#on one hand i have very limited love for a piece of art that's been strung along so long past it's planned end

[bacchuschucklefuck]

[yandere-daydreams]

dude did you hear that obey me is shutting down nightbringer

hasn't it only been like. a year. what'd they do to that game to need it off the record so immediately.

[loudclan-clangen]

The song “Beautiful Little Fool” for Fiercestripe? Because I am not getting over her death. Listened to it and she was the first character to pop into my head.

You’re so right!

YES! Please do, I would love to see it!

The boring answer is that I've been drawing cats for a VERY long time. I think since I was 8 they have been the majority of what I drew. The less boring answer is you know the movie Spirit? It changed my life. It had a bonus video where one of the artists taught you how to draw Spirit himself and it was the singular thing that inspired me to start drawing (more likely possessed me). I think I must have been about two the first time I saw it because I cannot remember a time before I had that video memorized. I would spend hours sitting in front of that video (which was only like 10-15 minutes long) with a stack of papers just fully focused on perfectly following his instructions. I still think about that video to this day. Every time I draw legs the voice of James Baxter echoes through my mind. I don't know if that translates to why my cats are so beefy, I own a cat who is quite chonky, so that might contruibute to it, but now you have a fun fact about me regardless!

All of the heirs are chosen based on birth order! Whoever is born first gets to be heir. I personally find that making strict rules about stuff makes playing the game a lot easier for me, I find it stressful to try to pick a "good heir" when I don't know what's going to happen later in the game so to limit that I just let it be completely out of my hands. 2. The game rolled for Songpaw to become a medicine cat! I would have changed it if he was an only kit or probably if I had known that Dashpaw was gonna die, cause I was really stressed about losing my run at that point, but I do my best to write a story that makes the game make sense rather than change what the game gives me when possible. I think it helps me to not have much of a story in mind while I play, just noting down events and thoughts and then going back and piecing it all together afterwards. That way nothing can "go wrong". 3. "Heir-hood" only applies to the leaders. There is no expectation that Cavepaw will become a healer. When Weed dies that position will be open until someone wishes to volunteer for it. 4. Honestly I don't really know. This might spoil a little bit, of tension, but I truly never had that happen. I was SUPER worried about it and did a lot to make sure it wouldn't, but after a couple of generations you get to a point where almost everyone is descended from a leader at somepoint. (And also everyone is second cousins with each other but you know what there are some problems that you just have to live with.) I image the clan would look for an omen and just pick a new leader based off of that and start the process all over again. In my experience worst comes to worst just make sure you have a very accurate family tree and trace it back a couple of generations.

Thank you so much! I don't play with any mods for Loudclan, I'm too scared to lose saves to less than stable code. My favorite mod currently is Kori's Awoogen though! I just like to look at the beautiful art mostly. I use mass extinction as population control, so I turn it on and off based on how many cats I have. Two full pages is the upper limit of what I'm willing to deal with, so once a third page opens I turn mass extinction on and after an extinction happens I turn it back off. (also if I dip below 1 full page I turn unknown parents on until I'm back to two pages again). I've found after a couple of generations you can mostly stop worrying about it because the bloodlines have spread so far there's always someone who's a 6th great great cousin or something.

The game generated him Dashpelt! I probably would have picked Dashfoot to stick with the generated them of a boring suffix but to make more sense overall.

[turtle-taetell]

goodbye Mersmp

Super long message below!! (Funny story!)

and a message to the CCs at the end! <3

This is a piece that means so much to me. 21 months ago the designs for Theo and Faye got released. That day, i drew them! On paper with the supplies I had laying around, in a sketchbook smaller than my hand. At this point I was proud of my art but still very nervous about it. I had no idea how to draw them. I struggled a lot.

The second time I drew it, a year had passed. I felt I had been able to grow a lot as an artist and was excited to show how much I improved, so I redrew it! I loved how the lineart turned out and was so so excited to see the finished piece! But guess what? I hated it. I colored it in and still hate it to the point that I don’t even have the final version saved to my phone. It makes me feel ashamed.

But now, Mersmp has come to a close and the characters I have grown to care about so deeply have gotten their happy ending. So I wanted to give this piece that as well.

And finally, I think I can finally say I did.

I started drawing this final piece as soon as I was able to screenshot their epilogue designs. I was determined to make it right. So I sat down and drew, and drew, and drew, only taking an hour break to have dinner with a friend (don’t be like me). Finally, at 3am, eleven hours later, I was satisfied.

In this final piece are things that show just how tired I was. There are countless freckles on both characters, even under their scales! That’s a lot of dots. But wait… not the smallest. If you zoom in close enough they have pores! Much smaller than their freckles. That’s really a lot of dots! My freckle brush must have really come in clutch, right? WRONG! I dont have a freckle brush! All of this was done with one single smooth brush and I made Every. Single. Dot. Individually. That must have been pretty hard on my stylus, right? ONCE AGAIN WRONG! I don’t have a stylus! All of this was done on Ibis Paint x, a free art program, on an old janky ipad I got for free because it was so broken, all drawn with my finger. Even if I got a stylus, my ipad is too old to connect to any of them, including apple pencils.

The moral of this story is to never give up and not to let your resources limit your creativity. It doesn’t matter what medium you use, just do something to learn and keep pushing to improve. You will get there. Despite everything, you can do it.

And to the Mermp crew: Thank you for everything you have done. Through the story you have told and the community you have built, you have helped myself and others to grow in many ways. I myself learned a lot from Theo, learning that I do in fact go nonverbal at times and that does not mean there is anything wrong, and that I can feel conflicted and unsure about gender and expression. I learned I don’t need to be fixed. Just like I have now learned to look at the first redraw. I may not like it, but it is an expression of who I was at the time. Similar to Cella and Bite. Those characters may not like what they did in the past, but they are able to look back and recognize that it made them who they are today. If I always was proud of my first redraw, I may have never pressed myself to make this third one as beautiful. Thank you for the stories and lessons you have shared with us and allowing us to grow along side you and your characters.

And maybe, one day, a year or so from now, I can return to this and redraw it again, seeing what other things I enjoy in the future and how they may shape me to change.

With love, Turtle.

[sordidmusings]

How to Break Rules (Sir Crocodile x Reader)

Art by xuchuan25 on x!

TUMBLR ATE THE FUCKING ASK WHEN I SAVED IT AS A DRAFT 🙃 luckily I had it saved in my doc and it was anon so they wouldn't have been notified anyway

Anon Ask: Crocodile doesn't seem like the type to kiss during sex unless he's down bad. Maybe he starts a casual relationship with a strict "no kissing on the lips" rule but anywhere else is fair game. It's fun to think of the different ways a possible "first kiss" could happen when he's already rawed you lol and the different reactions if he initiates it or you do and whether it's spur of the moment or calculated.

A/N: OOOOOOOOOO love this and have actually come across this in my own travails haha as someone who loves service, there is such a rush in being told “you can kiss me anywhere but my lips; you have to earn that” 😩 Like it’s just dangling that fruit of how much of a rush it’ll be when you earn the right, when you’re told you’ve been so good for so long. It is also kind of a wild and intense dynamic to be in to have done So Much Stuff but not a simple kiss 💀💀💀

I will also say that I have a WIP smut request in this vein that has been FIGHTING ME FOR MONTHS 🥲 except it’s reader who has put down the rule of “no kissing” and the reason is because love is a requirement for it. Hoping this exercise helps get more flowing for continuing that beloved behemoth 🙏🏻 Ficlets and thoughts in bulleted form below! They get longer as they go because that’s what tends to happen for me lol

Word Count: ~3k total over a few scenarios and such

Warnings: brief allusions to sex but nothing nsfw, gn!reader, not actually unrequited love, a few flavors of reader personality, from very bratty to docile, for dynamic variety 🤌🏻, jealousy/possessiveness

Goodies below the cut - dig in (‘∀’●)♡

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

At first I was a bit clinical in my brainstorming of this, more stuck on the grid of who does it to who 

He kisses you

Involuntarily

Poor croc is finally at his limit in keeping his lips from yours and being so deep in indulging in all the rest of you is his undoing. Every piece of you feels so good even though every moment with you is agony - agony from having you but not all of you, being with each other but not belonging to each other. He was Tantalus and you were his fruit and drink, always slipping just past his fingertips. If he could taste you, share your breaths, feel your voice, then maybe he’d finally stop wasting away. 

On purpose

You’ve been vexing him with your teasing, always gifting him the touch of your soft lips everywhere but his own. He didn’t want to be the one to fold on his own rule, but no matter how loose he got your mind, how far you were from forming words, how pliant and placating, you’d kiss him and kiss him and kiss him but never his lips. It didn’t matter if he hovered his own over yours close enough to taste your voice on the air, you’d never push forward. It was maddening. 

One day he finally barks at you after you turn your face away, “Why do you always run?” 

You answer, confused and honest, “You told me I wasn’t allowed.” 

The response is a hook at your neck, pulling you closer; a hand in your hair, cradling you; a mouth on your own, consuming you.

A promise to you that you’re truly his

This Sir Croc warms more to the idea of you being his with no qualms stemming from his own pride. 

It took a long while, but your home in Croc’s life was built brick by brick, sure and steady and obvious. He noticed it and kept an eye on it like he did with everything, but he did not reject nor rush it. No, it was inevitable beyond his will, the way you slipped into his head and chest and nested there. No stubbornness would stop the way it warmed him. No clinging would allow you deeper into a space that was always meant to be yours. As he first noticed the foundation you’d set, saw the promise of his future in your care and vision, he knew he was meant to exist next to you. 

He waited for this understanding to sink in you too. It never did. 

No matter his well-thought gifts, steadfast support, or opulent compliments, you never pressed to take more promises from him than he offered himself, never set to make claim to him outside of closed doors. He knew he had to change that. 

The thought possesses him the next time he brings you around with him and someone has the gaul to approach you. They ask about why Croc keeps you so close to see if they had a chance to stick to your side instead. That won’t do. 

Croc stalks over quickly, seeping dominance but not quite aggression. When he gets to you, he places a weighty hand on your right shoulder and leans over the left, fully encasing you in his presence. 

All the other man sees is the threat leaning over your shoulder and he scatters before you can finish saying “-my boss.”

Much happier with Croc surrounding you, you lean back into his warm chest. A low chuckle plays with the hair around your ear, causing you to shiver in delight.

“A boss? Is that all I am to you?” There’s a teasing lilt to his deep voice, one steeped in deep fondness.

“Of course not,” you assure. He guides you to turn with his hook under your chin, letting his fingers tickle the back of your neck to your other shoulder as you spin to face him. The smile on your lips is easy and familiar and softens Croc into clay, ready and happy to be molded into whatever you want. Yet you always just ease him back into his own shape, each time with fewer cracks and dents, waiting for him to be as solid as he’d like for when he enters the kiln.

“Then tell me, dear,” his voice is as warm and rich as the purple of his eyes. He pulls his cigar from his lips with two fingers. You watch his lips as he speaks. “What am I?”

Before the falter in your smile can fully steal it away, Croc slips forward to taste it on your lips. You freeze and Croc snakes his hook behind your neck to pull you forward, but by the time it gets there you’re already pressing into him. You’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t savor the feeling of finally belonging fully to each other.

You kiss him

Power Move

Sir Croc never seemed able to control you and he loved and loathed it in equal parts. It’s one of the reasons he sought you in the first place. You knew exactly when to push and when to follow, when to challenge and when to submit. It was a very rare day when you genuinely got on his nerves.

Today is a very rare day.

You’re clearly upset with Sir Croc - not leaning into his affection, barely answering his attempts at conversation, unwilling to look at his face for more than a second. More than anything you refuse to tell him what’s wrong.

Now, you’re not doing it just to piss him off; you don’t feel quite allowed to be upset about the issue so you don’t want to share. You don’t want to have an attitude but every time you see him it reminds you of the realization that you’d do anything for him. Worse than that, that thought was immediately followed by the Knowing that you aren’t his and the uncertainty that you ever will be.

Right now, you feel like you’re not his to have, but his to use.

Though, he does give you special treatment. He lets you closer to him than any others, treats you with gentleness except when you corner him into using a firm hand. He’s never even used his power over you when it’s not for play and pleasure. Except for one little rule.

No kissing on the lips. 

You thought you’d earn it months ago. You’ve earned everything else, every sweet treatment and treasure you could think of will be yours if you ask it of him. He’s come to spoil you even more rotten than a queen with her fat lap dog, and yet you’ve not gotten a single kiss to the lips.

It’s begun to feel like he’s keeping it from you to let you know he’ll never fully give himself to you because he never fully intended to keep you. And it hurts.

And now he’s mad because you’re mad but you can’t tell him why you’re mad and the whole thing is maddening.

You watch him knock the ash off his dwindling cigar into the ornate ceramic tray on his desk. The heavy sigh accompanying it annoys you. Why is he the one sighing?

Oh, now he’s rubbing at his temple. He thinks he’s frustrated? You’ll show him frustration.

“Should I go?” You ask, peeking at him from the corner of your narrowed eyes.

“Do you want to go?” Croc rebuts, sounding confounded and at the end of his rope.

You eye him unhappily. 

Instead of responding, you stand up from the leather sofa across from his grand desk. It’s a decent distance, two chairs to its sides are placed closer, but of course you chose to sit away from him today. It’s to your advantage now; you need space for your next move.

You make your way to him slowly, swerving your hips smoothly the way he likes and adding a teeny bit of weight to each step - both to be closer to stomping and to have the motion give a slight bounce to all the soft parts of you for him to watch.

And watch he does - his face melts into the hungry admiration he saves for you, albeit still a bit guarded. 

When you get to his desk, instead of addressing him you gracefully gather the papers spread across it into your hands. You take a moment to pretend to scan through and consider them, only to frisbee them onto one of the chairs.

Croc’s eyes turn sharp and burning.

“Brat-” he cuts himself off, looking at your face and picking up that you’re having even less fun than he is. He sucks in a tense breath and hisses it back out. Let’s try that again.

“Am I working too much and you need more attention? Is that why you’re having a fit?”

Good enough.

“If I was having a fit, the whole base would know,” you bite back at him.

Instead of arguing or redirecting, Sir Croc settles on watching you. Nothing’s worked, so he’ll just allow you to take this wherever it’s headed.

You plant your palms on his desk and let the quiet linger. He lets you lean into his space and stare him down. He’s unsure what you’re looking for and honestly so are you. You’re unsure if you find it but you do find some fortitude in the settling air. You finally speak up.

“Do you remember the rule you set when we started this…” your eyes flit around, searching for the right word, “agreement?”

“No kissing on the lips unti-”

Your hand is fisted in his shirt, your lips are warm and insistent against his.

You expect anger, pulling back, or even shoving hands. Instead, Croc is scrambling out of his seat, careful to keep your lips locked, and helping you to clamber over the desk towards him with a greedy grip. You won’t be free from his taste or hold the whole night through. Now that they’ve had you, they’ll haunt you all your days, keeping him alive with each time they possess you.

You sneak your way into it

Sir Crocodile doesn’t get to enjoy late risings often. That’s why he makes sure to wring them of all they’re worth, and that’s only become better with you there. 

Knowing that the morning lacked a rude awakening, you both indulged in a night of the senses - seeing the sights, hearing live music, eating and drinking with abandon before coming home to get your fill of each other in all five senses, especially touch.

As Sir Croc comes back to his body, floating from the abyss of sleep one breath at a time, he finds his sense of touch being coaxed and teased. Gentle fingers brush across his skin along familiar trails made to map and admire his large form. They round over muscles, press into places of softness, tickle at the sensitive skin of his wrist, his blunted forearm, his hips, his neck.

The touches all feel so full of adoration and something else he’s felt more and more from you. He’s finding it harder and harder to ignore, especially because he’s used to adoration and there’s something different in yours - something softer, gentler, surer. Something he is sure by now is genuine love.

Each time it comes out he lets it wash over him as best he can without solidifying its bond. After all, this was never meant to be love.

But feeling your affection made it impossible to ignore how much better life would be if he always woke up with you.

Sir Croc encourages more of your touches, following them where he could and bedding his cheek into the top of your head. You happily snuggle deeper against him and his heart leaps.

Knowing he’s awake, you begin placing sweet kisses against his skin, teasing at the edge of his trimmed chest hair. He lets out a long breath with the undertone of a content groan rumbling through it. You smile against the plush of his pec, happy he’s still fuzzy from sleep and primed for your plot

Your lips trail and massage higher, over clavicle and to neck. He tilts his jaw away to give you free reign of the sensitive skin from his throat to his ear. Your thigh mimics the rising of your lips, trailing slow and tender over Croc’s front until it brushes from his thigh to his stomach. The rise and fall with his breathing is calming under you and the steadiness made it easier to notice when his breathing hitched and his muscles twitched against you.

His hand returned your affection mindlessly, simply following whatever instinct compelled him. Mostly it trailed from the nape of your neck to your hip and back, taking small moments to press you closer when he didn’t want one of your kisses to move quite yet.

Everything was deep breaths echoing against skin, the comforting pressure of bodies melding wherever you touched, the dance of give and take with affection. Each place you pushed your love, Croc opened himself to feel more of it, even when you left his shoulder chest and neck to explore his scarred cheek

He doesn’t even hesitate to let you near when you first trail the tip of your nose over the strong angle cut by his jaw. The barely there stubble blended to a moment of pure softness before being interrupted by the ridges of his scar

Croc is fully and willingly enchanted by your soft and smooth actions. He couldn’t bear to make you stop, couldn’t care for any pretense or boundary of his it would break so long as you don’t stop touching him so sweetly. His whole body feels light and alive and he’s struck with the realization that he’s as in deep as you are.

You place your first kiss to his face on his scar where it cuts across his cheekbone. He presses just a millimeter deeper into the plush of your lips

You follow the path of the scar, feeling his lashes tickle the tip of your nose on your way. All the while Croc keeps his languid caresses going on your skin, still lulled by recent sleep and the comfort of your touch and warmth and the want for more.

When you get to the bridge of his nose, you break contact to press your foreheads together. His hand slips up your back to rest at the back of your neck, holding you to him. You bump your nose on his and he bumps back. You tilt to leave a kiss on his cheek. His finger tail up to softly scratch at the base of your skull. You smile against him and feel his own cheek rise momentarily against you.

Sir Crocodile feels more free of thought and obligation than he has in years. Your slow acts of worship have brought out a peace in him that he’s rarely known. There is no rush or push, just a calmness and sureness that this is where he should be and how he should feel. That you both belong here.

And then something changes when you kiss right outside the corner of his lip.

He is left wanting.

You linger at the spot before moving just barely away and coming back just a hair closer to his own lips.

Each near miss felt unnatural and unsatiating, quickening his heart and breath in his discomfort and discontent. The hand at your head goes from caressing to holding, urging you to stop fleeing and teasing.

You smile again against him and this time there’s no mirrored grin from him; he’s falling too quickly into a pit of need, one he didn’t notice you digging with every caress and kiss.

You tease  your lips to the corner of his, planning to press more firmly directly on target, but his hand grips you firmly and he’s turning and insistent lips slot hungrily against yours.

You gasp in delight while he shudders out a breath he’s been holding since he met you.

Then I had a better angle come to me by remembering a basic writing preference, that the circumstances around the kiss - the ‘why’ not just the ‘what’ are much better for generating a scene, luckily in the above I think I amended that mistake when I went into more detail! (keeping these more to the stream I originally wrote them in cuz I fear I went on too long above LOL)

He kisses you after fearing for your safety

He kisses you for fear you’ll leave

You kiss him in anger, wanting to prove you’re worthy

He kisses you while you sleep, too afraid for you to know the hold you’ve had on him all along

He kisses you to soothe you, pull you from your fears and sorrows to just float with him in your little bubble away from all the hurts of the world, held aloft by sensation and need and affection

He kisses you to possess you, someone else coming too close and needing the message

You kiss him in joy, ignoring all the dirt and grime that came back with him from Impel Down

You kiss him with a sorrowful heart, needing to comfort the man who was larger than life now sat sadly before you bare of all, even his golden hook and ego

You kiss each other, your lips had sweetly made their way up his neck and across that strong jaw, coming to rest unsure right at the corner of his lips, your shaky breathes puff sweetly across his cheek as he tilts his head to rest temple to forehead, the turn to face you fully is slow and caressing, his own breath coming to mingle with yours, your noses bushing gently. The barest tilt of his head has your lax lips tentatively brush his, just the faintest tickle of skin on skin. A shaky exhale - his or yours you’re not sure - and your lips press more surely, first easing in like the first step into dark waters before you both succumb to diving under. A fierce grip slips to the nape of your neck, endlessly dragging you closer

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading and thank you anon for your ask 💜 I'm gonna be better at getting back to the others (life was being life lol) and up next I have some comfort fics and x marine reader! And perhaps a little filth 👌🏻

Masterlist

[mintaikk]

Shadowpeach Things I think about A Lot

Note: My knowledge of season 5 is very limited (only seen first 2 eps, and some spoilers). Do not say any spoilers in comments or reblogs. If you want to avoid spoilers completely, I suggest you don't read this

-Peng said it themselves. "Could Wukong do anything that could break his hold over you?" or something like that. But Macaque's entire world was Wukong

-Macaque's dream was spending a peaceful forever with Wukong

-"You were a villain like 5 minutes ago!" Nothing there, but this was when they were having that screaming match and I burst out laughing when I realized that's what Wukong said. He was tho. From s4 to s5, bro went from trying to kill him to living on his mountain again

-Oh, that. "This room(?) has been my home just as long as yours." That's true, but my guy, don't you have like a dojo or smthn? Can't you just live there? Or do you just secretly miss Wukong and want to live on FFM to be closer with him?

-AND WUKONG DOESNT FIGHT BACK EITHER OR ANYTHING. He just sighs and accepts it

-OH YEAH THAT. Macaque sleeps on the same GOD DAMN tree that he and Wukong used to sit at. There are so, so, so many trees on FFM, yet he chose that specific one

-Wukong wanted to spend the remainder of his life holding hands with Macaque

-Correct me if I'm wrong, but in old China, a man giving another man a peach was a sign that they felt romantic love for them. Wukong and Macaque's hole thing is peaches

-"Yeah, because you always eush to my rescue." Wukong believed that Macaque never saved him, but from what we seen in s5, he does. Maybe he always has and Wukong's just never noticed, or maybe Macaque took that to heart and is trying to make up for it

-THE GOD DAMN SLOMO SHOT WHEN WUKONG WAS GOING TO SAVE MK

-Macaque calling Wukong "cute" in the s4 special

-When we first see the ink demons of Wukong's past, one of them was Macaque chained up while struggling and crying. Whatever happened there, it still haunts Wukong

-"I don't trust anyone that isn't standing here right now." WUKONG STILL TRUSTS MACAQUE AFTER EVERYTHING, MACAQUE EVEN PERKS UP AT THAT. And right after this scene, Macaque sacrifices himself to save Wukong. I think Wukong saying that really stuck with him. Maybe that's why he was a lot more helpful this season; Wukong still trusted him, and he didn't want to lose that

-When Wukong was getting the circlet put on him for a second time, Macaque didn't even hesitate when he saw that Wukong was in pain and immediately sprung to help

-Ik it's been talked about before, but the fact that Macaque thinks Wukong killed (and that he was about to again in season 3 when he was literally choking him) him but he still helps him when he can and smiles softly at him and goes out of his way to see him and stares in awe when he sees him coming to help MK and still accepts his peach offer (symbolism for rekindling friendship) and smiles when Wukong says "we" instead of "I" and gets sad when he sees the memory and realizes he wants to rekindle their relationship and crashes a beach party just so he could be with him (Copy and pasted from old post

-This specific art piece that Alejandro Saab commissioned and used for autograph signings

-Macaque literally looking away and smiling in this shot bro looks like a schoolgirl with a crush 💀

-Wukong was shown to help Macaque tie his scarf when they were still friends and in the shots of their past, Macaque's scarf is always tied. But now that they're not friends, his scarf is never tied. I just find this detail neat

-As much as Macaque tried to kill Wukong between s1 and s3, the moment Wukong was genuinely mad at him, Macaque's first instinct was to run. Even when Wukong was holding him, he was still shaking Yes, he probably couldn't breathe bcuz choking, but these guys are immortal and with the whole thing underwater, I don't think they actually need to breathe. So this means that he was probably terrified the entire time, and thinking that Wukong would kill him again (I fucking hate doomed yaoi)

-Now that I think about it, the only time we see Macaque scared was with LBD, Sun Wukong attacking him, Sun Wukong getting attacked or being endanger, MK being endangered, Bai He being endangered, or actually having to deal with the idea of staying with Wukong to help him (s4, MK going on that whole "I gotta help my friends" speech while Mei is being consumed by the Samahdi fire). Most of those things are Wukong and Monkey fam related

-Alejandro Saab doing a cover of peaches. Istg, he KNEW what he was doing when he pulled that one

-Correct me if I'm wrong again, but apparently, some gay men in ancient China would become sworn brothers so they could be together legally. Other than Shadowpeach, I was never much a brotherhood shipper, but do what you will with this info

-ALEJANDRO SAAB BELIEVES THAT MACAQUE IS SHORTER THAN WUKONG! THE DEBATE IS OVER YALL

-"Forever is a long time, bud." "Me and you just living here get on fat on fruit forever!" Bro was definetly thinking of Macaque

[mediumgayitalian]

“Hello, twerp.”

Kayla grunts at him. She is focused, intently, on something small enough to be covered up by her hands and curtaining hair; Nico decides it is likely some kind of explosive. There is a reason she, Banned From Arts ‘n’ Crafts For Criminal Reasons, is sneaking into the Hermes’ cabin’s time slot and hiding behind Julia.

Instead of confirming that she is, indeed, planning to blow up at least one of her brothers’ bunks in their sleep tonight, because of Plausible Deniability, Nico swings a leg over the picnic table bench, settling in next to her. She spares a second of attention to blow a raspberry at him, seemingly unprovoked. Nico reaches calmly over, plucks a pair of scissors from Connor’s hands, which he allows because of who he is as a person, and snips a piece of her hair. In response she pulls a notebook from her pocket and puts a little tick mark next to Nico’s name.

“So,” Nico says, choosing to ignore that. “I have a Question.”

“Ten dollars.”

“I’m not paying you, you little shit.”

“Then wonder in silence.”

Nico digs two wrinkled fives from his shoe and slams them on the table, scowling. Kayla pockets them.

“Proceed.”

Nico glares at her, noting her twitching mouth, and remembers that he does, in fact, need her help, and her brother is, in fact, his best friend, so challenging her to a duel to the death is a bad idea on both counts.

(Nonwithstanding the part where she has deadly accuracy with any projectile from almost any semi-reasonable distance. And he has, like, a sword. So.)

“Your brother,” he starts, and he does not need to clarify which one, “is always trying to…feed me.”

“Yes,” she agrees, “he is internally a seventy year old Southern woman. He does that.”

“Fruits.”

“Hm.”

“Oranges, specifically. Like, every single meal.”

“…Ah.”

It is a very knowing ah, Kayla’s little noise, and in fact she sets her project aside. (It is, in fact, an explosive.) She turns slightly on the bench to face him, lips pursed, hands folded. She blinks at him for several moments. Nico holds her gaze, remembering he is out ten dollars.

“My dear brother,” she begins, “my lovely, kind-hearted, smiley, morning person brother, is neurotic.”

Nico waits. This is, apparently, the end of her sentence, as she does not continue.

“I am aware,” he says slowly. “I have been present during every rant about Hollywood inaccuracies about medical sciences.”

She nods sagely. “This is true. You have. You are, however, by virtue of his cripplingly low self esteem and fervent belief that his mere existence is a Literal Actual Curse, spared from much of his most…colourful…contingencies.”

“Contingencies,” Nico repeats.

Kayla nods again.

“Yes. You see, dear future brother-in-law —”

“Cease,” Nico snaps, reddening.

“— our lovely William, also known as your Special Guy, according to Nico With Severe Blood Loss.” continues Kayla, not ceasing, “is under the impression that you, like all people, have a Limit.”

“…A Limit.”

“Yes. A point or level beyond which something does not or may not extend or pass.”

“I know what a godsdamn limit is, Kayla.”

“You seemed confused.”

“I am going to strangle you.”

Openly snickering to herself, she moves on.

“He feeds you oranges because he regularly paces around the cabin in the middle of the night stressing about your vitamin levels,” she explains, finally. “He doesn’t know how to tell you that like a normal person because he’s afraid he’s going to weird you out. Ergo.” She makes a flippant gesture with her hands. “Citrus.”

“Why is he so godsdamn cute,” Nico mutters to himself, then remembers to throw out a hasty, “Thank you,” before scrambling away from the table, ignoring the gathered snickers, and beelining for the the Demeter cabin. “Gods.”

It is empty, thankfully, when he strolls in, except for Miranda in the front gardens, who holds up a finger as he gets closer and whispers to a struggling seedling.

“Hey,” she says after a moment, smiling up at him. “What’s up?”

“I need,” he starts. He purses his lips, rocking back on his heels. His hands make some kind of motion. He’s not sure what, exactly, he didn’t give them permission. “I need.”

Miranda, thankfully, has had years of experience communicating with non-speaking entities, and as such is relatively fluent in Nico. She dusts off her hands, patting the spot beside her. Nico sits as indicated.

“Try a deep breath first,” she instructs. “When your brain is back up and running, try again.”

“It’s running. It’s running a lot.”

“Oh. In that case, might I suggest a small shout of frustration?”

“You may.”

He clears his throat, resting his hands on his diaphragm to Maximize the Output, as he has been previously instructed, and yells. A passing satyr jumps a full five feet in the air and flees. Nico grimaces, calling apologies after them.

“They’re never going to like me,” he grumbles.

Miranda pats his head. “There, there. One issue at a time.”

“Solace,” he says at her invitation, gesturing again. “Oranges.”

“…Ah.”

“He is. You know. Right?”

“I must confess I do not.”

He takes a moment to collect himself. Or, well, he tries to. He’s had an easier time trying to wrangle errant souls surfing along the Styx, but whatever. He literally owns his brain. It Shall submit to him, or he’ll get a new one. Watch.

“Will is…intensely thoughtful.”

“He’s a sweetheart,” Miranda agrees. “Once he brushed past me on the way to dinner and felt that I was going to get a cold, so he took the food I got and exchanged it for soup and veggies and Gatorade and stuff. He forgot to actually tell me that I was about to get a cold, at the time, but it was really nice of him in hindsight.”

Nico makes another loud, strangled bleating noise. Thankfully, no satyrs are harmed.

“He is so!”

“There, there,” Miranda says again. “You’ll get to full sentences soon, I’m sure of it.”

He takes a few moments to have a minor crisis in the peace and tranquility of Friendship. It’s this new thing he’s been trying. Will tells him it’s usually called ‘trust’ and ‘vulnerability’. It is mortifying for the most part but in small doses is kind of cool. Mostly.

“Who takes care of Will?“

“He doesn’t really get sick. Apollo genes and all that.”

“No, like. Emotionally.”

“Oh.” Miranda frowns thoughtfully. “Um. Chiron, maybe? I’m not actually sure.”

“It needs to be me,” Nico stresses. “He always takes care of me, and I want to, like, repay him. Not transactionally,”Nico rushes to clarify, “but, like, mutual care-ily.”

“I see.”

“You see?”

“Yes,” Miranda says sagely. “You must Show Him. That you are Invested in your Relationship.”

“Yes!” Nico cries, gripping her by the elbows. She meets his gaze head on, eyes wide and wizened. “Yes, exactly. Relationship Investment. You’re so smart.”

Miranda preens. “Thank you.” She stands, brushing off her jeans — fruitlessly, she’s got grass stains on top of grass stains on every piece of clothing she owns — and offering Nico a hand. Together they stand and observe the various shrubs, trees, and vines surrounding the cabin, hands on their hips.

Nico narrows his eyes. “Should I just get him oranges?”

“I still don’t fully understand the orange thing. But Will likes peaches.” She leans up and plucks one off of the largest tree, holding it out to Nico. “They make him think of home.”

Nico takes the peach and inspects it. It is, of course, impeccable — thick and heavy, skin soft and unblemished, full enough with juice and flavour to be fragrant even from the arm’s length Nico holds it. This is the kind of peach that wins fairs. This is the kind of peach that sits, prized, in a market, watching as mothers and hipsters claw at each other. This is the kind of peach that immediately upon first touch strikes within you such an intense urge to chuck it at the nearest hard surface and watch it splat into a beautiful explosion of Squelch that Nico has to, hastily, set it down and out of immediate reach.

“It’s perfect,” he declares.

“Don’t throw it at him,” Miranda advises, eyeing the fruit herself.

“Shan’t,” Nico promises, and it doubles at a warning to his brain because he can’t lie to Miranda, obviously, so his brain better Check Itself. There will be no peach throwing. Peach holding, only, and peach giving.

He waves goodbye to Miranda as he hustles off, headed for the bustling infirmary. There have been no great emergencies today — there would be a lot more of Will’s echoed screeching if this were the case — and many people who have walked in have walked out, minutes later, scowling, so now is a good a time as any. He could of course wait until Will is done his shift and they meet by Cabin Seven, like usual, but this is a Pressing Issue. Will can no longer continue to believe that Nico has a Limit, as Kayla had so unhelpfully explained. Nico is Limitless. He is a sine function. He is an eternal abyss. He is the final end of Chiron’s patience, if the horse is to be believed.

Also, the peach is really really tempting and Nico honestly does not have all that much control over his brain. It usually kind of does as it pleases. That’s why he has so many Situations.

“Solace,” he shouts, banging open the screen door loud enough to make everyone inside jump, “GET the hell over here.”

“I. Am.” Will holds up a patient’s arm, which has been hastily butterfly-clamped closed and is now being stitched. “Um. Is it urgent?”

Nico snaps his mouth shut. “No.” He stalks over to where Will is sitting, still bewildered, on his favourite stool, and stands with his arms crossed behind him. He nods at the injured camper, clearing his throat. “Proceed.”

“…Okay.”

Because Will is a Professional, his gaze remains focused on the gaping wound he is fixing. Because no one else at this camp is, everyone else chooses to gawk. Nico lets the fires of Hell enter his eyes, like Father showed him, and glares them all into subservience.

“Alright,” Will says, several minutes later, patting the patient’s knee with a smile. “I’m gonna wrap this, Jen, and you gotta keep it dry, okay? Have ambrosia twice a day like I told you and come see me at the end of the week.”

“There’ll be no scar?” the young girl hedges.

“Not if you follow my instructions,” Will promises. “Although you’ll be just as beautiful with a scar, kiddo, I promise. Ask your mother.”

Jen looks at him doubtfully, but Will is one of those people who’s unbelievably hard to distrust. It’s infuriating, if you’re Nico and committed to the whole goth/emo lifestyle. Probably comforting if you’re a normal person.

She leaves, and it is abruptly very quiet in the infirmary, which is crazy because it is abruptly never quiet at camp unless people are dead, usually, but no one is dead, and people are too godsdamn nosy to flinch away from Nico’s glare, or maybe they’re not scared of him anymore, and hey, isn’t that something. The world is so busy, all the time. Things keep happening. Who’s fault is that, again?

“Nico?” Will asks, rocking back on his heels. His hands are suddenly clean of blood and grime and his scrubs have been swapped out. They stand, also, at the other end of the infirmary, right outside of the on-call room. He looks up, and conversations have resumed, and Will is watching him, intently, bright eyes slightly too wide, front teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, Ace bandage winding, unwinding, winding.

“This is for you,” Nico blurts, and shoves the peach at him.

Will blinks. “Oh.” He stares at the peach, a moment, before a smile erupts on his face. “Oh! Thank you!”

He takes the peach, gently, from Nico’s hands, and holds it close to his chest, wide hands gentle so as not to bruise, smile gone close-mouthed, giddy. The rocking gets every so slightly faster, and the slight breeze from the open screen door ruffles his frizzy hair, and his nose is scrunched, just slightly, enough to wrinkle his dotted feathers, and Nico’s mouth is very, very dry.

“I do not,” he tries, and it grinds along his paper-parched throat, near silent, “I do not have Limits, William.”

The rocking stills. Nico mourns it.

“…Sorry?”

“Limits,” Nico repeats. “I do not have them. I am Limitless. Purge the thought.”

“You have limits,” Will says, alarmed. “Um, we had that talk, right? About pushing yourself and why that is generally regarded as a bad plan.”

“That was you shouting at me in between nectar shots and frantic mothering, actually, but that’s not what I meant.”

Will doesn’t answer, only tilting his head.

“You’re neurotic,” Nico attempts to explain, and as could be expected by literally anyone with a brain this goes poorly, and he rushes to amend. “I mean! Well, you are neurotic — but! There is a but! Stop looking at me like that! You are neurotic but!”

“This is a very bad friendship break up if that is what you are trying,” says Will in a small voice, and Nico resolves to kick his own ass later tonight to Atone.

“I like it,” he hurries to explain. “You and your — neuroses. All of you, I like it. There is no Limit. Capital L. You’re groovy. On — point. Fleek? What do the kids say. I don’t —”

“Oh,” Will breathes, thankfully putting Nico out of his misery, “oh, this is about the oranges.”

Nico nods miserably.

“The oranges are —” Will cuts himself off, staring down at his shoes. “Um, scurvy freaks me out.”

“…Scurvy?”

“It — collagen synthesis is an active process? In your body? And scurvy makes it degrade really quickly. Which kind of tears your body apart by reopening scars. On top of other things. And you — were on a ship, you know. For a while. And you sweat a lot. And you don’t take the multivitamins I give you.”

“Because they’re gross,” Nico says, breathless, “and I’m not — sweaty.”

Wherever sunlight touches Will’s skin he tends to glow, slightly, and his freckles fluoresce the longer his hand takes to traverse the space between them, past the open window, resting, lightly, on Nico’s wrist.

“You are,” he says, gently. “You have — really low magnesium and potassium levels. Just, all the time.” He glances down at the inside of Nico’s wrist. “Right now, actually. Will you eat a banana if I go get you one?”

Will will go get a banana, and Nico will follow him, and they will sit, somewhere, probably the big rock by the lake, as Nico eats it, and Will will eat his peach, and Nico will watch his throat bob, and Will will talk, hands gesturing, peach juice everywhere, and they will stay there, probably, way past sunset, right till curfew, and then they will sprint, as they usually do, to avoid the harpies, and they will go to Nico’s cabin, first, because they always do, and Will will snag an orange as they run past the fruit trees by the Demeter cabin, and he will press it into Nico’s hands, firmly, smiling as he says goodnight, and running back to his own cabin. Where he will, according to Kayla, pace, and worry. Where he will rant about Limits, and how close Nico is to approaching them.

“Will,” says Nico seriously, grabbing his hands. Will’s eyes snap to his, wide, wider than usual, and they are so blue, so so blue, are things usually this blue? He’s startled by it every time. “Will, I am a sine function.”

“I don’t understand,” he admits.

Nico nods. “That’s okay! Just — peaches.” He reaches out and pats the fruit, curling Will’s fingers around them. “For you. Okay?”

Will glances down at the peach. He glances back up at Nico. He looks down, finally, at their hands, twined around the fruit, and holds there, one, two, three seconds.

“Oh,” he says, finally. “Oh, you don’t — oh.”

“Peaches,” Nico repeats, “oranges.” He pulls one hand free and draws a line between them. “You get it?”

“I get it,” Will says, softly. He looks up and smiles, small, private; too-big front teeth just barely peeling out. “You never reach your approached value.”

“I really don’t even get that close.”

“I’m kind of losing the metaphor, here.”

“Okay.”

Nico squeezes their hands together. Will squeezes back, shifting his weight.

“I’m still gonna — you still gotta get your vitamin C.”

“More oranges?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He rubs his finger over the backs of Will’s knuckles; he shivers. Nico meets his eyes and he smiles, widely, hurting his cheeks, and Will smiles back, and he rocks, and Nico is an abyss, and he is falling, falling, falling. “I like oranges.”

[thefanficmonster]

Love in Color

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader (Female)

Warnings: None :)

Genre: Rivals/Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Romance

Summary: Nothing speaks to the soul quite like expressive art. Or maybe the even more expressive artist behind it.

The spring breeze wafts in through the open windows of the small room, curling the curtains to its will. The pleasant smell of freshly bloomed flowers lingers in the air although one could hardly sense it over the suffocating tension that's settled in the room ever since Benedict entered to find Y/N already in there.

Although not a word was exchanged between the two, just her gaze was more than enough to let him know she'd rather be anywhere but in the same room as him. Still, her stubbornness overpowered her distaste for her fellow up-and-coming artist and she remained seated even after Benedict decided to make himself comfortable in front of the canvas farthest across the room from the one she'd taken up.

They are just a couple months away from the mandatory presentations of their final pieces and not a single artist in The Academy can rest easy until they perfect their art. Some have approached the situation as much more dire than others would perceive it but that is simply the burden the so-called greats have to carry.

Y/N and Benedict are prime examples of those artists.

For the amount of disagreements and stubbornness that resides between them, it's quite the miracle they are so alike in nature. And, dare I say, in talent as well. Of course, artists and their art are not meant to be compared but you could never miss the similarities. Not in their pieces, per se, but their personalities.

Competition comes in conjunction with the acceptance letter to The Academy. It comes as no surprise that this place is not exactly a breeding ground for friendships but this headbutting between these two exceeds all limits.

"I sure hope that is mere practice." The mockery in Benedict's voice almost makes Y/N's eye twitch as it echoes off the walls of the silent drawing atelier.

He'd been keeping a watchful eye on her work this whole time, even sacrificing a few important brushstrokes due to his divided attention. Good thing this is just a perfecting attempt on his understanding of anatomy, otherwise he'd be far more upset.

She's become well versed in his game by now. He simply cannot withstand the thought of being in her vicinity without provoking her in one way or another. Although she knows better than to feed into his entertainment, she'd also rather pour ink over a canvas of hard work than take his teasing laying down.

"Very like you to not be able to distinguish practice form a developed piece, Bridgerton." The bite to her words is not at all softened by her leveled tone. If anything it packs that much more of a punch.

One that provokes a smile from Benedict.

"I fail to see how that is my fault. You clearly have made very little effort with this piece but the same could be said for many of your previous ones." He's in no way sincere. In fact, he is openly lying on a dime. He adores her art. All games and personal biases aside, as someone with a distinguished taste in art with a high standard for beauty, he cannot, in good conscience, say her art isn't exceptional.

"Paying more attention to my art than your own, are you?" She doesn't bother turning her head his way, offering him nothing more than a view of her side profile.

"Nothing worth of my attention." He muses, almost forgetting the stool has no backrest as he leans back, catching himself just in time to not topple over and give her the satisfaction she most definitely would've held over his head till the end of time.

She hums knowingly, almost humorously, "That misshapen attempt you have over there says otherwise." She isn't far off the mark. His gaze has been more entranced on each brushstroke of her hand rather than his own. He's missed far more marks than he'd like to admit.

She has him there. But Benedict Bridgerton is nothing if not quick on his feet, "That is certainly one way to admit you are unfamiliar with abstract art. How embarrassing on your part."

A scoff parts Y/N's lips, her head finally snapping in his direction, their eyes meeting with a fiery flare. The tension is so potent a flick of a lighter and the room could be set ablaze.

The temperature only keeps rising when she stands up from her chair, crossing the distance between her canvas and his with three long strides as she comes to stand beside him. Sweat beads form on the back of his neck as a chill rushes down his spine. It is a common reaction his body exhibits whenever her proximity breaches the limitations of scandalous.

They're alone. Unchaperoned. Too close to keep the ton's mouths shut if they were to be seen.

His hand comes up to tug at the collar of his shirt in desperate need for more breathing room. He unbuttons the top button on instinct only to realize how inappropriately the action could be perceived. To his relief, Y/N doesn't seem to notice or care. In fact, she's incredibly disinterested in him at this moment, instead offering her whole attention to the painting in progress.

"Abstract, you say?" She muses, reaching down to toy with one of the paint brushes laying in a small blue pain puddle on the palette. "Allow me to fix it for you."

Before Benedict has even had time to process her words, with a swift snap of her wrist the canvas has now been unflatteringly stained with a blue splatter across it that makes his jaw drop.

"You vixen...." He mutters, eyes wide in absolute bewilderment as he watches the splatter drip paint down below it, coating the previously warmly colored drawing with blue streaks.

"My most sincere apologies, Mr. Bridgerton." The faux remorse in her voice raises his blood pressure a whole lot higher, causing him to gulp down his frustration. "It appears I really lack the understanding necessary for abstract art." If looks could kill, she'd be dead. But that glare, that very glare right there provides her such entertainment.

Having expressed her remorse, she slyly goes to make her way out of the atelier, hoping for a celebratory cigarette outside in the garden now that darkness has enveloped the horizon. However...

Before she has even made it halfway to the door, the loud thunder of quick footsteps shake the walls and marble floor. She's barely had time to turn around to witness the most childish retaliation of all time - Benedict has resorted to smearing the entire palette of colors on Y/N's canvas.

I believe this is an appropriate time to mention that they are both aware of how ridiculous this is. It's not even about the pieces, they were mere attempts. Practice pieces, if you will. It's not about them whatsoever. It's the principle. The disrespect, the mockery.

The need to retaliate for every small comments and remark has now become war, fighting fire with fire. Or rather paint with paint.

With redness clouding her vision and practically all rationale having left her mind, Y/N reaches over to grab the small bottle of ink on the professor's desk. A couple steps later and she's dowsing the canvas with it. She hasn't finished spilling the bottle when a hand engulfs her wrist. In a futile attempt to put an end to her offense and save what's left of his painting's dignity - not much, to be honest - Benedict moves her hand, redirecting the stream of ink so now it splashes on them.

His white shirt and her silver dress are now a quarter black in the front.

That realization brings on a brief moment of peace and silence. No movement, no sound. They're just staring at each other in complete and utter disbelief.

A beat later, they burst out into laughter.

"Oh now you're getting it." He warns her, his words breaking them away from one another like opposite charges of a magnet.

They both hurry to arm themselves with paint they can smear on the other but Y/N unfortunately is beaten to it. She's still in the process of gathering ammo when something cold hits the exposed skin of her upper back.

"Purple goes rather well with your dress." His comment boils her blood, making her immune to the cold paint she's now coated with and fueling her into counterattack resulting in red paint drowning out whatever white parts were left on his button-up. She even got a good splatter on his cheek.

Her cocky smirk speaks volumes as she observes her latest art piece, "Red brings out the color of your eyes quite nicely."

Although he's acutely aware of her comment being nothing more than a tease - as is she in her entirety - he can't help the way the breath was knocked out of him

"Is that so?" He muses, slowly crossing the distance between them as if taunting her to run away.

She doesn't. She doesn't move an inch from her spot, instead crossing her arms over her chest as she hums an affirmation that doesn't even fully leave her lips before they're engulfed by his.

If he was worried about their earlier proximity being considered scandalous, he's clearly lost all rationality now considering their bodies are practically molding together, paint-stained hands roaming previously unexplored territory, fingers tangling in each other's hair, exhales mingling in a single breath.

Suddenly, neither of them seems to mind the mess they've made of themselves. They've been wreaking havoc on the other's composure since the day they met, a couple ruined garments and canvases is nothing.

Some things are so much sweeter when you're not supposed to want them, let alone have them. Taking them despite potential repercussions is a thrill that can't match a single high. So, scandals and the ton be damned, he's taking her. Here and now. Paint and all.

* * * * *

The following morning, upon returning to her room from a lecture she cannot remember whatsoever, Y/N finds quite the surprise awaiting her.

~ Forgive me for ruining your dashing gown, Miss L/N. I unfortunately never got to tell you how greatly I like seeing you in it before I ruined it. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't redeem my actions. So, I beg of you to accept this gesture as both a peace and courtship offering. ~

~ Benedict ~

She rereads the note atop the gown laying on her bed at least three times before she realizes she's smiling and blushing - a reaction she would've condemned herself for just twenty four hours ago. Now, with the, um, new developments, being taken into consideration, she allows herself to revel in this unfamiliar feeling that has filled her with a sense of joyful giddiness she can't recall ever feeling before.

As she falls onto her bed, still grinning from ear to ear, she allows her mind to toy with the idea of giving this offered courtship a chance.

After all, no one has ever brought so much color to her life quite like Benedict Bridgerton.

[thesuperiorrobin]

❥ Love language

༯ quality time:

Damian has been alone for most of his life.

So he’s such a sucker for spending his free time with you.

Need help with school work? Damian putting his aside and rushes over to help you because he knows the lesson all to well.

Most of the time he’s busy so his time with you is very limited.

Been gone for weeks and the only time he’s free is training in the bat cave? He called you up so you can come over and watch it.

You two walk Titus together. Sometimes in silence or sometimes steering up conversations. It’s one of your guys favorite activities together

Second favorite (if your long in the relationship or are married) is bathing together. Nothing sexual or anything. Just you two together—washing each others hair as a simple gesture.

Loves baking with you. Baking new recipes with the help of Alfred sometimes.

Brushes your hair for you/ washes your hair for you during wash days.

Sometimes you two don’t have to be doing anything

Your presence alone puts him at ease.

༯ physical touch:

Damian’s physical touch comes from the lack that he never got growing up.

He’s also someone’s who isn’t really good at showing emotions but his physical touch makes up for it.

He didn’t understand it at first and thought that it was probably just something you just enjoyed (truth he enjoys it more then you)

He craves for your physical touch.

Please hug him, grab his hand, cuddle him, hold him in your arms. He craves it.

Had a shitty day at work/patrol? Your arms are open as soon as he gets home and doesn’t waste time in getting in your arms. Sleeping away the pissy and sour mood he’s been in

First time you hugged him, he didn’t really understood what was happening.

This feels nice he thinks and doesn’t let go until you do

Only in private, however in public you two are seen holding hands or pinkies

When he does it the feeling last forever.

Feeling down? He’ll rub your back in silence until your feeling a little better then before. A way of telling you that he right there if you need anyone to talk to

Exited about good news? He’s the first one to have his arms open waiting for a hug, Arms securely around your waist/back, swaying the both of you side to side. It’s the same if you’ve been having a shitty day

Overall just loves having you in his arms

Head over heels if it’s the other way around

༯ gift giving:

Damian is very crafty when it comes to art.

It’s also very obvious bc he’s an artsy person and can make stuff with his hands without struggling

He’ll make portraits of you and gives them to you.

Having a piece he made in your room for an anniversary. Still sitting above your bed till this day.

Loves making you paper flowers. Not the kind you make in kindergarten for Mother’s Day but the kind that should be but In a museum

When these flowers die that means my love for you has faded, he says you knowing that the flowers are fake and will never die. It’s cheesy but really cute.

But over time his gift are less self made and more bought later on in the relationship (when you two get married)

He will gift give you expensive jewelry. He has money. And tons of it it won’t effect him at all

Buys you matching sets so you two can match.

Take them. I got them especially designed to fit your taste love. Shame really because they look so good on you that you have to wear them.

Idk there’s just something about you wearing his initials around you finger on a metal ring that makes him go crazy sometimes.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

✨ let’s do a twst trade ✨

Hello ^^;;

This might be coming out of the blue. I’m typically a very private person and tend to stick with social circles I’m already familiar with.

Recently, I’ve been thinking that it would be nice to put myself out there and interact more! I can get easily overwhelmed, so I thought a good way to go about this is to do a handful of art/writing trades. This keeps the number low and conversation approachable, and I think that’d help slowly ease me into being more comfortable interacting and participating in community events.

***UPDATE: Trades now closed, thank you all for the interest!***

Here are the parameters and other important notes (setting these for my own comfort and lifestyle):

This will be a Twisted Wonderland themed trade because that’s the one thing we can guarantee to have in common.

I’ll write a fic for you! Minimum 1-2k words (but I tend to ramble so it could easily go higher than that), starring at least 2 characters (I can write more, but let’s not go too crazy and ask for all 22 NRC students in one fic).

I CAN write platonic, romantic, angst, fluff, yandere, AUs, etc.

I’m okay with writing any and all TWST characters, including staff, RSA students, family members, and other NPCs.

Of course, OCs are also welcome! I’d love to learn more about yours.

Be prepared with references for your OC(s) if applicable. This could include illustrations, but at the bare minimum should include a written explanation of who the character is, their personality, likes/dislikes, and relationships with canon characters.

There are limits to what I will write, as I am uncomfortable with some subject matters. For example, I’m not willing to write anything pregnancy-related. We can discuss my “no goes” in more detail if we decide to trade!

Upon request, I can do a simple digital piece of art OR a washi tape illustration (you won’t receive the physical piece, just a picture of it) for you. I believe most people know me more for my writing, but I wanted to keep these options on the table!

You trade me a fic of your own OR an artwork of roughly the same quantity/quality. As the saying goes, “what you give is what you get.”

We will talk and agree before we start on our pieces what each of us will generally provide at the end. (For example, a 5k word fic for a full color waist up illustration, 1k word fic for a black-white doodle, etc.)

You have to be okay with receiving a vague prompt. I like to be surprised, so I’ll probably just give you a list of general themes, ideas, and characters I like, then set you loose to see what you come up with.

You can be as specific as you like with your own prompt for me though—I’m flexible. Let me know what you don’t like as well so I can avoid including those elements.

To keep things fair, we’ll both hold onto our pieces and exchange them at the same time.

Regarding my written piece, it will be in a Google Doc for you to access.

This is NOT first come, first serve. I can only realistically take on 3-5 trades at this time depending on interest and complexity. If I turn you down, it’s nothing personal!

Priority will be given to mutuals (chances are that there’s more likely to be common ground if we’re already following each other).

Preference will be given to those indicated as adults in their blog intros/profiles (this is just what vibes the best with my personal communication style)

Be patient!! It may take me a few weeks or more to complete my part.

Be aware that doing a trade with me does NOT necessarily mean we will become best friends, and nor should this be the expectation 😅

If you’re okay with the above and are interested in a trade, please DM me! In your DM, you should indicate some prompts/ideas for what you’d like me to write. Please wait for me to respond; do NOT assume that I’ve accepted the trade request just because you’ve messaged me.

[wroteclassicaly]

Summary: You’re desperately possessive of your boyfriend, Steve Harrington.

Pairings: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

Warnings: Language, NSFW, mutual masturbation, mentions of smut, and MORE!

Word count: 2,262

A/N: I’ve missed so badly, and this idea would not leave me alone!! Can’t stop thinking of him or that new set photo! I hope you enjoy, my loves! ❤️

“No. You’re not allowed to touch me, only look at me.”

It was absolutely comical, your boyfriend’s reaction to that statement, and you’d laugh if you weren’t so worked up, wound to your core in the need to claim him, your tongue practically hanging out, saliva pooling in your mouth, latched onto a possessive prowl. He knows not to speak unless spoken to. What a good boy. You let him know this.

“What a good baby boy, Steve.” His full name, that coupling praise, causes his knees to knock together, making him hiss as his sensitive and heavy balls get caught in the crossfire.

You observe him once more, like the finest, most priceless work of art in a high security museum. His large feet, those hair legs and equally hair covered thighs — firm and muscular, a testament to his past routines, his current ones, and all the fighting of otherworldly creatures. Then there’s the rest of him; biceps that tan in the summer, worked hard from countless battles, pieced together by defined, massive hands, fingers so thick and long that he should be fined for indecent exposure, that one lone vein that’s woven around his forearm, one you’ve traced many times with your fingers and tongue alike, his perky nipples, almost hidden in that chocolate jungle growing out of his chest, working together to provide the most perfect torso — not overly built, but enough to know that he keeps himself up, that pudge of stomach that rests atop his belt, pushes out his shirt at the navel, right where that deeply rich happy trail nearly ends, miles upon miles of freckles and moles, one’s you aren’t sure even Steve knows about. Luckily enough, you’re here to discover, to inform. You can’t ever forget his back, how it’s mapped out in marks, scars, sometimes scratches from where he’s fucking you so deep you need to carve into to latch on, or how it moves with whatever he’s doing, muscles visible through gorgeous flesh.

His hair is ever changing, sometimes long at its nape, curls drifting here and there. But the tousled fluff remains the same, even when it’s wet from a shower or the rain, doused in perspiration, or torn into by your eager hands. It helps showcase his neck (your ultimate weakness), structured tendons - skin scarred and stubble scattered, moles and freckles there to be tasted, scoped into. It all works into his beautiful face; those pouty and perfect lips, ones that have made you see several galaxies and held you by their whispered captures. To the bridge of his nose, the shape of his jaw line, his beautiful, crooked smile, and his mossy, caramel colored irises that have stared, glared, worried and cried, shrouded by eyelashes that a man should not be able to possess.

And then there’s that sweet and soft, fat ass that you’ve often spent time between, when you’re not sliding your hand into the back of his pockets, squeezing, clinging to - you name it, you’ve done it to Steve Harrington’s ass. What gets your mouth watering outer limits, is those heavy balls, nestled on either side of that girthy, long cock. Surrounded by a bush to match his chest hair, Steve’s own personal monster has been responsible for a lot of self-pleasing, can’t sit down, I’m limping, first time squirting, desperate - nights. Pink around the cut tip, one long vein to match his forearm, it’s no secret with how it sits in his clothing, even if you weren’t visibly in awe of it right at this very moment.

You’re pretty sure that there’s not one body made that even comes close to how pretty Steve Harrington’s is.

“Honey? Please, I need you to tell me what you want me to do. I’m looking at you, I just need you to tell me.”

His honey-hot voice warms you like a blanket fresh from the dryer, soaked in his apple and cedarwood scent. It breaks you from your Steve Harrington mental textbook, and you stare him down. He’s fully naked on the newly added armchair to his bedroom, his thighs spread wide, feet planted on the floor. His chest is heaving sporadically, already glistening in the sweat of desperation, his new silver chain hanging from his neck, reflecting, one massive hand resting on his sternum, scratching, the other wrapped around his base, his fingertips barely grazing around the girth. You practically purr, shoving your lace panties down your legs — your final article of clothing remaining, Steve’s eyes drifting from your tits that are exposed, nipples hard, to your thighs as they spread apart for him.

You’re not embarrassed, not even as your folds noisily separate, a webbed string stretching from one thigh to the other, getting caught on your cunt, which is swollen, putting you entirely on display. The power that you’re drunk on when Steve’s hazel irises vanish into completely blown pupils — it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. He squeezes himself, tongue lolling out to wet his un-kissed lips. “Jesus-fucking-Christ.”

“What?” You mock. “Never seen a pussy this good before, even with your body count, Harrington?”

“Baby, she was just a girl I knew, I told you it wasn’t anything —“

“Shut your pretty little mouth until I ask you a question, Steven. Yeah? You gonna listen or make this worse on yourself? Remove your hand from your dick.”

You hold up one finger to silence him from asking again what he should do next after he obeys, before you’re gliding it along the wet seam of yourself. Fuck, you’re soaking wet from all of this teasing, this tense intensity, and seeing Steve spotlighted like your own personal feast. He nearly growls, his toes curling, cracking, as you push one finger into your cunt without breaking eye contact. He’s squirming on his chair, cock jumping, slapping against his stomach, leaving behind a smear of pre-cum. Your hand slides across your stomach and grabs at your breast, rolling and squeezing, mouth parting, eyes rolling back, and you start fucking your self on your finger.

Lost in it all, eyes glazed over when they open and fixate on him, your jaw is unhinged and you lose control. “My cunt is so fucking wet for you, Steve. I love you watching me. Feels so good, baby. Fuck, fuck — yeah.”

He feels his heartbeat accelerate, ramming itself in echoes against his ribcage, turning his blood into lava, melting his bones to ash. He’s licking at the corner of his mouth, the top, fist clenching across his chest. But he’s still listening, privy to the game here. You want him to beg for it, but can you hold out on that?

Driven by your playful, primal, possession, you slide in another finger and groan, your next few words punched out. “This isn’t enough. Need your cock, Steve.”

You ignore his slip up, his smart mouth, driven by raw, animalistic cravings. “Come over here and get it then, honey.”

A few pumps and you’re speaking to him again, shaking your head. “What I want you to do, right now, is to touch yourself for me. Because the only way you’re going to cum tonight, is by your own hand.”

He starts to protest, but something about this, the refusal, however, an offered and open show — it does things to him he isn’t prepared for.

“Yeah, yeah — okay. Whatever you want. Can I fuck you after? Make you feel good, make it up to you?”

You smirk lazily, letting your opposite hand drop from your breast and part yourself for better friction. He’s already spitting on himself without permission after his question, tugging eagerly, sloppy and drenched, his massive hand slick with it all. You’ve never been more jealous of his palm.

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with you needing to take back control, prove a point, get your dick wet, now would it?” You know that’s not the case. Steve has always been the most giving lover you’ve ever been with, and you’ve not had too many. But still…

He fixes you with that bitchy, breathless-confined, trademark glare. “What do you think?”

“Awful cocky for someone who’s jerking himself off, aren’t you?” This’ll shut him up. You add in a third finger and immediately cry out. It hurts, you knew it would, and it gives him pause.

“Honey, don’t do that without — Goddammit, can I please just lick your clit? Help you so you don’t hurt yourself?” He’s paused, thumb over his head, tendons flexing in his wrist from holding back.

His words have you bucking into your own hand, unable to level off your breathing pattern when you speak.

“Pretty Steve, you think I don’t use three fingers when you’re not around? I’ll have to take an instant for you next time, won’t I?” You stumble through.

“Fuck, you better do that, honey. Killing me here.”

“Maybe don’t be so nice to one of your former bimbos next time? I’m sure she can get another person to help her pick up a heavy box —“

“Sweetheart, you know she bought our old movie collection, it was just me being nice. I was the only one working. I barely remember her.”

“Crystal Abrams. Told everyone how you fingered her freshman year during the pep rally. You know, the one where you and your friends thought it was funny that I read my poem for English class. Then stuck copies of it all over the lockers when the school paper published it? Oh, and… you went on a date with her when you first started at the video store.”

You’re over it. Both of you are aware of that, but it still is enough for Steve to attempt to get up and reach out. You shake it off, smiling softly to show him that this is what you need, that it’s okay, but that he’s yours and he needs to be reminded of it. You were on him the second he got back home to his place, waiting for him, a plan already formulated since you watched him help her with her box of old movies. He wasn’t the problem, your kind Steve, the one that stole your heart - no, it was her overly flirtatious demeanor that unlocked your personal beast.

“Shit, honey, m’ sorry, alright? So fucking apologetic…” He begins to stroke himself, thumb rubbing light circles over his head, spreading his arousal around, his fingers catching and using it to glide his way.

You grin at his word usage and start fucking yourself, scattering your cream down to your knuckles. Your other hand leaves and grabs for your own throat, before settling on pinching your nipple and rolling your breast. You watch him get to work matching your pace, nodding, pleading beneath his breath, his spare hand finding his ballsack and cradling, tightening. His abdomen is tensing, legs shaking, throat muscles taunt and closing in as his vision begins to darken, lost in your face and the pleasure you’re giving one another by giving it to yourselves.

There’s barely any room to stretch on his desk chair, opposite of the room from him, and you’re needy, well aware you’ll want to be held the second that you come. And Steve is slowing down, tilting his head. “You wanna come over here and finish?”

The desk chair spins behind you and smacks into his dresser as you abandon it and stride towards his awaiting lap. His cologne, his aftershave, and that damp smell of sex knocks at your cheek and causes you to open your mouth, attempting to taste it. You clamber with care onto his lap, your back against his chest, legs spread, held heavily on either side of his thighs. He keeps you widely open, available to yourself. His balls stick to your ass, your cunt dousing his cock, that he holds away from your pussy, despite every pulsing attempt it makes to snap forward — his body knows where he belongs.

Your head drops back onto his shoulder and he runs his nose along your neck, over your throat, and paths around your jawline, his lips leaving kisses on your cheek, to behind your ear. His knuckles slide over the seam of you, his entire fist messy with combined essences, and he starts to pleasure himself, encouraging you, spare hand hovering over your breast. His voice is scorching hot, like a butter soaked syrup, rich and sugary. “Can I hold this for you?”

“Mhm-hmm.” Is all you reply with, three fingers disappearing back into your cunt, bodies in close proximity giving feather light touches to one another.

He grasps your breast in his huge palm, voice nearly whispering, “You gonna cum for me?” He’s topping from the bottom, but you’re beyond caring, struggling to stroke that spot that he gets to without issue. “I’m so close for you, honey. Got me so hard denying me, talking to me like this.”

“Steve —“

“I’m no one else’s but yours, baby — I promise you…”

And as you come undone in the arms of one another, at your own hands, mouths hovering, before kisses are taken deeply and roughly, you know that you’d rather die than let anything happen to him or let him disappear from you without him knowing how he is everything and then some…

After you’ve calmed in his arms, he kisses you for a while, works on re-lighting both of your fuses, and takes you to bed, making good on his end of the promises.

// Eat me paragraph //

[melancholicstation]

I DON'T NEED YOU BUT I MISS YOU, COME HERE! - a john f. kennedy jr. one-shot

day 2 of melancholicstation! summary: After exchanging gifts with your boyfriend you both reach a haunting revelation. After a serious of miscommunications between the two of you in which the both of you thought the other had bought the round of gifts this year, you and John are forced to venture into the city on christmas eve in the search of a christmas present for your boyfriends mother. What could be more hellish than that? though your handsome boyfriend makes it more than tolerable...

taglist: @carly-rae-jean @h-l-vlovesvintage @inocennture @monturi @hisamericanmuse @passhun4w-blog @vile-harlot @bluelancergirl @jackiesgirl @fortheloveofjos @itgirlvirgo @starsprangledgirl @malkavared @remotewatch @salvatoresablondie @kimcrystal123 @vampyiricris @scaredlamb @dulcegal @strryhaze

warnings: nothing, just good all clean christmas eve fun...

words: 1,210

Light pitter-pattering of rain falls softly against wrought iron fire escape, a soft aroma of powder and flushed-skin spices laid a slight film upon the furnishings of your New York apartment which was a mix of strewn silk stockings, rugs and tapestries, and because it was Christmas: two delicately placed patchwork stockings made from dead stock fabric across an elegant carved walnut chimneypiece and an antique Christmas collage you'd scored in an auction down in the Cape.

But none of it, in all its curated charm, could compare to the beautiful boy who laid his head in the space of your lap. John's eyes closed resembled those in renaissance paintings when scrutinised too close, and was accompanied by a set of an annoyingly long lashes mirroring the color of ink that's been spilt from a fountain pen.

In all his dreary-faced glory: all tuckered out after a tranquil evening of dining on a mismatched array of foods completely incongruent with the present season such as 2 packs of lemon club sodas, a squash & burrata pizza, and a half picked at banana coconut muffin to share: foods that may or may not have been stolen from your head chef's storage pantry. In your defence the food would've had to go in the trash anyway... If you really thought about it you did them a favour in taking the food!

In service of both you and John's shared distain for the Christmas craze and chaoticness you'd both decided to give each other your presents on Christmas Eve instead of on the big day.

The very presents in question were as follows: John got you a beautiful perfume along with a first edition, signed 'Journals of Anaïs Nin hardcover.

In your case, you got John a limited edition cologne with the tagline "Wear En Plein Air if you want to smell like an unassuming art critic on his way to an orgy." Classy. To go along with the scent you got him this years Art Press magazine issue, lately he'd been talking a lot about possibly creating a magazine: you thought it was a terrific idea but he wasn't so sure it would land.

The gift-giving hour had long passed and before you knew it the both of you had ended up splayed out on top of each other on your bed: an early twentieth century opium bed with a pierced lattice panels. A statement piece in your bedroom that you were very proud of winning in an especially hard auction at Christie's Rockefeller plaza location.

The snacking continued from the floor of the kitchen to the bed, where John began shovelling crumbs of a coconut muffin with reckless abandon: defiling your freshly put-on winter goose-down duvet.

"C'mon John you know I just got this cleaned. You watched me buy it like last week!" you say jokingly, yet your movements betray otherwise: frantically moving the palm of your hands over the duvet trying to brush away the crumbs onto the hardwood floors—an almost unbelievable score for an apartment in the city.

"Baby you're way too tense, let the holiday cheer wash over you!" he says sarcastically with that kind of eat-shit grin he nearly always dons.

"Well i've decided to reject that holiday cheer, I'm too stressed out having to figure out your families fucked up dynamics on top of trying not to piss of your sister—making her hate me more than she already does"

Wiping away the coconut flakes from your chin with his fingers, to which he proceeds to place those same fingers in his mouth, making an almost comically suggestive motion: to which you giggle alongside him.

It's interesting how you can almost see the cogs turn in his mind—it's funny how the longer you get to know him you can almost predicate the exact moment a thought enters his head "Speaking of, I forgot to ask you what you got for my mother for when we go down to the cape tomorrow?"

"Wait I thought you were handling the presents for your family this year. I-I mean she is your mom after all John"

It's at this moment that you immediately understand that he did not have the Christmas presents handled in the slightest.

Oh, fuck.

So that is what transpired to have the two of you traipsing around New York City at a blistering 7 pm on Christmas Eve like total and utter idiots.

After the utter shock of not having organised a Christmas present the night before Christmas set in you both scrambled into action changing out of clothes you called "house clothes" into respectable "outdoor clothes".

You chose a practical uniform for the blistering cold raging outside: a slim-fit pair of indigo blue jeans, a silk porcelain turtleneck for layering purposes, and a camel cashmere belted overcoat.

The reason why you'd regard John as a man touched by a certain oddness, said with love of course, is no better exemplified than his chosen outfit for the blistering cold: a patterned cashmere and silk crewneck paired with some old gym shorts and a pair of uggs atop long cotton socks reaching his mid calf. Now, you wouldn't position yourself as a fashion icon but you won't pretend you didn't second guess his choice of fashion, though you did relent when you saw the bashful smile fixing its attention upon your being.

Initially you were mad at one another for dropping the ball on finding gifts but fighting never lasted all that long with you two now did it?

Now, with that being said: Bergdorf's at 7:31 pm on Christmas Eve was certainly the undiscovered 8th circle of hell that Dante's Inferno conveniently left out. You and John had been circling the aisles for about thirty minutes and still: Nothing. As you traipsed the aisles for what seemed to be no short of a few miles all you found were picked over shelves with cheesy Christmas sweaters made out of polyester and acrylic, and small cheese platters in tiny wicker trays.

And if you gathered anything from the few times you've met your boyfriend's mother: Jacqueline Kennedy, is that she has immaculate taste. And known for having a severe emotional intolerance for synthetic fibres and cheap butter.

So safe to say both products left would absolutely not suffice or bode well with her.

By 7:51 pm you're both defeated but as if an angel sent from the gods themselves decided to take pity on you John spots and item: beckoning you over holding his hand out. The item comes into your view: a 18" silver amphora vase detailed with dragon head handles—a little ornate for your taste but from the look on John's face the vase is a winner.

Delighted to be able to get out of this place you both move to the register, slightly surprised that there's not an outrageously long line before you. You're both quiet for a few minutes while waiting, you're broken out of that silence when you feel John's hand pick up yours and bring it to his lips: kissing each of your fingers wrapped in his hand individually.

Okay, maybe Bergdorf's at 7pm wasn't exactly as bad as Dante's inferno but safe to say you will be getting everyone gifts in November next year to avoid this very situation in the future.

i feel like this is my worst one-shot to date (and it hasn't been edited) but I hope u enjoy regardless p.s all the furniture written about was just an excuse to basically show you my christie's wish list items bisous!!!!!!

[milfsloverblog]

I Need You (NSFW)

Jan Stevens x fem!reader

A/N: What can I say? Jan Stevens is my babygirl, I need her to be happy and loved like she deserves (fuck you Billy). Hope you’ll enjoy this (very much) self indulgent fanfic. <3

It’s no secret that Jan Stevens knows how to organise the best orgies, no secret at all. If there is one thing she won’t do, though, it’s partaking in them. She sometimes sat down in the armchair in the corner of the room and watched as naked limbs entangled together, moans filling the institute, but even that was rare. So, partaking? No, never. Not with the residents, she knew it would be highly unprofessional. She would never.

Or at least she thought. Because when you arrived at the Sonic Catering Institute a couple of months ago, Jan Stevens’ convictions had slightly faltered.

She had watched your first performance from the back of the crowd, how hard you poured your heart and soul into your art. And as she watched your trembling form stand there as the crowd applauded, blood splattered all over your naked body, Jan Stevens’ professionalism had gone out of the window. From that day on, she made sure to attend every orgy you would partake in. She would sit on the armchair in the corner of the room, face impassive as the scene unfolded before her eyes.

You could feel Jan’s stare digging holes into your body as a fellow resident’s hands glided on your skin. You always tried your best not to stare back at her, and it was torture to know that she was just a couple of feet away, that you could probably graze the fabric of her skirt with your fingertips if you only reached for her.

And when you closed your eyes, losing yourself in the mess of moans around you and the caresses on your body, all you could think about was her. How it would feel if the head between your legs was hers, if it was her mouth sucking on your clit and her fingers curling inside your cunt. All you could think about was her.

Oh, Jan Stevens.

You were thrown over the edge so hard that you didn’t even realise her name slipped from your mouth as you climaxed. But it wasn’t lost on Jan. She’d hear her name being called a dozen times a day around the institute, and even if it had been barely audible, she clearly read it on your lips.

Jan Stevens’ face twitched and she was on her feet in less than a second. She needed to get out. Out of the room, out of the institute, and most importantly out of that silly shirt that made it so hard to breathe at that precise moment.

She crossed the garden from the institute to her house in a few long strides, the heels of her stilettos digging into the damp mud.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her shirt which she sent flying through the hallway, and by the time she’d reached her bedroom Jan was left in nothing but her long black skirt and her nude bra.

The woman sat down at her dressing table and faced her reflection in the mirror, watching the way her face twitched and how her lips wobbled. Don’t you dare, she thought.

She couldn’t, she would not allow herself to feel these things again. Not after the fiasco that Billy had been and how long it had taken her to stitch the broken pieces of her heart back together.

Jan was reaching behind her back to unclasp her bra when she heard the bell ring and her head snapped to her bedroom door. No one ever came to her house, everyone knew it was off-limit unless they were actually invited.

-

You had left the orgy a few minutes after Jan, when you’d come down from your high and realised what had just happened. You gathered your clothes and quickly got dressed as you hurried down the institute’s corridors, hoping to catch the tall woman on her way back to her house. You were pretty sure your panties were on backward and your silk shirt was misbuttoned but you couldn’t have cared less, you needed to see her.

You waited for five long minutes after ringing the bell, knowing full well Jan was inside. You could have tried ringing again but something told you that it would be useless, the woman wouldn’t open.

Your eyebrows shot up when you tried the handle and the door was pushed open. One would think Jan Stevens would be more careful with her safety, after all, there were people out there who wanted to see her dead.

“Miss Stevens?” You called as you walked inside the hallway and made your way inside the house, your body startling when the light was suddenly turned on.

“What do you think you are doing exactly?” Jan asked as she stood only a few feet away from you with her hands on her hips.

“Miss Stevens, I’m very, very sorry to disturb you. I know the residents aren’t supposed to enter your house but-“ your voice died in your throat when you finally registered that she was wearing nothing but her bra and skirt.

God, she was a vision. Milky white skin peppered with constellations of freckles, small breasts clad in nude fabric. You wanted to reach for her, now more than ever before.

“Did you…Think of me?” The woman asked, your eyes snapping right back to her face.

“I’m sorry?” You frowned and shook your head a little, unsure what she meant.

“During the orgy,” She said as she took a step closer, then another one. “You moaned my name, I heard you. Were you thinking of me or was that a way to mock me?”

Your frown deepened, why on earth would you want to mock her? Why would anyone do that?

“Yes, yes I was thinking of you. It’s hard not to do so when you’re sitting so close to me and staring. I know it’s inappropriate. It’s highly unprofessional and-“ Your rambling was interrupted by a hand cupping your cheek and lips crashing onto yours.

You melted into the kiss, your hands coming to tightly hold onto Jan’s waist when you felt your knees wobbling dangerously. The urgency in her kiss struck you like a slap to the face. How long had she been wanting to do this?

When she finally pulled away, her red lipstick was smudged up to her nose and you were pretty sure the bottom half of your face was covered in it too. And it made you laugh, which in turn made her laugh too, and you decided that her unabashedly loud laugh would be your favourite sound from that moment on.

“I need you.” Jan Stevens admitted in a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about you ever since I first met you. And I know I need to be professional but I can’t stop thinking about you…And now I know you feel the same about me.”

The way she said it dripped with softness, but there was something else there too. Jan Stevens was scared, she was insecure. You could tell by the way her big blue eyes searched for an answer in yours. And you couldn’t help but curse the imbecile that came before you and did this to her.

“Let me take care of you.” You simply answered, pressing your lips on hers once more.

She led you to her bedroom without ever breaking the kiss, her hands making quick work of unbuttoning your shirt and letting it fall to the floor in the corridor without much care.

She barely had time to step inside the room that you already had her pressed against the wall, making her whine when you pulled away from her lips to catch your breath.

“I need you too.” You groaned when your hand bunched up her skirt. And it was true. You needed her, she was all your heart and soul were craving. You needed to hear your name fall from her lips like hers had fallen from yours.

You planted a trail of soft kisses from her pulse point to her shoulder, taking pride in the goosebumps that appeared on the older woman’s skin and the small whimper that she let out.

Your hand found its way inside Jan’s underwear and her hips bucked as soon as your fingertip grazed her clit.

“Needy woman.” You whispered in her ear, eliciting another whimper as well as another thrust of her hips.

You stifled a moan when your fingers slid between her folds only to find her drenched already. She looked at you through hooded eyes, a faint smile pulling the corner of her lips.

You delved two fingers inside her sex, parting her slick walls with a delicious pressure.

Breathy moans filled the air as your speed picked up, your fingers pumping into her cunt faster than her languid mind could keep up with. You slid in and out of her in quick motions, drawing her arousal down your knuckles and onto her inner thighs.

You wished you could capture her face at that moment, head thrown back, eyes half closed and mouth agape.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. Taking me so well.” You praised her and felt her walls clenching around your fingers. Oh, Jan Stevens had a praise kink then.

“Is that what you want? For me to tell you how good you are? How well you’re taking my fingers?” You grunted and curled your digits inside her, quickly finding the spongey spot you were looking for.

“You need to be worshipped, don’t you?” Your free hand joined the other one between the woman’s legs to draw quick circles on her clit.

The tightness that had been building inside Jan’s core became almost unbearable, and with a couple more thrusts it eventually snapped, throwing the tall woman over the edge. You closed your eyes as she cried your name out, your heart swelling in your chest.

You moved your hand to grab onto her waist, holding her up and keeping her from sinking onto her knees while your fingers slowed inside her. You eventually pulled them out and slipped them into your mouth, moaning as the taste of her settled on your tongue.

“Don’t go.” Was all Jan Stevens said once she had come down from her high.

“I won’t, I promise I won't.” You answered, watching the worry instantly leave her blue eyes.

How could I ever go, you think as Jan lay in your arms, the fabric of her bunny pyjamas rubbing on your naked skin with each movement of her sleeping form.

How could I ever go?

[nipuni]

Hey, Nipuni! First off, I want to say that i love your work sooosoooo much and i can’t even truly describe the impact it’s had on me. You’re an inspiration to me!! No matter what your interest is in i will always be a fan. I was really curious and wanted to ask, i think you’ve talked about it a looong time ago but, how long do you reckon it takes your to do your fully painted illustrations these days?? and how long do you wait before posting it, assuming you aren’t sure if you’re satisfied with it. I’ve just been struggling with overworking my art and feeling like it’s not ever ready to post so i was curious. 😟

Hello!! I'm so late to reply I'm so sorry!! Thank you so much for the kind words!! to hear that my work can have such a positive impact on someone is the greatest compliment truly 😭❤️ and thank you for sticking through all my interest hopping too haha

These days it takes me anywhere from 2 to 9 hours most of the time, non consecutive if I can help it, and I usually sleep on them at least one night before I share them. But I've held on for over a month to some just because I didn't think they looked quite right, so I keep coming back to them every now and then and do some small tweaking until I reluctantly post them either out of frustration or exhaustion haha I don't have the patience or the attention span to work on the same thing for very long to be honest, so I've adapted 😆

The truth I like to remind myself of is that once I share something all my focus shifts to my next idea every time so whether I could have done better or not doesn't matter once it is out of my hands. I can always do better on the next one, there is just the comfort of letting go and a fresh start.

I've struggled with overworking pieces to death a lot too. It stems from anxiety really so it's a matter of building confidence, the point at which art is ready to be shared is arbitrary after all. You can convey a message or idea just as effectively through the roughest of sketches to the most detailed oil painting, the rest of the work is mostly towards aesthetic value.

On the technical side of things, when you grow frustrated with a piece to the point where you start to resent it is a good indicator that you need a different course of action. Sometimes bringing in new references can help you find the issue, sometimes the problem is structural and buried under piles of unnecessary detail and you have to go back and redo or remove something you were reluctant to, and sometimes the best thing you can do is to let go and come back to it with fresh eyes when you have learned more. As for studies, working from big to small, training for speed and on a time limit has helped me. Anyway I think I've started rambling, I hope any of this helps!! Remember that art at any stage is better than no art at all!!

[stjohnstarling]

Hello! Love 'What Manner of Man'! It inspired me to make my own vintage gay story myself!

But I'm having an issue with outlining, since outlining a novel feels more close-ended than a longer-form serial novel is.

Do you have any advice? Or resources, etc?

So you have no way of knowing this, but I am actually obsessed with story structure. It’s maybe the part of storytelling I’ve spent the most time consciously working with, so sorry in advance because I’m about to go on a dubiously helpful monologue. It’s a bit tricky for me to answer about resources, since the things I used when I was learning have been lost to the sands of time. That being said I have a couple pieces of advice:

If you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t be afraid to find a template. I wish I could link you a good one but I don’t have any on hand. When I was first learning to write novels, I actually found a few different standard novel structure templates and used them to outline a bunch of novels I never intended to write, as practice. Bad and silly ones that were just fun to play with, where there was no pressure to write anything I’d ever want anyone to see. My background is in music, so my instinct when I don’t know how to do something is to isolate that element and practice it on its own, and it’s never steered me wrong.*

But more than that - what you’re feeling as closed-ended is that you’re trying to write a story with structure, as opposed to one that is mostly improvised. I remember feeling this too, when I first started exploring writing novels, but this is one of those cases where limitations are actually what gives you freedom.

Structure is part of the artistry of storytelling - just like poetry has forms like sonnets and sestinas, and songs have verses, bridges, and choruses. You know intuitively the structure of a pop song, and that heightens the pleasure of listening to one as you anticipate the build up to the chorus. Stories are like this too. The structure is an important part of the audience’s enjoyment of the final piece, whether they know it or not.

I’ll give an example. Season one of AMC’s The Terror is a piece of fiction that is structured with some serious artistry, above and beyond just good craftsmanship, its structure is a crucial part of how it creates meaning. As a result a lot of what its fans do is analyze it for parallels in its storytelling. I don’t think many of them would articulate what they enjoy about it as “this is a well structured story,” but the structure is actually one of the main things the fandom engages with.

More than any writing resource, the best way to learn is to study and analyze stories you admire - why things are put in a certain order and why events fall at the points in the story that they do. When are you anticipating, when are you experiencing catharsis, where in the story do those things happen? Explore widely! You don’t have to limit yourself to novels! Movies are great for getting a basic understanding of how you can structure a story because the time and space requirements they’re subject to mean movies tend to be very rigidly structured. There’s no time to mess around like there is in long forms of fiction like novels.

I encourage you to embrace structure as a part of the art and a potential tool for expression and beauty! I can’t tell you how rewarding it is.

*I am aware that this advice does not work for a lot of people, so if it doesn’t work for you that is also perfectly fine! Everyone is different.

[sugar-and-pearls]

Howdy ghouls, folks and dearie- ohs

My name is Hedone and I've been in this community for about three years now. I love it truly and wish never to be parted from it. But in that time I've noticed somethings. Like how it can be difficult to survive it, especially when your starting out I feel. So, to give back I made this;

This is your guide on how to make friends and survive the selfshipping community.

So with that out the way, there are some steps to survive.

Create -

In my view, self shipping is often a creative outlet as it is a comforting one. The ability to take a piece of media into my hands and shape it to my whims and will is often awe-inspiring. I'll admit it's easier to see it with other people than with ourselves.

So with this in mind - start off small, though if you want to go guns blazing you can do that too. It doesn't have to be a lot. If you feel embarrassed, don't be. If you are afraid then don't worry cus your definitely not alone there.

Often times it helps to make a promo. This way people who find you can know some quick facts; your title, your fos and any other bits of info you wish to give. Most people will want to know if you share an fo or not - whether this is in case they are uncomfortable with share or want to know if your comfortable with sharing. Whether you are or not is your choice.

'this user' boxes are a fun way to decorate and tell people about yourself. If your worried about how it looks, then make another one, there's no limit unless you make one. Some people make Cards for it. If that's intimidating, don't worry boo, this is Tumblr - you do you.

My first real post was about what it would be like my mind was like a house and what which fos would stay and which ones would come and go. I posted it three years ago and in all that time it has gotten 16 notes on it. Does that mean that I shouldn't have created it? no, no it doesn't. Because when I read it it makes me happy.

Do a gush post, make art, start 'reblog with your f/o' game, write stories, make a moodboard - start the flow on those creative juices.

interact -

I've seen a lot of people be nervous about talking to new people and I can tell you, I feel the same. Its daunting, talking to someone new and it can be awkward wading through the small talk. Most people are in the same boat as you; nervous and wishing to talk about their fos.

Instead of focusing on being popular, try and make friends instead, its much much more emotionally fulling than the first option. Find people with fos in the same source, and try and build it up from there. You'll find your weridos eventually - you just got to sieve though the rest first. You don't have to be best pals with everyone on there but be friendly.

If you recognise a character, why not send an ask? If you have a mutual in mind, why not try and talk with them? Reblog other people's art and moodboards and posts. Doing content trades is a great way to interact with people (and boo if your worried or don't think your content is very good, don't be - we're all evolving here). Also if you can or just like to draw, you can make fanarts for a selfship you like or would like to be your mutual - like I said before, everyone on here just wants to talk about their fos here, all that is needed is a small push first.

With that in mind not everyone you talk to is going to like you, or interact the same way you do. Everyone has a style to themselves and that's ok - the trick is find someone who has the same, or a similar style as you. Even though we are interacting through a screen, remember that there is another person behind that screen; ask them how they're doing, what they're up to, if anything positive happen in their life.

Also be careful about the kinds of people you want to befriend- do they give back what you give first? Do they share your joy? You're bound to find many you click with, just be patient and don't give up - you got this 👍😊👍

Make Friends From All Walks Of The Community -

You'll never know who you're fandom buddy will be - Antis, proships, all are people and all have a different flavour to one another. Its up to you to pick. I've found that to survive here you have to lay roots. No man is an island after all. If you don't agree with a someone's ship or like it doesn't cost much to just be polite. Being considerate and kind to other people's selfships goes a long way round here.

Insecurity

Its pretty easy to feel intimidated by other's success. feeling like their ships are being validated while yours aren't (trust me here - I know what I speak of) but here's what you have to remember: We're all just people daydreaming about fictional characters - No one is better than you and you f/os will always love you!

This is one of the many reasons why building a foundation of fellow weridos is important, its good to have a someone that your able to lean on and vice versa.

But main point here is that no matter what, no one can take away your fos love for you nor your love for them. And if they try, flip them the 🖕 cus we don't give a 🦆

Karma -

I see a few newbies do this where they go onto someone's blog, reblog a game but not send in an ask from that game. If you reblog an ask game off of someone, sent in an ask from that game. Every little helps and it spreads the love around.

Tumblr is not like Instagram, likes are not the currency here. Reblog other people's art and moodboards and posts. Leave a comment in the tags about the things you like or what you felt like when you saw it, send in an ask about their post.

Remember that even though we are interacting through a screen, there is another person behind that screen; Wishing for the same things as you do.

Take Breaks

It can be tiring on here, takes up a lot of energy so taking breaks can be good for you.

It's not like your fos are going to run away the second you turn your back - come away from Tumblr for a bit and reconnect with the outside, touch some grass, take a walk outside for a while. Its can be for as long as you like. I usually find that I like to take these breaks when I have things planned, so like if I'm going somewhere or have a thing planned I generally just try and stay off Tumblr for as long as I can, till I really want to.

If you feel like your abandoning your fos then why not take them with you? what would they say when your outside? How would they react? What would you say back? things like that.

Like with many of my posts, I doubt it will get much attraction. But if one person sees it and it helps them, then that's my dues paid, my contribute made. A very special thank you to @echoes-lighthouse @wisemins @hibiscus-ships @tex-treasures @missnaunet @vanilla-ending, @multyshipping for all your tips and helps with making this post.

With that said, thank you for reading this and if you never see me again

Merry Meet, Merry Part and Merry met Again.