#sketched this day of and finished it the next day

[sunshinesfreckless]

His Spoiled Kitten

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Lee Know x fem!reader

Summary: Leeknow loves showing his Favourite Girl who she belongs to.

Warnings: Luxury ownership. Designer collars. ehehehe minho being sexy

A/N: Leeknow arrived to the spoiled series… Han and Changbin are next, don‘t worry my kittens <3

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Changbin ୨ৎ Han

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Minho didn’t do flashy.

He didn’t need to. He did exclusive.

Her Gucci collection didn’t come from store shelves.

It came from private appointments, whispered calls, and sketches sent to his inbox for approval. Each one designed with her in mind.

A velvet handbag dyed to match the flush on her cheeks when she came for him.

A pair of gold heels engraved with his initials under the sole, so she’d always have him beneath her.

A perfume created by the Gucci lab with notes of peach nectar and white musk — he named it “Mine.”

“I want her to smell like she belongs to me,” he’d told them. “And something sweet. She is sweet.”

He never let her see the invoices.

She didn’t need to.

He’d slide rings onto her fingers mid-conversation, like it was nothing.

Fold jackets over her shoulders in rooms that weren’t cold, just to see her wear his name.

And when Gucci sent over a mini-dress designed for events — deep green silk, bare-backed, dripping with subtle crystals — he only had one response:

“She’ll wear it at home. No one else gets to see her in that.”

And she did.

In their bedroom.

With nothing underneath but a thong he bought to match.

────୨ৎ────

He once got her a travel bag.

Cream leather, soft as sin. Her initials embossed in rose gold on the side.

She laughed. “I don’t travel enough to need this.”

“You will,” he said, zipping it open. “Check the inside.”

She did.

It was packed.

With envelopes.

Each one labeled in his neat, sharp handwriting:

• Paris – for the kiss on the Seine.

• Tokyo – for the night we stay in.

• Milan – for the Gucci headquarters. I want them to see how perfect you are in person.

He’d planned it all. First class, black cars, suites with balconies — and a new outfit for each destination, custom-tailored to her measurements.

“Minho,” she whispered, teary-eyed.

He only smiled, pulling her into his lap. “Told you. You don’t lift a finger unless it’s to touch me.”

And she did.

────୨ৎ────

He swore he just came for a wallet.

Simple. Clean. Black leather, nothing flashy — just something to replace the worn one he’d been using for three years.

But the second she sighed, it was over.

Minho followed her gaze without a word.

The bag was a soft cream Gucci Jackie — butter leather and gold hardware. She didn’t even say anything, just looked once and turned away like it was nothing.

Like she didn’t know he noticed.

He tapped the glass counter lazily. “We’ll take the bag too.”

The cashier brightened. “Anything else? It comes in a set with three—”

“Yes,” he cut in. Didn’t even let her finish.

His Girl turned, eyes wide. “Wait—”

“Choose the other bags,” he said simply, leaning back on the counter. “Whatever you want, kitten.”

The cashier smiled. “Follow me, Miss.”

This wasn’t the first time. Not with Minho.

Her collection was ridiculous by now, a full spectrum of spoiling.

Minho never blinked. Never asked twice.

He just gave.

Like the day he came home with a little velvet box and pulled out a diamond collar.

Not a choker. Not jewelry.

A collar — dainty but unmistakable. With his name engraved in cursive at the center, studded with tiny black diamonds.

“Come here,” he’d said that night, low and calm, snapping it around her throat.

“Now everyone knows who my kitten is, right?”

He’d tilted her chin up, kissed her mouth softly.

And then ruined her on the floor like she was made to be taken with his name glittering at her neck.

God, he loved how it looked when she went down on him like that.

Diamond collar catching the light. Tears sparkling on her cheeks. His hand fisted in her hair while she gagged so sweetly around him.

“Mine,” he’d growled, hips thrusting deeper, “look how fucking pretty my girl is like this.”

Minho didn’t just spoil. He claimed.

────୨ৎ────

He cooked for her like it was sacred.

Wouldn’t let her near a single knife or pan. Just sat her on the counter, fed her from the spoon, kissed her when she whined.

“Let me help—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No, kitten. Sit there and look pretty.”

He’d press kisses to her knee. Sometimes he’d undo the straps of her dress and fuck her right there against the fridge before the water even boiled. He liked to see her tits bounce.

She was soft. Sweet. So good for him.

And he?

He was everything. Rich, controlled, a little dangerous — but hers.

────୨ৎ────

It wasn’t supposed to be used like this.

The scarf had been a gift — crimson silk, embroidered with tiny cats and cherries, a nod to her two favorite things. He’d tied it gently around her neck when he first gave it to her, pressing a kiss just beneath the knot.

But now, it was wet with spit and stuffed between her lips.

“Shhh, baby,” Minho cooed, thumbing away a tear from the corner of her eye. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”

She whimpered, breath catching as he thrust deeper — slow, thick strokes that made her toes curl.

He was behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other resting on the small of her back, keeping her arched just the way he liked.

The scarf fluttered with every moan she choked on. Her Gucci gift — now her gag — pressed into her tongue like another brand of ownership.

And he loved it.

Loved seeing her spoiled and ruined, all at once.

A trembling doll made just for him.

“I should buy you another,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “One for every time I make you cry on my cock.”

He pulled back slightly, admiring the string of saliva that connected them to the scarf.

“Maybe one for every orgasm too. Hm?”

She could only sob in response, her walls fluttering around him like she was already saying yes.

────୨ৎ────

Minho had one room in their house locked.

She wasn’t supposed to go in.

But she peeked anyway, one day when he was gone for schedules.

What she found was a vault.

Dozens of boxes. Wrapped. Labeled.

Gucci. Cartier. Loewe. Rare editions. Archived pieces.

All neatly stacked, waiting for the right moment.

Shoes she hadn’t worn yet.

Dresses he never let her even see.

She was still standing there, stunned, when he walked in.

Caught red-handed.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue. “Curious kitten.”

Before she could apologize, he was already lifting her.

He sat her down — right on top of the stacked boxes. Velvet, silk, leather beneath her thighs.

She gasped.

“Since you’re up here,” he said, pushing her skirt up with slow fingers, “might as well give you a reason to come back.”

Her back hit the wall of the closet. He slid in without warning, one hand around her throat, his other gripping her thigh.

“Every one of these gifts,” he grunted against her ear, “is yours. But I’m your favorite, right?”

She nodded desperately, gasping against his mouth.

“Say it.”

“You,” she whimpered. “You’re my favorite gift.”

He smiled.

And made her scream that line three more times.

────୨ৎ────

But oh — she was in love with him. Not just the diamonds or the handbags or the silken scarf still damp with the memory of him.

No, she loved the way he looked at her when she was curled up on the couch in his hoodie, hair a mess, a cat asleep on each thigh.

She loved how he melted when she fed his babies before he even got the chance — Soonie, Doongie, and Dori happily flocking to her, as if she’d always belonged.

And he did too.

Some nights, he came home exhausted. His limbs heavy from hours of practice, his voice hoarse, his energy drained. But then he opened the door — and there she was.

His girl. His home.

Bundled up in the blanket he always said was too warm, half-asleep, a drama playing on low volume, and the cats purring beside her like guardians.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“You’re back,” she whispered.

And he’d kneel at her feet, bury his face in her stomach, arms wrapped around her waist like a man starved.

“You stayed up?”

“Always.”

Because no matter how much he spoiled her — she was the one who gave him peace. Who gave him softness. Who never let him go to bed without a kiss, or leave the house without a snack.

He pressed his lips to hers, slow and sleepy.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever bought,” he teased, and she smacked his arm.

“I’m not for sale.”

“Exactly,” he murmured. “You’re priceless.”

And she was.

The one thing he couldn’t put in a shopping bag.

Only in his heart.

[aventurineswife]

Dan Heng with a creative and crafty Reader (drawing, painting, embroidery, ceramics, etc) and one day Reader makes for him a scented nudibranch/sea bunny plush that smells like lotuses, water lilies and rain. Something cute and huggable whenever he isn’t sleeping well or just wants something to hold onto. 😊

A Whisper of Lotus and Rain

Summary: Dan Heng struggles with sleepless nights haunted by the past. Noticing his restlessness, you—an introverted and creative individual—decide to make him a special, handmade plush of a sea bunny that smells like lotus flowers, water lilies, and rain. The plush is meant to offer comfort when Dan Heng is unable to sleep. While he is hesitant at first, Dan Heng quietly acknowledges the gesture, finding solace in the softness of the plush and the thoughtfulness behind it.

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Scented Plush, Quiet Moments, Thoughtful Gifts.

The Astral Express was quiet, the usual hum of the engine and the occasional creak of the train’s frame settling in the background. The crew had gathered in their usual spaces for rest after a long journey, but tonight was different. Dan Heng sat by a window, staring out at the passing stars, his spear leaning against the seat beside him. His quiet contemplation was his usual refuge, but lately, he’d been struggling with more than just his responsibilities.

There had been nights where sleep seemed impossible. Thoughts from his past would creep in—unwanted, unsettling—and he couldn’t push them away, no matter how much he tried. He would wake in cold sweats, the weight of his past and the darkness that trailed him pulling him into restlessness. But no one knew. No one but you.

You had seen him struggle, though he never openly confessed to it. His demeanor was always calm, but the subtle exhaustion in his eyes didn’t escape your notice. You’d always been the creative sort, your hands busy with things that brought you peace—drawing, painting, and lately, embroidery. Your talent for crafting was something you took pride in, and it was your way of expressing everything you felt but couldn’t put into words.

One evening, as the train rolled into a new, unfamiliar station, you decided to create something just for him. It was your way of offering comfort in a way you knew best: with your hands.

You spent the next few days working in your small corner of the train, sketching designs, picking out fabric, and weaving threads into a creation that would be small enough to fit in his hand but meaningful enough to offer the comfort you thought he needed. Your creation would be a plush—a soft, cute, and huggable sea bunny, a nudibranch, with the colors of ocean blues and the pale whites of lotus petals.

You wanted it to smell like peace—like the serene beauty of a quiet lake after the rain. You found the perfect scented oils—lotuses, water lilies, and rain itself. With each stitch, each step of the process, you poured your thoughts into it. You imagined him holding it in the night, something to comfort him, to hold onto when his thoughts wouldn’t let him rest.

When you finally finished, you carefully placed the small plush on the seat near his usual resting spot. It sat there, soft and delicate, its hues offering a subtle warmth. You hesitated before calling out to him.

“Dan Heng?” you said softly, standing near the door of the cabin, your heart racing a little at the thought of his reaction.

Dan Heng looked up from his seat, his usual calm gaze shifting to you. His eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps noticing the uncertainty in your voice, but he didn’t say anything.

You gestured toward the plush. “I made this for you. It’s... just something to hold onto when you need it.”

His gaze shifted to the plush, then back to you. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, his expression unreadable. But then, slowly, his gaze softened—just the slightest shift, a flicker of emotion he didn’t often allow others to see. He reached out, picking up the plush in his hands, his fingers tracing the soft fabric.

“It smells like rain...” he murmured quietly, his voice quieter than usual. “Lotuses... water lilies.”

You nodded. “I thought it might bring you some peace when things get... heavy.” You shifted a little, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to say anything. Just... if you need it.”

For a brief moment, he said nothing, simply holding the plush in his hands. His fingers gently pressed into it, as though testing its softness, as though deciding whether or not he could allow himself to find comfort in it.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice soft but sincere. “Thank you.”

His words were simple, yet the weight behind them was something you hadn’t expected. He wasn’t one for overt displays of emotion, and this quiet acknowledgment felt like a rare gift.

“I’ll keep it close,” he added quietly, his gaze softening as he stood up. “It’s... nice.”

And with that, he walked to his sleeping quarters, the small sea bunny plush clutched in his hand. You stood there for a moment, feeling a warmth spread through your chest.

Later that night, you could hear the gentle sound of Dan Heng’s door opening and closing, but there was something different about the way he walked past. He no longer seemed as weighed down by the usual tension that hung around him. You smiled softly to yourself, knowing that somehow, you had managed to give him something to hold onto—something that could help ease the weight of the past, if only for a little while.

The next morning, when you checked on him again, the plush was placed on his pillow, the scent of lotus and rain still faintly lingering in the air. And for once, Dan Heng had managed to sleep soundly.

[heavenlyhailss]

Brian Moser x Artist reader!

‘That’s my butchering apron?!’

The loft is bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun, casting long shadows across the concrete floors. You stand before a large canvas, your hands stained with a kaleidoscope of colors. The faint hum of the city seeps through the open windows, mingling with the soft strains of reggaeton playing from a nearby radio.

Brian enters, his presence as imposing as ever. He pauses, eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene. "That's my butchering apron," he states, his voice laced with disbelief.

You glance over your shoulder, a smirk tugging at your lips. "Yeah, well, mine's in the dryer."

His gaze flickers to the canvas, then back to you. "You used it to paint?"

"Improvised," you reply nonchalantly, dipping your brush into a fresh pool of cerulean blue.

He sighs, rubbing his temples. "You can't just use my equipment for your... art."

"Art is about breaking boundaries," you quip, adding a streak of crimson to the canvas.

Brian steps closer, inspecting the apron now adorned with splashes of paint. "This isn't art; it's a crime scene."

You chuckle, stepping back to admire your work. "Isn't that the point?"

‘Oh gosh not again..’

The loft is quiet, save for the rhythmic clinking of dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. You stand at the counter, scrubbing brushes, when Brian enters, his eyes scanning the room with a practiced precision.

He stops in his tracks upon seeing the bone saw resting on the drying rack. "Is that...?" His voice trails off, disbelief evident.

You glance up innocently. "Oh, that? Just needed to clean it."

"Clean it?" he repeats, incredulous. "You can't just wash... that."

"Why not?" you ask, shrugging. "It's all about maintaining the tools."

“Plus, my saw saw BROKE..”

Brian shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he grabs the saw and places it back in its rightful place. "You're impossible."

‘It’s for educational purposes!!’

“You know, if you keep staring at that leg, people are going to start asking questions.”

You don’t look up from the fiberglass calf on the workbench. It’s an above-the-knee prosthetic, half-assembled, raw and elegant in its incompletion. Like a statue someone forgot to finish carving.

“I’m studying the curvature of the tibialis anterior,” you murmur, reaching for your sketchpad. “Relax.”

Brian exhales through his nose, running a hand through his dark hair. He’s in his lab coat—white, pristine, barely wrinkled. The artificial limb workshop smells like sawdust and acetone.. ‘nail salon and ball sweat’ as you described it.

“Most people don’t use prosthetics as still life references,” he says, turning back to the socket he’s adjusting. His hands move with surgical grace, wrist cocked, screwdriver steady.

You smirk, flipping to a new page. “Most people are boring.”

He glances over, eyes narrowing. “You’re sketching it like it’s alive.”

“It looks alive.” You tap your pencil against the outline of the shin, half-shaded. “There’s muscle memory in the molding. “It looks like an ACTUAL leg.”

Brian lets the silence hang, then shrugs. “That’s the point. People want it to feel real.”

You hum in agreement, then peer at the knee joint. “Can I borrow one of those for my next painting?”

He freezes. “A leg?”

“Just for a day.”

“No.”

“Brian.”

“I said no. I can’t have you walking out of here with someone’s future limb like it’s a cup of sugar.”

You pout dramatically, flipping your sketchpad shut. “You’re no fun.”

He turns toward you, finally—arms crossed, smirk playing on his lips. “You used my hacksaw to open a paint can last week.”

“It was a tight lid.”

He walks over slowly, one brow raised. “You are chaos incarnate.”

“And you,” you say, standing and poking him in the chest, “are an artist pretending to be an engineer.”

He’s quiet at that, but you can see it—how the edges of his smirk twitch like he’s holding something back. The desire to correct you. The desire to agree.

You glance down at the prosthetic leg again, still resting on the bench. “You know what I see?”

He tilts his head. “Enlighten me.”

You trail your fingers along the faux-patella, featherlight. “I see someone trying to rebuild what the world took away.”

Brian blinks slowly, like you’ve said something dangerous. He doesn’t reply.

You meet his gaze, suddenly solemn. “You don’t just make limbs, Brian. You recreate ghosts.”

He looks at you then—not annoyed, not amused. Just quiet. Something flickering behind his eyes, like recognition. Or warning.

“…You need to stop psychoanalyzing me,” he finally says, voice soft.

You smile.

“But I’m so good at it..” You grin.

First post!!

Hope y’all enjoyed readin’ reqs encouraged!! 💞

Sweet dreams

- Hails

[katsinspats]

Thematically appropriate comic for Make a Terrible Comic Day!!

I saw the original post this morning and it made me get out of bed to make something, so thank u Pseudonym Jones mission accomplished

[parisoonic]

A bunch of wips and sketches 🎨🖌️

[canarydraws]

Andromeda 💙💜🩷

[xxplastic-cubexx]

[right to left]

finally finished This Wip from Ever ago and so now i ask you ever look into another dudes eyes and suddenly want to do whatever he wants

[bepomepo33]

LOOK AT THEM GO!

[woolying]

happy hasemura 4/14

[tullecake]

some silly metal doodles because i looooove them ^^

[artistictea]

Guardian and Ward :)

(Just finished KCD1 no spoilers please!)

[olrinarts]

day 21: lanolin

Lambkits! (i know y'all call them shittens and that's valid but i don't think they'd call their own kids that so here we are) (crowns ended up looking more alarmed than intended, which was 'not at all' lmao)

following the end of constancy must transpose (you can read it here!), this is the first family portrait after the twins are born. Both Narinder and his daughter are just cuddled into the wool, with the son propped up against his dad's face bc the purr is soothing

short ramble on the twins/the lambkits in general/Lamb name drop bc why not

So once the Lamb remembers their own name, Esriaal (AE-sree-a'all, said with a bit of a baa on the last syllable, reason for the name is gonna be in the lore/ref posts i'm working on since it has a specific cultural reason), they start remembering other sheep names. Narinder insists that the kids have those from now on, for obvious reasons. Sheep names are usually drawn from angel names, as a fun lil contrast with all the demon names from the ars goetia, with spelling occasionally adjusted for the sheep pronunciations.

The older twin is a girl kitten named Israafil (EE-sra'a-feel, said with a bit of a baa in the middle), who's named for a friend of the Lamb before all of the sheep died. She has darker grey fur on her face/paws/end of her tail, and pale fur elsewhere; she has 3 eyes like her father.

The younger twin is a boy sheep named Harut (hah-ROOT) named for an important mentor/parental figure who was the last other sheep and the reason the Lamb survived. He's got black wool and two eyes.

it's only a few lambkits later that the Lamb and Narinder realise their kids are sometimes a little more mixed than usual, since these two follow the normal 'kid's race is identical to one of the parents' races' of my AUs

[andy1687manga]

So happy that Today its the release of the movie in latam and also the anniversary of Daffy!!!

[torra-and-the-toons]

Okay hear me out hear me out

Wally painstakingly learning Japanese and the only thing he's learned so far is the word "himé", which means "princess", and it refers to Kuki obviously

AWE this is so adorable I love it so much! XD

I could totally see him learning it on accident too

Despite this, he still uses it when it's just the two of them to see her smile :>

[todayisafridaynight]

[fluffsnake]