necessities: a bed, a closet, a nightstand and lamp, an armchair facing the window. The decorations were lackluster. The bland painting over the bed that appeared only to be there to take up space. It was a room that could have belonged to anyone.

“I’m even more of a bore than you are,” Fugo said, drifting into the room. He did it with familiarity, moving to the armchair with the ease of a dance well-rehearsed.

“Did you pack everything up?” you asked. “Where is everything?”

“I brought a few things with me, but I didn’t have that much to begin with. I didn’t spend enough time in my room to warrant that kind of effort. I found the house suffocating enough without filling my room full of things.”

He propped one foot over the other, leaned against the armrest and rested his chin in his hand. You longed to take a picture of him, which was strange because you rarely felt the need to capture anyone.

“Check the drawer of the nightstand,” he said, gazing out the window. “There’s a journal there, I think.”

So he was remembering. You pulled open the drawer excitedly, drawing out the small red journal. You gave it to Fugo, who had no trouble turning through its pages.

He was so solid now. The sunlight coming in through the window could almost cast his shadow.

While he flipped through the journal, you opened up his closet. His clothes were of good quality but unexciting. You felt the sudden urge to smell one of his sleeves to see if a bit of his cologne still lingered there. It didn’t matter, but you wanted to know what Fugo might have smelt like.

As discreetly as you could, you brought one of his shirtsleeves to your face. You didn’t smell cologne but something slightly metallic and gritty. Stale smoke. Car exhaust. His clothes smelled like the air outside, as though he had always been moving, going somewhere.

Was that strange? For his clothes not to have a scent of their own?

You turned back to Fugo. He was flipping through the journal too quickly to be reading anything. He was looking for something.

Eventually he stopped, smoothing his fingers over a page. 

“Do you know where Libbeccio’s is?”

“Vaguely. Is it a restaurant?”

“It’s a bar,” he murmured. “I have its address written down here.”

You peered at the page. He had a lot more than just the address written down. There were times and dates, a column of sums, and a few scrawled notes of what looked like the names of songs.

“I think I went there,” Fugo said. “After my parents disowned me.”

You winced. “You don’t know that.”

“They wanted to keep up appearances, but they barely acknowledged my presence when I was in this house. That’s why they’re so unbothered. I might as well have been dead to them.”

You hadn’t realized how cruel such turns of phrase were until you heard them uttered by a ghost.

“Whatever happened to me, I think they know,” said Fugo, tapping his finger over the name of the bar. “More than my parents at any rate. There’s two people that I remember faintly. They were … important.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you said. “We’ll have to go after my shift at the boutique, though. I don’t think Prosciutto’s going to let me take another day off.”

“That should be fine. It’ll be better, actually, if I remember things correctly.”

Fugo spent a while longer flipping through the book before he went to put it back in the drawer. You wanted to tell him to take it with him, but maybe he didn’t find it that important.

“Do you think there’s a photograph of you here somewhere?” you asked.

“What for?”

“So I can stare at your pretty face,” you said, and laughed when Fugo gaped at you. “I wanted to bring it to the police station to see if the officer from the other day might recognize you. Jog his memory a little bit.”

“I'm not sure. I don’t think I was the type to have many photographs taken.”

He was right. You both scoured the entire room and came up empty. Eventually you had to ask the housekeeper for help, and she surprised you by bringing out a large brown envelope.

“The young master asked me to keep a copy of his college applications for him. He was worried he might forget something. He had a professional photo done not long ago in case any of the schools asked him for one.”

The Fugo in the picture was stern and cold looking. It made you sad that he looked exactly like his parents. He was much more himself when he smiled, or when he wore the soft expression he did now.

“I'm sorry you didn't get the answers you wanted,” the housekeeper said. “For a time, all of the staff here were also curious about his whereabouts.”

You could've told her he was dead. It wouldn't have been difficult. But there was something tender in her face just now that gave you pause.

“Tell her I'm grateful to her,” Fugo said. “She was kind to me, in her way. I'm grateful for that.”

You repeated the words to the housekeeper. She grew briefly misty eyed before she waved away the words like an errant fly. 

“If you find that boy, tell him he needs to come home,” she said. “There are plenty of people who miss him, even if his parents don't.”

You smiled. From the corner of your eye, you could tell Fugo did too.

“Oh, that reminds me.” The housekeeper disappeared into her room again before reappearing with a stack of mail. “I hung on to his correspondence for him, as well. He hasn’t been receiving many letters now, but there were quite a few just after he left. Maybe they’ll help you. I haven’t opened anything. I hope he won’t mind if you do.” 

“Thank you. I’ll look through them as best as I can.”

“Are you sure you’re a friend of Pannacotta’s?” the housekeeper asked, suddenly suspicious. “He never brought you up.”

“Oh, I’m terribly shy,” you lied. “I didn’t like him going around telling everyone about me.”

It was only after you’d said the words that you realized how they sounded. You didn’t have time to take them back before a knowing smile crossed the housekeeper’s face.

“I see,” she said, slyly. “You were that sort of friend.”

“No, I don’t want to give the wrong impression—”

“Don’t worry about me. I won’t go around spreading it. I’m just glad he managed to find someone, the poor boy. He was quite the looker under that scowl, wasn’t he?”

You swallowed. You could feel Fugo smirking at you. “Yes, I suppose so.”

You couldn’t get out of Fugo’s house fast enough. You avoided looking at Fugo until you were a few blocks away, then had to stop entirely when you heard him quietly chuckling. His smile dropped when you glowered at him, but his mouth twitched.

“Stop that. That was mortifying.”

“Was it really? I didn’t hear you denying Ms. Legarde.”

“She was getting suspicious!”

“Sure. It was because she was ‘suspicious.’”

You harrumphed and continued walking. “Can we just get back to my apartment? We should go through your letters and see what other memories you can dredge up. You remembered so much back at your house. I think it’s only a matter of time until—”

You didn’t realize you had stepped out onto the street until it was too late. A car horn blared, and all you could do was stare at the car hurtling towards you. Ridiculously, all you could think was, I’m about to join Fugo. 

You were a scant few moments from death before someone grabbed your arm and yanked you back onto the pavement.

“What are you doing? Look where you’re going, you idiot!”

You stumbled back and nearly fell. Your heart was beating so fast it was nearly painful.

“Thank you,” you breathed. “Sorry, I was distracted.”

“You shouldn’t be! All of the drivers in this town are lousy! Here, get back from the pavement. You look like you’re going to faint.”

Fugo pulled you further back so that you could lean on a nearby building for support. You did feel faint, your vision swaying back and forth.

“Don’t do that again,” Fugo snapped. “One ghost in this town is more than enough.”

“I’m sorry,” you said again. You noticed then that his hand was still on your arm, a comfortingly cool weight. Just as you were about to pull away, Fugo brought up his other hand and then your hand was enclosed in both of his.

“You need to be careful,” he said lowly. “Do you hear me?”

You had never noticed Fugo’s hands before. They were slim and fine—the hands of a musician, an artist. At that moment, they might have been made especially for yours.

“Y/N,” Fugo said. “Do you hear me?”

You shifted your hand, interlocked your fingers. You could almost feel the heft of his hand, warmth, blood rushing beneath skin.

His hand fit perfectly with yours. How was that possible?

But then your hand passed through. Because Fugo wasn’t truly there. Because he was a ghost. 

Because he was dead.

“I hear you,” you said. Your hand felt cold. “It won’t happen again.”

Abbacchio recognized the photograph. You could tell from how still he went, his face closed off like a door that was deliberately locked. What you found more confounding than the recognition, however, was Abbacchio’s need to hide it.

“I’ve never seen him before,” he said, turning the photograph back to you.

“Are you sure?” you asked. “You were staring at it for so long.”

“I believe so. There are a lot of people in this town. You don’t expect me to recognize everyone, do you?”

“Of course not, officer. It’s just that the last time we met, you gave the impression that Fugo might not have been a stranger.”

“I recognized his parents’ name. I thought you were referring to them.”

Why are you lying? What do you have to hide? 

“Either way, would you mind hanging onto that photograph?” you asked. “His parents aren’t concerned, but I don’t think it would hurt to keep an eye out for him. In case something happened.”

“Friend of his?” Abbacchio asked, reluctantly taking the photograph. 

“Yes. We were quite close.”

“You could be worrying for nothing. Boys his age get restless. They like disappearing without telling anyone. To find themselves.”

“Fugo wouldn’t do that. Wherever he is, I’m worried about him. I just want to know where he is.”

“I can’t promise that I’ll find him,” said Abbacchio.

“I’m aware. I just want to know. If you do find something.”

Abbacchio’s lips thinned. He glanced around warily. “You could find out things you might not want to. A lot of the time it’s the people closest to us that have lives we were never aware about.”

You smiled tiredly. “Honestly, a secret life is the last thing I’m worried about, officer.”

Abbacchio was called off then. He nodded at you curtly before moving off. 

You wished you could just leave him to do all of the heavy lifting. Maybe the police would be able to reassemble Fugo’s life for you. As thrilling as every new piece of information you’d gained thus far had been, you were tired. Drained. You were finding it harder to sleep and to pay attention at the boutique. As Fugo grew stronger, you were getting weaker. You didn’t know how long you had until you collapsed one day and didn’t get up. The family warning had always been to get the ghost crossed over before that happened.

You were making progress though. That was what counted.

Outside of the police station, Fugo was sitting on the second last step, watching passersby on the street. You had to concentrate now to see his indistinct edges. You had to work to convince yourself he was no longer alive.

“How did it go?” he asked, getting to his feet.

“I gave Abbacchio the photograph. He’ll look into it, but he said he couldn’t promise anything.”

You kept your hands firmly at your sides. If Fugo noticed your discomfort, he didn’t show it. You knew you shouldn’t be looking into the small moments between the two of you too closely. Nothing good would come of it. You had to remember yourself and what he was taking from you.

“We should get going then. You’re going to be late for your shift.”

“You remember when my shift is?”

“Don’t be so surprised. I’ve been going with you for the past week.”

Had it been a week already? It felt like time was passing by more quickly.

“I hope you’re excited. I’ll be treating you to dinner at Libeccio’s tonight,” Fugo said, smiling slightly.

You made a face. “Says the ghost who can’t pay.”

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[myname-isnia]

I’ve been so completely out of it all day bc of last night’s revelation, it’s literally been the only thing I could think about, and the deeper I get in analysing my life experiences the more realisations I come to, and each one feels more horrific than the last.

Not horrific as in terrible, but as in it feels like whatever remains of my sense of self is completely falling apart. I thought I was bi for so long, didn’t even spend a single second questioning it. Never did I even think that I may be wrong, it seemingly made too much sense for me to be wrong. But the sense it made was the fact I was attracted to both male and female characters in animated shows, not real people.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a crush on a real person before. Not on someone I knew irl, nor on some actor/celebrity, nor on someone I saw on tiktok or wherever. And it’s like, I can acknowledge someone is attractive, even that someone is beautiful or hot, but it’s never personal when I do. Pretty girls I see don’t linger in my mind at all. I can’t picture myself dating them or getting intimate or kissing them or anything. It’s a purely aesthetic attraction with no feelings behind it. With animated/drawn characters it’s different, I can actually feel all the physical side-effects of looking at someone you’re romantically attracted to. But when the scale of a drawing slides too far towards realism, like with museum paintings or even that one Suiren portrait I drew once, the attraction fades again. I’m just not and have never been attracted to real people.

At my old school the topic of which celebrities you found hot came up often and I never knew what to say. Naming the ones I knew were conventionally beautiful but I wasn’t personally attracted to felt like lying, so eventually I started naming people my mom found hot. She’d tell me which actors she had a crush on when we watched movies or shows together and I pretended to see her point. After a while I managed to convince myself that it wasn’t pretending and that I really agreed with her. I realise now it all boiled down to purely aesthetic attraction again, I had no genuine interest in them. And one could assume it was just my preference for women showing, but female celebrities faced the exact same treatment from me.

I started reevaluating a lot of sexuality-related feelings and life moments. My dad’s SIL often laments how I’m 17 and don’t have a boyfriend yet, and when I say I don’t want one she goes “Why? It’s not like you have to sleep with him, wouldn’t it be nice to be gifted flowers and taken on dates and the like?” I usually just shrug but my internal answer was always a resounding no. I once again thought I just liked girls more, but when I actually thought about what if dad’s SIL wasn’t homophobic and posed the question in a sapphic way, I realised that my answer wouldn’t change. I don’t want a partner of any gender or to be taken out on dates or anything like that.

It was here that things really started to go downhill for me last night bc then, once I realised I didn’t want a girlfriend, I turned my attention to the more sexual side of things. It’s possible to be aromantic and allosexual, right? But I’ve known for a while that a lot of sex-related things are a very big ick for me, penetration of any kind being on top of the list. Forget dicks and toys, I don’t want fingers or tongues inside me either, not have I ever used a tampon. But not everyone likes penetration, that’s fine, there are other things. But the thought of someone lavishing my tits with affection just makes me way too hyper aware of them which triggers my dysphoria, and I’ve always found kissing to be extremely gross, and… pretty much every sexual act I can think of causes some kind of rejection in me. Fantasies are fine, fics/writing are fine, even watching porn is fine for the most part (even then, I can only get off to it if I imagine 2d characters in place of the people), but the second I think of something actually being done to me? It makes my toes curl in a very much bad way.

I’m by no means a completely non-sexual being, quite the opposite actually. I’m horny a lot of the time and it’s completely normal for me to get off at least once almost every day, but again, it’s all only in fantasies (which never feature me, only characters). I’m so averse to the idea of fucking or being fucked that I don’t even touch myself, ever. I accidentally discovered that rubbing my thighs together in a specific way feels good when I was younger and have just been doing that ever since. I’ve tried using my hands but it’s just not pleasurable in any way. I really don’t want anything or anyone touching me, ever, at all. And it’s so weird to realise because it seems natural for someone with as high of a libido as mine to want to be fucked, right? But the mere thought disgusts me and causes insane anxiety to overtake my entire body, and idk if there’s a clearer way for my mind to tell me that no, you don’t want any of that, trust me.

That’s another thing. Maybe I’m just scared. I have debilitating anxiety, I’m terrified of literally everything, of course that, added to my body image issues and complete inexperience in all manners romantic or sexual, would result in these types of feelings. Maybe I just haven’t met the right person yet who will awaken my attraction to real people and cause me to want a partner and romance and sex and whatever else. Maybe I’ve convinced myself that I’m too much of a mess for anyone to love me so it’s better to label myself as aroace before I get my heart broken. I don’t know. But writing it off on all that doesn’t feel right, and while I’m not exactly the best judge of my own feelings, my gut is telling me that I’m wrong. It’s not anxiety and inexperience, it’s my very real borderline aromantic and asexual feelings finally being acknowledged.

I think back on my life. I thought I had serious crushes before, I even had a girlfriend for a few months, but that was all initiated by someone else. The other person showed interest first and I thought “Okay, they’re pretty enough, maybe I can do this, maybe I just need to get into it and the feelings will come later”. Nothing ever went anywhere beyond hand holding or brief hugs, and I was okay with that. I enjoyed spending time with them and lit up whenever they showed up and thought that’s what loving someone felt like. But now that I have real friends that I’m 100% sure I’m not attracted to, I realised I feel the exact same way towards them. I just like being with people who want to spend time with me and who I share common interests with, and I like being paid attention to. Nothing romantic to it. When it comes to my good friends I always had a position of “Well I don’t find them particularly attractive but if they were romantically interested in me then I’d go for it” and thought that was a crush. It’s no wonder anything vaguely romantic in my life ended before it could properly start. Really hard to be in love with or build a relationship with someone who clearly doesn’t feel romantically interested in you, even if they’re trying very hard to be.

And that’s the center of the whole issue. There’s nothing wrong with being aroace, nor with being wrong about the label you chose when you were 12. What makes be sob for hours is this feeling as if a knife was driven through my heart. All these years I’ve been subconsciously lying to myself and I didn’t even know. I can’t blame myself for that, I’m aware, I had no way of realising I was wrong because I never had any experience. But the pain and confusion and sense of being lost are still there, beyond all rationalisation. And all those times I said I wanted to be railed by a pretty girl and other similar things to that? Also not true. I said those things because it felt like what a horny queer girl should say. It wasn’t a conscious lie, I really believed it when I said it, it never even registered as false until now. Until I dug deep inside myself and realised I don’t want to be railed by anyone in any way ever. For the longest time I genuinely thought I wanted what’s normal for queer allosexual women to want. It’s hard coming to terms with that I really, really don’t. I’ll definitely need some time to process everything properly,

Honestly, this revelation isn’t too surprising, all things considered. I once had a conversation with someone who talked about those younger years of every queer girl, staring at other girls in the changing rooms, wanting to date them, wanting to be a boy so it’d be possible before they knew gay people existed and becoming sneakier with their glances after they found out. And I really couldn’t relate to that. I’ve never felt attracted enough to someone to experience any of that. Back then I thought I couldn’t relate bc I never had a sexuality crisis nor did I hide my sexuality from the other girls in my class, almost all of whom were queer too. Turns out I just genuinely don’t experience attraction like that. Or at least I think I don’t. I don’t know. Now that I’ve got most of my thoughts regarding all this on ‘paper’, hopefully I’ll have a clearer mind and can come to a more concrete conclusion. And for now… let’s just put me very firmly in the ‘questioning’ box.