#something artisanal maybe? is that the right word??

[uygfiug]

i have got to learn to swim someday

[p0orbaby]

Make Yourself at Home

summary: all you want is a quiet night in with alessia, and tooney?

warnings: SMUT 18+, not explicit but smut adjacent, i digress, oral (alessia receiving)

a/n: our favourite grump really can’t catch a break

word count: 809

-

You’re a pretty impartial person.

You don’t really get excited about much. Ice cream flavors? Meh. Pets? Take ’em or leave ’em.

While everyone else is busy with their pre-game rituals and superstitions, and instagram and oat milk lattes, you just roll your eyes and get on with it.

But there’s one thing you’re absolutely crazy about. One thing that wipes the scowl off your face. One thing that you’ll happily clear your entire schedule for.

What is it, you ask? Football? Contractually, sure. But no. An intensive workshop on mastering the art of making artisanal cheese from scratch? You could be tempted. But still no. The chance to have your head between Alessia’s legs? Jackpot!

You’re a simple creature.

There’s just something about the way she reacts when you’re down there, the way she arches her back and moans your name like a prayer. Like you’re the only one who can unravel her, the only one who knows exactly how to make her fall apart.

It’s a real confidence booster, you know?

In those moments, you feel anything but impartial. You feel alive, electrified by the sheer intensity of the connection between you and your partner. It’s a feeling you chase, a feeling you crave with a hunger that borders on obsession.

So when you find yourselves settled on the sofa one evening, the warmth of Alessia’s thighs pressed against your cheeks, you can’t help but feel a sense of contentment wash over you. It’s a simple pleasure, but one that brings you more joy than any pre-game ritual ever could.

And as Alessia’s fingers thread through your hair, guiding you with a gentle urgency, you realise that maybe, just maybe, being practical isn’t so boring after all. Especially when it leads to-

“Oh my fucking god! My eyes!”

You freeze, the comfortable haze of contentment shattered by the sudden intrusion. You pull away from Alessia’s warmth, blinking rapidly as you try to make sense of the chaos unfolding before you.

Standing in the doorway, eyes wide with shock, is Ella. One hand clamped over her mouth in horror as she takes in the scene before her, while the other holds a Sainsbury’s Bag For Life brimming with, clothes?

Alessia looks equally startled, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of crimson as she scrambles to cover herself with a nearby throw pillow.

“Jesus Christ, Ella! Can’t you knock?” you snap, your irritation flaring up in full force. “Stop looking!”

Where the fuck is your t-shirt?

Ella stammers as she turns around, her face burning with embarrassment. “I-I did knock! And I rang Less’ phone but she didn’t answer. I thought something was wrong!”

“Something is wrong,” you mutter under your breath, shooting Alessia a pointed look.

Alessia bites her lip, clearly struggling to contain her laughter at the absurdity of the situation. “You know where the bathroom is, Ella”

You resist the urge to shout again, instead focusing on the task at hand. “Can you please just… I don’t know, leave? We were in the middle of something”

Ella nods frantically. “Right, of course. I’ll just… go. Are your towels still in the cupboard on the landing?”

What on earth is happening right now?

“Why does she have a key? When did I agree to this?” You seethe as you throw Alessia her stray clothes once Ella is finally out of sight.

“It’s for emergencies” she tells you calmly as she gets dressed.

You look around the room, arms out in confusion. “Where’s the emergency, huh?” you challenge, gesturing to the seemingly calm surroundings. “Am I completely missing something?”

“Faulty boiler” she states as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I said she could come here to shower and wash her clothes. Water?”

She hands you a bottle out the fridge while you stand slack jawed and baffled.

You take the bottle mechanically, still trying to process the sudden awful turn of events. “Wait, hang on. The machine runs on two-hour cycles”

“I’m surprised you know that including I do all your washing for you”

You let out a frustrated sigh. “Are you hearing what I’m saying? Two. Hours. Two whole hours!”

She’s not silly, she knows what you mean. But if she’s disappointed, she doesn’t show it. Is this what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a conversation with you? Perhaps you’ve rubbed off on Alessia too much.

You go to protest, stomp your feet, shake some sense into her, until you hear a voice come from upstairs.

“Guys, I'm not sure whose toothbrush is the blue one, but it may or may not have found its way into the toilet” Ella shouts through the house, and you almost collapse to your knees in defeat.

“We’re changing the locks. Tomorrow,” you declare firmly to Alessia. “And you owe me a new toothbrush”

[hannie-dul-set]

[is this an interrogation, or is this a blind date]. “ricky shen. shen quanrui. shim cheonye. wow. you have quite the collection of names, mr. shen. which are you most comfortable with?”

you voice echoes against the soundproofed walls of the interrogation room— painted black, dimly lit, exceedingly and uncomfortably cold. you let the police file rest atop your laptop keyboard to adjust the length of your sleeves, but it seems like your junior colleague sitting next to you isn’t all that bothered with the temperature in comparison.

“just ricky, please.”

the current…person of interest doesn’t seem all that bothered either. in fact, for someone being interrogated as a suspect for multiple criminal infractions, he looks awfully calm sitting in front of you from across the table; gaze wandering around as if he’s visiting a tourist attraction, two fingers tap, tap, tapping against the table as if he’s trying to replicate the elevator music humming through his head, and lips pursed into a curious pout as he stares straight into one of the four security cameras in the corner with sparkling eyes.

you feel a nudge from your left. assistant inspector park gunwook seems to be excited to witness his first interrogation. “all right, ricky,” you hum, smiling. “on the ninth of january, from 8:00 to 10:00 p.m.— do you mind walking me through what you did during that time?”

“oh!” ricky exclaims. you feel something spiritual rattle your bones. gunwook’s hands start typing. “january nine...i was at the gym from six to eight, or maybe until eight thirty? oh, and after that i stopped by at artisan— the bakery daehak-ro— and stayed there until nine, i think i’m not really sure..”

“artisan on daehak-ro,” you repeat. gunwook is typing every word exchanged. “i hear their milk bread is very popular.”

“it is! they taste very good.”

every syllable, every stutter. “the ones at boulange are better though,” you say, and you hear the typing stop for a moment. you feel your junior’s eyes on you. “soft. always fresh. served straight from the oven.”

“really?” ricky replies. “i’ve never been there before.”

your face brightens. you beam at him. “then, would you like to join me sometime this—”

a nudge from your left. you turn to see associate inspector park looking at you with a deeply confused and troubled expression. seonbae? his furrowed brows seem to ask. you assure him with a nod, a calm smile, then return your attention to the interrogatee. 

“ahem,” you clear your throat. “moving forward. after visiting the bakery, what did you do in the period between nine and ten?” ricky shen narrates the scene— that afterwards he bought a box of macarons to go then went straight home to watch some dramas. you interrupt him there, eyes scanning your records. “you say you went back to your apartment?”

gunwook copies the conversation onto his screen. “um, yes. i think so.”

“but according to a classmate of yours, miss shen xiaoting, she saw you walking along the sidewalk in hyewa-ro at around nine-forty-five, ricky.” your gaze flits back up to him. he blinks at you. he blinks at you with those sparkly, big, brown eyes. you continue to smile. “isn’t that a little too far from your address?”

“oh,” he says. “then she must be right. sorry, i can’t really remember.”

the sound of typing ceases. you feel an expectant gaze drilling into the left side of your cheekbone. you ignore gunwook’s avid enthusiasm at the opening ricky shen just made. you fold your laptop to a close. you bring your elbows to the table and let your chin rest on interlocked hands. 

“that’s okay,” you start. “we all forget things sometimes,” you continue, and this sends your younger colleague into a state of alarm.

“seonbae,” you hear him whisper, rather pressingly. you pretend that you did not.

“can you tell me what your relationship is with miss xiaoting?” you ask. ricky shen continues to sit very politely from across the table “just classmates? friends? maybe she’s your—”

“let’s— let’s take a five minute break!”

before you could even hear a response from ricky, who seemed to have no problems nor reservations in humoring your question, you’re shoveled out of the interrogation room by a very confused, very vexed, very alarmed park gunwook. “seonbae. inspector,” he exasperates. it’s a little hot outside the room. you uncross one of your arms to fan yourself in the face— not for too long because your junior starts to grab onto your shoulders. “please. please get a grip.” 

you look at him. deadpanned. he swallows. “i am getting a grip,” you reply, swatting his hands off your clothes. “getting a firm grip on this man because after years of being single thanks to this god damned job sucking the life out of me, my ideal type is finally being handed to me on a silver platter.”

“seonbae,” gunwook releases a breath. “he’s under investigation for charges of destruction of property and arson. seonbae, he might have burnt someone’s house down.”

“ah. well. i think he’s more cute than hot.” you peek into the one-sided window, showing the scene inside the interrogation room. your suspect is looking around and drumming his fingers against the table again. “there isn’t even probable cause to detain him for tonight. that’s a shame. i’m working overtime too.” 

through the window’s reflection, you could see gunwook’s expression— perplexed, confused, probably wondering how the hell did the scales of criminal justice fall into the hands of someone like you. you press your lips into a smile.

“five minutes over. time to get back to work.”

[lazypanartist]

Hobie Brown x Artistic/DIY Reader

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3

Warnings: maybe spoilers for ATSV, IDK. Reader's in the punk scene and from Hobie's universe. Whole lotta projection.

Features personal Hobie HCs I guess. It's just self indulgent. Also! Roommate Gwen?

Please RB, likes alone don't do anything for the algorithm!

-----

"Who's she?"

You barely whisper the question to your boyfriend, peeking past the dividing wall between kitchen and living room. He glanced up from whatever he's cooking - eggs, probably - to look at the girl flopped across your couch.

"Oh. That's Gwen. Spider-Woman from another universe - she needed somewhere to crash, so I offered her our couch."

Our. The word still made you fuzzy inside, even after he dragged his stuff into your life a month prior.

Even with the warm and fuzzies, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was a bit.. off.

"The new recruit you took a shine to."

He hummed a quiet affirmation, his eyes meeting yours after a second.

"There's nothing going on, I promise."

"You don't have to promise." He wouldn't do anything stupid, that much you knew for sure. Still.. "You don't normally trust people so fast. Not enough to bring them here."

He turned back to you, handing you a plate with a pancake and silently gesturing for a clean plate. "She's.. cool. I dunno. Not like the rest of the people in the Spider Society. Reminds me more of you, actually."

You blinked.

"Home life trash, emancipated at fifteen, got a lot of stupid jobs to stay afloat and support an artisan hobby?"

He chuckled, bumping your hand gently with his own as he takes the plates - plural - from your hand. "Not quite. Her old man tried arresting her." You suck in a breath, and he nodded. "Thinks she killed a family friend. That's why she joined up - the dad, not the friend."

He fans the plates slightly. "Two?"

You shrug, head tilting towards the couch. "Well. She probably needs to eat when she wakes up."

He smiles, and you can't help but return the gesture.

"She's already wearing off on you."

"Yeah, well, I've only heard good allegations."

You lean forward to land a peck on his lips before opening the fridge, and you hear a huff when you turn from him.

"I hope she can help with groceries or something."

He laughs full heartedly at your grumble this time. You feel him approaching before he's actually touching you, his chest - finally healed - pressing gently against your back as he helps you search for pancake toppings.

You lean back into him before grabbing a container of fruit, and he helps you pull away and shut the door before he's back at the stove, flipping the next cake over.

"Well. She might be able to help at the next show."

You nod, grabbing a spoon and scooping some of the fruit onto your pancake.

"The one with the sale?"

He nods with a quiet hum. "She might have patch ideas or something."

You look her over from the distance, her vest catching your eye.

"Yeah.. she has good style."

You can almost feel him look past you before he's laughing, eyes catching the same piece you had been looking at.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.. if she's stealing my stuff, she's gotta."

You can't help but laugh with him again, looking at your new guest-slash-apparent roommate.

"You steal my stuff all the time."

You nod gently, smiling. "Yeah.. she'll fit right in."

---

Part 4

[jewishvitya]

hei. i enjoy your blogs, i hope you could clear something up for me., i just saw someone claim to be "zionist as in i believe jewish people have the right to self determination in their indigenous homeland",, ive actually seen the claim that jewish ppl are indigenous to israel and are somehow denied that identity as a form of anti semitism and erasure of jewish experience multiple times.. and it always confused me so much cuz like israel was set up as this nationalist project in 1948, before the region was a mess mostly under the rule of the ottomans, but the palestinian culture and ppl were always there. how can someone be indigenous to a region if they werent there before? is there any truth to the claim or is it just co-opting leftist language again?

its so evil how the state of israel could jist completely legitimize itself by co-opting jewish culture and pretending like being in support of it is a fundamental part of jewishness :(

Thank you!! I'm glad you do.

I can try, but I'm not sure how good I'll be at explaining this. Maybe someone else can add to this. If I repeat things I said before, I apologize.

That is a definition of zionism used by many zionists who lean politically to the left. I don't subscribe to these softer definitions of zionism because saying it's just "the right to Jewish self determination in our ancestral homeland" ignores that in practice over the last century the next words are "to the exclusion of others." I define zionism through its practical outcome - which is what we did to Palestinians.

Jewish people originate here. Our religious laws and practices (many of which are regularly disregarded by Israel and by settlers when they do things like destroying olive trees and water sources) are tied to this specific land. There are holidays and religious rituals that are either fundamentally changed or can't be practiced at all if we're anywhere else in the world. Culturally most branches of Judaism maintained this connection throughout our history. And we didn't leave willingly. An empire expelled us from the place that was our land. When the point of indigeniety comes up, this is why. You'll see arguments like - when does indigeniety expire? How many generations until you no longer have a claim to the ancestral homeland you were driven away from?

So this is the cultural context for Judaism. This is something that I also can't really ignore. I can't pretend I don't care about this land and the connection we always had to it.

That said, I still see this as using leftist terminology inappropriately.

To talk about Israel, a lot of us talk about colonialism, and specifically settler colonialism. I lived in the West Bank settlements so to me this really resonates. The argument I get at that point is that an indigenous group can't colonize their own land.

And this is why I'm saying it's a misuse of terminology. We're using that label to absolve ourselves. As if the word "indigenous" is a stamp of approval we get to apply to our actions while we repeat the violence of colonizing forces in history.

Ethnic cleansing, occupation, building settlements - and now also genocide. The tools we use resonate with indigenous people all over the world, because they suffered through similar kinds of oppression. Always with differences and different contexts, these things are never 1:1, but there's a reason indigenous groups around the world are in solidarity with Palestinians. I shared about a video from a Korean person talking about how colonialism by Japan broke the thread of their history - old buildings that had to be rebuilt instead of being preserved, historical cultural practices and art forms being lost or changed due to the loss of artisans. These are things Israel is doing now.

So to me, this is using the word "landback" and "liberation" for a violent takeover of land from an indigenous group. You mentioned the Ottomans - Palestine has been conquered over and over throughout history. Those regimes, sure, fighting them off can be liberatory, if the intent isn't to become the conquerors in their place. But there's nothing to liberate from Palestinians, because they're not colonizing anything. They belong in this land.

I'm really angry that so many of us try to deny the Palestinians their own connection. They have roots here, a long and rich history shaped by life in the land. While we destroy so much and say our claim is so strong we get to kill or drive them away for it.

[itwasthereaminuteago]

Hi! I love your writing so much, you've written my fav smut of all time (I've re-read 'In dreams' sooo many times) So I've thought of this little scene and thought maybe this will inspire you to write something...

(I'm not a writer and I'm horrible with words so this probably is shit, but yeah...)

'"I love you so so much, you have no idea" Frank says while kissing your neck "Show me" you respond' and then smut (but in a loving way?)

Thank you ❣️

Hi Dear Nonny, I already thanked you for this message a while back, it absolutely made my day when i was feeling shitty and I want to say thank you again, and also apologise for this taking so long!

Frank Castle x Female Reader

Tags/Warnings: some fluffy sexy love, lots of praise, unprotected sex, Frank being so damn fine.

If you enojy my writing please share/reblog!

|| Show & Tell ||

When Frank first realised how he felt about you it hadn't come to him in some grand spectacle of a moment, not even at a time when your lives had been threatened (which had been par for the course living in Hell's Kitchen). It simply happened on a chilly spring morning when he saw you sitting on the couch engrossed in reading a book. You had a blanket pulled up around you, one of the cups of coffee you'd made for the two of you cradled in your hand as your eyes scanned over the pages.

Your presence had made his apartment a home, something that had happened so gradually and naturally that he hadn't really noticed the change at all, and he figured that was because it all just felt right. Things were the way they were meant to be.

He watched your lips quirk up at whatever it was you were reading, some escapist fantasy novel probably. You loved that shit. 

You shifted your position and as you did, caught the way Frank was just standing there looking at you. “What's up big guy?” You ask.

“Just thinkin'.” He replies, sitting down next to you. 

You close your book and set down your cup on the table in front of you, turning to face him.

“Oh?” you say, waiting to hear him with interest.

Frank knew he wasn't going to wrap up this in anything fancy, that just wasn't his style. He was just gonna go ahead and say it.

His warm brown eyes trace over your features as he lifts his hand to the side of your face to stroke your skin, his gaze finally resting when he meets yours.

“I love you.”

Your smile almost splits your face. It's so big and beaming and he instantly mirrors it.

“I love you too, Frank.” you respond, leaning forward to tilt your head up and kiss him softly. He chases your mouth, brushing his own lips up against yours, gently encouraging you to open slightly as he kisses you again and you gladly let him. He tastes the coffee on your tongue when he meets it with his, and when you break apart his hand is still cradling your jaw, his fingertips light on your neck and you already see the deep fire set in his expression as he looks at you.

“You don't get it baby,” he's telling you, your body coming alight with the warmth of his attention. “I love you, so, so much.” 

You hum, closing your eyes as he closes the distance between you again, teasing a light lick against your tongue before his mouth roams over the skin of your jaw, his lips kissing and caressing the side of your neck below your ear as he whispers low, sending anticipatory little shivers running up and down your spine. 

“... You've got no idea how much.”

You tilt your head back in surrender, you can feel the passion imprinted in his words and you just know there's plenty more to come. So you open the door wide.

“Show me.” 

He always shows you in other less physical ways of course. Texting you the sweetest messages when you're at work or he's away for a couple of nights. Picking up your favourite sweet treats from that artisanal bakery he saw you making googly eyes at when you both walked past it one day. Or even switching his usual brand of coffee when you first moved in because of the hilarious face you made when he once gave you a cup of the stuff he had before.

But right now you barely have time to take a full breath before he's scooping you right up and sitting you down on his lap. With one large hand planted firmly on your thigh and the other curled around the back of your neck he brings you closer, your foreheads touching as you meld with each other. His kisses are teasingly short and shallow at first, like he's tasting you for the very first time. But with each one the tension grows even more electric between you, vibrating like a plucked bass string as the kisses you share get longer, deeper, and messier as he starts unraveling you. His big warm hands skate up under your soft shirt, his fingers exploring your skin, rucking the fabric up and baring you to him until you raise your arms and rid yourself of it completely. Not wasting a moment, you're pressing yourself back against his body and mouth as soon as you are able to. His teeth graze over your lip and you moan softly as he tugs at it gently while he tilts his hips up and presses his tented crotch against you. You allow yourself a sly smirk, sliding your hands up the back of his head and furrowing your fingers through his thick, dark hair watching his eyes close in bliss for a few seconds as you scratch at his scalp. 

“Show me, Frank.” You repeat. Your composure is shredding with how easily he then wraps one arm around your waist and stands, walking you both to the bedroom where he lays you down on the edge before pulling off his own shirt from his muscled upper body as you watch with hungry fascination. Frank leans over, caging you, hands either side of your head on the bed as continues to lay kiss after tender kiss, slowly working his way down your body until he's eagerly mouthing at the round swell of your breasts, pushing each one up in turn with his hand until they're spilling from your bra cups, sucking and teasing at your pebbled nipples until you're shuddering from the sweet sensitivity.

He continues downward, humming with desire as the tip of his tongue trails down the centerline of your stomach until he reaches the band of your sweats. You hitch your legs up automatically when you feel him curl his fingers around the waistband and drags them and your panties down your thighs, his mouth right back on your skin as hungry as ever. He quickly rids you of them and your cosy socks, rising back up and lifting your foot and leg to make space for himself. You can't help giggling as he kisses his way back up from your ankle to the inside of your knee but your light laughter very quickly changes to softer moans when those lips work up and up the delicate skin of your inner thigh.

“Love you baby,” Frank keeps on confessing, pushing the words into you and you feel the weight of it washing over like a warm wave taking you under. “you want me to show you, huh sweet thing?” 

You hold that eager gaze of his long enough to sigh out a resounding yes before your eyes are rolling back as soon as he puts his mouth on your cunt. Your back is arching off the bed challenging his strength as he has to curl his arms around your legs to keep you right where he wants you. When the warm, wet tip of his tongue slides through to part the moist petals of your vulva, you feel and hear him groaning deeply right against your core and already you're panting and writhing from his intimate touch.

But as good as it feels that's not how you need him. It's so hard to want to make him move when every time he comes up for a breath he's growling praises of just how perfect you taste under his tongue. You're torn in two, fighting with the need to feel him everywhere in every way possible all at once, but you need him inside, as close as can be. The scratch of his scruff against your skin combined with the soft sensation of his lips and tongue massaging your clit has you whining out a plea.

“Frank, Frankie please-” 

He looks up, still softly licking and kissing your dripping pussy between his words.

“Please what, princess? What do you need?” 

He climbs slowly up towards your face, urged on by your grasping fingers first at his head, and then sliding down his abdomen and impatiently tugging his belt loose to help free him from his pants.

“You.” you say pointedly, slowly stroking his entire length through his boxers. He swears under his breath and you feel him throb at your touch.

“Mhm, a'right. You sure?” He would usually takes his time, gets you ready first, warm you up with his fingers but you can't wait, you want to feel him now.

“Frank, please!” 

He's quick to obey and remove the rest of his clothes while you unclasp your bra, throwing it aside. When he moves himself over you you're already hooking your legs around his waist and pulling his hips down towards your own, his sensitive cock dragging firmly against the skin of your stomach and you revel in the desperate groan he makes at the contact.

You reach down between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his thick shaft, watching as you easily coax a few drops of precum from his tip, smearing it around the head with your thumb causing him to curse again.

“Christ, okay sweetheart, you ready?”

“Yes, fuck, yes! Please just-”

He draws back a little way, gently pushing your thighs open wider before taking himself in hand. He locks eyes with you, slowly sliding the tip of his cock back and forth along the length of your slick folds.

“Youre so fuckin’ beautiful.” he says as you trace your fingers down the side of his face, your thumb pulling down on his lower lip as you bite your own between your teeth as he nudges his way to your entrance. His forehead rests against yours as he takes his time, sinking into your velvet heaven with parted lips and a shared soft sigh.

“Mm, that's it. Nice n’ slow, yeah that's it baby.”

You want to cry, but it's not with pain. There's barely any pain, just the perfect stretch. You wanted this, wanted to feel every single inch of him as he fills you, want to feel the way he trembles above you as he savours it with you. He kisses you again, slow, taking his sweet time to explore your mouth, push those addictive little whimpers from your plush lips.

“Feel so damn good sweetheart, love you so fucking much…”

When he's all the way to the hilt he stills, giving you all the time you need to adjust. Every little movement he makes is bliss. You wrap yourself around him, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you tell him again that you love him back and he can't ever hear it enough. He begins to move, making love to you so tenderly, one hand bracing his weight on the bed and the other caressing your jaw and splaying around your throat as your lips meet and he kisses you deeply, tongue moving in tandem with his cock inside you. Frank wasn't sure if he could let himself love again, allow himself to be this open and unguarded, but you make it easier than he could have imagined. He never takes his eyes from you as he makes it clear just how much you mean to him, driving you crazy every time he opens his mouth to speak.

“You don't know what you do t’me,” he confesses, rolling his hips up and filling you so completely. You can only respond with a wavering gasp, clasping your thighs more tightly around his waist as you flow so perfectly together.

“goddamn girl, you don't know what y’do…”

You were certain you had a pretty good idea but you adored it when Frank was so verbal like this. He'd shower you with so many sweet praises, and sometimes get so worked up he'd run his mouth almost non-stop with filthy promises that he would always keep.

When Frank makes love, he makes love. When he hits that rhythm and angle just right he has you whining with pleasure and emotion with every one of his deep thrusts. 

“Fuck, there it is baby- such a good girl f'me… shit, wanna do this all day, you want that sweetheart? Just want to make you feel so fucking good honey, give you fuckin' everythin’-”

He cuts off with a deep groan as you tilt your head to suck his thumb between your lips, your tongue caressing and swirling around the tip. He watches intently, never ceasing the movement of his hips, groaning as you take the digit deeper while your big blown out pupils gaze up at him. 

“Attagirl, fuckin' attagirl,” he growls gently, twitching inside of you because of how much he's turned on, never ceasing to be amazed by how fucking sexy you are.

When he withdraws his thumb you chase it, a thin string of saliva connecting as he leads your mouth to his again, delving deep and lapping your tongues together. Your bodies slide and intertwine, you're sharing every single sensation with electric intensity, every clipped and hushed breath, pushing each other closer and closer to an ephemeral state of euphoria. When he bends to kiss your chest and he takes your nipple into his mouth you hum as the layers of pleasure build. He cups and paws at your breasts, lavishing them with such attention that you know what's coming next.

“Sweetheart, you wanna go on top? God you know I love it when you do your thing, please baby, I'm beggin’ you.”

You grin and nod. “Yeah, of course I want to. Let me ride you Frankie.” 

Frank easily rolls you both over so that you're now straddling him, your hands placed on his broad pecs as you steady yourself before you begin to move. You know that he loves when you're in control, moving above him like a goddess, and he treats you just like one worshiping every inch of you with his hands and mouth. He loves the way you move your hips, loves when you guide his fingers down to the crux of your thighs and take exactly what you need. He loves when you lose yourself in the sensation, giving yourself the permission you don't even need you to let go, to just use him. There's always such fierce focus in his eyes when you make love like this. He watches for the signs of the pleasure you feel blooming throughout your body like an unfurling flower, devotedly tending to your needs even before you know what they might be. 

His hands settle on your hips as you move them, almost to try to ground himself as the sight of your gorgeous tits bouncing and your own hands fondling them as you rise and fall on his cock is driving him precariously close to the edge.

“Goddamn that's good baby, that’s it. Feelin’ real nice huh?” Frank continues to fill your head with his sweet praise as you feel yourself getting closer.  “Oh yeah, there you go, like that, hm?”

You can only mewl in answer when he starts steadily thrusting his hips up hitting you at a deeper angle, your wetness gathering at the base of his dick and dripping over his ball sac each time he pushes home into your cunt. He brings his thumb to your swollen, needy bud of nerves again, spreading more of your slick arousal over and over, rubbing your aching clit till your walls start to pulse around him.

“Yeah, yeah, jus’ like that princess, that what you need? Can feel you baby, you're doin' so good f’me.”

You can feel it too, building so quickly you almost don't want the feeling to end. “I'm so close-" you moan, "I wanna feel you come inside me, Frank!”

You're an absolute fucking angel he surely doesn't deserve. He grits his teeth, never losing his rhythm despite being extremely close to the edge too. 

“M’right there with you darlin’, just keep those beautiful eyes on me.”

He watches your mouth open, your breathy moans quickly increasing in volume and frequency as you ride him. He tightly circles your clit faster, his dark gaze intensifying the very moment your orgasm sears through you, making you cry out as bursts of ecstasy come in bone-deep waves throughout your body. Frank doesn't stop, groaning loud and low in response when he unleashes, pumping his hips as he comes hot and hard, deep inside of you. He pulls you down close, wrapping his arms around you, repeating those three words, I love you, over and over as he slows down, gently fucking you through your high. 

When the two of you eventually still, you remain wrapped in each other. You can feel the powerful beat of his heart start to slow along with your own thumping strongly against your chest. His fingers idly stroke back and forth over the skin of your arm as your breathing returns back to normal.

“Mm Frank,” you murmur, so very satisfied you feel as if you could be glowing. Tilting your head up, you kiss him again. “You sure as hell showed me.”

He chuckles warmly, shaking you gently with his quiet laughter. 

“That was what you meant when you said ‘show me’, right?” He asks, and you smile back at him when you see that grin on his mouth. “Or maybe I shoulda left you alone with your book, huh?” he adds. “You looked pretty into it.”

You sit up, smoothing your hands over his chest as you start giggling. “There is no way in hell that was ever gonna happen, mister, not once you get something in your head. I know you…” you tell him confidently and the corners of Frank's eyes crease at that, you're not wrong.

“That you most definitely do, sweetheart.” He rolls you onto your side, carefully pulling out before pulling the covers up over you to stop you catching a chill.

“How about I run us a bath, sweet girl?" Frank proposes. "I wanna lay with you for a while. Does that sound good?”

“Mm, that sounds like heaven.” You nudge closer, taking his face in your hands to kiss him on the crooked bridge of his nose. “And I love you too.”

[cigarettesaftersae]

i'll like you - 05 hurt

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Series: reo mikage x f!reader | contains : fluff, angst, jealousy, academic rivals, fake dating

masterlist

Reo Mikage wasn’t used to rejection. With his effortless charm, a bank account that could rival small nations, and an uncanny ability to make people trust him, he rarely had to hear the word “no.” Yet, as he stood by your empty desk, staring at the spot where his carefully selected flowers and artisanal chocolates once sat, a nagging thought crept in: you’re annoying

He had invested more than just money into this. The week spent at your mother’s flower shop wasn’t merely a display of wealth; it was strategy. His polished manners and easy smiles won her over quickly, and while he didn’t expect to care much about her stories or advice, he found himself oddly enjoying her company. She even started sending him home with bundles of discounted lilies and carnations he didn’t need. The plan was working—at least until this moment.

“Why are you even visiting my mom?” Your voice cut through the ambient hum of the café. You sat across from him, dipping French fries into ketchup, your gaze as sharp as the pointed end of a thorn.

Reo watched you eat with an air of calm, as if he had all the time in the world to explain himself. “I just told you,” he said smoothly, his lips curving into a small smile. “I wanted her to like me.”

“Yeah, I heard that part. I meant why?”

He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands loosely in front of him. “Well, you said you liked me.”

Your hand froze mid-air, a fry dangling precariously between your fingers. “What do you mean?”

“You and your friends were out for lunch last month,” he said, his tone nonchalant. “I was nearby. Overheard the whole thing.”

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t actually like you.” The denial was immediate, almost reflexive.

“I figured.” Reo tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “You always glare at me like I’ve personally offended you.”

“Maybe you have,” you muttered, barely loud enough for him to catch.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, regardless, I’d like to propose something. I think you and I should date.”

The sheer audacity of his statement left you momentarily speechless. You stared at him, waiting for him to explain.

“Fake dating, of course,” he added casually. “To—”

“Fool your parents?” you interrupted, narrowing your eyes. “And why me, exactly?”

Reo hesitated, the confidence in his posture faltering for a split second. “I just thought you were the perfect candidate.”

You leaned back, folding your arms as you considered his words. A small part of you couldn’t ignore the potential advantages—especially when it came to Yuna. But then her voice echoed in your mind, sharp and accusing: You always lie. She was right. You’d lied so much it left your life tangled in knots you couldn’t undo.

“I can’t,” you said softly, almost to yourself.

Reo’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable. “You probably don’t care about the money, but I know you care about Yuna.”

“You’re right,” you admitted. “And if I agree to this, all I’ll be doing is lying. Again.” You spat the last word like it tasted bitter.

“Well,” Reo said, his voice light but his gaze steady, “how do you think you’re going to fix that? She’ll push you away and call you a liar, again.” His deliberate echo of your word made you bristle.

You scoffed, masking the flicker of doubt he’d planted. “And what do you get out of this fake dating scandal?”

His demeanor shifted, just slightly. “I want to prove my parents wrong.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you and Naomi together? Seems like she’d be perfect for the job.”

“Naomi? No. But I know that’s what people think.”

“Then get with her and stay away from me.”

“But it’s just—”

“My mom ran away and I’m a bastard child, right?” you interrupted, your tone sharp and cutting. “Makes me the perfect candidate to displease your parents.”

Reo flinched. He hadn’t expected you to say it so bluntly, and for the first time, his polished facade cracked. “Your family is the symbol of the Lion”

“I know that,” you said, your tone as nonchalant as if you were commenting on the weather. You dipped another fry into ketchup, chewing thoughtfully before continuing, “A generation of my last name made remarkable history—especially in engineering military equipment. They held better and higher leadership positions than your family ever did.”

Reo stared at you for a moment, his lavender eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to decode the puzzle in front of him. “I didn’t expect you to care about things like legacy,” he said, his voice softer now, less calculated.

“I don’t,” you replied, your gaze meeting his, unwavering. “But you do. And that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Trying to fix your image, prove you’re more than just money and privilege?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. For once, he didn’t have a quick response. Instead, he sat back in his chair, studying you like a chessboard where he couldn’t predict the next move.

“You’re interesting,” he finally said, a trace of amusement creeping back into his tone.

“And you’re predictable,” you shot back without missing a beat. The sharpness in your tone didn’t waver, but as you leaned back in your chair, a faint smile tugged at your lips—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “But thanks for the flowers. I planted them.”

Reo straightened slightly, the words catching him off guard. “So… it’s a yes?” he asked, his voice lighter now, almost hopeful.

You sighed, dragging out the moment as if to make him sweat. “Yes,” you finally replied, the single word weighed down with resignation.

A spark of triumph lit up Reo’s face, though he masked it quickly with his usual composed demeanor. “You won’t regret it,” he said confidently, leaning forward as if sealing some unspoken deal.

“Oh, I already do,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for another fry. You didn’t bother looking at him, but you could feel his smug satisfaction radiating from across the table.

Reo Mikage was nothing if not persistent, and now, for better or worse, you’d stepped right into his carefully laid plans. The question was, who would regret it more when it all played out—you or him?

-

The next day, you found yourself sitting across from Reo in a small café near the school. It wasn’t exactly where you’d envisioned spending your lunch break, but here you were, fries in front of you and Reo’s intense lavender gaze fixed on your face.

“So,” you began, breaking the awkward silence. “How exactly do we do this... fake dating thingy?”

Reo leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes calculating. “We’ll need a plan,” he said, as if he were strategizing for a business deal rather than a relationship scam.

“Obviously,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “It’ll be too suspicious if we just got together out of nowhere, so... we need to pretend to be friends for, what, a week?”

He nodded, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the table. “A week sounds reasonable. Long enough to make it look natural, but not so long that it’s boring.”

“Boring for who? You or everyone else watching?” you quipped, raising an eyebrow.

Reo smirked, unbothered by your jab. “Both, ideally. But more importantly, we’ll need to stage it right. We start hanging out casually—cafés like this, maybe studying together. Make it believable.”

You hummed in thought, poking at your fries. “So, what? People start seeing us together, and then we suddenly announce we’re dating?”

“Not suddenly,” Reo corrected, his voice patient but firm. “We let the rumors build. People will fill in the blanks themselves. By the time we ‘confirm’ it, it’ll feel like the next logical step.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” he said, flashing a charming grin. “When I commit to something, I do it right.”

You shook your head, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. But just so we’re clear—this is your idea, your plan. Don’t blame me when it all falls apart.”

Reo tilted his head, his grin softening into something almost sincere. “It won’t fall apart. Not with you involved.”

You stared at him for a moment, unsure whether he was serious or just playing you. Either way, you weren’t sure if you liked the way his words made your stomach flip.

“Alright,” you muttered, looking away. “But don’t expect me to do any cutesy stuff. No holding hands, no lovey-dovey looks, and definitely no kissing.”

“Whatever you say,” Reo said, though the mischievous glint in his eyes suggested he wasn’t making any promises.

And just like that, the first step of your fake relationship began—with fries, plans, and a nagging feeling that you were in for more than you’d bargained for.

“We just need to make it believable,” you said, your voice low as you stared at the untouched drink in front of you. “For... Yuna.”

Reo raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “You guys are still fighting?”

You sighed, tapping your fingers against the edge of the table. “It’s not exactly fighting. More like… avoiding each other.”

“Well, she’s a bitch,” you said bluntly, catching Reo off guard.

“What—?” he started, sitting up straighter, his expression a mix of confusion and alarm.

“She’s the reason I’m in this mess with Yuna,” you interrupted, crossing your arms and leaning back in your chair.

Reo blinked at you, genuinely surprised. “Wait, what do you mean? Naomi? What did she do?”

You exhaled sharply, the memory still bitter. “She’s the one who started spreading rumors about me liking Nagi. She twisted things, made it sound like I was trying to one-up Yuna or something. Next thing I know, Yuna’s pissed, and everyone’s acting like I’m some backstabbing liar.”

Reo frowned, his playful demeanor shifting to something more serious. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

“Oh, please,” you snapped, glaring at him. “Just because she’s all polite and perfect in front of you doesn’t mean she’s not two-faced. She’s manipulative, and she knew exactly what she was doing.”

Reo leaned back, processing your words. “Huh,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“What?” you demanded, annoyed by his sudden quietness.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, though his expression betrayed a flicker of doubt. “It’s just… I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should stop letting your parents pick your friends,” you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended.

Reo gave a small, wry smile. “Fair point.”

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the air between you heavy with unspoken tension. Then Reo leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table.

“Alright,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “If she’s part of the reason you’re in this mess, then that’s another reason for us to make this work. If we pull this off, we’ll show Yuna—and Naomi—that they’ve got it all wrong about you.”

You nodded slowly, mulling over his words. “Right... anyways, why are you and Nagi on the soccer team?”

Reo looked at you for a moment, then smirked. “I always wanted to try it. You know, something new. And Nagi’s mad skilled at it, so I figured I’d join. Could be fun.”

"I can't believe you and Nagi are even friends," you muttered, trying to picture them together in your mind. The thought of those two, so different in every way, being besties just didn’t make sense to you. Yet, here they were, inseparable.

Reo raised an eyebrow, a sly grin spreading across his face. "He's your crush," he teased, his voice light but dripping with amusement.

"Stop it, no he's not," you snapped, but your annoyance only seemed to egg him on. "And he's basically the reason why Yuna is avoiding me."

Reo leaned back, a glint of something calculating in his eyes. "Even more reason to fake date me," he said with a shrug.

You frowned, rolling your eyes. "How? It'll make me seem worse. Me dating my ex-crush's new bestie? That's worse."

Reo's smirk never wavered. "We'll give them a story. You tried to get along with Nagi to get along with me."

You stared at him, the idea settling in like a bad taste in your mouth. "That's even worse, and it’s because it’s about you."

Reo chuckled, unfazed by your resistance. "Not if we make it believable. We’ll spin it so it looks like you’re just trying to fix things with Yuna. Everyone will buy it."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Yeah, because the idea of me and you suddenly being in a relationship isn’t suspicious at all."

"It’s not about us," Reo said, leaning forward, his tone turning serious for a moment. "It’s about making them think you’re moving on, making it look like you’re trying to do the right thing. You’re caught between Nagi and Yuna, and this could be your way out."

“It’s not about us,” Reo said, leaning forward, his tone turning serious for a moment. “It’s about making them think you’re moving on, making it look like you’re trying to do the right thing. You’re caught between Nagi and Yuna, and this could be your way out.”

“Just Yuna,” you said quietly, your gaze falling to the table as you tried to steady your thoughts. “I’m doing this just for Yuna.”

Reo's eyes softened for a moment, his usual smirk replaced with a more understanding look. “I get it. You’re trying to fix things with her. But if this works, it could help you, too.”

You didn’t look up, too focused on the tangled mess in your mind. “I’m not doing this for me. I just want things to go back to normal with her.” You grieve in your thoughts, the pain you caused for not just yourself but your favorite person of all, Yuna. Caught in a web of lies and mistakes, trying to figure out how to fix what you’d broken. The guilt gnawed at you, sharp and unforgiving.

You tried to push away the suffocating weight in your chest, but it lingered. The ache wasn’t just about you. It was about Yuna—how you’d failed her, how you’d let things spiral out of control. The one person who always had your back, and now she was avoiding you. No matter how much you tried to pretend it didn’t hurt, the truth was clear: you had broken something irreplaceable.

Reo's voice broke through your thoughts, softer now, a little less teasing. “Look, if you keep doing things for everyone else, you’re going to lose yourself in the process. Maybe you should let this help you, too. You deserve to have things work out for you, not just for Yuna.”

His words hung in the air, and you didn’t know how to respond. “I don’t need your pity and concern, Mikage.”

“Well, you got it anyways,” Reo replied, his voice steady, unbothered. "And since we’re in this relationship... I’ll buy you lunch every day, and you have to come to Friday dinners with me and my parents."

"Woah, woah—wait, every Friday?" You blinked at him, feeling your mind race a little at the thought.

"Yep, every Friday," Reo said, unfazed. "I’m doing this to convince my parents. If they see us together regularly, they’ll think things are... solid. Plus, you need to get used to my family if we're doing this, right?"

You frowned, running your fingers over the edge of your cup, considering the offer. “fine” you groan

.

.

.

next chap

[iznaekkoya]

secrets ~ bang jeemin

1111 words, rated G

tags: friends to lovers, secret pining, happy ending

You and Jeemin, for all the many years you’ve been friends, are still allowed your personal secrets. This isn’t the movies––you don’t have to tell each other absolutely everything, and having secrets isn’t inherently harmful.

Like when you had that hipster blog in middle school where you painstakingly curated a feed of girls in cozy flannels or denim, pictures of beautifully arranged cups of coffee and tea, of tastefully blurry sunflowers with four or five different filters layered on top of each other. Jeemin could never––can never––know about it, because you’d never hear the end of it. She would probably think it’s a cute relic of the past, but then every artisanal coffee shop and infinity scarf you see will come with a pinch on the cheek and a reminder of something you’d like to stay dead and buried, thank you. Fall time would be miserable.

Or that time that you almost crashed your mom’s car trying to drive to the store in the middle of the night before you got a license. Jeemin didn’t need to know where that ice cream came from, not when she looked so excited to suddenly have a pint of cookie dough.

All of this to say, secrets are normal. Healthy, even.

That’s what you’re telling yourself, anyway, since the thought of her figuring out your massive crush on her is life-shatteringly embarrassing.

“Y/N,” She hums, holding up two different blazers in the mirror. “Which of these two would you say is more business formal?”

Heat rushes to your face. “I don’t even know what that means. How is that different from regular business wear?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you might have a clue, because I was prepared to show up to the interview in that red dress with some kind of cardigan. I mean, I’m glad I saw their message about attire being business formal before I left, but now I feel like I’m overthinking it,” she huffs, dropping down into the desk chair behind her and rolling closer to where you sit on her bed.

The red dress looks amazing on her. You’d hate for a bunch of stuffy office workers to get to see it and not fully appreciate how radiant she looks in it, how that shade of red isn’t too orange or too blue, and how it brings out the warmth in her eyes. Not that you can say any of that.

Instead, you say, “Definitely not the red. Maybe just a blazer over some kind of collared shirt, and a pencil skirt? That’s how all the girls on Suits dress.”

Jeemin giggles into her hand. “Not sure if I should be taking fashion advice from the legal malpractice show.”

“Megan Markle looks so good in it, though.”

“Yeah, but I’m not trying to appeal to any workplace romance fantasies. Just want to do my job, get paid and leave.”

Thank God, you think, stewing with jealousy over just the thought of some random coworker making moves on her. You’re no stranger to watching people flirt with and date Jeemin over the years, and it’s never gotten any easier. Not when so many of them just liked her because she’s pretty, and didn’t take the time to get to know her as a person. Jeemin is so much more than just pretty, and you’re sick of people tossing her to the side once they realize the fantasy of her wasn’t enough to keep them interested. It drives you crazy.

“Y/N?” Jeemin asks, wheeling over and poking you in the thigh. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” You can feel your cheeks reddening. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Just thinking about you having workplace romance. I don’t think you’re the type, honestly.”

“You’re right. I’ve always preferred having a preexisting bond with my partners. Plus, it would be too much, having to see my girlfriend at work and at home. We’d never get a break from each other, it’d be exhausting.”

Are you hearing that right? Since when? Jeemin went on so many blind dates, used the dating apps more than any person you know for years––she only deleted them a few months ago, and that was just because of one too many bad dates. Where is this coming from?

“I didn’t know that,” is what you choose to say, after much deliberation. “I always thought you preferred to keep them separate.”

“Nah,” she says, desk chair spun so she can rest her elbows on the foot on the bed. Her forearm knocks into your thigh. “I’m over that. It took a while, but I realized I would only consider dating someone if they were a friend first.”

You chose a little bit at that. Through what you’re hoped are well-masked coughs, you fight to keep this little nugget of conversation going, hoping to prod further.

“Did something change your mind?”

Her gaze rakes down your body, sending chills up your spine. “Someone, yeah.”

Another cough wracks through you, this one unable to be concealed. You can only hope now that your face isn’t embarrassingly red. “Oh,” you say, through coughs. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” she says, using your knees as an anchor as she slides the chair to be directly in front of you, leaning forward. Being on the bed, you have a lot of height on her, but it doesn’t matter. This is Bang Jeemin, her very existence can send you into a panic under the right circumstances. “Do you want to ask me who?”

“Do I?” you manage to spit out. You don’t know what to do with your hands.

“Don’t play dumb,” she says. Now she’s getting out of the chair to loom over you, which makes you infinitely more nervous. “Ask me who.”

“Uhh…” you say, dumbstruck. “Who?”

You know the answer. It feels like some kind of fever dream, but you’re not that obtuse.

Instead of an answer, you get a kiss. You’ve spent enough nights dreaming about it to know that her mouth would feel incredibly warm on yours, but her slightly chapped lips take you at first by surprise, but becomes what pulls you in more. The reality of it: the imperfection as you two find your rhythm, mouth gently gliding together like two slightly worn but connected puzzle pieces. It’s amazing, and it’s over too soon.

“You’re terrible at keeping a secret, y/n.” She cups a hand against your warm cheek, noticeably cool. “You always get so red.”

You just laugh, and bury your face in her tank top. “Shut up,” you say, not meaning it.

She hums for a moment, pretending to consider it.

“Make me.”

[leslie-lyman]

Menagerie

Part of the Euclidean Geometry ‘verse

Summary: Early on in their relationship, when everything is new and exciting and uncertain, Pero introduces their girl to his work as a glass artist.

Pairing: modern!Pero Tovar x Frankie x Jack x nameless!OFC/f!reader (written in third person, reader is only referred to as she/her, with no physical descriptors)

Word count: 3.9k

Rating: Explicit 🚨 absolutely no minors!

Warnings: smut; mentions of sex between everyone in this polycule (Frankie x Jack x Pero x reader), but the actual smut is just Pero x reader; unprotected PIV; completely unregulated POV switching; that thing where I write all the dialogue in italics instead of using quotation marks because it just feels right for this series for some reason?; everything your author mentions here about glassmaking she learned from YouTube/Google

a/n: look mom, I actually finished a fic again! Maybe my ability to write hasn’t abandoned me after all…?

Masterlist.

———

She notices the sculptures the very first time they take her home. (Though not, she must admit, until the morning after, having been awfully distracted the night before by the attention Frankie, Pero, and Jack lavished her with on the way to their bed.)

Three glass animal figures sit together in a proud display in the living room built-ins next to the fireplace: a falcon, wings spread wide and claws poised to attack; a rearing horse, tall and magnificent; and a bull, one hoof raised and head lowered as it prepares to charge.

They are Pero’s work. In his post-Army career he now runs a small but highly regarded workshop of glass artisans, all veterans like himself.

His talent is obvious. Each feather in the falcon’s wings is rendered in exquisite detail. The horse stands on just his back two feet, perfectly balanced. The bull’s pose denotes a gracefulness underlying all that brute strength. They feel alive.

It’s the three of them, they tell her.

Frankie, the pilot, is the falcon. Precise, controlled, deadly. Vigilant. Protective.

Jack, the cowboy, is the horse. Proud, independent, wild. Confident. Courageous.

And Pero, of course, is the bull. Strong, stubborn, fierce. Masculine. Powerful.

There’s evidence of his work elsewhere in the house the three of them now share. Their kitchen cabinets are full of mismatched glasses, bowls, and plates, many of them early versions of new techniques or designs Pero worked to master before offering them as options to clients. The base of an end table in the den is a cresting glass wave nearly three feet tall. Brilliantly colored vases that sell for thousands at the workshop line either side of the back deck steps, filled with impatiens and begonias carefully tended by Frankie.

Pero asks her to come to the workshop with him one day, and she can sense without being told that such an offer is significant. It’s still early on in…whatever this is between her and the three of them. Early enough that it hasn’t solidified yet, it hasn’t settled. She wants them, all of them, and they want her (all of her), but whether the fantasy can manifest as reality is uncertain. Can they all rearrange their lives enough to build something lasting, something real?

Pero has been the hardest to figure out. He is the quietest of the men, the least quick to laugh, the last one to betray what he’s thinking. He fucks like he wants to consume her, devour her, and yet he can be as gentle as Frankie or Jack when he’s done, silently cradling her to his chest as long as she wants as they come down from their highs. He’s much less forthcoming about himself than the other two are, and she’s far less sure about what he wants.

It’s a chilly Sunday morning when she meets him at the workshop. It’s the first time she’s spent any real time with him alone, her stomach full of an odd combination of excitement and nerves.

He takes her in through the gallery of finished works at the front of the building. Bright lights and mirror-backed shelves show off the many pieces, from large imposing sculptures to tiny coupe cocktail glasses that sparkle and glimmer. The middle of the space is dominated by a sculpture of a dragon-like creature larger than she is, its many-fanged mouth open in a roar and its skin a rich rippling green.

Pero doesn’t give her time to linger, however, leading her quickly into the back where the workshop itself is housed. A tension in his shoulders loosens when they enter, and she gets the sense that he isn’t interested in showing off his finished pieces. It’s the process of creating that he likes, that he needs.

If the gallery is bright and shiny and polished, the workshop is a dark, gritty warehouse-like space. Multiple forges line one wall, and it is clear each artist has their own space set up here. Pero’s space is near the back, tucked into a corner. Various tools and implements hang from the walls and rest on tables: blowpipes of every length, tweezers, pliers, clamps, paddles, torches, molds. It looks a little like a medieval torture chamber.

Despite the cavernous feel of the space, it’s warm inside; the forge nearest Pero’s corner is already lit and glowing. She sheds her jacket, leaving her in a soft chambray button-down shirt and black leggings. Pero gives her a gruff explanation of safety basics and insists that she wear a pair of enormous clear safety glasses.

Really, Pero?

Do not argue with me, querida.

The endearment is new, and makes her shiver.

You make all the girls you bring here wear these, hm? She says it playfully, but there’s curiosity behind it.

I have only brought two others here, and Jack and Francisco wore the glasses without complaint.

That pulls her up short, but Pero merely hands her the glasses and busies himself with his tools.

She’d assumed at first that this would be entirely a demonstration on Pero’s part, with her as mere spectator. Normally the idea of a date spent watching a man show off some skill to try and impress her as a one-woman audience would make her roll her eyes. But Pero isn’t boastful about any of this. This isn’t about his ego. He’s letting her in, showing her things that are important to him rather than telling her.

And, she quickly discovers, she’s hardly expected to sit idly by and observe.

Pero loads the tip of a pipe nearly as tall as she is with a glowing lump of molten glass the size of a softball.

Glasswork is rarely a solo endeavor, he tells her. Large pieces often require an entire team of people working in sync. Even small pieces necessitate a partner. It takes not only speed and skill, but also constant communication and trust to successfully bring a piece to life.

As he speaks, he rests his pipe against the edge of a table and rolls it back and forth, helping the glass to keep its roughly oval shape.

Give it a try, querida. He offers the end of the pipe to her.

It’s heavier than she’d anticipated, the heat of the glass sinking through her clothes like the rays of a tiny sun. Her first few rolls of the pipe are too fast, but after a minute she begins to get the hang of how to keep the glass from bending and morphing under its own weight.

Good, Pero says, and suddenly there’s a flare of heat in her stomach. Keep that steady turn all the while, and bring it over here.

There’s a large tray set out on the end of the table, filled with tiny squares of glass in shades of blue and green and milky white. Pero instructs her to roll the glass on the pipe through the squares like a lint roller until there’s a rough coating covering it. It’s an oddly satisfying sensation, the molten glass acting like putty or taffy that grows steadily less pliant as it cools.

Now we take it back into the forge, Pero says, and she gives him room to take the pipe from her, but he merely gives her an encouraging nod of his head toward the forge.

The opening into the heart of the furnace isn’t terribly large, maybe a foot or so in diameter. But the heat roars from it with a power she can feel, rather than hear. It throbs and beats at her like a warning.

She hesitates, but then Pero’s arms are around her, gently but firmly grasping the pipe on either side of her hands.

Like this, he murmurs in her ear as he guides the ball of glass into the belly of the forge. She’s intently aware of every inch of him pressed up behind her, the firm wall of his chest and his slightly softer belly, so close she can feel him breathe.

He likes to fuck her from behind, she’s found.

Every time they’ve had each other, in the handful of times they’ve been intimate thus far, Pero’s put her on her hands and knees, his impossibly big hands holding her down as he fucks her with his impossibly big cock. He likes to wait until Frankie and Jack are done and spent, their cum dribbling out of her or dripping down her skin, before rolling her over and sinking deep into her heat. His grip is firm and possessive, his fingers insistent at her clit. He never fails to make her come with a pace just the right side of too much, the other men soothing her with soft praises of good girl and you take it so well for him, sweetheart.

It’s an automatic response now, the fire that blooms in her belly when she feels him at her back that has nothing to do with the flames licking the molten glass in front of her.

————-

She somehow manages to concentrate on the tasks at hand enough to safely move through the rest of the process.

Fire the glass, roll it, shape it, fire it again, push, pull, fire, roll, shape, fire…

How did you learn to do this? She asks Pero, holding the pipe steady for him while he plucks at the glass with a massive pair of pliers.

My father, is all he says at first. She lets the ensuing silence be, lets him decide if he wants to elaborate. He does.

My father was a glassmaker. When I was a boy in Spain, I would spend every spare minute in his workshop. He taught me everything he knew. I would watch him craft beautiful things out of nothing, shaping and coaxing the glass to his will in an act of creation. He was like a god in my eyes.

She tries to square this information with the little she already knows about Pero’s life.

Why did you leave Spain?

He plucks the pipe from her hands and returns to the forge. His grip is so sure, his movements so fluid. When he returns to her, he passes her the rod and picks up the pliers.

My father died. I was fourteen. My mother moved us to America, and I was full of grief and teenage rage. A combination I was all too happy to let the US Army exploit.

This part she’s heard. Twenty years in the Field Artillery, operating mobile rocket systems and infantry support guns, leading men and their weapons into combat zones across multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. A life lived under fire.

But you found your way back to this, she says.

He looks up at her from where he crouches over the glass, now taking shape as a small vase.

It is the only other thing I know how to do.

She frowns at his modesty, but before she can respond he beckons her around the other side of the table they’re working at. He’s rolled and pulled the glass until no more than a slim column connects the bottom of the base to the pipe. He puts on thick heat-resistant gloves and cradles the vase, instructing her to tap ever-so-gently at the connecting sliver of glass with a small mallet.

With a barely perceptible chink the column breaks, freeing the vase. Pero then fires the bottom of the vase with a handheld blowtorch to smooth it out, and settles the vase into the bowl of a large round kiln for the final cooling process.

The vase stands maybe ten inches high, vaguely v-shaped with a flat bottom. The once bright orange ball of molten glass is now a brilliant turquoise, speckled with the tiny green and blue and white fragments she’d rolled it in. The rim is uneven, pulled and twisted by Pero’s pliers and it makes her think of the edges of a crashing wave.

She stands next to him and looks down at it before he closes the lid to the kiln. It’s small and simple and doubtless less polished than what Pero could have made with a more experienced partner, but it’s theirs.

We made that, she says, turning and giving him a shy smile.

His lips quirk up - not quite a smile, but there’s a softness to his expression that makes her breath catch.

A satisfying process, no? He asks. She nods. The moment stretches between them, the silence not awkward, but instead full of a warm, quiet intimacy.

Come on, pretty girl, Pero murmurs, reaching up to gently remove the safety glasses from her face. Let’s clean up.

Somehow she finds even the sight of him returning every tool back to its proper place, knowing exactly where each piece goes so that it’s ready for the next time he needs it, terribly attractive.

She catches his hand after everything’s put away, pulling his focus.

Thank you, she says, for this. Thank you for letting me in, for revealing this part of you, she doesn’t say, but hopes he knows that’s what she means. I’d…I’d love to do this again sometime.

He brushes his other hand across her cheek.

Anytime you like, querida.

She moves in to kiss him and it’s soft in a way she hasn’t felt from Pero before. He pulls her flush against him and simply holds her there, lazily exploring her mouth. He smells like sweat and heated metal, and she turns her head to lick the salt from the skin of his neck. A sound rumbles from deep in his chest, and the moment goes white-hot in an instant.

Touch me, Pero, she whispers. Put your hands on me.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He slides one hand to the back of her neck to yank her lips back up to his, the other disappearing into her leggings to grab a fistful of her ass. He swallows the pleased little gasp she makes, greedy for more.

He backs her up against the side of his workbench, moving to unbutton her top. Once he has access he pulls down the cups of her bra and turns his full attention to her breasts, kneading the soft flesh with his hands and laving his tongue over her nipples.

Her fingers run through his hair, longer than Jack’s but with curls less unruly than Frankie’s. His hips press against hers and she squirms against the bulge in his jeans, searching for friction.

Need more, baby? He coos up at her, a wicked glint in his eye.

Need you, Pero, she whines.

He straightens and turns her around to bend her over the workbench, curling his fingers in the waistband of her leggings to yank them down and expose her gorgeous ass to him…

Wait.

He freezes.

Could we…I want…

He runs a soothing palm over her hip.

What do you want, pretty girl?

She twists back around to face him. He lets himself be nudged backward until he feels the edge of a nearby chair behind him and sits. She towers over him now, and he looks up at her with one brow raised.

I want to see you, she says shyly, and his blood heats. He slowly spreads his legs in invitation.

She slips out of her shoes and shimmies her leggings and panties off, then similarly loses her shirt and bra. He reaches for her with a growl and hauls her into his lap. She goes willingly, wrapping herself around him as his hands rove over every inch of her skin. This time their kiss is messy and desperate, and when Pero trails a hand down her stomach and finds the soft hair of her mound to pet at her clit, she whimpers into his mouth.

You want it? He rasps. She nods frantically, their noses brushing.

Then take it out, pretty girl.

She undoes his jeans and frees the stiff length of his cock, pumping him slowly, drawing bead after bead of precum from the tip.

But then her grip falters.

This is okay, right?

Pero frowns at her, confused.

What I mean is…I know we talked about it, and you all said it was okay, that we don’t always all have to be together, but…

Ah, so that’s her concern. Something wild and beastly claws at his ribcage in triumph at the realization that he’ll be the first of them to have her all to himself.

It is more than okay, he reassures her, smoothing a thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. We told you we can each take our pleasure from the others whenever we wish, and none of us is a man who says things he does not mean. Least of all to those we care for.

He can feel her body relax at that, and he tilts her chin and draws her in for another kiss. Her hand starts to move up and down his cock again, the tip of him grazing the pillowy skin of her inner thigh with each pass, and a hiss leaves his mouth at the sensation.

This will not go the way you intend if you keep that up, he warns her. A newfound deviousness unfurls itself in her grin.

Maybe this is what I intend, she says. Maybe I want you just like this, hard and aching in my hands until I make you come all over yourself -

He cuts her off by crashing his lips to hers, stilling her movements on his cock and hooking one hand under her ass to push her up until his length prods against her entrance.

Perhaps, he murmurs, perhaps one day if you’re a very, very good girl, I’ll let you have such a way with me. But for now - he notches himself just inside the slick rim of her pussy - put me inside you.

She obeys, working herself down on him inch by inch. When he’s fully seated inside her she sighs as if in relief, a dazed look in her eyes. There’s a distant thought in the back of her head that despite the workshop being closed today, one of the artists could still walk in unexpectedly at any moment, but she can’t bring herself to care.

They make twin sounds of pleasure at the first swirl of her hips. As her body adjusts to his size she finds her rhythm, bracing her hands on his shoulders as she rides him.

And god, what a sight.

She knows what sex with Pero feels like. She knows what it sounds like, smells like, tastes like. But none of those things has prepared her for what it looks like. What he looks like, as they move together, face-to-face for the first time.

The clench of his jaw, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. The tendons that pop and strain in his neck. The dewy sheen of sweat across his brow. And his eyes…

She could fall forever into the endless black abyss of his eyes, she could lose herself entirely in their depths and never look away and would be thankful for it. How could she not be, when he looks at her with such unrestrained want that she feels it like a physical thing…

She brushes a thumb over the scar that bisects his left eye, as if she could soothe the long-ago wound with present tenderness. She knows it’s far from the only scar he carries, and would that she could heal them all through sheer force of will.

Pero swirls his thumb around her clit, bracing his feet as he begins to meet her hips with thrusts of his own. Her movements stutter as her control over her body wavers. She becomes nothing more than molten desire in his hands, to be molded and shaped and consumed by flame as he sees fit. The pressure he puts on her clit is unrelenting, and this is familiar, the way he doesn’t coax an orgasm from her, but demands it. It builds and builds in between her legs and when she would close her eyes and tip her head back to welcome it he grabs her chin to stop her.

Look at me, he pants. Look at me when I make you come, querida. Look…

It starts as a command, but ends as a plea.

The tension bursts inside her, and her cry of his name and the way her climax tightens her pussy around him like a vice pulls him headlong over the edge with her. He cums with a roar, pulling her down on his cock as he empties himself as deep as he can inside her.

It’s a long minute before they both fully come back to themselves, breathing hard as their bodies milk every last drop of pleasure from each other. She collapses into his chest, and he’s content to hold her there for as long as she wishes.

We can do that again anytime you like too, he says quietly in her ear, and she smiles into his neck.

——————

There’s no big reveal, no fanfare or presentation when it happens. She simply comes home one day (and funny, how she’s started to think of it as home, how her apartment has become merely a place where most of her things are, including the vase she’d made with Pero, but not where she lives) and there it sits on the shelf, catching her eye immediately.

The falcon, the horse, and the bull, now clustered around a fourth statue.

A lioness.

She moves towards it as if pulled by gravity. The beauty of it steals her breath. The great cat is posed sitting, tall and elegant, her body at a three-quarters position but her head turned to look straight out at the viewer. Her tail is wrapped neatly around her, and her tiny delicate ears are alert.

What do you think? says a soft voice behind her. It carries an uncharacteristic hint of uncertainty.

She doesn’t turn, doesn’t need to look to know the man behind her is the one who made this.

She’s gorgeous, she murmurs.

Pero hums low in his throat, and comes to stand over her shoulder.

You can ask, he says. I want to tell you.

Why a lioness? she whispers.

Pero is silent for a moment.

She is strong, and graceful. Clever, and brave. Loyal. Beautiful.

A tingling warmth floods her chest. It feels like too much, the implied praise too high.

They’re remarkable creatures, she replies.

They ain’t the only ones, darlin’, Jack drawls from the doorway. He’s flanked by Frankie, who has one arm wrapped casually around Jack’s waist.

I don’t know what to say. Tears prick her eyes as she turns to face them.

You don’t have to say anything, Frankie tells her.

Just be ours. Pero says it so softly she almost doesn’t hear him. As we are yours.

She pulls Pero in for a kiss, her answer whispered like a vow against his lips:

I already am.

———

Fun fact I learned about glassblowing equipment during my research for this fic that I wasn’t able to work into the story but absolutely need to share with you anyway:

Did y’all know that the furnaces like the one Pero uses here to heat the glass are called GLORY HOLES?!?!?!? Swear to god. Be careful googling that if you don’t believe me. 😂

[seventeenpins]

take me higher

pairing: Lucien Flores x F!Reader

word count: 1.6k

summary: You run into an ex at a party. You never learn.

content/warnings: weed use, dubcon (if you want? read it however you prefer), Lucien's a selfish lover and a fuckboy, shotgunning, fellatio, getting too high, a complicated and undefined relationship

a/n: Turns out I am not immune to Lucien Flores. Wanted to make him hot, but a fuckboy asshole, and definitely a mistake. Whenever The Uninvited is released, I cannot wait to see how off or on the mark we've been for these characterisations lmao. This was written quickly, now i'm posting and bouncing for a few hrs. Hope there are no major errors 😅

If you're honest, you can't remember how you ended up here.

You remember the party. Some of the party? And you went--somewhere. You're not sure, but you think you were on his lap for a while, but your limbs went away. Maybe you slid down? Now you're on the floor. This is probably the floor.

Your head is foggy, and peeling open your eyelids takes more effort than it should, but when you hear the bubbling of a bong, you turn your head lazily to look at him.

Lucien.

Fucking Lucien.

"Open that pretty mouth," he runs his thumb over your lips and presses it just between your teeth, making a satisfied mmm. "Love lookin' at those gorgeous lips."

His hand traces along your jaw, holding you now by the back of your head. Your lips are guided to forward and you forget where you are for a moment. You expect to feel flesh. Instead, when your mouth presses against something, it's cool glass. The bong. You had heard bong noises. By muscle memory, you reach forward as if to light it. Then you realise, it's already been lit and filled, the chamber already swirling with thick white smoke.

It's a ridiculous bong. Bright and gaudy, just like his ridiculous silk shirt. The piece is probably hand-blown. Artisan crafted. Almost certainly cost a fortune.

You want it.

Maybe, depending on however long your relationship lasts this time, you can get him to buy you one. Or you can just steal his.

Without any more direction, you start the inhale, trying to keep the breath smooth.

"That's it, now. Take it slow. Just a little more-"

You clear it.

Just as you're about to exhale- "Good girl. Hold it there, baby. Don't you dare let it out yet."

He leans himself down and pulls you up. Parts his lips, your mouths so close they're almost touching.

"Let it go-" he commands, and you do, breathing the smoke out and into his mouth.

He holds the smoke for a moment himself. Then blows it back out, letting it waft up into the atmosphere.

Or, towards the ceiling?

You're actually not sure if you're inside or out.

"One more, baby, you can do one more for me," he coos as he prods the end of the lighter into the bowl, packs the greens again, re-ignites.

You don't know how many hits you've had. It feels like you've been smoking for hours. Your limbs are all gooey and loose, your head dense and unfocused. You can tell your heart's racing, but it's kind of a comfort. A consistent tattoo that you can ground yourself with.

You're dazed, happy, pliable.

"Open up," he orders, and you comply, pressing your lips against the mouthpiece again.

This hit is a little harsher, closer to the end of the bowl.

You try to do it right, try to breathe out slowly and gently, let the smoke pass right into his mouth. Instead, you erupt in a fit of coughs and you feel a hand on your back, rubbing up and down in gentle circles.

"Oh, you poor thing," he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "That hit too rough for you?"

You can feel tears in your eyes from the tickle that's still in your throat. Then, a thumb brushes them away.

"I remember you right, though, you always did like it a little rough, didn't you?"

You want to respond, want to say something to him, but instead you just nod.

"Poor girl, so stupid she can't even talk," he mocks, "That's okay baby, we don't wanna make that throat too sore, do we? Ain't been used enough to tap out already, huh?"

It takes effort, but you shake your head in agreement.

"Are you tired, sweetheart? You can rest your head, if you need. Just for a minute."

You're not sure if you move, or if he pulls you, but now you're closer to him, tilting forward, resting your head on-

What are you resting your head on?

Oh.

Oh.

Your head is in his lap, his cock hard in his pants.

Any dry mouth you'd been feeling a moment ago disappears. You start salivating.

Unthinking, you press your tongue hard against the inside of your cheek. Given the way he groans, he definitely felt that.

You do it again, tentative, testing.

"Shit, baby-," his breaths sound more like shudders and you love how pathetic he sounds. "Need your mouth on me right fuckin' now."

You rock back and give him space as his hands work furiously at his fly, unbuttoning the waistband and pulling the zipper down with a satisfying swish. Hitches up his hips. Pulls his pants off.

He isn't wearing any underwear. Then you remember it's Lucien; it would've been more surprising if he had been.

He's still got his silk shirt, but it's open now. His chest is exposed, delicate chains glinting against his freckled collarbone.

His cock is heavy, thick against your cheek.

"Open up, baby, put that mouth on me."

You pull yourself up, still foggy, and run a wide lick along his length, ending at his tip. He's salty, musky, delicious. You've missed how he tastes. It's like coming home.

He seems to feel the same way.

"Missed that sweet mouth on me, baby," he groans, and holds himself by the base, smacking his cock head against your lips.

Slick has striped across your mouth and you dart your tongue out to lick your lips clean. He growls, watching you. Takes you by the back of the head again, guiding your open mouth to stretch around his fat length.

"That's it," he praises, rocking his hips, forcing you to take him deeper, "Look at you all stuffed full of me."

You start to gag but he pulls back, just the littlest bit. "Know you can do better than that," he admonishes, "Better try again."

He adjusts his angle just a little and starts thrusting into your open mouth again. The angle is better.

"Good girl," he breathes, letting each word be punctuated with a thrust, "My good- fucking- girl-"

You're able to take him to the base, throat full, nose pressed against the coarse hair between his thighs.

Mmmm. His thighs.

You can feel yourself drifting, losing focus. You're encased in him.

His thighs.

Soft and hairy and buttery-smooth, you stroke your fingertips along the insides of his thighs and let him fuck up into your throat.

Does he have a skincare routine for his thighs? You wish your thighs felt like his. Fuck.

A sharp smack lands on your cheek.

"Stay with me now," he tells you, "Back to work."

You realise you'd been slacking, your mouth still filled with cock, but he's not in your throat anymore. You're not doing your best work. You can do better.

You grab onto his hips and, to his surprise, set a new pace.

It's punishing.

Tears start spilling from your eyes, running down your cheeks and landing on his thighs.

You blow him like it's the only thing you were made to do. You want your mouth to be the best hole. Better than your pussy. Better than your asshole.

A mind-blowing hole that he'll want to use again and again.

A hole he won't leave.

You feel his balls start to tighten as he gets closer, and you keep moving on him, bobbing up and down, fucking his length with your throat so fucking expertly you should get a dick-sucking medal.

"I'm nearly there, baby," he gasps out, "Wanna cum on those pretty lil tits."

He pulls you off of him and yanks down your top. It's a blouse, one of your favourites, actually.

It's about to get stained.

You don't stop him.

He strokes himself once, twice- then lets go. He shakes, moans. Cum splatters across your tits, along your neck, a few spatters landing along your jaw and chin.

Lucien steps back to admire his work. The almost-pearlescent sheen of his spend glistening across you.

"Even better than I remembered," he smiles, and kisses you, not bothered to avoid the cum on your face.

The high has started to fade, just a little.

He pulls his pants back on. Buttons his shirt. Cards a hand through his hair.

"Better get cleaned up before you head back in," he grins, "Don't want everyone to know what we got up to, huh?"

You're still foggy, but you shake your head.

Lucien disappears. You wait for a minute, hoping he might come back with a washcloth for you.

He doesn't emerge.

You find a place to clean yourself.

You're in the garage, you realise. Must have been this whole time. But facing the open door, towards the trees and the night.

There's a sink and a towel near the door to the house. Hoping desperately that no one will try to come through the door, you wipe his cum off of your chest.

The blouse is stained, but there's a jacket on the chair you were near. You shrug it on.

The party, you discover, is still in full swing.

The head fog, the daze, the confusion, it's hard to cut through, but when you find everyone else, you see Lucien, drink in hand, flirting with a pretty young thing over in the corner.

He turns ever so slightly, catches your eye, and winks.

You realise how fucking wet you are, head swimming, panties drenched, and you hate how easy this is for him. That he can just walk away. Doesn't feel any need to satisfy you the way you always want to satisfy him.

He's a mistake you know you'll make again.

Time to leave, you decide. You call a lyft. Find a mirror to make yourself somewhat presentable.

You exit through the garage. His bong still there.

You take it with you on your way out.

[wayfayrr]

aaaaaaahhh all i can think of is like- most isekai fics I've seen for some reason [i mean understandably] the reader is wearing their pajamas, but after visiting the modern world they can finally show the chain what they actually like wearing, [i can see this going in so many ways, depending on who is reacting, and especially depending on what aesthetic the reader likes to dress in. for the sake of the request ill keep it as dark academia, cause i love it so muchhhh [not so much in the summer, but i make it work lol] with time? [just imagining reader with a tie and just wearing business casual w a trenchcoat frrrrrrrr- might draw this kind of thing and send it to you lol]

Anon I hope you know this ask had me in an absolute chokehold. OUJDFNBJNF ✨I LIVE FOR DARK ACADEMIA AESTHETICS!!!✨ My trenchcoat is one of my favourite things I own. So I get your pain in summer as well 🥹

“Hey Time, have you seen Wild anywhere? He borrowed my laptop and I really need it back.”

“I haven’t sorry [nam]-... Is that what you wear normally? You look incredible.”

“Pretty much, yeah? Why, is there an issue with it?”

Time’s blushing. Is what I’m wearing really that impressive because I know he’s not blushing over what I’m wearing being revealing. A trenchcoat that goes down to my calves with the rest of my clothes? Does he just think I’m attractive or something? 

“No, no issue. You look good in it, it’s just very different to what you arrived in Hyrule wearing.”

“I know, like I said then those were my pyjamas. These are my casual clothes.”

Well, his blush has only gotten worse from that, so he is clearly struggling with how my clothes look on me. Dark academia doesn’t exist in Hyrule I know that, but really he’s struggling far more than anyone else has with my fashion sense. 

“Do you think you could help me choose some clothes like that? I’d like to match wit.. I think that style would suit me.”

“If you’d like, we can go shopping for you later. After I get my laptop back and finish off this report I have due.”

Laughing at how he's stumbling over himself to ask me these questions simply isn't an option, no matter how hard it is to hold myself back. He's asking so genuinely and so sweetly and who knows maybe getting some new clothes could help him adjust to this world more easily, I mean it certainly helped me when I was in Hyrule. How different could it be for time?

It didn't take too long to find wild after talking to time, and even less to finish off the work I had to do, now it’s just down to taking time shopping.

“So you want to look like you belong with a shot of espresso in an artisanal coffee shop while writing a research paper?”

“I only know what half of those words mean [name.], even less with how you’re using them.”

“Right, sorry. I’m still getting used to all of the differences in our cultures. Hopefully, you’ll get more used to the terms we use here sooner rather than later. Ready to go out though?”

“I am, it’ll be nice to get some new clothes. Not that I’m complaining about the excuse to wear yours.”

The nearest place that sells things like these isn’t exactly the closest to where I live, making it the perfect opportunity to adjust Time to my world’s transport. Well, more than he’s already seen anyway. Actually, now that I’m thinking about this, what size clothing even is he? Not that it’s an issue but not knowing a vague size is gonna mean he’s going to have to try on a lot of different fits. Then finding the right colours for him is a whole different challenge… And we’re already here… Time to find out the answers to those questions of mine.

“Where would you like to start?”

“A coat exactly like yours perhaps?”

“I don’t see why not. Any colour in mind or just the same style?”

A shrug was NOT what I wanted as an answer, but he does know what he wants which means that I’ve got somewhere to start. Trench Coats are somewhat pricey but with how some of the others are chipping in towards living costs now there’s no issue with spending out occasionally. He seems to be gravitating more towards things that are similar to mine, isn’t that charming? He sees something he likes on me then decides that’s what he wants for himself hopefully, he just stays away from the expensive ones. 

“You ready to try those on then, old man?”

“Just a moment more love, I can’t find quite the right colour yet.”

He just… How red is my face right now? It has to be crimson, doesn’t it? That’s the first time Time’s ever called me something like that naturally it’s when he’s looking at clothes like my own, is he trying to kill me with his charms?

[blankd]

The Common Language(TM)

Saw a post trying to explain how Common (a... common language) exists in fantasy settings and (I assume) DnD. I personally disagreed with OP's interpretations as they funneled explanations into two camps:

-Humans are so imperialist they made everyone else speak it (a travesty to act like humans are the center of the universe again)

-All languages form Common out of trade necessity, BUT the words contributed retreat into fantasy stereotypes (orcs are warriors, elves are artisan waifs, etc.). Which, IDK guys, at best it comes across as over-explaining US English with extra steps and baggage.

Now personally, I treat languages in my own campaign as mostly geological*- because I'm running a campaign, not writing a book/wiki/conlang.

*A few languages are bound to their speakers simply because they don't have humanoid mouths, eg: Primordial is spoken by Elementals, AKA sentient elements, etc.

Naturally, this led to wondering how the existence of Common could be a larger feature that could be interacted with. While conlangs can be fun, they are often treated as fossils when players probably prefer to walk among dinosaurs.

Note: This is written through the lens of DnD/a fantasy TTRPG, but it could probably function elsewhere with mindful tweaks., build according to your preferences.

In this scenario, all cultural languages exist, but a reverse tower of babel situation occurred. So now the world has a large magical tower that gifts all sentient humanoids (PCs/NPCs) with Common.

For World Flavor:

The immediate obvious possibility is that several nations/peoples agreed to collaborate on this, it's up to you if any individuals are named. But since it was so long ago, that might be lost to time. Or maybe it was recently completed! Regardless, is the tower a Wonder that is communally protected or does this responsibility fall on a certain group?

Or is the Tower Divine? A gift from a god of language, a god of peace or something else entirely (a god of venom who wanted to afford all mortals the ability to hurt each other with words, etc.)? If it is divine, what is the story that explains it? Is there a faith that worships the Tower (and its god)? How do people who may dislike this god reconcile the benefits of the Tower with their distaste for the deity?

Or is it an (inter)national archaeological mystery that is currently being studied? What has been hindering progress? Is it people (who has right over this) or something more otherworldly (supernatural defenses)?

Or maybe it really is just a funny little quirk of the world- a team of wizards bestowed the world with a lingua franca for an easier conference since they don't have time to learn other languages, back to other stuff!

For Conflicts/Hooks:

Is it housed in the current world's seat of power (or was a superpower built around it)? Is this fact used as a Divine Right to be an Authority over others?

Are new words added? Does this affect magic with Verbal Components? Is this how the world's spells are created? Are expeditions sent into the Tower to attempt to add more spells? Have magical words (spells) been lost (or removed)? Does this mean the Tower is ALSO the world's seat of magic?

Can Mundane words be lost? Does this somehow erase *all* instances of this written word? Or does it remove their inherent meaning and Essence (eg: if the word Sweet was lost, would all things cease to be sweet or would sweetness slowly bleed out of the world as sweet and its synonyms are eroded? How would the remaining languages try to preserve this concept in reaction to the Tower?

Was this word loss an accident or intentional?

Is this aspect abused? Is/has it been used as a political weapon/threat? How does exterior damage to the tower, if it can suffer any, affect the language it actively imbues in people? Or does it merely impact how effective its power is?

Or is the Tower decaying and there is a lingual epidemic where communication is collapsing in places that have become overly reliant on the Common provided by the Tower? What do attempts to fix the Tower look like? If the Tower is Divine in origin, how do the pious interpret this development (a test, malice from another god, etc)?

Is a lack of Common in a person used as a pretense to do harm to them? Is it used as 'evidence' to strip them of rights/dignit? Or is speaking Common a litmus for adulthood (eg: babies babble, adults converse, etc.)? How does this belief affect Mute or Deaf people?

Are there people that believe in the superiority of a Cultural Language (since they equate effort to value and Common requires 'no effort')? Are there people that consider Common to be a mark of a lack of intelligence?

Is there an effective range to the Tower? Is there a material or other phenomena that interferes with the Tower's effect on people? How would the PCs react to suddenly being unable to speak Common within their own party for a scenario?

How would anyone react if mundane livestock suddenly spoke? What if fields of plants started screaming?

Would anyone seek a way to sever the tower's influence from themselves (or others)? If the Tower can magically/divinely influence people with the ability to use Common, what else can it do? Would someone ever seek to alter this aspect of the Tower? Could they use it to continuously, universally emit healing? What about silence? (Is the Tower simply automatically converting all words to Common, effectively robbing all the intricacies of natural cultural languages?)

Would there be a reason to destroy this tower? Who would benefit from it (culturally/politically/etc.)? How would the world be changed if it was suddenly destroyed? Who would attempt to fix it? Could it even be fixed?

For Mechanics:

Some challenge uses have already been suggested above with Common Language and/or Verbal Magic dead zones.

But more cut and dry mechanics could tie to how Silence, Comprehend Languages and other linguistically-tied spells tap into/invoke the Tower and even require a nonstandard component.

Additionally, maybe this is where the Power Words (Kill, Heal, Stun, etc.) originated from and can only be found there- and what if there are more?

If you wanted to get cheeky you could probably attribute other word/language spells (Healing Word, etc.) to the Tower, but every table is different.

Hopefully this inspires some fun at the table. Or if you're already running a campaign, you can downsize this effect to a dungeon/wizard's tower/town.

This idea is of course free for use, and if you do use it, please share your story of how it played out! Have fun o/

[aquamarixx]

any chance youll make a good ending version of the klark fic i almost lost my eyes bawling

ghost of you

If there's anything you taught Klarkstella, it's that some strangers leave marks on your life in ways you never expect.

‎‧₊˚✧ EVER AFTER 2025 ENTRY ✧˚₊‧ pairing klarkstella x reader word count 1.5k words tags under the same sky afterstory, named prev y/n Seren, hurt/comfort navigation

Grief has a cruel sense of humor.

Just when Klark thinks he’s moved on, grief hits him like a burst of a dying star, shaking him back to the reality that he still isn’t over Seren, his aide who died. 

In short, he’s in denial. 

He’s gone through the motions, the seven stages of grief ticking by like clockwork, but he never truly processed any of it. Not one bit. He thought maybe talking to the asters in the castle gardens was enough therapy, his way of keeping Seren close.

But turns out, it wasn’t.

The scent of freshly baked bread wafts in the air as he walks through the flea market with Louter and Myunna.

Myunna perks up at the smell, already eager to drag them toward the source, but Klark barely registers it.

It wasn’t the smell of baked goods that catches him off guard. 

It was your laughter, your voice. 

His breath catches in his throat. His body stiffens before he even realizes why. Then he moves quickly, his head snapping toward the sound, the slight panic visible in his eyes as he looks for the source of that melodic laughter.

And then he sees you.

The owner of a humble baked goods stall, nestled between artisan vendors, smiling so brightly your eyes crinkle at the edges—just like hers.

His feet drags him before he can think.

One moment, he’s walking with Louter and Myunna. The next, he’s standing in front of your stall, frozen in place. You don’t look like Seren. Not at all. But something about you that reminds him of her.

The way you smile, the way laughter spills from your lips so effortlessly, the air around you. All of it reminds him of her.

It’s been months since Seren vanished like stardust in the wind, but standing here now—staring at you—it feels like no time has passed at all. Like she’s right here.

Watching. Smiling. Existing.

And then you turn to him.

“Hi! Would you like to try our baked goods?” you offer, your voice warm, lighthearted.

You don’t seem bothered by the way he’s looking at you like you’re a ghost.

Klark doesn’t respond. Can’t respond. His throat feels tight and his lungs unwilling to cooperate.

Myunna appears at Klark’s side, tugging at his sleeve with concern. “Klark?”

Still, he doesn’t move.

Your smile falters slightly, curiosity flickering in your eyes at his odd reaction. The silence grows heavier, stretching too long.

Sensing the shift, Louter clears his throat and steps forward, offering a polite, easy smile.

“Hello. Could we get three of these, please?” he asks, his voice cutting through the tension in the air.

You brighten again, nodding as you move to prepare their order.

When you finally hand over the pastries, Klark reaches for them absentmindedly. His fingers brush against yours, featherlight.

But in that instant, he swears he stops breathing.

After that first encounter, he finds himself returning to your stall.

It’s not intentional. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

He has no reason to be here but somehow, he always ends up in front of your display, hands in his pockets, staring at the selection with feigned interest.

Whatever he buys, he rarely eats. Instead, Louter and Myunna are the unwitting recipients of his purchases, their reactions a mix of confusion and delight whenever Klark brings them the treats.

And no matter how many times he visits your stall, he still doesn’t have the courage to speak beyond polite exchanges—"What would you like today?"—a question he never really knows how to answer.

But eventually, you notice him.

The quiet, brooding man who always buys something, despite never eating it himself. You start to greet him beyond the usual pleasantries, nudging past the rigid boundaries he sets. 

Small talk. Casual remarks. Meaningless little comments about anything and everything.

At first, he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Then, one day, you laugh. A sound so familiar, so achingly reminiscent of someone he lost, that it knocks the air from his lungs.

It terrifies him.

He tells himself it’s just nostalgia. That he’s simply looking for remnants of her in you, small fragments to fill the empty spaces left behind. Just enough to soothe the regret. Just enough to make the longing bearable. Just enough to satiate the feelings brewing inside.

And Klark finds himself wanting to know more.

He doesn’t notice it at first, but he starts bringing you asters. 

An unconscious habit, mirroring the way Seren used to leave them by his workstation, insisting they brightened up the room.

Maybe, in the back of his mind, some desperate, foolish part of him hopes you’ll recognize them as if you're Seren. That something will shift. That maybe, just maybe, you’ll remember.

But deep down, he knows that’s not possible.

Still he keeps trying. Keeps showing up. Keeps searching for her in you.

Louter notices. Of course he does. He sees not just the longing but also the desperation in Klark’s eyes. But he does nothing to intervene.

After all, the stars have already told him—one can only truly accept reality once they witness the absurdity of their own actions.

And so, Louter lets Klark be. 

The night air is crisp as you and Klark stroll through the peaceful town plaza. The streets glow under the warm lantern lights.

You talk about the stars. About the vastness of the sky. About the endless stretches of the Blue Continent—the world he has sworn to protect.

It’s nostalgic, if not bittersweet. The conversation flows so naturally, yet each word feels like stepping into the past. He’s had this exact conversation before with Seren. The way your voice lilts in curiosity, the way you gaze at the sky with wonder—it all reminds him of her.

And then you speak, your voice softer now, almost wistful.

"Do you ever wonder if we've met in another lifetime?"

Klark stops walking.

The moonlight spills over you, painting you in its glow, your skin luminous like starlight. And for a single, devastating moment, he sees Seren standing before him. Before she faded into dust.

His chest tightens. Then the tears come.

He doesn't even realize he's crying until the warmth streaks down his cheeks, his vision blurring.

And suddenly, everything crashes down at once.

He’s not over her. He never was. And you are not her.

No matter how much he projects Seren onto you, no matter how desperately he’s clung to the past, this isn’t right. This isn’t fair.

Because you are you.

And you—in your own way, in your own existence—are amazing.

Panic flashes across your face as you see Klark unravel before you, tears slipping soundlessly, lips trembling as if he’s moments away from breaking completely.

"Klark," you whisper, stepping forward carefully. "What's wrong?"

Your hand hovers between you, hesitant. He doesn’t move. His eyes squeeze shut as if trying to gather himself but he can’t.

And before he can say anything, you embrace him.

You hold him close, arms wrapping around his tense frame, as if reassuring him that he doesn’t have to carry this alone.

And that does it.

His walls, all carefully built, meticulously reinforced, all comes crumbling down.

The weight of it all, the grief, the longing, the guilt, it crashes over him in full force, and unlike before, he allows himself to feel it this time.

He knows he will never fully forget Seren. How could he? 

She left a mark too deep, too permanent to ever fade. 

She’s in the quiet mornings at the castle. In the silence of his workshop. In the asters in the garden.

And somehow, in you, too.

Klark sees you off.

He knew this day would come. You were never meant to stay.

You are a travelling merchant after all. And yet, it still stings.

But what he doesn’t expect is your parting words.

“I really enjoyed my time here,” you say, smiling at him. “Not just in the kingdom, but with you.”

His breath catches.

You don’t know what those words do to him. How they press into his chest, aching but warm.

But before he can respond, you continue, your gaze lifting to the endless stretch of sky above.

“Maybe we’ll meet again someday. Who knows?” You chuckle softly. “Because no matter how far we are from each other… we’re still bound. Connected. Living under the same sky.”

The same words. The same sentiment. But this time, they come from you.

And this time, it doesn’t break him.

It doesn’t send him spiraling into grief. It doesn’t make him feel like he’s chasing the shadow of something already lost.

Instead, it settles into him like the warmth of the sun.

He looks at you, standing there in the golden morning light, not like stardust slipping through his fingers.

And so, he lets the wind carry his words. His feelings.

“…Thank you,” Klark murmurs. Not for reminding him of Seren. But for being you.

For showing him that he doesn’t have to forget the past to move forward. That letting go isn’t the same as losing.

You give him one last smile before turning away, footsteps steady as you walk toward your next adventure.

Klark doesn’t call you back. He doesn’t stop you.

Some things aren’t meant to stay.

But as he watches you disappear into the horizon, he tilts his head back toward the sky you both share.

And for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel so empty.

amarips: hi anon! i wanna say that this is a good ending for klark despite it being bittersweet. it took me a while before i was able to work on this but i hope you like it! anyway, I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a reply or drop an ask or even a request! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

taglist: @inu1gf

[tenaciouschronicler]

July 3 2024 2009

Lets take a look at Julys updates now that I have some free time.

Behold! Apple juice!

So with this we have a better grasp of the time jump, its before Dave and John first talked on Pesterchum. @homestuckreplay made a great observation that I just wanna reiterate... Its absolutely adorable how much Dave LOVES talking to his friends, especially John. First thing he thinks of when finding apple juice? How much of a kick John is gonna get out of the unexpected movie reference.

Behind his cool guy persona hes just as much of a dweeb as John and I think he(John), at least as far as weve seen, is probably his closest friend. Maybe they were childhood friends until one of them moved and as they grew up Dave found it harder to fit in or find someone he could let in and trust.

You also might as well ask him about that beta. The kid's been harping about it for weeks. It would be cool if it came on his birthday. He'd be one happy camper.

Before we get into the chat, we see a little of Daves mindset. Even though Dave has made it pretty clear hes not really interested in the Beta, his friend is and hes gonna, 'In your own cool, sort of roundabout way', ask about it because he likes his friends happy.

Lets take a look at his desktop. (I appologize for the quality, dont know what happened)

Fisrt of, sick as hell wallpaper. Not sure what its from but its got a battle bracket on the bottom right so maybe an in-verse video game? Im not sure what app that blue one is, or maybe a file?, but Dave aint happy with it seeing as its named 'COMPLETE BULLSHIT'. The two red folders however hold Daves 'ILL BEATS' and 'DOPE RHYMES SO DOPE'. And keeping in-line with the sheer amount of tech, Daves sporting a shiny Pesterchum 7.0.

The enflammed silhouette is Daves browser aptly named Hephaestus. Hephaestus is the Greek God of artisans, blacksmiths, carpenters, craftsmen, fire, metallurgy, metalworking, sculpture and volcanoes. He was casted out of Olympus either by his mother Hera or by Zeus depending on the myth. In the first he is lame at birth, in the second he becomes lame after the fall. He now resides again on Mount Olympus crafting the Gods equipment and any fine metalwork pieces are said to be his work.

The first website Dave visits is his own satire review blog where he posts about Gamebro. And then theres his webcomic SWEET BRO AND HELLA JEFF and. it. sure is. Something.

I.

Theres no words honestly.

Daves cool guy facade is fading fast. But then again hes a kid so....

Theres 3 pages with the same style and Ive gotta question if this is really as popular as Dave makes it out to be ┐(￣ヘ￣）┌

[forgottenarias]

ooc || love language

I had a note written in my drafts for Aria that said ‘her love language is?’ which I assume relates back to some comment or something from once upon a time that I can no longer remember, but while I was driving around today I was *maybe* listening to some of my Aria inspo music and this all was rattling around…

I’m breaking this into two parts starting with Aria’s love language towards others! (Also until quite recently she really never had an ~romantic attachments so I might do a third bit about things with Arthur, we’ll see! But all of this is mostly going to reflect on her friends/family relationships)

It’s probably not surprising that arias go to is always gifts— she definitely takes a LOT of pride in finding very specific things that she knows people will appreciate and definitely pre Roderick would search all that markets and artisans in stafford for the perfect presents! (Specifically imagining that she’d spend a lot of time looking for books for eilia on whatever subject she was focused on at the time! Or music she thought aoife would enjoy playing or might not have heard before!) I do imagine this was reserved for the closest people in her life— only those people she felt fully confidant she completely understood and understood her.

Sort of looping in with that idea, Aria was def very into acts of service… which also is probably obvious considering the mentality of the stafford family, haha! Since there was that whole idea of being duty bound to serving astaira was engrained, I think that sort of morphed into the idea of her philanthropic efforts were also how she shows her affection for the people of astaira… if that makes sense?

I’m gonna tag @forgotteneilionora about this because I know we’ve discussed that the stafford family wasn’t necessarily as warm and fuzzy as, say, the Malconaire family, and sort of on that same line of thought, I didn’t figure there was much physical affection there either… which leads into the ides that Aria definitely did not show much attention through physical touch. I don’t think she was out there dodging hugging her friends or her sisters, but that was definitely never her first thought of how to show affection. I think it was probably more of a form of comfort in her mind. Buuuuuut…. I think that is/will change a bit thanks to Arthur??!!

I’ve realized that Aria set (maybe without even realizing it) boundaries about how she interacts with Arthur— which has been morphing for sure since they first met— and I think as she started realizing there MIGHT be confusing feelings happening was when there were things like her making a point to never say his name! And definitely one of those things was NO physical contact— not that there would’ve been much but if he did something like… I dunno, offered to help her out of a carriage or something, she’d definitely REFUSE because that’s a line she cannot, will not cross even in the most innocent of circumstances! (Though Arthur definitely blew right over that line during the riots so that’ll be its own thing!) I DO think if/when she and Arthur ever talk about their ~feelings, that idea of physical touch as a love language might become a more important thing for her than it was in the past? And my thought is that will probably come more from the concern that there are so many things that are going to be working AGAINST them being together that again, even the more innocent of circumstances of physical contact that she would’ve before avoided are now a comfort— like they’re there, together, and at least for that moment in time no one has managed to rip them apart yet!

Also just for Arthur, words of affirmation will make an appearance because…. He needs it. I think Aria has already realized he needs it. We all know want boy needs someone to tell him he’s not the worse and that he’s doing okay BESIDES Marian! Also realizing that she almost accidentally started having ‘quality time’ with Arthur in the form of all their walk and talks… (but don’t tell her that because that was just PART OF THE PLAN!) Also this is just a random HC I’ve had about the pair for awhile that asp Aria ends up reading TO Arthur— probably some astairan story or something she’s annoyed he has read himself — but that something they’d do together from time to time!

Weirdly, I don’t see her giving him gifts? Well, I definitely think she MIGHT at some point— and that thing would have some insanely important meaning behind it- but I don’t see her going out and searching out the perfect thing like she’d done for others? (Her justification would also be he already has WAYYY TOO MUCH so he definitely doesn’t need any gifts haha!)

Basically, which makes total sense given the differences in relationships, her love languages with Arthur is completely different than with her family and friends!

Being on the receiving end of affection is, probably not a surprise, not something Aria is very good at? Realizing she’s basically a minimalist, I don’t think she ever wants gifts? Not that she doesn’t appreciate them, but I think most of the things she has in her life have very important significance to her— especially now since Roderick has taken most of it away, haha! Quality time, I think, it probably what she values most— spending time with her sisters, all the time she spent with aoife where they could just BE and not have to worry about standing on principle or anything like that— those are the moments she values most. SO on that same note with Arthur… all that time they’ve spent together talking actually meant a lot to her (when it turned to something real and not just her trying to ignore him while he was trying to get her attention!). Probably meant more than she realized honestly???

Additionally words of affirmation are important to her! I don’t think she got much from her father, and probably some from her mother before she died… I would guess she did/does get it from Eilia and probably always has?? Honestly where would she be without her big sister? (Even more of an emotional/mental wreck than she already is!)

[popatochisssp]

GAH!!! I’ve had this question on my mind for so long, but do the boys have any particular tastes when it comes to interior design? Minimal, eclectic, etc… whatever boys you want to choose! Thank you!!!

This was interesting, I had to go on a bit of adventure through interior décor styles because I’m not too familiar with all the terms, but I definitely had fun~

Forgive any misuse of interior design words below, I am not an expert! XD

(Featuring many images stolen from Google)

Sans (Undertale): Sort of a revival post-modernist, not quite as loud as the original post-modern look in terms of colors, but still a mix-and-match of shapes and materials, spacious areas, not afraid of décor or accenting a space with unique pieces that don’t perfectly coordinate with the others. Comfort and space over rigid adherence to an aesthetic.

Papyrus (Undertale): Memphis style designs really capture his imagination, lots of shapes and bold, bright colors, circles and checkerboards and zig-zags. It’s fun, he likes fun things! Abstractly-shaped furniture and weird objets d’art—could use some more stuff with cool flame-patterns, or maybe some spikes here and there, but he can experiment to get the right balance in there!

Sky (Underswap Sans): Into modern styles, mostly, he does like the minimalist look but absolutely goes in for strategic splashes of color to brighten things up. Sleek shapes and clean lines are great, but absolutely must be offset by some rich lively colors for an open, welcome feel, can’t let it feel too sterile.

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): Favors sort of a regence look, tends toward curving lines and intricate elegance in the little details. Chair arms that swirl, fleurs in the carving of a cabinet, decorative patterns and motifs to tie everything together as a cohesive whole. He finds the charming elegance comfortable and easy to settle into.

Jasper (Underfell Sans): Definitely more of an artisan/arts and crafts style kind of guy, cares less about the Look of things than he does the craftsmanship of it—he wants things to be well-made and able to stand up to consistent use, so most of what he favors are sturdy pieces and designs without ostentation or elaborate details. It may not be the prettiest, but it is homey and comfortable and ready to be actually lived in.

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): Empire style, he is all about the ostentation and elaborate details, silk and velvet, ebony and gold, it has to be bold and artful and dramatic (just like he is). If something’s a little too plain and simple, he’ll pass on it or find a way to dress it up prettier.

Mal (Swapfell Sans): Contemporary design is more his thing, sleek lines and sharp angles, with a strong aesthetic preference for more industrial materials (glass, metal, marble, etc). Tends to avoid most color, sticking with black and white, and just a few decorative objects here and there to draw the eye. He likes the clean look over a more comfortable, lived-in one.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): Big fan of art nouveau, swirling lines and curving forms. Stained glass lamps, art, and windows are big hit with him, as well as wrought iron railings or table frames and the like. He likes colors and things that feel like they flow, mostly, and any intricate detail-work that catches the eye.

Slate (Horrortale Sans): Cottage style is more his speed, a little rustic and a lot cozy, with a special emphasis on plush furniture. He’s all about the comfort and the homey feel, nothing pristine that an accident or a bit of wear-and-tear will ruin quickly.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): More of an English country sort of guy, big on patterns and florals, but also into a bit of delicacy and charm—some more ornate accent chairs here, decorative curtains there, unique antiques and plants everywhere. Definitely cozy and comfortable but done in a very thoughtful and deliberate way.

Ash (Undergloom Sans): Clutterbitch—wait no, I mean maximalist. He likes having a lot of stuff and putting it on display, and bright colors (especially turquoise!) make him happy to look at, so he’s drawn to that kind of thing when customizing a space. Lots of knickknacks and prints related to his hobbies, maybe a novelty end table or two, shaped like a record or a cloud or something. A bit chaotic but he probably knows where everything in it is, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): He goes for a bit of a modern farmhouse look, soft neutrals with warmer rustic touches. Likely to spruce it up a little further with some bright yellows and greens, but mostly in the accents—flowers, artwork, et cetera. Also likely to decorate with lots of candles and mason jars and anything he comes back with from the home goods store, because he is very passionate about the home goods store.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): Tends toward Tuscan style, warm tones, wood and tile and wrought iron, sturdy and well-crafted furniture. Not opposed to some intricate designs here and there, but not that intricate, just enough to look a little nice. Maybe a bit nicer than the absolute basics, but he’s not trying to impress anybody, he just wants cozy and comfortable, and maybe he’s earned the right to a tiny bit of fance here and there, y’know?

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): Something of a traditionalist, with a strong appreciation for clean, elegant, and cohesive styles. The classics never go out of fashion—dark wood, damask patterns, ornate detailing, maybe some fine red drapery and a chandelier or two, but nothing too ostentatious. Less is more, but no need to go full minimalist to show your class, after all.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): Definitely about the shabby chic, clean and simplistic styles but with a touch of wear or softness to keep it inviting. Not a sterile space that can’t be lived in, but still a bit neat and thoughtfully arranged!

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): More a fan of the urban look, exposed brick and beams but some softening elements incorporated too, like abstractly shaped furniture and décor, and lots of lighting. More minimalist than cluttered and probably not a huge fan of rugs, but he definitely wants a good balance between hard and rough, and soft and wavy aesthetics.

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): He can’t actually see it, but tends to favor Mediterranean styles. He likes a lot of sunlight, open floor plans, and wide doorways, and he’s a little less picky about his furniture but anything with ornate designs and detailing that he can physically feel to appreciate is a bonus. Function over form, though, comfort and utility is always foremost in his consideration.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): Fond of mission style, slatted wooden furniture, simple and clean designs and only a couple accent colors that work well with them—autumnals are a favorite. Some nature-inspired touches like plants, artwork, and other accents to bring a little of the outdoors in, but not so much as to be cluttered.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): Mid-century modern, for the most part, uniquely shaped items to stand as conversation pieces, but still primarily designed for utility. A little off-beat and retro, but still a homey and comfortable place to chill in.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): Big into art deco, metal and glass, geometric patterns and angular designs with bold, rich colors. He finds it to have a very fun and classy feel and likes things that make a statement—so he’s likely to incorporate a lot of centerpieces and décor wherever he can to draw the eye.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): Full-on industrial, brick and metal and hardwood, ideally with open and lofted spaces. It’s kind of what he’s gotten used to and gained an appreciation for along the way, so it may not be the most innately homey-feeling place, but he’s comfortable in it. Likely to accent the space with art—wall or sculpture—rather than rugs or blankets.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): He’s a minimalist. He doesn’t actually have a physical body most of the time, so his taste in decorating a space tends to prioritize aesthetic over what it would be like to actually live in it. Still, he is fond of aesthetics so he’s sure to pick out at least a few interesting and attractive centerpieces—light fixtures, table décor, an accent pillow, something—to make it a little prettier.

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): Sort of an eclectic/boho thing going on, lots of color and design and pretty much anything fun that catches his eye-socket. He’s very into crystals and wall hangings and art (or plants!) that can be strung up to dangle from the ceiling, so any space he’s involved in decorating is bound to look a little messy, but it’s comfortable and fun so it works out in the end!

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): Give him that Hollywood glam, glossy high-shine surfaces—glass, gold, mirrors—mixed with soft velvets and satins. Mostly black and white but with a prominent accent color or two to really make the eleganza pop, he’s decorating to impress and show off his taste in design.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): Ends up falling into a bit of a steampunk style in terms of décor, lots of metal and lighting, plenty of stuffed shelves, and clockwork junk and tools lying around. He certainly has nothing against brass and leather either so y’know, if that’s what you wanna call it, there it is.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): Country house design is more his speed, very fond of gingham and natural light and an overall homey feel. It’s not what he’s used to, per se, but that’s kind of…better. He likes light and open spaces, big tables for activities and soft furniture for sitting, but nothing so clean and new that it doesn’t feel like it’s meant to be used.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): International/modernist is mostly what he goes for, emphasis on steel and glass and concrete, and sharp minimalist lines. If he’s going to splurge on any patterns or color, it’ll only be in a few select pieces, nothing too outrageous.

Hunter (Swapfell Fruition Papyrus): He prefers a bit of a rustic look to things, with a high preference for natural materials, like stone and wood. Lofts are cool, as are sturdy shelving and exposed beams, but he’s especially into a good view, so if there’s high windows or just a lot of them, he’ll be happy.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): Tends toward a dark romance style, deep rich (but of course, dark) colors, soft lighting, and graceful, sometimes ornate lines. Not one to overclutter with décor and accents, mostly simplistic, but a few items here and there—quilts and dried flowers and overstuffed pillows.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): Whimsigoth, a fondness for the ornate and intricate and elegant, but a tendency towards eclectic amounts of décor—wall hangings, candles, bones, and books all artfully arranged. Very into patterned furniture with texture, from the pattern being either pressed or stitched into the fabric. A little messy at first glance but he’s actually very deliberate with his arrangements for the most balanced look.