#it's not as simple as people make it out to be

[oddlittlestories]

I’ll harsh the vibe. Give me the conversation

You can be talking to someone and she'll be like, "Oh I made a silly mistake. Women don't deserve voting rights teehee." And you'll be like, "What." And she'll be like, "Oh I'm sorry! That must sound so bad out of context. No it's this Tiktok meme where, if you're a girl and you do something dumb, you say 'Women don't deserve voting rights teehee.'"

And you'll be like, "That sounds bad." And she'll be like, "No no. It's totally not that bad. It's just a meme. Men say it too. Like if a man does something silly he'll be like, 'I am like those women who do not deserve to vote.'" And you'll be like, "Does that make it better?" And she'll be like, "Well there was one guy who tried to make 'Men shouldn't vote' a popular meme. But it never caught on and also he got yelled at a lot."

And then you drop it there because like, you're harshing the vibe.

[salemlunaa]

𖥸∘˚YOU ARE MORE POWERFUL THAN YOU KNOW𖥸˚∘

don’t force it, just let go.

There are people who go to sleep in one bedroom apartments and wake up in mansions. There are people who go to sleep with a body or face they hate and wake up with new ones. There are people who go to sleep hating their school life, family and friends and wake up with all of that changed. There are people who go to sleep living a life they dread and wake up with their dreams. Why not you.

You are so much more powerful than you know. You are the operant power of this reality and all the other realities. As I once said, these realities are your children, they are of the same relation to you and the same proximity. It is you running through their veins. You aren’t doing this extravagant thing by creating and shifting timelines to a new reality, you are taking your awareness and placing it in a reality that already exists.

You can leave anytime you want. In fact, top panicking and realise you’ve already left. A lot of you promised to yourselves that you would get your dream life over the break, over the weekend, over night and you panic when you don’t see anything. How many times will you do this? Stop the panic, the outerman isn’t you and sees nothing but limitations. There’s nothing to panic over because it is done and there’s nothing left to do. You wouldn’t be panicked about a cruise trip if you were there.

The words “OMG school starts on monday and i STILL haven’t been on my cruise trip, im so upset i feel like a loser” wouldn’t be uttered if you’re already on the cruise, sipping one of those cute drinks with the tiny hats. So stop panicking about wasted time when you’re already there and there’s nothing to do. Don’t get worked up over nothing, the 3d isn’t real.

All you need to do to induce pure consciousness is focus on the darkness in your eyes, set an intention to induce the state of “I AM” and make up scenarios, count, sing in your head. do whatever. Forget yourself, stop trying to relax, stop forcing it, stop looking for symptoms stop trying to immerse yourself in the feeling and let it happen naturally. You don’t force yourself into the state of awake and asleep so why is it any different with pure consciousness.

∘˚ 𓆸∘˚

Think of yourself being in a pool, there’s two of you. One version of yourself is being let down gently into the water and the other version of yourself is letting you down. Think of a baptism type of position. When you are fully immersed in the water you are pure consciousness, and you will come out of the water as your desired self. But what you must do is let it happen naturally. You can’t push yourself underwater. You can’t drown yourself or the water won’t accept you.

Let yourself down gently. Stop trying to force yourself into pure consciousness, stop forcing the immersion or it won’t accept you. Like how if you force yourself into the state sleep you’ll just sit in bed eyes shut waiting to it to happen. It isn’t until you let go and finally give up trying that you eventually fall into the state of sleep. That’s it. Give up, give up trying and let go. Assume you’re in the water already and before you know it you’re fully immersed in that body of water.

When we say falling into the state of pure consciousness is as easy as breathing, we’re not just trying to motivate you are trick your minds into thinking it’s easy as a form of help. It’s the truth. It’s a state, that’s all it is, just as is sleep and being awake right now, think of how effortless it is to fall into between sleep and wake. That’s all pure consciousness is. Failure to do this does not exist.

You can leave anytime you want and within an instant. Assume you have mastered this simple yet beautiful art and you will have, assume you’re there already and you will be. It takes a second to flip your thoughts and begin. You don’t need a routine or a days worth of affirming or any challenge. If you believe that is a must, you don’t understand what this is.

Go, simply because you can.

YOU CAN do this, why not now? Don’t let your fear of failing and “letting yourself down” allow you to procrastinate, failure doesn’t exist.

YOU ARE YOUR ONLY BLOCKAGE, CHANGE THAT AND LET YOURSELF GO

[goldfades]

could u write joe burrow and a young gf :3

ouuuu i lowkey love this!!! i forget joe is literally almost 30 sometimes cause he's been my baby since 2020 :(

The thing about loving Joe Burrow is that it never quite feels real.

Not in the way people would assume—Oh my God, you’re dating Joe Burrow—but in the quieter, trickier ways. Like how surreal it is to be brushing your teeth while he’s flopped across the bed scrolling through film, mumbling something about coverages.

Or how it feels when his name echoes from TV screens and sports talk shows, but the same voice that commands huddles and stadiums turns soft when he asks, “You good, babe?” after long days.

It started somewhere simple. It always does.

Before all the noise, before the headlines, before the whispers about her being too young or him settling down so soon. You were just you, balancing college classes and internships, while he was—well, Joe Burrow. Quarterback. Face of a franchise. The golden boy with ice in his veins and Ohio stitched into his heart.

The age thing? People love to talk.

"She's barely legal," Twitter said. "He's almost thirty—what could they possibly have in common?"

But nobody saw late nights where he quizzed you for exams between reps of watching film. No one heard him tease you about your Starbucks order or watched the way his whole face softened when you walked into a room.

You weren’t high school sweethearts or some college love story. You met after his star had already risen. He was 26 then, fresh off another playoff run. You were 20, still figuring out your major and how to parallel park. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. But somehow, between weekend flights to Cincinnati, cheap takeout, and late-night phone calls that stretched till sunrise, it became everything.

Now?

Now, he’s 28. And you’re counting down the weeks until your 22nd birthday.

It’s different now. The stakes are higher. His window is now, and yours is still unfolding. People don’t get that. They think he should be with someone who has it all figured out. Someone closer to his stage in life. But Joe? Joe never seemed interested in the version of you that had all the answers.

He likes you exactly as you are.

And maybe that’s what makes this all so dangerous. Because you love him like you have all the time in the world. But what if you don’t?

What if time, distance, and expectations catch up?

The thing about loving Joe Burrow is that it never feels real.

And maybe that’s what scares you the most.

It started in the most unremarkable way, which, in hindsight, made it all the more impossible.

You weren’t supposed to be there that night.

It was late spring—warm air clinging to skin, cicadas humming like background noise. A friend dragged you out, promising “something low-key” that turned out to be anything but. A rooftop bar downtown, lights strung across beams, music low enough for conversation but loud enough to fill silences. The kind of place where everyone seemed to know someone.

You felt out of place almost immediately—twenty, still figuring things out, surrounded by people who seemed to have their lives together. People with jobs, plans, confidence. You clutched your drink like a lifeline, nodding along to conversations you weren’t part of.

And then—him.

Joe Burrow.

You knew of him, obviously. Everyone did. The city’s golden boy. LSU’s champion turned Cincinnati’s hope. The one with the calm stare and colder game. But seeing him there, in a soft gray hoodie and jeans that looked too casual for someone like him, was jarring.

He wasn’t surrounded by a crowd like you expected. No loud entourage, no flashy bravado. Just him, leaning against the railing, a glass of something in his hand, looking out at the skyline like he wasn’t the biggest deal in the room.

You tried not to stare. Failed miserably.

And he caught you.

But here’s the thing—you looked away first. You didn’t smile or wave or give him that Oh my God, it’s Joe Burrow look he was probably used to. You just turned back to your group, back to your half-finished drink, back to your uncomfortable corner.

But he noticed.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a glance. A flicker of interest, easily forgotten. But when you shifted places an hour later, needing air and space, there he was—somehow always there. Close enough to talk to, if you were brave enough.

You weren’t.

He was.

"Not your scene?"

His voice caught you off guard—low, almost shy. He wasn’t cocky about it, didn’t lead with who he was. Just a simple question. You glanced over, squinting against the fading light.

"Not really," you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Yours?"

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Not really."

And that was it. A conversation that began with mutual disinterest in the place you both stood.

No cheesy pickup lines. No starstruck reactions. Just two people, sharing a quiet pocket of space in a loud world.

It started slow after that.

Joe wasn’t the type to rush things. He didn’t blow up your phone the next day. There were no grand gestures. Just texts that came at odd hours—memes, random thoughts, “this reminded me of you” photos. Late-night conversations that started light and ended heavy.

"What do you wanna do after school?" "Not sure yet. Still figuring it out." "That’s cool. You got time."

And he meant it.

He liked listening. That was the first thing you noticed. Everyone assumed he’d be the one with stories to tell, but Joe preferred hearing yours. He wanted to know about your classes, your friends, your opinions on movies you half-watched.

He didn’t treat you like you were younger. He didn’t make you feel like you had something to prove.

And maybe that’s why you fell for him first.

Not that you said it. Not for a while.

You didn’t know it, but Joe liked that you didn’t treat him like Joe Burrow. You talked to him like he was just a guy—messy, complicated, figuring things out. And he wanted that.

For months, things stayed undefined. Texts. Calls. Occasional meetups when he was in the neighborhood. You told yourself it wasn’t serious. Couldn’t be. He had an NFL career; you had classes and part-time jobs.

But then came that night.

It was after a tough loss—one of those games where the city buzzed with disappointment. You shot him a simple text: “Tough one. Hope you’re good.”

Didn’t expect a reply. But he did.

"Come over?"

It wasn’t a question. And when you showed up, hair still damp from a rushed shower, no makeup, heart racing—he looked at you like you were the best thing he’d seen all week.

"You’re here," he said softly, like he didn’t quite believe it.

"Of course I am."

That night, there were no cameras, no expectations. Just Joe—quiet, vulnerable—and you, sitting beside him on a worn-out couch.

He kissed you first.

Soft, tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he should. Like he was giving you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

You never wanted to.

So how have you lasted this long?

Patience.

It wasn’t always easy. The age gap made things complicated. He was settling into his prime years—face of a franchise, pressure mounting. You were still growing, still becoming.

But Joe never expected you to catch up. He let you take your time. He liked that you weren’t rushing.

You learned his rhythms—when he needed space, when he needed reassurance. He learned your moods—when you were overwhelmed, when you needed grounding.

You made room for each other.

Not because it was easy. But because it mattered.

And somehow, almost two years later, here you still are.

Joe’s turning 28. You’re on the edge of 22.

Everyone still talks. But neither of you have ever cared much about what they say.

--

The apartment was quiet in that late-afternoon, honey-gold kind of way. The kind of light that stretched long shadows across hardwood floors and made everything feel softer, slower. The game was on mute—highlights from last week’s win looping on ESPN—while you sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through your laptop.

Joe was in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing a faded Ohio State tee and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the edges. He moved with that same unhurried calm he always had off the field, focused on slicing up an apple with alarming precision for someone who could launch a 60-yard pass without blinking.

"You want some?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"No thanks," you mumbled, eyes still on the screen.

"Liar," he said, grinning. "You’re gonna steal a piece anyway."

He wasn’t wrong.

Joe crossed the room, dropping onto the couch beside you with a quiet oof. The plate balanced on his knee, and sure enough, when he popped a slice into his mouth, he held another out for you without looking.

"Told you," he muttered around a bite.

"Whatever," you said, accepting it anyway.

This was what you two were like—easy.

No big gestures or loud declarations. Just knowing. He knew you’d take the apple slice even when you said you wouldn’t. You knew he’d watch you more than the TV. The spaces between you were always filled with things left unsaid but understood.

"Whatcha working on?" he asked after a moment, nodding toward your laptop.

"Paper. Boring. You wouldn’t care."

"I always care," he said, leaning back. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. "Tell me."

You gave him a look, skeptical.

"You literally fell asleep last time I explained this class to you."

"Nah," he grinned, slow and lazy. "Just resting my eyes. You were doing great."

"Uh-huh."

Joe bumped your knee with his. "Tell me."

So you did. Stumbling through half-formed thoughts about your topic, tapping at the trackpad, rambling. You knew you were probably losing him—this wasn’t exactly thrilling stuff—but Joe kept his gaze steady on you. Not nodding along just to be polite. Actually listening.

That’s what always got you. He listened.

Even when he didn’t get it, even when he was tired or distracted—he paid attention because it was you.

When you finally trailed off with a shrug, mumbling, "See? Boring," Joe shook his head.

"Nah," he said. "You sound smart when you talk about stuff you like."

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed.

"I always sound smart," you shot back.

"Yeah," he said, grinning wider. "But especially when you’re like this. Focused. All serious."

He reached over, tugging gently at the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "Cute, too."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

You shoved him, and he laughed, warm and low, catching your wrist with a loose grip. Not tight—never tight—just enough to pull you closer until you were half in his lap.

"Say it again," you teased, narrowing your eyes. "Say I sound smart."

Joe’s eyes sparkled with something playful, something soft.

"You sound smart," he murmured, voice dropping.

His thumb brushed slow circles against the inside of your wrist. His gaze flicked down to your mouth, then back up.

"And cute," he added, softer this time.

Your breath hitched, and suddenly the space between you wasn’t so wide anymore.

Joe always did that—brought things back to the quiet. He had this way of looking at you like you were the only thing in the room. Like all the noise—fans, games, expectations—didn’t matter. Just you.

"You gonna kiss me or keep talking?" you whispered.

He didn’t smile this time. Just leaned in, closing the gap, slow and sure.

The kiss wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t some movie-scene, fireworks kind of thing. It was steady. Familiar. Warm. The kind of kiss that said, I know you. I’ve got you.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Neither of you said anything for a beat.

Then—

"Told you I’d make you forget about that boring paper."

"You’re the worst."

"Mm. But you love me."

"Unfortunately."

He grinned. "Lucky me."

And that was it. That was you two.

Not always perfect. Not always poetic. But steady.

Because at the end of the day, loving Joe Burrow wasn’t about the headlines or the spotlight. It was this—apples shared on a quiet afternoon, lazy kisses between conversations, and the unshakable certainty that when the world got loud again, you’d both still be right here.

[sirfrogsworth]

The Price of "Efficiency"

There is a classic story about writing in space. It typically goes something like,

"NASA spent millions of dollars developing an ink pen so they could write in microgravity.

Russia used a pencil."

It became a parable about efficiency and bloated, wasteful budgets and overcomplication.

And without nuance, it feels like a good lesson. It's a simple teaching you can store in your brain and it can help you avoid complication when simplicity will work just as well.

But the parable is a lie.

There is a reason they spent millions of dollars making a space pen. Pencils in space are fucking dangerous. If one splinter or shard or speck gets loose in zero gravity that fucker can float directly into your eyeball.

There is a more modern version of this story. Congress will look over NASA or the military's budget and ask why they need $400 hammers or bolts that cost $50 apiece. They will hold up a bag of bolts and tell the taxpayer they are getting screwed.

But the NASA hammer has the pencil problem. If a shard of steel breaks off that hammer in zero gravity, it's a big problem. It could float into an important electrical system and cause a short. Maybe even a fire.

And those bolts might be for a $50 million fighter jet. They need to be custom manufactured to extreme tolerances. And you'll be glad you paid for those $50 bolts because replacing the fighter jet will end up being much more costly.

This is a concept Elon Musk should understand considering his work at SpaceX. People often deride SpaceX when a rocket blows up. They see it as a giant waste. But that is a normal part of rocket development. If you want to make a better rocket, you cannot avoid blowing a few into smithereens.

Everything needs context.

You have to consider nuance before making huge unilateral decisions about apparent wasteful spending. The folks who run these programs should be allowed to defend their existence. But outside his own interests, Elon can only seem to see space pens when Russian pencils will suffice. He is looking at these programs and making no effort to see the nuance.

They say USAID gives more money to "governance" than they give to "humanitarian aid."

HOW WASTEFUL!

Except a lot of humanitarian aid gets stolen without government infrastructure to secure and deliver said aid.

Waste happens. Fraud happens. I have no doubt.

But figuring out what is *actually* wasteful is a difficult job that takes a lot of research and understanding.

But also, sometimes the fraud and the waste are worth it. Large companies will actually factor theft and fraud into their budget because it would be more costly to try and prevent it. They consider it "the cost of doing business."

But it seems no fraud or waste is acceptable to a conservative when the goal is helping people. 100% efficiency is required. You can't give all kids school lunches because some of those kids have rich parents. You can't give people disability income because some will take advantage.

Apparently if you can help millions of people but you have to absorb 10% of the cost due to fraud... well that is just unacceptable.

It's better to help no one at all.

Oftentimes Republicans will create anti-fraud programs that end up costing more than the actual fraud happening. And all the anti-fraud programs end up doing is making deserving people jump through extra hoops.

Get a lawyer. See an approved doctor. Gather 20 years of evidence that you've been disabled. Whoops, they didn't request the proper records. Start over.

That was basically my disability case. I was already on disability. They had already determined I was disabled 20 years ago. But I had to prove that I was disabled all over again to get the better kind of disability. They couldn't take their own word that I was disabled.

Those hoops were created because catching fraud is more important than helping people.

Not terribly efficient.

And then there is the "not our problem" approach.

Taxpayer money is "wasted" helping people in other countries. "We have homeless veterans! Why are we helping African babies?"

Giving out free condoms is one of the easiest and cheapest ways to stop the spread of disease. Sickness cares very little for imaginary borders. Saving lives in another country also saves lives here. It's mutually beneficial. We probably even prevented some of those homeless vets from getting infected.

No thought is being put into this scorched earth shit show.

As always... get fucked, Elon.

[schizoidsystem]

Beyond sick of people saying "just go out and get a life" as if we didn't know that was an option, except for us its not an option because we would have fucking done it already by now if it were possible. This world is not accessible for many. Its not as simple as just going out and talking to people. I'm sure most of us have already tried to connect with the world and were met by the same types of people who tell us to go out but instead of embracing us for trying they reject us for being different, and that's the whole reason why we stopped trying.

For people rejected by the world, the internet is all they have. And then the people who rejected them and forced them to live online mock them for being in that place. It simply makes no sense for the world to treat us this way when they would much rather have us online, out of sight, out of mind. They just hate us no matter what, just because we exist.

i wanna say fuck you to anyone who shame disabled, chronically ill & neurodivergent people, especially homebound folks, for "spending too much time on their phone/on the internet/etc." when it's the only (Somewhat) accessible way for them to experience the world. many people don't get to get out much even if they want to because of their disabilities. shaming someone for trying to connect with the world, make friends and engage with hobbies in ways that are accessible to them is beyond cruel and unnecessary

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ When you are his arch-nemesis

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia

(Slight tw: mentions of violence and scheming)

✧ The black rook captures the pawn, putting the white king in check. 

For Pierro, 500 years of strife do not compare to the centuries of toil between you and him. Your dissension against the Fatui has swathed the organization in a bigger tribulation than any Heavenly Principles or centuries-old feud could. Yet to comprehend your tactics, it left The Jester to spend innumerable evenings in his office, hands clasped as his pondering ends to further frustration. 

Two enigmatic masterminds, one of the Fatui Harbingers and the other of the Abyss Order. Like opponents of a cunning chess match, you and Pierro quarreled over each piece and pawn, the cool chessboard transforming into your mutual battlefield.  

The white queen moves closer, allowing for the exchange of queens, and placing the black king in check.

To the inexperienced gaze, your whereabouts are unknown, and your moves even more indecipherable. However, to the Jester, whose sharp eye learned to seek nothing but your trail, he learned to dissect your every move like a jeweler appreciating a rare cut gem. He does not shy away from using his pawns wisely, sending out more powerful Harbingers against your Abyssal Heralds. 

And just like him, your hand doesn’t shy to strike his pawns. If he sent the Doctor, you’d retaliate with Rhinedottir. And if he dared to dispatch The Captain, your next knight piece, Surtalogi, would respond. You were no simple competitor, you were the rightful opponent to the Director’s scheming mind, his own talents put to the test as you used the Sinners of his homeland against him. He may sacrifice all his chess pieces, yet to reach you is a most stifling feat. 

Perhaps the longing for a single glance of you is worth the weight of centuries spent plotting. Whenever Pierro pushes the gnosis piece against the familiar chessboard, he imagines your piercing gaze in the shadows of the Zapolyarny Palace. Is your smile one of derision or provocation? Whatever it is, your hand emerges from the shadows, and the opposing pieces shift. The queenside pawns are traded, a rook stands on a 3 vs. 3 on the kingside, and as ever, the futile waltz of trading and jettisoning pawns continues between you and Pierro.

Yet, for over five centuries, this dance has been his greatest anticipation. Even if he must sacrifice everything to reach you, your elusive nature keeps rendering him motionless in awed admiration.

Draw agreed, neither side can make progress. 

✧ The only mutual language between you and Il Capitano has always been the clangorous clash of swords. The sound of steel against steel would reverberate throughout the plains in a tempest of precision, each strike a measured step in your relentless contest. But while the Captain respected you as a rival whenever a duel is foreseen between you two, you abhorred the Harbinger with simmering disdain.

The Captain wore the weight of people's admiration like a cloak woven from responsibility and honor, each accolade another thread in his solemn mantle. You, however, cradled the world’s fear as one might clutch a bouquet of thorn-laden roses. You were not a warrior basked in glory, but a defier of Teyvat’s natural order, remaining in the periphery of shadows as you carried out your tasks. Until he'd show up. The Fatuus would bow to you, knowing soon you two would duel once more, while you stared at him like he's an irksome inevitability one must deal with in their job. 

“Do you have to be present everywhere I go? Please make yourself scarce.” 

“Then we do not have to clash. Our confrontations can avoid bloodshed.” 

But you never heeded him. You despised his calm attitude, how he was cautious with you, how he sidestepped the storm of your onslaught rather than meeting it head-on. Even if his fighting spirit told him to linger closer, to know what it's like to let you dig your fingernails across his back, it was a silent pull he refused to indulge. Instead, he concealed his ambition, his lingering gaze tracing your form behind that pitch-black helmet. 

When you fought, Capitano knew you’d accomplish everything to overwhelm your opponent. You would sooner shatter your own bones than concede an inch. The force you exhibit in a single strike leaves an inhuman impact that crushes mountains into rubble, yet the agony that ripples through your limbs remains buried beneath practiced silence. Never once did you step back when you felt the strain of your legs when Capitano retaliated against you.

It took the Captain a while to find you after your ‘tactical retreat’. As he suspected, each battle leaves you in lonesome dishevelment, clutching your sprained limbs, barely able to drag yourself from your secluded refuge. 

“Do not lecture me on the fragility of life, Captain. Your words would be hypocrisy against your goal to pursue death from the Shade.”

You hissed, stifling your cry of pain when ice was applied to your sprained ankle. Il Capitano listened gravely to you, his hand gently holding your leg while spreading careful doses of cryo against your skin. His armored fingers gently glided across your skin, careful even when you reluctantly allowed him this close.   

“So you knew of my intentions…” 

He sighed. It seems the 1st Fatui Harbinger wasn’t the only one clawing toward the leylines, seeking passage beyond the veil. Or perhaps you always noticed how he clutched his chest. Either way, whether you despised him as an enemy or not - he hoped he’d never meet you in the Leylines of the Night Kingdom. He hoped that, at the very least, once all was said and done, you would find solace in never having to see him again.

✧ Il Dottore loathed you. Immensely. The moment he unearthed the truth of your rare blood and unnatural constitution, his obsession took root. He pursued you with relentless precision, weaving elaborate schemes to ensnare you within his grasp. In his usually imperious tone, he introduced himself at last as the 2nd Fatui Harbinger, his title laced with the weight of infamy. Your first response?

“...Who? Never heard of ‘em.” 

He gritted his teeth silently. Pursuing knowledge requires finding rare specimens as a test subject, but in his hunt for you, his patience and sanity became the test subjects instead. Due to gratuitously absurd circumstances, The Doctor never managed to capture you. You always slipped past his trail, as if casually waltzing off his snares and several ambushes that revolved around Fatui subordinates capturing you. You don’t even break a sweat, forever conveniently escaping his grasp when the 2nd arrives on site. No fights, no arguments, not even a courtesy of a glance. 

…How he wishes to just grip your wrists and cuff you to an operation table to- 

Yet the battle of wits must be omitted and instead, a more physical approach shall be initiated. If you deem yourself so highly that you won't spare the Harbinger a word, then it is time he calls you on a proper fight. 

“I have waited for far too long. If you continue to be a coward, you'll leave me with no choice but to seize you by force.”

You blinked at him, unfazed by the favorably advanced claymore he materialized within his grasp. Your response?

“...ok?” 

Except when you arrived prepared for the fight, you didn't come unattended. A Khaenri'ahn woman stood beside you, far from pleased to be in this confrontation as suddenly this wasn't a private reckoning between you and Dottore. Rhinedottir — "Gold” was now entangled into this. 

“What? Did you assume you were the only visionary scholar out there, trying to sample me? You mad scientist folk are all too boisterous. Rhinedottir, you can beat this Fatuus to a pulp and I will rightfully give you a drop of my blood as a sample. If the Harbinger wins, he shall receive it instead.” 

Why, you smart little- Dottore felt a vein throb at his temple, your audacity driving him to grit his teeth and lash every curse word in 20 languages available in the Akademiya's archives. You dare all this because you couldn't even bother to fight him head-on, utilizing one of the Five Sinners against him out of malignancy. Yet his time of rebuttals was cut short; the Harbinger found himself now fighting one of the most dangerous inventors of a fallen kingdom. And unfortunately for him, the old hag was as cunning as he is. 

Il Dottore swore an oath to do the unimaginable once he wins this competition and captures you. To yank you by the hair and drag you to the deepest part of his lab. You, however, sat there, leisurely at ease, as if indulging in an afternoon picnic while watching the chaos unfold. Young Blood vs Old Blood. The truth is, you know these two would rather annihilate each other to ashes before either of them concedes. 

How convenient for you – killing two birds with one stone. 

✧ Scaramouche's Inazuman origins are known to many throughout the Fatui Organization. However, few are aware of his keen hatred for the holy Narukami Shrine of Inazuma. Alas, who would be better to oversee the illegal distribution of delusions under the nose of the Shogun than the 6th of the Fatui Harbinger?

Thus, here he was, sent to a formal negotiation to alleviate the tension between the Fatui operating in Yashiori Island and the vigilant Narukami Shrine maids. Formal meetings like these are prevalent in the discourse of politics, and unfortunately, the Harbinger was to represent this operation. Luckily for him (or unluckily), it wasn't Guuji Yae who was dispatched from the Grand Shrine. The Balladeer was met with a different high maiden, sitting elegantly by the tatami mat when he arrived. 

“Hm? Just some lowly shrine maiden to bid the fox’s bidding? Let’s hope we’re not wasting each other’s time.”

“And the Ichimatsu doll has returned to its homeland after wandering the foreign theater. Fret not, Harbinger; this is but a formal meeting.” 

Oh, so that's how you want to play this. Clutching his fists against his lap, the Harbinger continued:

“The Fatui are just conducting international trade business with the Kanjou Commission to ship local resources like Crystal Marrow from Tataratsuna. Surely the people of Narukami can comprehend that? Unless the Sakoku Decree shut off not only borders but people’s minds too?”

You showed no discontent at Scaramouche’s tone. Instead, you delicately reached for a parchment paper and ink brush - “We have a rare saying in the Grand Narukami Shrine that aids in dispelling unpleasantries in the presence of evil,”

“Spare me your blessings and ofuda talismans, I do not wish to hear your prayers to the “almighty” Shogun fo-”

“We say “screw off” and the bane of all evil shuts its mouth,” - you lifted the talisman with your handwriting, presenting it with an austere smile. The ink is still fresh in the words 'screw off' you just scribed. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He sees why they sent you specifically.  

This went on for months. Each time the Harbinger oversaw the discreet operations between the islands, you were there - convenient as ever. Wasting the Balladeer’s time about how it was a shrine maiden’s duty to “perform cleansing rituals around the infested land of Yashiori” or “to ensure the well-being of all common folk, even if they were Snezhnayan soldiers”. Scaramouche was not blind. He knew you were handily posted there under the innocent pretense of a meek maiden - in truth, you were gathering intel, prying into every shadow where the Fatui’s misdeeds festered. 

He couldn’t afford the Shogunate to uncover the truth; that the Fatui were siphoning the wrath of old gods to forge delusions. And you concealed what you knew. Thus, forced to play by your game, the two would end up with passive-aggressive “business talks” 

“Surely the Grand Narukami Shrine doesn’t send lonesome shrine maidens so far off? Unless you are as blind as you are horrible with navigation to wind up all the way here.” 

“Ah, your concern flatters me. But do not mind me, maybe I am not the only one lost here. Maybe a wandering puppet is also somewhere he ought not to be.” 

“Hmph. Watch your insolent mouth. Your Archon will not save you once your pretty face gets decimated. 

“Oh? Is that part of your Kabuki theater performance? I do love performances. What’s the name of your role? Is it still the “6th of the Fatui Harbingers” or the previous name?” 

You were truly more insolent than that pink fox. This is why Scaramouche abhorred low-profile missions. The most demanding aspect of running an undercover operation is stopping himself from striking thunder into your whole body and putting you in place. Perhaps then you will no longer smile so slyly at him. Even if it fueled his fixation to bicker more with you behind a polite cup of sencha. 

✧ “Ancient Moon fragment shard, an inestimable gem, setting for 30 million by Lord Harbinger Pantalone. 30 million mora, Do we have a higher bid than 30 million?”

The auctioneer’s voice rang out in a poised yet urgent cadence, addressing a room brimming with influential faces. Amidst them, Pantalone sat with effortless elegance, a composed fixture among the eager bidders, his assistant sitting nearby as they took note of the ongoing bidding progress. The rare silver debris sat in an enclosed glass casing, displayed in all of its glory to future buyers. They say it was unearthed from the outskirts of Nod-krai. However, tense silence soon settled in the auction hall, for it was clear who the highest bidder was.

“Seems this was faster than I anticipated,” – The Regrator smiled, whispering to his assistants “Get ready to send invoices to the auction staff, we will be leaving so-” 

Suddenly, an unwavering voice rang out from the back – “50 million.”

A wave of hushed murmurs rippled through the grand halls, bustle returning to the room. Pantalone didn’t even register the number at first, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion when the auctioneer announced: 

“50 million, a giant sum! Now against you, sir. 50 million. Do we have a higher bid than 50 million?”

Pantalone's composed demeanor shifted into uncertainty. He cleared his throat and raised his number – “51 million”

“51 million, do we have a-”

“60 million.” – that same voice called out. More gasps of disbelief ensued.

“75 million!”

“110 million.” 

An entourage of ridiculous numbers volleyballed back and forth between the Harbinger and an unknown new bidder. The audience of businessmen and former contenders shot their glances from you to the Regrator. What had begun as an easy acquisition had spiraled into a staggering war of hundreds of millions. All for a single fragment of celestial stone. At last, the auctioneer brought the gavel down for the final closing in your favor – 170 million mora for the Ancient Moon fragment shard, and for the first time in ages, someone outbid Pantalone. 

“Find out who this newcomer is,” – Pantalone whispered sternly to his assistant, adjusting his shirt cuffs to conceal his simmering frustration. How does a first-time bidder easily swoop in with hundreds of millions when none have heard of them? When he stood up under the pretense of making light conversation with his “new opponent” he was surprised to see you wasting no time with trivialities with fellow noblefolk. You just came in, received your auctioned item, and left silently just as you came in. 

"You see, ever since that auction, I had difficulties reaching out to you. And I couldn't leave such a rare mystery escape me with no introduction," - he spoke when you two met at last, his smile suave as he handed you a glass of champagne "Pantalone, the Regrator. With pleasure, dear."

You looked unimpressed but obliged - "Perhaps you mean a rare luxury getting bought right under your nose, mister Harbinger? No need for introductions. Everyone knows your name."

It was a rare crack in his impenetrable veneer. One minute he is smiling politely at you, but beneath that polished exterior, his mind reeled. Negotiations with you were a lost cause. You never entertained his offers, never indulged in polite courtesies, never once left room for cooperation. Instead, you outbid him: on assets, on stocks, and, on rare occasions, even in exclusive dealerships.

An endless struggle of one-upping the other, a silent war waged in wealth and influence; especially when he sought your company whenever you were present. Yet what deal cannot be sweetened by Mora? As a sign of peace, he sent out gifts of gold and luxuries to you. You would respond with an appreciative nod, stepping closer until you could whisper alluringly in his ear:

“I have no need for such cheap trinkets. Save your pocket change next time. You might need it once I bankrupt you.” 

✧ In the days of old, when Tartaglia was a mere merry child in kindergarten - you and him were childhood “friends”. Well, friends, according to his parents. In truth, on the first day of kindergarten when little Ajax greeted you with a big toothy grin - you silently blinked at him and threw a ball in his face.

“Hey! What was that for, you big meanie?!”

“You’re too loud. You could’ve caught my ball instead of standing.” 

When Ajax was still a schoolboy, he had the misfortune of being in the same school and class as you. Probably the misfortune of growing up in a small, Snezhnayan town. Now in elementary, recess was a fleeting paradise of snow angels and playful battles, children laughing as they hurled snowballs at one another. Amidst the flurry of winter playtime, he spotted you peacefully building your snowman nearby. So naturally, he scooped up a small lump of snow and threw the ball at your back, a camaraderie way to invite for play.

What you did is run full speed at the boy and tackle him. It was a good thing that the teachers were nearby when they heard Ajax scream as you two almost rolled off a snowy hill.

“They tackled me first!”

“No, he attacked me first.” 

These were the fond memories of the 11th Fatui Harbinger, filled with mischief and boyish adventure. Occasionally, he sighs with nostalgia whenever he sees children playing in the snow. He wondered how life had shaped you, now that time had pulled you both onto separate paths, adulthood sweeping away the reckless days of youth. Perhaps he could say he even misses those childish fights with y-

Nope, never mind, you are standing right in front of him now.

“Huh? What… what are you doing here?” - he pointed at you in utter bafflement, seeing you in a unique Fatui uniform.

“Hm? Haven’t you received the news? I am your supervisor from now on.”

He took his words back, he absolutely didn’t miss you. He didn’t miss how calm and collected you were, from childhood to current adulthood, as if nothing fazed you. Most absurdly, how in Tsaritsa’s name does a Fatui Harbinger get someone like you as a training supervisor? He is the 11th; associates such as yourself work under him, even if Tartaglia would never enforce such principles.

“Hold that thought, is this a crude joke?! Who even assigned you?”

You reached for the clipboard in your hands – “Uh, someone by the name… Punella… Pulcinella? Chicken?”

“You don’t even know the name of the Harbinger that employed you?!!!” 

This was outrageous. A cruel jest of fate. Why would The Fatui even accept someone for the likes of you in their ranks? Judging by the fact you are sent by the Rooster, you weren’t some lackey either, but one who overlooked formal matters and ensured strict adherence to Fatui standards. Noticing his aghast tone of denial, you crossed your arms.

“Watch your tone, young man. From now on, all your progress as the 11th will be delegated to me. You better show some respect.”

“We are literally the same age!”

Perhaps those two little kids had never truly disappeared, only their playground had changed. Where there were once snowy schoolyards, there were now cold, disciplined Fatui training halls. Whenever you and Childe were in each other’s presence, any semblance of civility or maturity was promptly discarded. Bickering comments and familiar acts of physical nagging always remained. Only Pulcinella, the 5th Fatui Harbinger, stood by the hallway from afar, chuckling with parental mirth.

“Ah, childhood sweethearts. How delightful.”

I am back! Requests are back, feel free to chat or just share your headcanons with me. Otherwise, you may check my art or masterlist with the rest of the fanfics. Thank you for reading.

[oceantornadoo]

Just thinkn here 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

Simon is on his way back from the shops, and when he does get home reader is sat on the floor crying over a broken vase or somthing for absolutely no Reason!

so your ask reminded me of this post i saw! which is price x reader and lovely. because of that i’m going to spice it up a little so im not rewriting it lol. this is f!reader

unedited! simon is able to pick up reader but let's be real that man is built like a tank so yes he could pick up anyone.

stalking simon riley is not for the weak.

well, it’s not exactly stalking if he knows you’re doing it.

ghost doesn’t open up easily. you sensed it when you joined the team, having to translate his grunts and small quips over comms into real facts.

infiltrating an eastern european town, combating snow and christmas lights, just for simon to grunt "fuckin' hate this holiday" in your ear.

commenting on how he only wears a certain sweatshirt one base. he shrugged and said "doesn't have those strings", letting you know he hates the bounce of them against his chest.

you collect these bits like puzzle pieces, building the image that is simon riley. but it's never enough, it doesn't quell this ache in your chest to know your fellow lieutenant. so tonight, you've decided to knock on his door under the guise of checking in after a nasty hit he took from you last mission.

"hi, ghost." he opens the door a crack, scanning you up and down. you take in his medical mask and the remnants of eyeblack surrounding his eyes. it's a casual look on a man you've never seen be casual. "bird." he says, his nickname for you murmured like a secret. "i wanted to check on you after last mission. haven't really seen you around base." he opens the door further, a surprising change of events. you step in cautiously, checking your surroundings like some hostile is going to jump out of his closet. ghost chuckles gruffly at your actions and you relax at the sound, shoulders dropping easily. you toe off your boots silently, then move further in.

ghost plops down on his bed, patting the space beside him. you (and soap) are the only people he lets close to him, but even with that, you've never sat on his bed. "it was your shoulder, right?" he nods, tapping the shoulder closest to you. "nothin' torn to flutter over, bird. jus' sore." you roll your eyes, leaning back on the bed so you can see the back of him. the massive breadth of his shoulders almost blocks the fading sunlight from your vision. you prod at the sore muscle, noticing how he tenses before letting his shoulders fall back down.

"does this hurt?" you ask, almost a whisper. he grunts out a 'no' but lets you continue to poke it this way and that, finding where it hurts the most. the pain seems to be minimal, but ghost feels like the type of soldier to hide a gunshot wound until he fainted from blood loss. "you should go to PT." you press your palm into the meat of him and you can't even pretend it's for medical reasons when truly, you have a morbid curiosity to know the limits of his body. ghost hisses and you jolt back like you've been burned. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry!" he shakes his head, one heavy paw clamping down on your thigh as it kicks out in shock. "'s fine, birdie." when you move forward, his hand stays, anchoring you to the mattress. it's gloved but the heat of it is searing through your fatigues. "maybe you should grab an ice pack for tonight." he squeezes your thigh before returning his hand to his lap like it was never there. suddenly, your body is wracked with chills.

"back soon, then." ghost stands up from the bed, the mattress creaking with effort. he's...leaving? "so i'll see you in the morning?" you make to get up but he shoots you a look, locking you in place. "said i'll be back. you can stay." he moves to the dresser and you watch him peel his mask off, exchanging it for a simple baclava. you've seen his face before but take the time to examine the back of his head. his haircut is choppy, like he did it himself. the image is gone a second later when black fabric encases the rest of his head, hiding his face from view. he leaves with a head nod, favoring his other shoulder to open the door. the moment he leaves, your spring up in fervor.

you start with his desk. ignoring the paperwork and private journals, you look at the few items sprinkled throughout. extra masks, pens for work, a few books on military strategy. no photos of family or friends outside of the military, but one of the task force from a few months after you joined. it was the first time ghost had ever touched you on purpose, his hand around your waist as the five of you smiled at the camera. soap is grinning, gaz looks like he's seducing the person behind the photo, price's smile is hidden by his beard, and you're squealing like a kid while ghost squeezes your waist. his mask is on, of course, but you delude yourself into spotting smile lines around his eyes.

you move on to his windowsill. surprisingly, there's a very dead succulent that was clearly never watered after being gifted. next to it is a small vase, completely out of place with the rest of the barebones room. it only has enough space for a singular flower but sits empty next to the dead plant. you reach out to trace the beautiful blue pattern but with one unsure flick of your thumb, it falls to the ground with a small crash. you freeze.

shards of porcelain surround your socked feet. tears well in your eyes as you think about how disappointed ghost will be. your hands cover your mouth like a bad mime, shock etched clearly on your face. of course, that's when ghost decides to return.

"snagged the last cake slice from mess, figured you'd want- oh." he stands at the door entrance with an ice pack in one hand and a plate of cake in the other. the sweetness of it hits you in the gut and the tears that were already forming fall hard down your cheeks. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, simon. it was so fast and i didn't mean to wreck it." you sniffle out, wiping fiercely at the tears sliding down your face. he sets the cake slice down on the bed, then nears the scene of disaster. "can ya jump?" he asks, standing at the edge of the broken pieces with his arms open. you gulp, then nod. it's a small leap but he catches you easily, awkwardly pressing you to his chest as your legs scramble for purchase. his hands shift downwards and you get the memo, wrapping your arms around his neck as his own hike your legs around his waist. he walks the two of you over to the desk, plopping you down unceremoniously. your legs drop from his waist, but he still stands in between them, letting your feet brush his calves.

"you hurt?" you shake your head 'no', swiping at the remaining tears on your face. "i'm sorry again, simon, i really am." instead of answering, he pulls off his mask and tosses it on the table. he doesn't look mad, per say, but there's conflict in his eyes. you mumble out another apology and train your eyes on his legs instead of his face.

a gloved hand reaches out and tilts your chin up to meet his eyes. "was jus' a stupid vase, bird. nothin' special." you hiccup, unsure. "are you- are you sure? i'll pay you back, i promise." his thumb strokes the soft skin of your lips, a relaxing rhythm back and forth. "saw it in a flea market after my first mission." you frown at how sentimental it was. "that means it was special." he shakes his head. "got somethin' more special an' harder to break." you don't know how to reply to that. he presses down on your lip until his thumb meets your teeth. it's terribly intimate. instead of ending the conversation there, you ask a question, always needing to no more about him.

"like what?" you whisper. he grunts, thumb swiping against your teeth before pulling back to cup your cheek. "this bird who breaks my shit, 'pparently." you bark out a laugh, then stop when you realize he means it. "really?" he nods. you wrap your legs around the back of his, tugging him in closer. "i am really sorry, though. maybe we could buy a new one or-"

he cuts you off with a kiss. it's gentler than you thought he would kiss. there's a scar running through his lip and you love the feel of it, biting his bottom lip playfully as you pull him in closer. "such a magpie, goin' through my shit." he murmurs, breaking the kiss just to give you another one. "simon." you respond, whispering his name like a promise. your hands find purchase in his hair, nails digging into his scalp. he rips away with a low moan and you whine at the loss. "need to clean this up 'fore someone gets hurt." you lurch to slip off the desk but strong hands keep you there, his eyes scrunched in a glare. "one of us is wearin' shoes, birdie." you glance down and sure enough, your socks are already covered in porcelain flakes. skeleton hands tug them off, fingers caressing the delicate bones in your foot reverently before pulling away.

"stay here." you nod, feeling childish with your mistake. he can sense it, always does, so he leans in to peck your forehead. "stay put. no touchin', magpie." you grin. he shakes his head, a small smile on his face. "you don't mind cleaning up my mess?" you ask. he snorts, caressing your chin before pulling away.

"i'll always clean your messes, birdie."

[ryker-writes]

Hi hi dragged out of the void because I’ve been obsessed again thanks to book seven. Had this idea late at night based off a thing I do to people I really like and appreciate! (If people want different characters lemme know)

Can be seen as romantic or platonic

Request rules and Masterlists

Giving them a rock (Diasomnia)

Malleus:

This might actually be some sort of fae proposal now that I think about it…

But that’s a story for another day (if people want)

Setting aside the fact that he might take it as you asking him for marriage, Malleus would love the gift!

He’d love just about any gift you give him, but a rock? Even if it’s just a simple rock he loves it like its the best gift he’s ever gotten

He may be a bit confused at first and ask if this is a human gifting ritual or symbol he doesn’t know about

He keeps it on him at all times

The rock and roaring drago are some of his most prized possessions

His dragon instinct and care for you makes him want to keep the rock with him at all costs

If anything were to happen to it, either someone takes it, jokes about it, or he loses it, there will be a massive storm with thunder and lightning

If it’s either of the first two with someone taking it or joking about it…they might get struck by the lightning (he’ll say it wasn’t intentional but have that smile on his face that tells you it was absolutely intentional)

He might even put a protection spell on it to keep it safe or prevent/curse whoever takes it from him

He might also give you a rock in return someday, but it’s probably the most expensive gem you’ll ever have

Because according to him, he wanted to find a gem that was befitting to someone as precious to him, and nothing less than the highest quality would suffice for you

He won’t even let Silver or Sebek hold it

Maybe Lilia, but he’s hovering the entire time to ensure nothing happens

To Malleus, the rock is a precious gift that symbolizes just how much you care for and trust him, and he would never let that trust be displaced

He also brags to people that you gave him a rock

Lilia:

He laughs

Not in a hostile way or anything, but hes very amused that out of all the things you could give him, it’s a rock

That being said, he does like and accept the gift!

Lilia has traveled the world and seen many things, but he’s not too familiar with the idea of gifting rocks to others in a context outside proposing with gems or jewelry

His room is cluttered and a mess, but he keeps the rock you gave him safe on his nightstand so he doesn’t lose it

Over the years, he’s collected many things and items that remind him of people he’s met, loved, and has seen pass, and he keeps these items safe and serve as mementos of them and the memories that he’s shared with them

To him, the rock is the same thing for you

Every time he sees the rock, he’s reminded of you and how much you mean to him

He’d be pretty understanding of the sentiment behind the rock, and would try to find something to express the same towards you!

You may end up with a rock yourself, a small trinket he thinks you’ll like, or an item from his personal belongings

His gifts won’t be as grand or expensive as Malleus’ gifts, but they’re more personally picked to suit what he thinks you may like

If he got you a rock, it’d be from a distant land and with some of your favorite colors

Lilia would flip his entire room upside down if he ever lost it

It would look like a tornado went through his room and knocked everything around. He’d even have Silver and Sebek help him in his search, telling them it’s a mission of dire importance

The group would search for hours and hours trying to find the rock

Only for him to realize he put it in his pocket for the day because he wanted to show Kalim and Cater…

Silver:

He’s a little confused, but pretty open and appreciative overall!

He might ask if you’re part crow fae or something

Regardless, he expresses his thanks, and keeps the rock with him

But he does worry about what might happen to it when he falls asleep, so he asks you or Lilia if you can help him put it on a necklace or bracelet of sorts

So he always has it on him

Sometimes as he’s falling asleep, his hand unconsciously moves up and holds onto the rock

You’ll find him peacefully sleeping, rock in hand, and a smile on his face as he dreams

Silver doesn’t feel like he needs to give you something in return, and hopes you’ll be able to know he cares the same way without the gift of a rock

That being said, if he happens to come across a rock that he thinks is pretty or reminds him of you, he’ll grab it as a gift for you later

People can comment on it or joke about a rock being a gift, and he won’t pay any mind to them whatsoever

He knows the rock is an expression of how your care, and he treasures it, so why should he care if others can’t see it?

He would try and explain to people what it means, but if they aren’t going to understand then it isn’t worth explaining to them

In a way, he thinks of it as a good luck charm, and keeps it on him even when training or doing club activities

He’d feel absolutely terrible if he ever lost it, and would spend a good amount of time searching the campus for where he might’ve put it

If he’s unable to find it, he’d come to you and apologize deeply, but in all reality, it probably fell off in one of his napping spots or in his room and he happened to miss seeing it

Sebek:

The height of fae confusion

At first, he isn’t sure if it’s some sort of insult or if he’s supposed to use the rock for something specific

After you explain the rock and why you gave it to him, he huffs and acts like it’s not a big deal

But then he proceeds to flaunt to literally everyone that he received a rock as a token from you

The first day you give it to him, any person he runs into that happens to notice he’s carrying a rock around with him will receive a long explanation of how the human gave him this rock as a token of care and it’s a valuable treasure that they can’t even comprehend

He wouldn’t dare bring it to training or club activities in fear of losing it, but he does protect it like it’s a precious treasure that belongs in a museum

No one can touch it but him, you, Malleus, and Lilia

Maybe Silver if he needs it to be kept safe while he does something

Sebek isn’t too big on giving gifts, so he might not give one back to you unless prompted by Lilia, Malleus, or Silver

If they do, he isn’t quite sure how to express the sentiment behind the rock, or find a good enough rock

He’s trying, but just about no rock lives up to the standards he has for a rock to give you

It’s gonna be a long long time before he’s able to find a rock he thinks is fitting enough…

[cheyisagirlkisser]

saw someone saying they wanted farm ellie to manhandle them… fic request??

𑁍𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 / 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𑁍

Ellie was the talk of the town, though that didn't mean much in a settlement of a mere 500. Though many people wore flimsy tank-tops and boots covered in a work day's mud, most were men. Ellie knew what the older folks had to say about her, and yet she still found it in herself to park her 70's Ford Ranger, her pride and beauty, outside of your father's farmhouse before starting a long day of shoveling, handling, herding, and operating.

Today, you sit on the top step of your cream-white wooden porch. You lean your head against the railing, observing Ellie at work.

There she is as always, in a thin tank top that clings to her when the sun beats down on the field. Half of her hair is tied back into a messy bun, and her bangs nearly cling to her forehead. She occasionally fans herself with her shirt, making you swoon in the process. One sight that catches your eye, however, is the shine of her belt buckle. The base is a solid black oval with gold flower embellishments prodding throughout. However, in the middle lay an amber moth. You've always wondered why she likes that specific buckle so much, and it intrigues you (plus, you like eyeing up her waist).

You watch from a distance as Ellie looks up at the sky, probably in her own thoughts or wishing for some summertime thunderstorms. However, you can't look away before Ellie catches your gaze. Her eyes make your cheeks burn, the skin already hot from the July heat. It isn't the first time she has caught you staring, and it certainly won't be the last.

You rise from the porch and approach her, giving a sheepish but rather sweet smile.

Ellie huffs out a laugh as you wave, and hunches down to set the small square bale down. "This yer new ritual now, miss? You gonna lure me into that house of yours for sweet-tea like yesterday?" She teases, voice thick and sweet like honey straight from the comb.

"C'mon! You've been working for like, five hours. You can handle a ten minute break, can't you?" You know you sound pathetically hopeful, but your crush on Ellie makes it difficult for you to filter your words. Her lack of complaints don't help, either.

"You know I can't do this everyday, as much as I enjoy our tea parties. Now, head on inside. Your father would be pissed if I let you sun burn. That sundress ain't protectin' you." Ellie points out, and butterflies flutter in your stomach. So she did notice the dress.

"What if I wanna stay out here with you?" You question, a soft, rising lilt in your voice in hopes it'll soften her like butter.

"Miss, please. I have to finish up with these hay bales." She reiterates, though it is currently taking everything in Ellie not to indulge in your request.

"Well fine, then. But I'm not leavin'. You'll have to drag me back into that house." You state firmly, crossing your arms.

Ellie's brows rise, and she scoffs softly. "Drag you in, huh? This is your last chance."

You only offer up a cheeky smile, feet planted on the ground. Please pick me up, please take the bait, please, please, please-

Just five seconds later, you feel a strong hand hook under the back of your legs and lift you with ease. You let out surprised laughter, Ellie not holding back from her own snort, and Ellie hauls you over her shoulder like a bag of scratch as she walks through the grassy fields and into the farmhouse.

"You're strong, jeez! I didn't know someone standing at a simple 5'5" could throw me around like this." You tease.

Though you can't see it, Ellie glares and flicks the back of your thigh with her fingertip. You don't complain any further, happy with yourself.

Ellie carefully sets you down on the couch and you tug on her hand before she can walk away. "You can't just bring me in here and not have tea."

And with the way she sighs, defeated but amused, you know you're going to get your way.

taglist: @kaykeryyy

[captainmalewriter]

The Jock Spell

With bated breath and blurry vision, Jeremy(?) stumbled over to the nearest mirror in the locker room. He looked at himself in the mirror while using the counter to hold himself up, and his jaw dropped when he saw his reflection.

“No, this wasn’t supposed to happen… Is that me?”

A couple of weeks ago, Jeremy Nguyen was just an average nerd with nothing particularly remarkable about him. He had a deep interest in all things fantasy-related. He graduated from college with relatively high marks and worked as a science teacher at his old high school. It wasn’t an exciting life by any means, but Jeremy was content with his simple, happy life. 

Aside from his usual nerdy hobbies, Jeremy had also started regularly hitting the gym ever since the new year rolled around. Sure he couldn’t lift more than 10 pounds and got tired after only about 8 minutes of light cardio, but it was the thought that counts. Not that it really mattered to Jeremy anyway. He wasn’t interested in becoming a full-blown gym rat or anything like that. Jeremy only started exercising so that his doctor wouldn’t give him yet another lecture about his health during his yearly physical. 

Jeremy pulled up to the gym one early afternoon. He normally went to the gym at night due to his busy work schedule as a teacher. However, thanks to an obscure local holiday, the schools were closed and he had the day off. Jeremy decided to switch up his usual routine and work out in the afternoon instead. He walked inside, did his warm-up stretching, and began his workout with some light hammer curls. The gym was surprisingly very packed that afternoon, especially compared to how empty it was at night. There were people everywhere! 

As Jeremy continued his workout, he noticed his gaze kept coming back to one particular man just across the free weights area from him. 

The guy was absolutely jacked from head to toe! Standing at 6’2” tall, he made a lot of other people in the gym look tiny by comparison. Jeremy watched with great awe as the muscular Adonis hit shoulders with dumbbells he could only ever dream of lifting off the ground, let alone work out with! 

However, despite the man’s amazing physique, Jeremy wasn’t attracted to him. He never liked the muscular look in men. Wasn’t really his type at all. Yet at the same time, Jeremy couldn’t stop looking at him for some reason. The man looked vaguely familiar. Jeremy racked his brain but couldn’t place his finger on it. It was weird. He tried ignoring him and just focusing on his workout, but then the man did something that made him remember exactly who he was. Near them was an overweight man who was struggling to get through a rep with just the barbell. The man watched him from afar and sneered like it was the funniest thing in the world. It was that cocky smirk that made bad old memories come flooding back in. 

The man’s name was Jared Taylor. 

That name and the arrogant smile that came with it haunted Jeremy for most of his teen years. To put it shortly, they had the stereotypical high school jock bully/scrawny nerd relationship you see in movies and TV. Jared loved teasing and making fun of others. Especially quiet nerds like Jeremy who played Pokémon in class after already finishing their work. Needless to say, Jeremy hated Jared with a passion. He was thrilled to finally be rid of the bastard when they graduated and went their separate ways. Jeremy went to study chemistry while Jared continued playing for some college football team. 

Jeremy never would’ve expected to see his former high school bully back in town. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like Jared recognized him (you would think he would after tormenting him for 4 years…) Plus, Jeremy always went to the gym during the nighttime anyway. He wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Jared Taylor ever again! 

Or so he thought. 

Much to Jeremy’s dismay, he kept seeing Jared every time he went to the gym. It didn’t matter if he went late at night or early in the morning before work, Jared was there— working out with some of the heaviest dumbbells the gym had to offer. 

Jeremy tried shrugging it off as mere coincidence, but his patience grew dangerously thin with every passing day he saw him. Jared’s cocky smile. His dominating presence. His haughty laugh just screamed, “I’m bigger, stronger, and just overall better than you!” Jared was already bad enough in high school, but he had only seen to have gotten worse with age! 

Then, on a random Saturday, Jeremy decided he had finally had enough. It was time someone stepped up and knocked the arrogant asshole down a peg or two. And who better to do it than the nerd he loved bullying every day? 

And so, Jeremy devised a plan to rid Jared of the one thing he loved more than trolling: his muscles.  Jeremy scoured through his massive collection of fantasy books and trinkets, searching for the magic he would need to pull off his plan. There were plenty of naysayers who didn't believe in magical powers, but Jeremy was never one of those muggles. He believed in magic ever since he was a kid and never stopped, even as he grew up. 

After extensive searching, Jeremy finally found a very old book of spells from back when he used to play D&D. The book puffed out a cloud of dust as Jeremy opened it for the first time in forever. An eerie smile emerged on Jeremy’s face as he read up on a spell designed to reverse a character’s stats and build. It was exactly what he needed to get revenge on Jared. 

Once he memorized how to perform the spell, Jeremy left for the gym that same night. Just as expected, Jared was there too. 

Luckily for Jeremy, the gym was empty that Saturday night, save for about a dozen people. The fewer potential witnesses, the better. 

Jared was busy hitting shoulders in the free weights area. Jeremy positioned himself so that he was just across from him in the cardio section. He had a clear shot of him. Once he was sure there was absolutely nobody watching, Jeremy set his plan into action. He used his fingernail to scratch the tip of his pointer finger until he bled out a couple of drops, then smeared it with his thumb and forefinger. Once that was done, Jeremy focused on his target and recited the spell. 

aketay awayyay isthay ansmay onfidencecay ybay urningtay imhay intoyay ethay ingthay ehay ateshay ethay ostmay

Jeremy’s finger shined a brilliant red as he finished casting the spell. A beam of light shot out of him as soon as he recited the last syllable, heading directly towards Jared. Jeremy smiled maniacally, knowing he was finally going to get his revenge after years of torment, though unfortunately, his pleasure was only short-lived. His smile faded as he watched Jared bend over to pick up a dumbbell, causing the spell to miss its intended target. Instead, the light hit the mirror, ricocheted, and hit Jeremy square in the chest, knocking him off the treadmill. 

God-DAMN IT!! How could I mess up such an easy shot!?

Jeremy writhed in agony. He couldn’t believe his plan failed just because of a little timing slip-up. Red with embarrassment, Jeremy forced himself to get up despite the great pain he was in. As he rushed over to the guy’s locker room to hide himself, the spell activated. 

Jeremy held his arms to his stomach as an intense wave of nausea washed over him. A strange warmth was radiating from his torso. His walking speed slowed as Jeremy found himself suddenly struggling to breathe. Low groans and growls escaped his mouth as his chicken legs exploded with body mass growth. It felt like his legs were on fire! The muscle fibers in his legs broke down and grew back rapidly until he had legs as strong and thick as a horse. Confused at what was going on, Jeremy looked down and audibly gasped when he saw his upper body transforming right before his very eyes. 

His chest puffed out as his pectorals grew and grew until he had a nice, firm set of daddy milkers. His shoulder span nearly doubled in length as the muscles in his back rapidly tore and regrew back within a matter of minutes. His arms thickened and hardened with muscle mass too. His once pencil-thin arms had become absolute cannons with biceps the size of melons and veins throbbing with strength. With a set of washboard abs to boot, Jeremy had become an insanely ripped bodybuilder— completely unrecognizable from his former skinny and weak nerd self. 

“Nnnn… What’s happening to me…!?” Jeremy huffed out a moan as forced himself to keep moving. He powered through the transformation pain and made it to the locker room where he could be alone. With bated breath and blurry vision, Jeremy stumbled over to the nearest mirror in the locker room. He looked at himself in the mirror while using the counter to hold himself up, and his jaw dropped when he saw his reflection.

“No, this wasn’t supposed to happen… Is that me? And since when did I become so… Jacked?”

Jeremy’s shocked expression morphed into a grin as he inspected his new body. Although he was never a fan of the muscular jock look, his tone quickly changed now that he was the buff one admiring himself in the mirror. He was practically purring with delight as he ran his hands over his arms, savoring the feeling of new, firm muscle on his body. Jeremy's original nerdy personality began fading away with every flex of his new muscles, leaving space for his new cocky gym bro attitude.

Then, wanting to get an even better look at his body, Jeremy stripped down to just his underwear. 

“Heheheh… Just LOOK AT MY MUSCLES BRO! I’M A GREEK GOD NOW!”

His voice boomed with newfound confidence as he spent well over half an hour just checking himself out. As he struck the double bicep pose, a sudden head pain brought Jeremy back down to reality. 

“Huh? What the hell am I doing?” Jeremy thought to himself. He massaged his forehead as he thought about the answer to his own question. However, the more he thought about it, the more questions about who he was began to pop up. 

“Who am I? What’s my name? What do I like? What do I dislike?”

He thought long and hard, but couldn’t find anything. It was like his own brain had been enshrouded in a deep fog. He kept thinking and thinking until for a brief moment, he had a glimpse of what seemed like an old memory. He was… Jeremy Nguyen? And he liked… video games, anime, and fantasy books— 

He shook his head. There was no way that description was right. He wasn’t a fucking nerd. Far from it. He took a deep breath and tried remembering his identity again. This time, the correct info came flowing in like water. 

His name was Isaac Nguyen and to him, working out wasn’t just a hobby but a lifestyle and a passion. He played football both in high school and in college, then dedicated his time and energy to bodybuilding once he graduated. His body was like a golden medal to him. It was his pride and joy, and he loved nothing more than getting a good pump and flexing in the mirror whenever he had the chance. 

With his new identity securely established in his mind and spirit, Isaac stepped out of the locker room to finish his upper body workout for the day. As he made his way to the free weights area, he noticed some scrawny dude with glasses struggling to curl a 10-pound dumbbell. Isaac had to stifle a laugh as he walked past him. 

“Heh, can’t even lift the beginner weight, what a fucking loser… Bet he spends all his time playing video games with his other dork friends. God, I can’t stand these kinds of dudes…”

As Isaac finished that thought, he ran into an old friend he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Oh shit, Jared! Where ya been, bro!?”

“Long time no see, man! Looking swole as always, big guy!!” Jared responded. 

The two men pulled each other in for a bro hug. As they pulled away, Isaac felt himself hating the man he just shook hands with. It was weird. Like he had some sort of deep-rooted resentment against Jared. But that couldn’t possibly be right. Isaac and Jared were best bros since they joined the football team together back in freshman year of high school. They were basically the kings of the school back in the day! 

Yes, that’s right… Isaac was a jock, just like Jared. He had always been one. Never a nerd. 

Never.

[heeluvv]

been thinking about drunk sex with needy sub hee… like have you seen how flustered he gets when he’s drunk 😭

could you write something about this? i’m obsessed w your writing style

𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐘 ˎˊ˗

pairing › lee heeseung x reader

genre › smut

warnings › slight oral (m receiving), sub! hee, drunk sex, etc.

natty’s notes › mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

you had heard plenty about the parties on campus—how wild they got, how unforgettable the nights could be. and when news spread that one was happening tonight, your friends were the first to let you know.

you were undeniably a party freak—you loved the thrill of it all.

getting wasted, dancing until your feet ached, drinking until the world felt lighter, meeting new people, making memories you probably wouldn’t even remember in the morning—it was the kind of chaos you craved.

you only lived once, after all. and if you were going to make the most of it, you wanted to fill your life with as many parties and unforgettable nights as possible.

heeseung, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.

his focus was solely on getting his degree, on securing his future. he didn’t drink much, and when he did, it was only ever with you. he never partied, never let himself get caught up in the reckless thrill of it all.

so when you had asked him to come with you—fully expecting a flat-out no—you had been genuinely shocked when he agreed.

still, you weren’t going to question it.

the two of you got ready, you slipping into one of your go-to party outfits—something that hugged your curves just right, something that made you feel confident, untouchable.

heeseung, in contrast, kept it simple, effortlessly attractive in a well-fitted shirt and a pair of nice jeans.

even without trying, he still looked annoyingly good.

and as the two of you finally made your way out the door, you couldn’t help but wonder—

just how much fun was tonight going to be?

it had already been about an hour, and you were content, pleasantly buzzed, nursing your second drink as you gossiped with your friends, the alcohol warming your veins and making the night feel lighter, looser.

heeseung stayed close behind you, his presence a constant heat at your back, his hand resting firmly on your waist, fingers idly tracing small circles against the fabric of your dress.

but something felt… off.

you noticed the way he was downing his drinks a little too quickly, glass after glass disappearing with barely a pause between sips.

his breath was heavier, coming out in slow, controlled exhales, like he was trying to steady himself.

and then there was his grip on you—tight, firm, possessive.

it wasn’t the usual casual hold, the kind that was just to keep you near—it was something more, something deliberate, like he needed to ground himself.

you glanced back at him, only to be met with a sight that sent a strange thrill through your chest.

his eyes were blown out, dark pupils nearly swallowing the warm brown of his irises, his face completely flushed, a deep, feverish red that trailed all the way down his neck.

but what really got you—what made your stomach flutter unexpectedly—was the way his poor ears were burning just as bright, twitching slightly as he swallowed hard, his gaze locked onto you, unwavering.

if you were a stranger passing by, you’d think he was seriously sick, seconds away from collapsing.

but you knew him.

you knew him like the back of your hand.

and you knew—without a doubt—that heeseung was completely, utterly drunk.

“y/n! are you coming to dance with us?”

your friends’ voices called out, their words slurring together, their own drunkenness already settling in.

but you barely registered them.

you simply waved them off, too caught up in the mystery of what had gotten heeseung so worked up, so breathless, so undeniably flustered.

and when you turned back to look at him again, his grip on your waist tightened even more, his fingers pressing into you like he was holding onto something fragile.

and his eyes?

his eyes held something dark, something unspoken—something you weren’t sure you were ready to unravel just yet.

“baby boy…”

your voice was soft, teasing, laced with curiosity, the words slipping past your lips as your fingers glided up to trace gently, deliberately against the feverish heat of his neck.

his skin was hot—burning, searing, like he was on fire from the inside out.

the second your fingertips brushed over him, heeseung shifted instinctively, his body tensing, muscles coiling, his grip on your waist tightening to the point where you could feel his fingers pressing into your skin.

“what’s wrong?”

your voice dipped lower, softer, sultry, but laced with genuine curiosity.

because heeseung—quiet, reserved, level-headed heeseung—looked like he was barely holding it together.

your eyes raked over his face, scanning every detail—the way his drunken gaze flickered away, purposefully avoiding yours, scanning the room like he was desperately searching for an escape.

the way his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, throat working hard, his lips parting slightly like he was struggling to breathe properly.

the way his red-tipped ears twitched, reacting instinctively to your touches, your voice, your presence.

and fuck—he looked so fucking cute like this.

flushed, breathless, struggling, caught between drunken haze and something else entirely.

something darker. something needier.

your stomach tightened, warmth pooling low and slow, because despite the fact that heeseung was clearly drunk, flustered, completely unraveling before you—he still looked so fucking good.

“n-nothing…”

his voice came out slurred, shaky, a pathetic attempt at brushing off whatever was consuming him.

but the way his grip only tightened further, the way his breath came heavier, deeper, the way his entire body tensed under your slightest touch—heeseung was lying.

and he was doing a terrible job at hiding it.

you leaned in slowly, letting your breath ghost over his flushed skin, savoring the way heeseung’s body tensed beneath your touch.

your lips brushed against his throat, leaving a trail of soft, feather-light kisses, the contrast of your cool lips against his burning skin making him suck in a sharp breath.

a quiet, nearly broken gasp escaped him, followed by a few soft, breathy whimpers, his lips parting as his head tilted ever so slightly, like he was instinctively giving in to you.

“you sure, baby?”

your voice was low, sultry, teasing, laced with just enough authority to make his fingers tighten around your waist.

you let your lips travel lower, trailing along the curve of his adam’s apple, feeling it bob beneath your kisses as he swallowed thickly.

you pressed a few gentle licks, letting your tongue graze the sensitive skin, before continuing up, tracing your way toward his ear.

“you know i hate it when you lie to me, pretty boy…”

heeseung let out a soft, needy whine, the sound barely above a whisper, his resolve completely crumbling in your hands.

his head fell back, exposing more of his throat, silently begging you to keep going, his grip on you firm, desperate, like he couldn’t bear for you to pull away.

he wanted more.

“k-kiss me, y/n… please…”

heeseung’s voice was fragile, breathless, utterly wrecked, his words coming in short, desperate huffs, his whines growing louder, more insistent, the more you teased him.

your lips continued their slow, torturous path along his neck, soft kisses melting into gentle sucks, leaving behind the faintest marks, just enough to make him shudder beneath you.

his grip on your waist tightened, fingers digging in, as if that alone would be enough to pull you closer, to make you give in.

but you didn’t.

not yet.

“tell me what’s got my baby so flustered then?”

your voice was low, teasing, drenched in amusement, your lips brushing the corner of his cheek, trailing dangerously close to the side of his mouth, hovering—taunting.

but never giving him what he so desperately wanted.

heeseung’s breath hitched, his lashes fluttering shut, his brows furrowed with frustration, his head tilting forward, chasing your lips, but never quite reaching.

“you… it was you…”

his confession was soft, barely above a whisper, but the way he said it—the weight in his voice, the sheer desperation in the way his lips trembled with every word—it sent a thrill straight through you.

you pulled back slightly, just enough to watch him, to take in the way he was completely unraveling in your hands.

his lips were swollen, parted, glistening, his cheeks flushed a deep, beautiful red, his eyes squeezed shut as soft, breathy whimpers slipped out between heavy pants.

and fuck—he looked so gone for you.

his entire body screamed need, begged for your touch, and the whines that spilled from his lips, unfiltered and raw, cut through the heavy bass of the music surrounding you, as if the entire world had faded away—leaving only him and you.

you let your fingers slide up his jaw, cupping his face gently but firmly, forcing him to look at you.

and then, finally—you crashed your lips onto his.

the kiss was hungry, demanding, like he had been starved for you all night and was finally getting his first taste.

a low, broken moan tore from heeseung’s throat, his hands gripping onto your waist for dear life, pulling you flush against him, pressing his body into yours like he was scared you’d disappear.

“so needy for me, baby, huh?”

your words were muttered against his lips, your voice dripping in pure amusement, teasing, taunting, reveling in how absolutely wrecked he was.

but before he could even respond, before he could even beg for more—you pushed your lips against his again, kissing him even harder, deeper, and the taste of alcohol and heeseung filled your senses, intoxicating you in a way that had nothing to do with your drinks.

if you weren’t already tipsy from your second drink, you’d get drunk off just kissing heeseung alone.

one of your hands slid down slowly, tracing a path over his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch, his heartbeat pounding rapidly beneath your fingertips.

but you didn’t stop there.

your hand trailed lower, lower, until it finally settled over his crotch, feeling the hard, aching length that was already pressing against the tight confines of his jeans.

the moment your fingers brushed over him, his cock twitched violently, a sharp, needy response that had a smirk tugging at your lips.

you let your palm press down, moving in slow, taunting strokes, massaging his erection through his jeans, feeling the heat, the sheer hardness of him, even through the fabric.

“y/nnn—”

his voice broke, his head falling back, a loud, pathetic whine slipping from his parted lips, followed by a series of soft, helpless whimpers.

fuck, he sounded so pretty like this.

“look at you, baby.”

your voice was low, teasing, filled with pure amusement, each word dripping from your lips like honey, slow and intoxicating.

“so fucking hard for me already—”

your fingers pressed down harder, adding just enough pressure to make his hips jerk up into your touch, chasing more friction, more relief.

”—and i haven’t even done anything yet.”

he let out a shuddering breath, his entire body trembling beneath you, his hands gripping onto you so tightly, so desperately, as if he’d fall apart if he let go.

you continued your slow, torturous strokes, your lips deepening the kiss, tasting every shaky moan that spilled from his mouth.

but then, you pulled away, just enough to trail lower, lower, lower, your lips finding the sensitive skin of his ear.

you didn’t stop at just whispering against it.

you let your teeth graze the shell, nibbling, sucking, leaving faint wet kisses, enjoying the way his entire body tensed and jolted, the way his whimpers morphed into desperate, breathy moans.

“ahh! uh—fuck, y/n, please…”

his voice was strained, wrecked, so utterly ruined, his hands clutching onto you like you were the only thing keeping him together.

“please what, baby?”

your voice was soft, teasing, utterly intoxicating, each word spilling like silk against the shell of his ear.

your hand tightened around his clothed cock, fingers pressing firmer, dragging slow, calculated strokes over his aching length, feeling the way he throbbed desperately beneath your palm.

his entire body tensed, shuddered, hips twitching helplessly, chasing the friction, chasing the high he was so pathetically close to.

“fuck, you’re so fucking cute begging for me, baby…”

you cooed, lips brushing against his feverish skin, reveling in the way his breath hitched violently, how he let out a sharp, strangled whimper, his body trembling like he was seconds away from crumbling.

but he couldn’t speak.

his mind was too hazy, too wrecked, his thoughts a complete mess of pleasure and desperation.

every attempt at forming a coherent response came out slurred, broken, incomprehensible, nothing but choked-out sounds and airy moans.

his head fell back, lips parted, wet, swollen, his throat exposed as he fully gave himself to the sensation.

but you weren’t just watching—you were memorizing.

the way his stomach clenched, muscles tensing visibly beneath his shirt, the way his chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths.

and then—the telltale signs.

his thighs tensed hard, his breathing stuttered, and you felt it—the way his balls tightened, the way his cock twitched uncontrollably beneath your touch, his body completely at your mercy.

“g-gonna c-cum… c-can i— c-can i c-cum, y/nn… p-please—”

his voice was wrecked, pleading, every word slurred, desperate, as he teetered on the edge of release, waiting for you to push him over.

waiting for your permission.

with just a simple nod from you, he completely unraveled.

his body jerked violently, his cock twitching aggressively as he came hard in his pants, a loud, shattered moan ripping through his throat, his entire form shaking beneath the force of his orgasm.

you watched him fall apart, and fuck—the sight alone made the ache between your legs intensify tenfold.

“fuck, baby… look at you.”

your voice was thick with lust, breathless, absolutely wrecked as you took in the mess he had made of himself.

heeseung gasped loudly, his chest heaving, his head tilting back against the wall as he tried to stabilize himself, tried to regain even a single ounce of composure.

but you didn’t let him.

before he could even fully catch his breath, you grabbed his arm, yanking him forward, dragging him through the hallway, weaving past drunken bodies in search of a bathroom.

and when you finally found one—empty, miraculously unoccupied—

you didn’t hesitate.

you shoved him inside, slamming the door shut behind you, locking it before immediately reaching for his jeans, fumbling desperately, impatiently, tugging them down, yanking his cum-soaked boxers along with them.

what you saw had your thighs clenching instinctively, your breath hitching in your throat.

“fuck… what a fucking perfect mess.”

your voice came out in a groan, admiration dripping from every word as you took in the sight of him.

his thighs were coated in his release, streaks of white spilling down his skin, his cock still leaking, still twitching, the aftermath of his orgasm spread across his body like a masterpiece.

without hesitation, you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock, stroking him lazily, teasingly, before your lips parted, your tongue darting out to taste him.

you moaned instantly, indulging in the saltiness of his release, dragging your tongue along the length of his shaft, licking every drop clean.

but you didn’t stop there.

your fingers glided down his thighs, collecting the remaining streaks of cum, gathering it onto your fingertips before bringing them to your mouth, sucking them clean—making a show of it.

“fuck w-wait y/n!—”

heeseung’s voice was hoarse, trembling, his entire body reacting instantly, his cock twitching once again, hardening all over.

his eyes were glued to you, to the way you moaned around his cock, to the way you licked his cum off your fingers, to the way you swallowed him down like he was something sweet.

“fuck, baby, you taste so fucking good…”

his voice was shaky, breathless, ruined, and when your eyes flickered up to meet his, dark and hazy and full of need.

you moved quickly, purposefully, rising to your feet and gripping heeseung’s shoulders, pushing him down onto the toilet seat with ease.

his breath was ragged, uneven, his flushed face tilting up to look at you, eyes dark, glassy, desperate.

you could see it—the hunger, the pure, unfiltered need written all over him.

but you weren’t about to give him everything just yet.

instead, you hiked up your dress, the soft fabric bunching around your waist as you hooked your fingers into your soaked panties, slipping them down just enough before straddling him, your thighs bracketing his hips, pressing your bare heat against his still-hard, leaking cock.

heeseung let out a sharp, broken moan, his hands flying to your waist, squeezing tight as his fingers dug into your skin, his eyes locked on where your bodies pressed together, where your slick coated his length.

“you wanna feel my pussy, baby?”

your voice was low, sultry, teasing, rolling off your tongue like honey, making his grip tighten instinctively.

he didn’t answer.

he couldn’t.

instead, he let out a loud, desperate whine, his hips jerking up instinctively, seeking relief, seeking you.

you smirked, leaning in just enough to let your lips ghost over his, letting his own desperation fuel your own.

and then—you sank down.

his cock slid into you effortlessly, stretching you so perfectly, filling you so deeply, the sensation sending a violent shudder through your entire body.

the moment he was fully inside, the both of you let out simultaneous, wrecked moans, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls, mixing with the heavy bass of the party outside.

heeseung’s head tilted back instantly, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat, his hands clenching at your waist like he was holding onto his last thread of sanity.

his lips parted, his chest heaving, struggling to process the way your tight, warm walls wrapped around him so perfectly.

and you?

you felt full, stretched, deliciously overwhelmed.

you hadn’t even moved yet, but already, it was too much.

already, you were both completely lost in each other.

the bathroom was thick with the scent of steam and sweat, the air heavy with the slick sounds of skin meeting skin, each movement echoing off the tiled walls. heeseung’s whines and whimpers came in broken, breathless gasps, spilling from his parted lips like desperate cries, his voice trembling with pleasure. his head lolled back against the tank lid, eyes glazed over, pupils blown wide with bliss as he drowned in the overwhelming sensation of you tightening around him. every pulse, every squeeze of your walls sent a violent shudder through his body, a sufferingly exquisite pleasure that left him gripping onto you like you were the only thing tethering him to reality.

“uhhhh—fuck, y/n—oh my god,” he choked out, his voice raw, wrecked, and dangerously close to falling apart.

“fuck, baby—you’re so good,” you moaned, voice thick with pleasure as your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails pressing crescent-shaped marks into his flushed skin. the muscles in your thighs burned with the relentless pace you set, each bounce sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body, making you tremble. the toilet seat cover creaked beneath you both, shaking under the intensity of your movements, barely holding up against the force of your desperate rhythm.

heeseung’s grip on your hips tightened, his head tilting back, exposing the column of his throat as ragged breaths and broken curses spilled from his lips. “f-fuck—i’m close, y/n—fuuuck,” he choked out, voice cracking, his whole body trembling beneath you. every thrust made his thighs tense, his grip bruising, as he teetered on the edge, his mind clouded with nothing but the intoxicating feel of you wrapped so perfectly around him.

“yeah, baby? you gonna cum for me??” you taunted, your voice dripping with sweet cruelty as you leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. your breath was hot, teasing, making him shudder beneath you. with every desperate slam of your hips against his, the sound of skin meeting skin filled the bathroom, mixing with the sinful symphony of his broken moans. but what you loved most—more than the pleasure, more than the way he filled you so perfectly—was watching heeseung fall apart underneath you, watching the way his eyes rolled back, his brows furrowed, his lips trembling as he surrendered completely to you. and right now, he was doing just that.

“you’re my good boy, baby… my good boy…” you moaned, voice rising in pitch as a deep, toe-curling pleasure coiled in your stomach. the way he stretched you out, the way his hands clung to you like he couldn’t bear to let go—it all drove you closer to the edge. your pussy clenched down aggressively, your body instinctively milking him, pulling him deeper, the pleasure nearly blinding. you could feel it—your high, so dangerously close, ready to crash over you like a tidal wave.

“fuck—heeseung!” you cried out, your voice breaking, raw and desperate as pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave. your body trembled violently, thighs shaking as your release spilled out, coating his cock in your warmth, dripping down where you were still connected. the overwhelming pleasure made your mind go blank, white-hot euphoria pulsing through every inch of your body as you clenched down around him, pulling him even deeper inside you.

“y/n—y/n—y/n!” heeseung chanted your name like a prayer, his voice wrecked, needy, completely lost in the feeling of you. his body tensed beneath you before shuddering uncontrollably, his grip on your hips bruising as he came hard, spilling deep inside you. his head fell back, mouth hung open in a silent moan before a sob tore from his throat, his entire body convulsing under the sheer intensity of his orgasm. his chest heaved, his breath uneven, his flushed face damp with sweat and bliss as he rode out every last wave of pleasure, completely wrecked—completely yours.

natty’s notes › hoped you liked it !!!

[marlynnofmany]

Oh sure, you could easily just handwave most things and blame it on magic, but you don't have to for all of them!

For something like the seasons, it could be as simple as having different names for things. Maybe instead of dividing a year into four seasons, a culture divides it into six. You can still have summer (peak heat) and winter (peak cold), but the warming-up and the cooling-down periods each have two parts, with very different cultural connotations. That way you can have a Midwinter Ball as well as a Thaw Cookoff and a Hatchtime Egg-Painting Competition, with some time still to go before summer.

Jewelry can absolutely be anything we find pretty. That doesn't even need to be otherworldly, as long as there's some creativity put into it. I think the inclusion of that one on the list is to get people thinking about the possibilities instead of just sticking to the most obvious and over-used examples. I've seen some photos of gorgeous gowns decorated with iridescent beetle wings. Peacock feathers are a known quantity when it comes to spectacular birdstuff, but there's a ton of other possibilities there. The world is full of pretty things; as you said, it's all a matter of how valuable any given culture considers them to be.

Seeing an aurora near the equator would probably have to be a magic thing, but there are Southern Lights as well as Northern Lights, and all sorts of other atmospheric phenomena that aren't as famous. Maybe the story could include light pillars or anticrepuscular rays instead.

For domesticated animals, we do have plenty of real-world possibilities for pets other than cats and dogs. I don't think that entry in the list was as much about treating wild animals as like tame ones, as much as it was about inventing fantasy animals but treating them exactly like cats or dogs. While a shoulder dragon that behaves like a cat is adorable and lovely, there's untapped potential for going other routes. What about a dragon that overgrooms like a bird, or gnaws through the back of the snack cupboard like a hamster? A domesticated unicorn that uses its horn to unlock gates like the most troublemaking goat? Or some wholly made-up creature with behavioral quirks that can't be pinned on any existing animal?

Books are a tricky one. I wrote about a culture that uses knot-tying as a form of writing (inspired by quipu), though that does have limitations. Magic will probably have the most possibilities. Even if the end result does turn out to be Books But Different, or some form of Magic CDs, a bit of flavor will at least make it interesting. Maybe one culture uses pixies as scribes, and they write by dancing across the page like a tiny version of the Dinotopia dino-print alphabet. Maybe the common folks use clay tablets, pressing the edges of a stylus into the clay when wet, then drying it -- for an extra fee, they can have it enchanted to recite the message aloud when read or it can include a mental imprint so the reader gets a thought from the writer when they read. There's lots of leeway for making things interesting, even if they're not fully original.

I love thinking about stuff like this. Creative approaches to common things, clever explanations, surprises instead of everyday norms. Sure, you could just say that the wizard has a blue cat that teleports, and that's very cool, but you could also say he has an enchanted hairbrush that needs to brush something daily or else its bristles will overgrow, and he has to remind it to use the bundle of horsehair that's tied to the coat rack for just that reason. (Or the wig in the spare room. Or the stonework outside. Just not the wizard's hair; that's thinning enough as it is.)

Small fantasy worldbuilding elements you might want to think about:

A currency that isn’t gold-standard/having gold be as valuable as tin

A currency that runs entirely on a perishable resource, like cocoa beans

A clock that isn’t 24-hours

More or less than four seasons/seasons other than the ones we know

Fantastical weather patterns like irregular cloud formations, iridescent rain

Multiple moons/no moon

Planetary rings

A northern lights effect, but near the equator

Roads that aren’t brown or grey/black, like San Juan’s blue bricks

Jewelry beyond precious gems and metals

Marriage signifiers other than wedding bands

The husband taking the wife's name / newlyweds inventing a new surname upon marriage

No concept of virginity or bastardry

More than 2 genders/no concept of gender

Monotheism, but not creationism

Gods that don’t look like people

Domesticated pets that aren’t re-skinned dogs and cats

Some normalized supernatural element that has nothing to do with the plot

Magical communication that isn’t Fantasy Zoom

“Books” that aren’t bound or scrolls

A nonverbal means of communicating, like sign language

A race of people who are obligate carnivores/ vegetarians/ vegans/ pescatarians (not religious, biological imperative)

I’ve done about half of these myself in one WIP or another and a little detail here or there goes a long way in reminding the audience that this isn’t Kansas anymore.

[aerequets]

when I'm pissed at my groupmates so I start punctuating my texts

[skyguytoast]

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐚𝐲𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧’𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞...

warning: some of the headcanons are +18 and explicit

a/n: hii, i really should finish my college essay, but this idea popped into my head and i couldn't help but write... it got a little poetic in some parts, but i hope you enjoy it ;)

• At first, Hayden fought his feelings for you tooth and nail. He was a man of strong morals, someone who always prided himself on doing the right thing. Falling for someone significantly younger than him? That wasn't part of the plan. But then you appeared—carefree, confident, and completely unlike anyone he’d ever met before. You turned his world upside down, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stay away.

• There was no way Hayden was going to make the first move. He convinced himself over and over that what he felt was nothing more than admiration, curiosity at best. But you? You saw right through him. When you asked him out, he tried to laugh it off, say something about just being friends, but he couldn’t resist you. The first few times, it really was just friendly meetups—until one day, it wasn’t.

• When Hayden finally asked you to be his girlfriend, he did it in the most ridiculously romantic way. He had spent weeks planting your favorite flowers in a small garden, waking up early to tend to them himself, getting dirt under his nails, just to make sure they bloomed perfectly. When the moment came, he took your hand and walked you through the rows of blossoms, his voice quiet but sure as he finally admitted, "I don’t want to pretend anymore. I love you."

• He was always building things for you. A bookshelf when he noticed your books piling up, a handmade chair just because he wanted you to have something crafted with his hands. He’d spent hours sanding and staining the wood, never once complaining because he knew how much it would mean to you. Seeing your face light up when you saw what he made? That was his favorite part.

• Late at night, when the world quieted down, Hayden loved nothing more than wrapping his arms around you from behind. Standing out on the balcony, watching the stars, he’d rest his chin on your head and murmur, "You know you’ve completely ruined me, right?" And yet, he wouldn’t change a thing.

• Forget fancy Hollywood outings—Hayden preferred the simple moments. Trips to the farmers’ market where he’d pick out fresh fruit for you, afternoons spent browsing old bookstores, lazy beach days where he’d carry you over the hot sand so you wouldn’t burn your feet. Life was slower, sweeter, and infinitely better with you by his side.

• Bringing you into his world meant bringing you into his daughter’s world too. Blair adored you from the start, and before long, the three of you became inseparable. Family outings to the park, movie nights with popcorn fights, and trips to Disney where Blair would completely ignore Darth Vader because meeting Princess Aurora was way more important.

• At your insistence, Hayden finally made an Instagram. It was supposed to be just for checking out Star Wars fan pages and keeping up with you, but somehow, it turned into something else. His entire feed was filled with you—candid shots he took when you weren’t looking, blurry pictures of your smile, videos of you laughing until you cried. It was less of an Instagram account and more of a personal love letter.

• Hayden was endlessly patient when it came to the public scrutiny. He knew people had opinions—about the age gap, about him dating someone so much younger—but he didn’t care. Every time a snide comment surfaced online, he’d just look at you, smile, and say, "Let them talk. I know what we have."

• And when the world got too loud, he always had a way of making you feel safe. Whether it was holding your hand under the table during interviews, pulling you into a slow dance in the kitchen just to see you smile, or whispering against your skin at night, "I love you, and I’m not going anywhere." Because at the end of the day, you were his peace, and he was yours.

+𝟏𝟖 (𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒)

• Hayden transformed each intimate encounter into a loving tribute, a sacred ritual dedicated solely to you. It was never merely about physical pleasure, but an act of deep devotion and adoration. As he explored your body with tender, reverent hands, he marveled at your beauty, murmuring awestruck words of love and gratitude. Each discovery, from the curve of your hip to the way your skin flushed beneath his touch, filled him with wonder and humility. Hayden knew he was the luckiest man alive to call you his.

• You had the power to make Hayden feel invincible, like a king surveying his kingdom as you took him into the warm, silken depths of your mouth. Your lips and tongue worshipped him with an enthusiasm and affection that set his very soul ablaze. You made his cock jump and throb with renewed vigor, painting him harder than anything. Hayden was no longer a resilient youth, but his desire for you was timeless and unyielding, a force of nature. With every swirl of your tongue and bob of your head, you made him feel like the only man in existence, the center of your universe.

• As your shared climax approached, Hayden's forehead pressed against yours, your breaths mingling, your hearts pounding as one. In the charged silence between gasps and sighs, a thousand unspoken words passed between you - a telepathic dance of love, lust, and ecstasy. Pleasure built upon pleasure, cresting in a tidal wave that crashed over you, binding you in its foaming embrace. In those blissful, electrifying moments, you were not two separate beings, but a single, wonderful sensation.

• Hayden's head lolled back, eyes squeezing shut as your lips enveloped his sensitive flesh, your warm mouth a heavenly cocoon. The feeling of your tongue, your breath, your worshipful suckling - it set his blood alight, making his heart carwheel wildly in his chest. A symphony of masculine cries, low and guttural, filled the air as Hayden surrendered himself to your oral attentions. His fingers tangled almost desperately in your hair, anchoring himself to this earth as you pushed him towards the heavens. Moans and whimpers tumbled from his lips, a fervent, instinctive plea for you to keep going, to never stop, his body trembling with the intensity of his pleasure. The sound of your name fell from his lips like a prayer, a benediction, a desperate entreaty. In that moment, you were his religion, his reason for worship, his everything.

• Though the years had begun to etch their subtle lines upon Hayden's handsome face and his body no longer sprang back to rigid attention as readily as in his youth, his desire for you remained undiminished, a relentless force that laid siege to your senses. He may not match your youthful vigor in speed, but he more than made up for it in skill and ardent devotion. Hayden's tongue, a masterful instrument honed by years, could bring you to the brink of rapture with a single, languid caress. He took his time, savoring every flush, every fold, his lips painting a roadmap of pleasure upon your silken flesh. He feasted on your pussy as if it were the nectar of the gods, his blue eyes flickering up to drink in the sight of your abandon, your back arched, your fingers fisted in his blonde hair. He reveled in the taste, the scent, the very essence of your arousal, losing himself in the act of loving you, of worshipping you with every skillful sweep of his tongue. Slow and steady, he stoked the flames of your desire, his own lust burning hotter with each throaty moan he drew from your lips. Age had not cooled Hayden's passion, but only refined his technique, honing him into a connoisseur of your every fleeting taste and texture. He was a maestro at the podium, orchestrating your pleasure with the singular obsession of a man who knew he was playing for an audience of one - you. And as he pleasured you, he made it his personal mission to grow hard again, to rise to the occasion until he filled you once more, his body a testament to his bottomless, enduring love.

[trevuorzegras]

cowboy!quinn x reader | the only mistake .ᐟ

the way back — zach bryan 🧺

authors note | i am going to try, and be more active, i promise! a lot going on currently, i apologize for the lack of content.

also thank you for 400 followers!

@wnderify @star2fishmeg ♥︎

Quinn was sure of everything he did. From the way he carried himself, to how he preformed during shows. He was as confident as they came.

This though? This was the only thing he was unsure of. Quinn made no mistakes. None. Almost everyone he met saw him as this perfect man, the man people envisioned themselves with someday. Now, this had Quinn questioning everything he had once known.

౨ৎ

Y/N jumped as Quinn slammed his larger hands down against their kitchen table, “I don’t need you on my ass all the damn time!”

All she could do was stare at him, shocked, and scared. Quinn was the quiet type, even when he held his head high. Yes, he was confident. That was a fact, but he had never been the type to raise his voice, especially not at his Ol’ Lady.

Before Quinn can ever register what he had just done, Y/N was already muttering apologies as tears began to fall from her flushed cheeks.

His eyes snapped towards her, the anger that once filled him vanishing quickly. He took a step towards her, only for her to take a step back. In that moment, Quinn had realized just what he had done.

౨ৎ

When Quinn had gotten home from work later that night, Y/N was nowhere to be found. No matter what he did, he couldn’t stop replaying their fight in his head. It was like a record stuck on repeat, and he had no idea how to stop it.

He shouldn’t have left her. He knew that, but he wanted to give her space. He had never raised his voice at her before, and he knew she’d need time.

Quinn was raised to be respectful to everyone, especially to those you love. God he was such an idiot. Y/N was the woman he loved most, and he was pushing her away like a dumbass.

౨ৎ

Quinn couldn’t think straight for the days following their fight. Y/N had been gone for three days now, and he genuinely started to think he was going insane.

Though, eventually, she turned up. He wasn’t sure where she had been, and hell he didn’t care. He just wanted her safe, he needed her to be safe.

His eyes followed her from his place on the small brown sofa as she opened the front door. She seemed to be looking around, checking to see if he was home, making his heart ache. He watched as she let out a shaky breath when their eyes met, his heart breaking from the sight alone.

౨ৎ

Y/N ended it that night, though he couldn’t blame her. She had put her faith in him, and he ruined it. To some, yelling isn’t a huge deal, but to her? It was the biggest deal. Growing up with a family like hers was not easy, but allowing yourself to love again? even harder. Yet she loved him. Loved. He wasn’t sure if she could look at him the same, let alone love him.

His performance began slipping, rapidly. He wasn’t riding as good as he should. He just overall was not focused on anything - though how could he be? He lost her. He lost the person he loved most in life.

No one had ever seen Quinn so distracted before, he had been doing shows since he was 14, and had never been so distant from reality. His mind was somewhere else, that was clear to anyone.

His mother, Ellen, had been the first to notice it. His smile no longer reached his eyes, his smile no longer seemed to be genuine. Everything that once came so natural had become a chore to him. The sport he loved seemed to become a chore right before his eyes.

That’s when she learned just why he was acting the way he was. Quinn was fully convinced he was going to marry Y/N. Except now, one simple mistake ruined every chance at his perfect future, his perfect wife.

Now she had just been a distant memory. A constant reminder of just how easy it was to lose everything.

[jadeharleyinc]

first: i am a programmer. "having a machine execute my thoughts for me" is literally the point for me. i don't care about "laziness" when making art, whether via code, drawing software, or AI software. in fact, it's common in programmer culture to consider "laziness" a virtue because finishing the creative process in the least amount of steps possible is a rewarding experience in and of itself.

second: it is entirely possible to customize the output of an AI software by writing your own python code, by hooking up several AIs together, by fiddling with models and samplers and parameters, and so on. you can type a sentence into a box and click "generate" but this is the skill floor, not the ceiling.

third: can you explain how, by generating an image, i am "using an external tool and not exercising my self imagination and skills", but taking out my phone and pointing it out at a pretty sunset and pressing a single button to get a picture of a pretty sunset (you know, photography) is fine? what about tools like Visions of Chaos, which takes a (potentially dead simple) mathematical formula as input and produce fractals as output, without me making decisions about the result? (fractal art being an established form of art, mind you)

fourth: there are entire mediums and art movements about giving up your thoughts and letting an external process take over as a mean of self-expression. there is of course (non-AI) algorithmic art, which includes fractal art and procedural art. what about found objects and specifically marcel duchamp's readymades? can you tell me how marcel duchamp's fountain showed his "skill" and "expressed his thoughts and emotions" even though it is quite literally a piece of slop he didn't design at all, but took from a factory and signed?

fifth: your narrow definition of art was rejected by the entire dada movement over 100 years ago and keeps being rejected by conceptual artists, which is why if you go to a modern museum right now in 2025 you have a pretty good chance of seeing art that uses AI (example: the Centre Pompidou or the Museum of Modern Art), because the art world doesn't really care about "skill" and "laziness" and a lot of people, like them and me, just have a different definition of art than you do.

As gen-AI becomes more normalized (Chappell Roan encouraging it, grifters on the rise, young artists using it), I wanna express how I will never turn to it because it fundamentally bores me to my core. There is no reason for me to want to use gen-AI because I will never want to give up my autonomy in creating art. I never want to become reliant on an inhuman object for expression, least of all if that object is created and controlled by tech companies. I draw not because I want a drawing but because I love the process of drawing. So even in a future where everyone’s accepted it, I’m never gonna sway on this.