#stripe au challenge

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

i wanted to make an alternate more canon-compliant butterfly Howdy... similar but Different! the wings were a pain in my ass!

[fairyofshampgyu]

Now live ! stream: 8

Genre: camboy au, college au, smut, crack, ongoing series

Paring: : camboy! Beomgyu x gn reader (afab when smut)

Warnings: sub! beomgyu, dom! reader, forced concentration (is that a thing lol?) anyway he’s forced to read little red riding hood whilst given a hand job lmfaoo, blowjob, riding, use of petnames puppy, baby, creampie, degrading, edging, nipple clamps, nipple play, cockwarming

Synopsis: Every Thursday night at 8pm, you tune into your favourite camboy: Angel313. What you don’t know is he goes to the same uni as you, is even in the same class as you and is Choi Beomgyu, the campus fuckboy but will you keep his secret?

Word count: 4.3k

“Go on. Keep reading, puppy.”

You watched beomgyu in amusement as he struggled to focus, the hand that held his phone trembling as he tried to read aloud the text on the screen but failing to do so with the way your hand pumped his cock.

You had told beomgyu if he was able to focus and read the passage of text until the end, then he’d be able to cum, but so far it was beginning to seem like a very challenging task for him.

Beomgyu sat on the edge of the bed, bathed in the soft glow of his fairy lights strung across his bed frame, the pink and white stripes of his signature thigh-highs adorning his legs, and his hello kitty belly button piercing gleaming in the dim light of the room. You were perched beside him, your hand leisurely wrapped around his cock, moving with a deliberate slowness that made his breath hitch every few seconds.

"Once upon a time," Beomgyu tries again, but his voice wavers as your thumb brushes over his sensitive tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum that gathered there. "There...there was a girl with a red cloak..."

You quicken the pace on his cock, hand still jerking him off and moving up and down on his length, hearing the sounds of tips flowing in from the stream.

Beomgyu bites his lip, his breath ragged. "A-as she was going through the w-woods, she met -ah- a wolf..." He stutters, his voice cracking with each stroke of your hand. He tries to focus, but every touch, every twist of your wrist, sends him spiraling. He’s fighting a losing battle, and you can see it in the way his eyes glaze over, unable to stay on the text.

He was so pretty like this, you thought. His skin was even more flushed than usual, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. The way his lips quivered, the soft whimpers that escaped his mouth—it was mesmerising. Beomgyu’s long lashes fluttered as he struggled to maintain control, his body betraying him with every movement of your hand on his cock.

@luvsubbyboys333: he looks so cute trying to concentrate! >_<

@angelsno1fan: he can't even finish a sentence haha aww

@live4angel: mess with him even more!

You can’t help but grin at the flood of comments, agreeing with them. He does look very cute when he's trying to focus. You're surprised he's even lasted this long and not made a fit about it. He gets so dumb and lost in pleasure whenever you touch him, you're quite amazed he hasn't even completely abandoned reading yet.

"Keep going, angel.” You coax, voice low and teasing as your thumb swipes over the head of his cock again, leaning in to nibble at the shell of his cute pink ear, breath warm against his skin, drawing out another helpless shiver and whimper from him.

To be honest, you’re a little disappointed. You had expected him to crumble and give up within seconds, looking at you with his sorrowful puppy eyes so you feel sorry for him and decide to call it quits. You liked seeing beomgyu plead and struggle and whilst it was clear he was struggling to focus with you jerking him off, it wasn’t quite enough. You wanted to see him become a desperate, needy mess for you and watch him beg. You weren’t satisfied yet and you knew the viewers weren’t either.

With a mischievous glint in your eyes, you lean down and get on your knees in front of him, spreading his legs and positioning your head between them. His breath hitches and he gasps, eyes widening, realising what you had in store for him and knowing he wouldn’t be able to last at all. He was such a sucker for whenever you sucked him off, losing himself entirely, his mind going blissfully blank. You’d made him go cross-eyed more times than you could count.

When you finally take him into your mouth, Beomgyu’s back arches off the bed almost instantly, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. His hands flying to the sheets, gripping them tightly as he tries to keep reading, but the words were lost on his tongue.

He tries, valiantly, to continue, but every word that left his lips are punctuated by stuttered breaths and choked moans, tumbling out in a messy, incoherent stream. "W-what big teeth you have said—oh god—little red riding hood. She..was...was…" His grip on the phone tightens, knuckles white. Beomgyu chokes on his breath as you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper. “The wolf—oh—said—f-fuck…”

You bob your head back and forth on his cock continuously, occasionally flicking your tongue over his sensitive tip and also the veins on the side, one hand gripping the flesh of his thighs and the other stroking the base of his dick and fondling with his nearly swollen balls, making him desperately moan even more.

Beomgyu’s attempts to keep reading are laughably futile by now, passage long forgotten as his eyes flutter shut, brows knitted cutely and his mouth hanging wide open, words dissolved into a chorus of moans and desperate little noises that drive the chat and yourself wild. His hand reaches out blindly, grasping at the air before settling on your hair, tangling his fingers trying to hold on to some semblance of control.

Beomgyu’s gaze is constantly flickering between the screen on his phone and also you, torn between the words he’s supposed to be reading and the sight of you with your lips wrapped around his cock. But he can’t even pretend to focus when the only thing on his mind is the way you look, sucking him off and looking up at him and the way your wet and warm mouth feels.

“You’re so pretty... so fucking prettyyyy,” Beomgyu whines needily, looking down at you with half lidded eyes, pitiful sounds escaping him. He can’t help it.

For some reason it makes your heart flutter. He barely manages to say anything whenever you fuck him, either whining or moaning and you’ve never heard him say anything like that to you before. But he’s just so out of it, he’s saying anything.

Ah, please...can’t read anymore.” Beomgyu whimpers and pleads at you, pouting.

@313angelluvr: Look at him, so pretty and hot 💓💓

@dom_23: Make him read it all, don't let him stop!

The rest of the viewers seem to agree, spamming the chat with similar demands.

You grin, taking a moment to glance at the screen. "They want you to keep going, baby. You can't stop now."

Beomgyu let’s out a slightly bratty, frustrated whine, furrowing his brows and bottom lip jutting out, but he reluctantly goes back to looking at the passage on his phone and trying to continue. You quicken your pace just to tease him more. You know he’s be on the edge any second.

“I’m gonna—oh god, I can’t—please, I need to cum,” he babbles, his voice high and strained and worried. “I can’t finish! I can’t focus! I’m gonna—”

But you pull back just before he cums, pulling off him with soft, wet pop and beomgyu lets out a pained, frustrated cry, his hips jerking up into the air in a desperate attempt to chase the sensation. You glance up at him, his flushed face, his half-lidded eyes glassy with tears of frustration, his lips parted as he gasps for breath. It’s a sight that sends a thrill through you.

You wrap your lips around his pretty cock again, starting all over and he attempts to read aloud again, hiccuping and lips trembling forever in a pout and sulky, still remnants of tears in his brown eyes. What a poor baby.

Soon enough, he’s pleading again, practically crying. “F-fuck-” His eyes roll back. “I-I really can’t pleaseee-”

"Yes you can," you murmur, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze and stroke his thigh softly. "Don’t disappoint your fans. You’re doing so well, puppy.” He only a had a few sentences left until he was done. Beomgyu looks down at you and nods, trying to comply.

At last, after the last few painfully anticipated minutes of waiting for him to say out loud the last sentence of which he struggled greatly with, he was done with the passage on his phone.

"Does our Angel want to cum?" His eyes snap open, wide and pleading, and he nods frantically.

Finally, you take pity on him, increasing the speed of you sucking and stroking him. Beomgyu’s cries reach a fever pitch, his body shaking on the brink. Reaching one hand up his tummy and waist to brush over his nipple, rolling the sensitive bud between your fingers, beomgyu lets out a strangled moan, his voice high and needy and it tips him over the edge completely. You pop off him, watching him toss his head back and make a pretty mess all on himself, cumming so much, thick ropes of white all on his tummy and thighs,completely milking him.

The chat explodes with praise and tips but beomgyu barely registers anything, panting deliriously and chest heaving as he comes down from his high as you switch the stream off.

"You did so good," you murmur, leaning in to brush a kiss against his sweat-dampened forehead. Beomgyu clings to you, moaning in response, his hands roaming over your body as if he can’t get enough. His lips find yours, pressing against them with a fervor that catches you off guard. For a moment, you lose yourself in his pretty lips and the insistent way his fingers dig into your skin, but then you pull away, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you glance at the time on your phone. "I’ve got to go," you say, smoothing down your clothes.

Beomgyu’s expression falters when you pull away from him, frowning. “Why…?"

“I’m just meeting up with a friend soon.” You shrug.

“Who?” Beomgyu’s brows knit together in confusion.

“Just this guy I met in the music practice rooms.” You don’t know why you have to explain who you’re meeting up with to beomgyu.

“Oh, cool. Have fun.” You can’t help but notice the subtle tightening of his jaw when you say that. Or maybe you’re looking too much into it.

You nod, though there’s a strange heaviness settling in your chest. It’s not like you and Beomgyu are together, you’re only fucking him for money. But for some reason you feel guilty and you don’t know why.

It seemed that haechan was always in the music practice rooms whenever you were, bumping into him and his cello more often times than not. Your paths crossed so often in the halls of the music rooms that small talk had become a routine—casual chats about classes, music, and the occasional complaint about assignments. Eventually, the idea of grabbing coffee together seemed like a natural progression, so here you were, seated in a cozy little café near campus, getting to know each other better.

You didn’t mind haechan’s presence and you were happy to have made another friend, though he seemed quite reserved sometimes, there was a lot more to learn about him.

Haechan stirred his cappuccino thoughtfully before speaking, “So, you study music, right?”

“Yep.” You nod enthusiastically, taking a sip of your own drink.

Haechan nods and smiles, raising a brow. “Well, what do you want to do with it?”

The dreaded question. You sigh and lean back in your chair, considering his question. “Probably go into teaching. I’ve always wanted to be a composer, but I doubt that would happen.” You reply and shrug. You notice his cello case propped up beside his chair and you nod at it. “You’re really dedicated, huh? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your cello. Why don't you study music?”

He chuckles softly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he lifts his cup to his lips. "I thought about it but my career options were better without it. It's more of a hobby. I study Business."

“But why did you quit the orchestra? I’ve heard you play—you’re really talented.” You ask him.

“I prefer playing alone.” Haechan shifts slightly uncomfortably in his seat. There's a moment of silence before he asks. “I've seen you hanging a lot with beomgyu. Are you dating him? Because, you know, he's got quite the reputation. Everyone knows he’s a fuckboy. You wouldn’t really want to date him.”

“What? No! We’re just friends.” A flash of irritation spikes through you. “And those are just rumors,” you insist, more defensively than you intended. “Someone started them, but it’s not true. He really isn’t like that at all.”

It really did frustrate you now every time you’d hear people whispering and talking about beomgyu on campus and in class, calling him a sleazy man whore and a slut and making up so much bullshit about him to entertain each other. You admit, you were one of those people before, thinking he was a fuckboy, but as you had grown closer and closer to beomgyu, you’d got to learn he was many things and so much more than what people liked to think he is. And you were surprised Haechan was quick to judge him too. It didn’t seem like his character.

“Yeah. He’s really not what people say. He’s sweet and funny and a good friend.” You don’t know why you felt the need to defend beomgyu so much to him.

For a moment, Haechan just watches you, his expression unreadable. Then, he lifts his coffee cup and sips again, “If you say so,” he murmurs.

The original plan was for you, taehyun, kai and beomgyu to bake cookies together. But with taehyun and kai suddenly swamped with studying for an upcoming exam, it was just you and beomgyu left to tacke it alone, the ones not so particularly skilled at baking, or mostly anything in the kitchen. You had initially intended to just watch taehyun handle the actual baking since he was really the only one who was good at it, while you all snuck tastes of the cookie dough when he wasn’t looking. Now, you were realising just how much you and beomgyu were in over your heads.

“Alright, so we need eggs, flour, sugar, bicarbonate soda…” Beomgyu reads from the recipe taehyun had scrawled on a piece of paper for you both, his voice filled with feigned confidence as he rummages through the cabinets and sets the ingredients on the counter. His brows furrow in concentration, and you can't help but think it was funny and also endearing at how serious he seemed.

"Okay, 120 grams of sugar.” Beomgyu reads, he glances up, expecting you to take action.

You fold your arms, narrowing your eyes, not really liking how he’s just ordering you to do it all. “Have you ever even made cookies before?”

Beomgyu puffs his chest out dramatically, as if wounded by your question. “Of course I have! Once for Mother’s Day... With my older brother... Years ago.” His voice trails off sheepishly. “Okay, maybe I watched him do it. But still.”

You cock an eyebrow at him, arms still crossed and standing.

Beomgyu grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief, shrugging. “Okay but how hard can it be? We just follow the recipe.”

Famous last words, you think, but you’re too amused by his enthusiasm to protest. You begin measuring out ingredients, and it doesn’t take long for chaos to arise. Beomgyu somehow manages to crack an egg with a little too much enthusiasm, splattering egg white all over the counter—and himself. It really was quite challenging following out a recipe.

You’re not entirely sure who initiated it, probably beomgyu, but a flour fight ensues as well, both of you laughing and running around the the mess of a kitchen, throwing fist balls of flour at each other.

He finally corners you against the counter, his arms around your waist as he looks into your eyes, not entirely sure if your heart was beating so fast because of how much running you’ve done or something else. “Okay, truce?” Beomgyu asks, a stupid grin tugging at his lips, softly brushing a strand of hair out your face with his flour covered hand, eyes gazing at you and down at your lips.

But you grab the bag of flour and throw it at his face one more time, making an escape.

“Hey!” He shouts after you.

You both erupt into giggles, covered head to toe in flour by the end, and it’s in that moment, as you’re doubled over with laughter together, that you feel a warm flutter in your chest. Beomgyu’s smile is so wide, one of his cheeks dimpled and his eyes crinkling at the corners, giving him whiskers.

“We seriously suck at this,” you snort, wiping flour from your face. “Taehyun is going to be so disappointed in us.”

“Let’s call him,” Beomgyu suggests, fishing his phone out of his floury pocket and facetiming taehyun. When taehyun’s face appears on screen, he takes one look at you both and groans.

“What the hell did you guys do?!!” Taehyun asks, exasperated but clearly amused. Behind him, huening kai is already screeching and dying in laughter.

“We’re baking, obviously,” Beomgyu says, turning the phone to show the mess on the counter and the bowl.

“Did you even follow the recipe?!” Taehyun sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as huening kai still giggles behind, tears in his eyes.

Beomgyu glances at the half-folded piece of paper on the counter, now smeared with butter and flour. “...Sort of?”

With Taehyun’s guidance, you somehow manage to salvage the cookie dough and get it onto the baking sheet. Beomgyu proudly shapes a few into misshapen bears, placing them on the tray with a flourish.

The cookies go into the oven, and finally you think you might be at peace, but it’s not long before, the overly sensitive fire alarm goes off, blaring loudly enough to make you both jump, sending you and beomgyu scrambling to open windows and fan the smoke with kitchen towels.

It doesn’t switch off unfortunately, and the entire building filled with college students, are forced to exit and line up outside.

“This is so embarrassing.” You groan, hiding your face in your hands as the two of you stand outside with the rest of the students, most of whom are looking annoyed or confused, grumbling about the alarm and how cold it was.

Beomgyu just laughs, sheepishly. “Clearly, baking is not our thing. Maybe we should just stick to streaming together.”

Once the all-clear is given and you’re allowed back inside, you return to find that your cookies, while not burnt to a crisp, are definitely on the overdone side. Beomgyu decides to make the best of it and carefully decorates them with icing and sprinkles, turning them into cute little bears, managing to make them look halfway decent despite their rock hard texture.

“You know what? They may be inedible, but they’re still cute,” you say, holding up your bear shaped cookie you had bitten.

Beomgyu smirks at his handiwork, a very proud look on his face as he waits for you to praise him even more.

“They’re like… really cute bricks.” You laugh, and beomgyu joins in, leaning his forehead against yours as you both dissolve into giggles.

“Maybe we can redeem ourselves on camera?” Beomgyu suggests.

Beomgyu whines underneath you, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back on the pillow, grip on your hips so tight as you continued to slide your pussy against his wet dick despite his constant pleas of actually letting him inside.

He was also wearing the pink nipple clamps, you both had newly attained with the money from the streams, his cute nipples extra flushed and perky and even more sensitive than they usually were, making touching and teasing and licking them even more entertaining than it usually was, body squirming and him moaning even prettier every time you did. The added sensation of you sliding against him and ministrations on his nipples, too much, but also not enough for him and he carried on crying and whining about it.

The viewers had also commented for you to actually just fuck him too since this had been going on for quite a long time now, beomgyu’s face dumb and fucked out, the slickness of both his precum and your wetness sliding together on him, making him go even more crazy.

“Please…even the viewers want you too…” Beomgyu pouts and whines at you, bringing his hand to reach at your wrist, pleadingly and hold onto you, but you pin his wrists down against the mattress, keeping him firmly in place. You roll your hips on him even more, bringing your mouth to his nipples to swirl at them, making him jolt and a strangled cry coming out of him. His tummy heaves intensely, watching his belly piercing go up and down as well.

“Hmm. Not yet, pretty boy. You’re so cute like this.”

He shivers, eyes fluttering shut as he bites down on his lip, trying to keep his composure. But every slow roll of your hips has him unraveling, the sweet agony of being so close yet so far from what he truly wants. “Just let me inside! Please! I just want to feel you, please, pleasee. Just wanna feel you.”

“Fine.”

He’s surprised you give in so easily, but he doesn’t seem to care all that much when you finally line up his dick with your pussy and sink slowly down on him. The feeling of your warm tight pussy making him go cross eyed for a second as he groans, mouth hung open in a sustained ‘o’ shape.

“Oh…t-thank you, thank you.” The look on his face is pure bliss, brows furrowed together.

“You can’t move.” You tell him.

“W-what?”

“You can’t move yet.” You reiterate again, leaning down to play with one of his nipples and lick at the other in the pink clamps, ghosting over it with your teeth, lightly biting at his swollen nipple, just enough to send him reeling.

“B-but!—” His back arches and he tries not to moan, but his protest his cut short.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” You grin, looking down at his cute confused expression.

“No!”

But he knows there’s not much else he can do, having to lie underneath you, dick twitching inside your pussy, aching to move his hips as you carried on teasing his tits and also kissing his neck, body trembling with the effort to obey as he practically sobs. This was torture for him.

You clamp your pussy tightly around him, just to be a bit evil, drawing a deep, guttural moan from his lips. “Please, please—can’t take it. Need it so badd. Might die.” He gasps, the words tearing from his throat as his hips jerk slightly. The way he’s clenching his jaw, trying so hard to hold back, makes something in you soften, just a bit.

He’s a gorgeous wreck, flushed and panting, his entire being consumed by the need to move. His eyes are squeezed shut, thick lashes clumped and wet with unshed tears of desperation. He’s mumbling incoherently, words blending into a string of pleas and whimpers, each one more desperate than the last.

You press a kiss to his parted lips, swallowing his next moan as you finally, finally give in and begin to move, rocking your hips against his. The relief on his face is immediate. “Thank you.” Beomgyu breathes out, his voice cracking as he starts wildly and desperately thrusting up to meet you, unable to hold back any longer. “God, thank you, thank you…”

You begin to fuck him at an unrelenting pace immediately, bouncing on his cock up and down that your pussy smacks with his balls every time you sink back down, stickiness and skin slapping noises so lewd around the room and heard very clearly by your viewers in the stream too, which both of you had mostly forgotten by now. Beomgyu can’t contain his moans at all, strings and series of loud and high pitched whines and moans leaving his mouth one after the other, seemingly getting louder every second. His hands, still pinned by yours, flex and curl, fingers itching to touch you, so you let go of them and he tightly grabs hold of your hand.

When he finally cums, it’s with a choked off scream, his whole body shuddering as he spills so much into you, that you can practically see the creamy ring between you both, yet to pull out, his grip on your hand tightening until his knuckles turn white, throwing one arm over his head. He’s still babbling, words slurring together in the haze of his orgasm, mixed in with thank yous and breathless gasps of relief.

After the stream, beomgyu looks at you rather hesitantly, as if he has something he’s itching to say to you.

“So um…you know that famous camgirl, Winter01?”

“Yeah…?” You say, unsure of where this was going. You were aware of Winter, she was a very famous camgirl within the community, one of the most popular and big ones, always gaining so many views whenever she went live.

“Well, um…she messaged me privately and asked if we were together and I said no, so she asked if only me and her could film something together since she said she sees we’ve been been getting a lot of views ourselves lately. And she said that if we collaborated together, it could do really well…” Beomgyu plays with his fingers, waiting for you to say something.

“Oh. Just you?” Beomgyu nods.

“And you’re thinking of doing it?” You don’t why something weird pools in your stomach.

“W-well, if I do, then it would be good because more people will find our account as well by doing this because she’s so big. And we’ll make a lot of money out of it…” Beomgyu looks down, not meeting your gaze.

“Well, it’s up to you if you want to.” You shrug, trying to maintain a very nonchalant expression. Although the idea of beomgyu streaming with someone else and not you makes you feel unexplainably horrible.

Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys 😭 if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and disappointing when fics have such little reblogs ☹️👎🤨. At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it makes writers want to actually write more :)

A/n: I finally wrote for this series after over a year !! Everyone applause me 😭 I’m really sorry if this was just horribly written, I haven’t written for this series in a really long time and it took me so long to try and gain some motivation to so I’m very sorry if it’s disappointing 😭 also the taglist is old and if you wish to be taken out or added, please lmk ! ALSO LMAO DONT ASK WHY HES READING LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. LET IT BE PLEASE I DIED MYSELF 😭😭 this is also not proofread

Taglist:

@jayoonology @pogigyu @denleave1088 @mashimarshmello @cha0thicpisces @soobsfairy444 @lcvetyvn @1ummcalhoody6 @imrllytootiredforthis @bjttersweets @aliceoracleollormusic @yongboksgf @daniarafid @nyanggk @aggiebackstage @qluvr @artypjmlbss @dickdeprived @lilactangerine @kissmeow @katsukeis @shutupheathersorryheatherr @mastergibbs93 @tae-ology @lynanist @guavagyu @soobhns @mikeeel @multistansimp4life @goquokka @scarfac3 @roses-for-my-love @maxismp1 @peachenle @i-loved-you42 @vampcharxter @th3-3d3n-g4rd3n @yuhjoeyuh @ren-junwrld @eggeutarteuu @staurdvst @vivioluh @itbtoblikethatsometimes @nct-dreamteam @ixayjun @beomgewwwwww

(Ask to be added to the taglist !!)

[hauntingrabbits]

Happy Batman day! Went back and finished the last batch of the MLP AU I had sketched way back in May.

Part 1, Part 2

More info under the cut!

Enigma/The Riddler (Edward Nygma)

Intelligence and puzzle-solving are deeply valued among sphinxes, and those who fall short of their standards are often ridiculed and cast out. Among some (prejudiced) Sphinxes, other sapient, non-Sphinx species such as ponies are looked down-upon or seen as fundamentally inferior for not putting as much stock in puzzles and the like as sphinxes do.

Enigma, though considered a prodigy for his remarkable intelligence and skill with puzzles even among his fellow Sphinxes, was ostracized when a pony unfamiliar with Sphinx culture (a younger Sundown traveling Equestria for his training), humiliated Enigma by unraveling a puzzle of his that was meant to be judged as his final submission in a prestigious event, permanently staining his reputation and wounding his massive ego.

After years of quiet ridicule from his peers and his own growing obsession over the event, Enigma eventually snapped and fled to Gotham for revenge. His contempt has since spread far beyond that of the original pony he wished to prove his superiority over, and he now makes all of Gotham the target of his obsessive schemes, constantly trying to prove his superiority and feed his ego by putting ponies through his elaborate puzzles and riddle-based traps. He sees Batpony’s skill and determination in foiling him as both an inherent challenge to and a slight against his own abilities, reminding him far too much of that original pony from so long ago. 

Other notes:

-Apparently sphinxes in MLP have pony heads instead of human heads which makes sense I guess but it threw me through such a loop man.

-Whilst traversing the wiki I ended up with the same problem I had with chimeras in the first post where only one ever shows up in the series and there's no other info on them. So I made stuff up again.

- I imagine Sphinxes live a very long time, so the event Enigma was embarrassed at would probably take a long time to roll around again and he'd be forced to stew with his anger and wounded ego for far too long. I'm not sure what the puzzle was exactly or how Sundown dismantled it, but I imagine he did something extremely simple that a Sphinx would never have thought of (a la that software engineering joke), making it feel far more unfair and humiliating than if he'd solved in the intended way.

-His naturally crooked tail settles into the shape of a question mark, and the pattern on his arm is meant to look like a stylized question mark wrapping around his forearm (the "dot" is the white of his paw).

2. Miss Friday (Miss Tuesday)

Enigma’s teenaged assistant, Miss Friday seems to be the only pony the sphinx enjoys (or perhaps simply tolerates) the company of. Beyond her having met Enigma in Tartarus during their simultaneous imprisonments, the exact origins of her relationship to and exceptional status with her boss are a bit of a riddle in of themselves. Regardless, the two seem to have something of a mutual understanding, and Miss Friday’s mental prowess and dubious moral code are more than a match for Enigma’s own.

Other Notes:

-Yes this is a "The horse's name was Friday" joke. I'm sorry it was just too good to pass up.

-Miss Tuesday already sounded like a MLP name, but the horse named Friday thing was just too perfect for somebody who works under a guy who's whole thing is riddles. Also I relistened to the BTAA episode where she's introduced while coloring her and I noticed they reference His Girl Friday several times, so fun coincidence?

-The candy-striped leg patterns are based on her canon costume's striped pants & are meant to mirror the Riddler's wrapped leg pattern. The dark patterns on her face are supposed to be reminiscent of eye bags.

3. Mania (Bat-Mite)

Bat-Pony’s self-proclaimed biggest fan, Mania is a Draconequus embodying the spirit of obsession. Normally he watches the hero from his own dimension, but at times he tries to insert himself into the narrative or help Sundown fight, both to varying degrees of success. Though he genuinely adores Bat-Pony, Mania is usually more of a hindrance than a help, and can even be directly antagonistic at times when his obsession goes too far. 

Other notes:

-Similar issue to Chimeras and Sphinxes, only two Draconequuses (Draconequui?) show up in the series, one being Discord (embodying chaos), the other being a comics-only villain known as Cosmos (embodying malice), but honestly what little we're given worked super well for the character anyway. Discord seems to come from his own unique plane of existence/dimension and Cosmos has similarly strange origins; both have penchants for causing mischief with incredible reality-warping powers; and both embody non-physical concepts. Bat-Mite being a reality warping 5th dimensional creature obsessed with Batman was surprisingly easy to adapt.

-He has the head of a pony, a ferret-like body, two front rat paws, mite antennae, an insectoid wing, a bat wing, a pigeon foot, a chevrotain (mouse deer) foot, and a monkey tail. I tried to have him mostly made up of animals that were very small, seen as mischievous, and/or seen as pests.

4. Poison Ivy (Pamela Isley)

Said to be more plant than pony, Poison Ivy is the self-proclaimed princess of the Green. Though once a regular Earth pony, she began to spiral after receiving her cutie mark and fully coming into her powerful natural attunement to plant life. Fleeing into the nearby forests on the outskirts of Gotham, she wasn’t seen again until many years later when Gotham’s city refurbishment and expansion efforts began to encroach on the forests borders, where she reemerged with strange new powerful magic and retaliated violently.

Though she isn’t recognized politically or physically as an alicorn, plants grow from the flesh of her body in the pattern of a horn and wings characteristic of those born into or bestowed with royalty, and the strange natural magic that accompanies them seems to almost rival that of a true alicorn’s.

Other notes:

-I dont really have anything to add to this one I just thought a false alicorn would be a cool concept.

-the whole alicorn royalty thing is very strange to think about isnt it? I feel like the ruling class having such insane amounts of physical and magical power probably has much more pressing ramifications than ever was, would, or should be addressed in a kids show but they are fun to think about.

-Her actual name is Poison Ivy, yes. It sounded like a pony name. I don't know what that says about her parents.

-The leaf wings are folded down in the graphic but I think they are flighted, or at the very least useful for gliding and expressing emotions.

5. Saltbrine (Oswald Cobblepot)

Short, stout, and flightless, Saltbrine’s moniker of “The Penguin” has its origins in the taunts of his peers from his youth. Though the title has persisted into the current day, it’s often spoken with far more fear and trepidation throughout the alleys and backstreets of Gotham than ridicule. Saltbrine owns two of Gothams most well-known businesses, one being the luxurious, high-class Iceberg Lounge…and the other being the organized crime syndicate the former acts as a front for.

Other notes:

-Again don't have much to add to this one. One of my favorite designs though, I love the giant beak face.

-The bird half is actually based on a puffin, because a penguin felt too on the nose for Oswald and too strange for a hippogriff (I couldn't get the wings or face to look right at all either). I feel like the title being an insult works a little better if he's not literally half-penguin.

-he's the same color my club penguin avatar used to be (RIP)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Code of Conduct 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as cheating, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss has a difficult time keeping his personal life from bleeding into his work. 

Characters: Steve Rogers, this reader is known as Rosie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

“Mr. Rogers’ office. This is Rosie, how can I hel--” 

“Where is he?” Peggy’s voice cuts over your own. 

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Rogers, he’s currently in a meeting--” 

“Get him.” 

“Mrs.--” 

“Don’t argue with me. Go get him. Are you not his assistant?” She challenges brusquely. 

Her accent adds to the sharpness of her words. Her curt demeanour is a stark contrast to her husband. Your boss is always amiable, accommodating even, but the few times you’ve dealt with his wife have been similarly tense. You put a smile on so she can’t hear your anxiety. 

“Of course, Mrs. Rogers,” you preen, “I’ll put you on a quick hold.” 

“No, you will get him. No hold.” 

You suck in a sigh and hold your breath in your chest, “of course.” 

You set the phone down. You don’t see how her hearing your desktop will be any better but you wouldn’t want to irritate her further. It must be urgent. 

You stand and smooth out your dress. You step out from behind your desk, digging your nails into your palms as you ball your fists tight. You get nervous about most things. Answering the phone took your months to get used to and even now you tend to fumble over your words. 

You go to the door and brace yourself. You don’t know why you expect Mr. Rogers to be upset. He’s never been anything close to rude. Maybe short in times of stress but not unpleasant. You knock and wait as you twiddle your fingers against your striped pleats. 

It isn’t Mr. Rogers who answers by Mr. Barnes. You give a sheepish smile, “excuse me, doll.” 

He steps past you and you bid him a good day. He leaves without further courtesy and Mr. Rogers calls your name from within, “need something?” He asks. 

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Rogers is on the phone.” 

He doesn’t seem happy about that. His cheek dimples and he nods, wiggling his pen at you, “patch her through.” 

You go back to your desk and pick up the receiver, “hello, Mrs. Rogers, he’s available now--” 

“I don’t want to talk to you, honey. Where is my husband?” 

You transfer her without another word. Phew. You almost feel bad for your boss as you hear him pick up in his office. His tone is low and dull. 

You try not to overhear, letting his conversation drone into a buzz. There’s enough work to be done without worrying about his personal life. Your own afterhours concerns are more than concerning. You wouldn’t say you have much going on and that’s the problem. It’s moment like those that ease your envy of others’ full plates. 

You haven’t seen the girls lately. The group chat’s been quiet but you suppose you could go ahead and say hi. Your weekly cocktails petered out to biweekly, then monthly, and now you can’t remember the last time you let go with a mimosa. 

You peek over your desk and back at your screen. It’s not only on them to keep things going. You pick up your phone and open the chat. The last message is a meme Elfie sent about printers. You shake your head and send a little waving sticker, keying in a message. 

‘Long time no see! I’m in need of drinks. Anyone free? When’s best? Hope you’re all taking care.’ 

You’re professional tone shines through even on WhatsApp. It’s a bit lame but you’re an entirely different person in text. Most people are surprised to meet the mousy secretary hiding behind her screen after the lively back and forth in Outlook. 

You set your phone down and try not to stare at it. A reply never comes while you’re waiting for it, nor does water boil when you’re watching it. As you click around and try to remember where you were, the silence sinks in. Your realisation brings your eyes up as quickly as Mr. Rogers shadow. 

You bat your lashes at him in surprise, “need something, sir?” 

He gives a half-smile, the type weighed down by disappointment. He sighs and crosses his arms, leaning on the door frame, “you hungry?” 

“Um, well, it’s only eleven,” you shrug. 

“Mm, yeah,” he unfolds one arm to rub his neck, “I’m restless. You feel like getting lunch early?” 

“Sure, I can run out and grab you something,” you stand eagerly. 

“No, uh,” he drops his arm back over his other, “together. I had a reservation for me and Peggy but she canceled. I’d hate to inconvenience the restaurant and I just can’t sit and mope in my office.” 

“Oh, okay, I guess that works...” 

“Do you need to ask your boss?” He scoffs. 

You laugh at his joke, “do I?” 

He smiles, a real smile and drops his arms, “my treat. You know what, you earned it. You work so hard around here, a little employee appreciation is overdue.” 

“That’s so nice,” you chime, “uh, sir, I... I should leave an away message, should I?” 

“Oh, who cares, come on.” 

“Well, I mean...” 

“Ah, I get it, boss is a real hard ass,” he winks. 

“Sir,” you giggle nervously and teethe your lip. He watches your mouth. 

“You can catch up later. Come on, I haven’t played hooky in years.” 

“Hooky?” You stammer. 

He laughs, “a goody two shoes. It’s why I hired you but it’s okay to let loose once in a while.” 

“I know, Mr. Rogers, it’s just... it’s work.” 

“Too much of it and you’ll turn into me,” he huffs. “Please, I’m sure your husband would hate if you were never home. Never answered the phone.” 

“If I had one, probably,” you blurt out then look away shyly. 

“Really? I thought...” he begins and shakes his head, “doesn’t matter. I’ll grab my jacket and we’ll go. I missed breakfast.” 

“Um, sure, sir,” you agree and put your hand on the phone. 

When he turns, you look down. Missie sent a reply; ‘please, drinks are required!’ Ooh! Yay. 

[almostfoxglove]

AIN'T THAT A BITE

written for @studioghibelli's writing challenge

Fandom: The Last of Us (TV), The Last of Us (Video Game)

Rating: Mature

Central Characters: Reader, Young!Joel, Sarah

Central Relationship: Joel / Reader

Word Count: 6k

Pre-Outbreak & No-Outbreak AU

SUMMARY

It's the night of Jackson High's Sock Hop, the 8th grade dance which took you weeks to organize, and everything seems determined to go wrong. Thankfully, one student's dad—the handsome and brooding Joel Miller—comes to your rescue. READ ON AO3, if that's your jam!

Four weeks ago, volunteering to organize the eighth-grade dance committee had seemed like an excellent idea—a chance to make a solid first impression on the PTA and the chilly cast of your new colleagues while giving yourself a little excitement, some frivolous living beyond the usual boredom of your repetitive existence. Lesson plan, grade, report card, lesson plan, grade, report card—you love your job, but it gets old.

But now, on the night of Jackson High’s September Sock Hop, you know you’ve made a terrible mistake. Someone brought cookies with walnuts that had to be ceremoniously tossed, one of the speakers in the gym is crackling, three of your parent chaperones have bailed, and oh, yes—a sink in the girls’ bathroom has decided to spring a sudden leak and flood the place a mere fifteen minutes before the kids are due to show up.

Drenched and sweating, you make a hopeless attempt to mop the flood of water with the gym’s supply of linens, turning the tiled floor into a swamp of soggy towels that squelch beneath your shoes. It’s all a futile effort—the burst pipe beneath the far left sink is spewing water faster than the towels can sponge—but here you are, trying anyway, looking like you’ve just taken a long walk in a fucking monsoon. 

A row of square mirrors sits framed above each ceramic sink, taunting you with your reflection. Your red poodle skirt has gone burgundy with water and your once pristine white button-up clings to your chest, translucent, peek-a-booing your bra. 

Real professional. 

“Miss Green?” comes a voice on the other side of the door, followed by a weary knock. “Believe students are arriving now.”

With a sigh, you take a final glare at your reflection as if looking again might fix things, then call out, “Alright,” with as much patience as you have left to muster. Outside the calculus teacher is waiting in his pin-stripe vest with a sorry grimace. He agrees to lock up that bathroom from use and with a tired thank you you click down the hall towards the school doors, stomach raw with nerves.

As promised the first, eager attendees stand outside Jackson High’s wide glass doors, giddy to be let in for the night’s event. Kids are in everything from pastel poodle skirts to leather jackets and waitress get-ups—you even spot the Broderick twins in matching, vintage baseball uniforms striped with strawberry red. Behind them stand their parents, some smiling and others bleary-eyed, who you force yourself to smile cheerfully for as you let them in, a clipboard held over your chest to hide your bra.

You don’t miss how the parents stare at you—soaking wet and clearly befuddled—and you mutter your apologies as they shuffle into the school. All but the main hall has been blocked off, leaving the children a one-way path to the gymnasium for the dance. You check your watch quickly; maybe you can sneak in a quick smoke around the corner before the rest of the eighth graders arrive.

Outside the air is perfect: your one reprieve. Blue-dark clouds haunt the star-pocked sky and the balmy remains of the dying summer sweep through the parking lot as a breeze. You breathe easily for the first time in an hour, lift your face, and close your eyes, stitching yourself together in the calm. 

When you’re steady again, you decide against the smoke break. Too many parents pulling up in shiny cars with the kids. It’s enough to feel them in your skirt pocket—an escape hatch when you need them, a totem when you don’t. A nasty habit, your mother always says. But you only allow yourself two cigarettes a year. Not so bad, as habits go.

You’re about to turn back in and see if you can’t call a plumber at this hour when a pickup groans into the lot—steely-blue, bold text stickered on the side. It pulls not into a parking spot but the drop-off zone, right in front of you.

Miller Construction Ltd.

Maybe miracles are real after all.

As the passenger window rolls down and the cab light blinks on inside, you rush over, desperation rocketing your heart around in your chest. A girl in a lilac poodle skirt blinks up at you from the passenger seat, eyes wide with surprise. She’s got her hair pulled back in two big, curly pigtails ribboned with bows, and looks adorable—exactly what you’d pictured when you took on the behemoth task of putting this whole stupid evening together—complete with a matching neck scarf and shiny black shoes. You give her what you hope is a friendly grin and start rambling.

“I am so sorry,” you say, before you bother looking at the driver. “But we’ve got a plumbing emergency and if there is any chance you might have a few minutes to take a look at it, you’d be a—”

Your sentence drops off as you at last hunch down to make eye contact with the man in the driver’s seat through the open window. Dark-eyed and frowning, all curls and scruffy beard and thick flannel shirt: your type to a T. In your pause his daughter stifles a chuckle, and you shake your head to restart your brain. Focus. Sinks to fix, floods to mop.

With a tight grin, you tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “Would be a lifesaver if you could, I don’t know, take a look. Even if it’s just to tell me we’re fucked and need an emergency plumber. We had a bunch of parent chaperones bail last minute, so we’re a little short on hands.”

Now the kid snorts, giggling. Shit—your teacher-voice has slipped. 

You close your eyes, horrified. Seems there’ll be no end to your embarrassment today.

Sighing, you step back to open the passenger door so the girl can hop out. “If you promise not to tell any grown-ups I swore in front of you,” you tell her. “I’ll give you all As when you get to my class in a couple years.”

“Deal,” the girl says, grinning at you. “But I’d probably get an A anyway.”

Despite yourself, you smile—this time for real.

“You ain’t her teacher?” comes the driver’s voice. Deep and coarse, all Texan. When you glance back, he’s still frowning, eyes narrowed at you.

“Tenth grade English and History,” you say. 

“And you’re workin’ the eighth-grade dance,” he says.

You shrug. “I’m new. Thought it’d go over well if I came in eager and offered to plan the thing.”

He hmphs, expressionless, his skin golden under the overhead light, eyes glinting with amber. You’re almost glad the kid’s not in your class; parent-teacher interviews would be torture. Sitting across your desk from this man, forced to pretend you don’t want him to ruin you. 

Beside you on the sidewalk, the girl shoots her dad a daggered look and crosses her arms. “He’s free,” she says. “He can do it.”

“Sarah,” the man hisses. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she snarks. “Do you suddenly have a social calendar I don’t know about?”

After a brief stare-down which Sarah seems to win, he huffs and mutters a cranky one second before pulling out of the drop-off zone to park. 

“I like your skirt,” Sarah says when he’s gone. Streetlamps have you both in a cloak of shadow, and the pale light radiating from the school’s front doors doesn’t quite reach this spot, but her inquisitive expression is unmissable in the dark. 

“It’s a little ruined,” you say sheepishly. “But I like yours.” 

Pleased, she gives you a little twirl, purple fabric blooming from her waist. “Thanks,” she says, when she stills again. “My dad sewed on the poodle.” 

Across the lot you hear the harsh slam of a car door cracking shut and spot her glowering father stalk across the asphalt, silhouetted by a distant streetlight, his shoulders unfairly broad. You nod toward the front doors. You’d never admit it to anyone, but the thought of this surly figure lovingly stitching a felt poodle to his daughter’s costume makes you a little weak in the knees.

“You can go on in,” you tell Sarah, and she waves at her dad before running inside.

Then he’s walking up the pavement, growing closer. Of course he smells good—like patchouli and something earthy and skin. Of course he’s rolled up his sleeves, baring his tanned forearms, one tensed by the toolbox clutched in his hand. You manage a stiff grin as he approaches, no teeth, to which you receive only a curt nod in reply. 

In silence, you walk him through the glassy doors, heels clicking as swing music crackles from the gymnasium some distance away. You catch, in the corner of your eye, the shape of his head turning as he watches Sarah running full-speed down the main hall to catch up with a group of girls that must be her friends. She launches herself at them, and even at this distance you hear the shrill of their joy, the sugar-high laughter, and smile to yourself.

“She’s sweet,” you say, guiding him into a branching hallway, away from the main event.

He grunts, then mumbles, “Pain in my ass is what she is.”

You chuckle. When you dare to look back at him again, you see his begrudging tone doesn’t match his expression. You swear his eyes flit quickly away as if you’ve caught him already looking at you. Hard to be sure, you think, in this dimmer light. But his cheeks almost look pink.

After a beat too long, you realize why.

You’ve dropped your clipboard to your side without thinking, unveiling your water-logged shirt, which clings sheerly to your skin. Grimacing, you cover yourself again. “Not much of a plumber,” you say quietly.

Once you’ve grabbed the keys back from your colleague, you drag this poor, probably busy dad to the girls’ bathroom and unlock the door, glancing down at his boots before you open it. “You don’t love those shoes, do you?” you ask.

His eyebrows lift, jaw tensing. “Sure they’ll be fine, darlin’,” he grunts.

You push into the bathroom before your brain has the chance to recover from darlin’. You’ve been in Texas all of six months and you still aren’t used to the pet names. Everyone here seems to call each other everything. Even the old woman who works the till at the grocer by your apartment calls you honey or angel, and you wouldn’t exactly describe her as the friendly type. Darlin’ isn’t even irregular. Bus drivers call you that. 

Difference here is that it’s this man saying it—which is to say, someone gorgeous with a voice that could melt you if you let yourself listen close enough. Your heart purrs, thrilled.

The bathroom is a calamity. Though the drains in the center of the tiled floor have meant no water has flooded into the hallway, there’s still an inch or so blanketing the tiles wall to wall. Under one of the mirrors, the guilty sink continues to spew: a graceful font of silver gushing from a fault in the pipe.

Over your shoulder you hear Sarah’s dad clear his throat before you step out of his way.

Fearless, he trudges through the mess unfazed, dodging the tides of boggy towels like this is the most natural habitat to find himself in. His boots and the ankles of his jeans blacken with water, and though you’re in some stupid, clacky pair of heels to go with your outfit, you follow him into the shallows anyway, riddled with shame. At the slosh of your footsteps behind him, Sarah’s dad turns to give you a cutting stare you cannot read and you freeze, caught.

“What?” you say.

“No reason you gotta be in here for this,” he says. “Might be wise to dry off a little, don’t you think?”

Does the corner of his mouth twitch upward, or do you imagine it—you can’t decide. “Right,” you manage. “Sorry. Thank you, seriously.”

You pivot to leave him to it, splashing weakly as you go, your skirt bunched in one hand to keep it safe from the splatter. In the doorway you can’t help but look back, and see him kneeling in the mess, tool in hand, his toolbox open and shelved on a not-broken sink. He spots you looking and this time, you don’t imagine it. He lets slip half a grin. 

“Got it from here,” he says.

You nod but don’t move and you don’t know why.

Well, that’s not true. You do.

Sarah’s dad cocks one dark eyebrow at you, bemused, maybe, by your hesitation. “You really have chaperones bail?” he asks, voice low.

“Three,” you say.

He grunts, then turns his attention back to the spitting sink, and you step out into the dim hallway without goodbye.

You slip into the bathrooms in the teacher’s lounge to stand under the hand dryer for a bit, letting your shirt dry out. When it’s no longer see-through, you stand in front of the long mirrors looking at yourself, fussing. You retouch your lipstick—red, like your skirt, like your nails—though the hair’s a lost cause. The best you can do is run a hand through the end bits and say an empty prayer.

Then, finally, you emerge, and take off with a sidelong glance thrown at the closed door of the flooded girls’ bathroom as you pass.

You volunteered four weeks ago, and you spent three of those weeks working on the decorations in tiny pockets of time between the school day, your commute home, and all the hours you spend every evening and weekend on lesson plans and marking. Maybe it’s only September, but the whole staff has been working since August and it’s no slower now than it will be in the spring. Still, you gave up sleep. Gave up seeing friends. Gave up proper, home-cooked meals and reverted to the habits of your college days, eating boxed mac and cheese straight from the pot over the stove. 

Now, it all pays off. 

The gymnasium’s a goddamn ritz. Ribbons of twinkle lights droop from the rafters, sparkling above the scatter of a disco ball. You thrifted huge, vintage neon signs—with your own money, thanks so much public school district—that cast pools of candy-colored light on the shiny floor. Gingham tablecloths sheath the drink stands. You had to bribe the theater department to let you repurpose an old bartop set from some long-gone play. Painted that sucker with black and white checkers, even scrounged up some round, pleather bar stools to match. Instead of a bar-bar, it’s a snack bar—pastel cupcakes and dairy-free milkshakes and huge metal bowls of nut-free, everything-free snack mixes displayed behind the bar. Kids all get three snack tickets ‘cause the PTA had strong feelings about sugar intake, but hey. All the bar stools are full; the kids seem to love it.

Despite the last-minute disasters, you’re tempted to cry with relief. Slept three hours last night, painting the last of the stars that hang overhead, but they look like magic now. Glossy and twinkling while Elvis plays. It looks pretty close to perfect. And the kids, by some miracle, are dancing. The gym teacher comes out to show them some simple swing steps, and as clumsy as they all are, it’s fucking adorable.

“Hope you’re willing to do this for all the dances,” one teacher mutters to you as you pass. 

You flit from table to table, refilling and wiping down and checking in with chaperones—twenty minutes zing by in the blink of an eye. When the gymnasium door creaks quietly open, the dark shape of Sarah’s dad appears in the doorway. You set down your punch glass with a grin and scurry over. 

But he’s looking up when you make it to him, starstruck by twinkle lights, his face pink and blue with the neon light. Christ, he’s easy on the eyes. Facing this way, with none of the gym or kids or decorations in view, you can almost imagine that you’re standing in a bar looking up at some handsome stranger you might have a shot in hell at taking home. 

“Everything okay?” you ask, when he still hasn’t looked down, his hand flat and broad on the door to prop it open.

He blinks, wakes from his daze, and the look of wonder that just now softened him fades, his face stiff again. You step into the hall and the door slides shut behind you. The honeyed voices of The Isley Brothers muffle.

In the direct light of the hallway you can see he’s soaked—jeans wet to the tops of his thighs, his whole flannel clinging to his chest. One curl lays flat and damp against his forehead. He would’ve had to kneel right in the spray to work on the sink. Might as well have set a hose on the poor man.

Jesus, you must have ruined this guy’s whole fucking night. 

“Oh my god,” you say, eyes wide with horror. “I am so sorry—”

He lifts one hand as if to say stop and your mouth snaps shut. “Just water,” he grumbles. “Sink’s fine now. Joint was old and brittle. Had a part in the truck that’ll hold you over till Monday, but you’ll need someone to do a proper repair next week.”

You run a hand over your face, so grateful to him that all logical thought and processing flutters right out of your head. “Jesus, I could kiss you—thank you so much, seriously,” you start to say, hand still over your eyes as you stutter to a halt, realizing your mistake.

Heat boils in your face as you split your fingers to peek at him through your hand, but he doesn’t look horrified. He just rolls his eyes, a little playfully you think, and shakes his head like you’re being ridiculous. “Not necessary,” he says. 

You let your hand drop. “I’d insist that I’m normally the epitome of professionalism, but there’s no way in hell it’d be convincing,” you say, grinning sheepishly. 

Shrugging, he remains silent. Maybe you should take your friends up on their offers to set you up—you clearly need to get laid. Just him shrugging is doing things to you. Nevermind the tiny flick of his tongue that graces his bottom lip as he looks off down a roped-off hall. 

“Still short on chaperones?” he asks, not looking at you. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “But we’ll make due.”

Another shrug. “Could help out—‘m already here.”

Your eyes round. Though part of you wants to refuse, insist he’s done more than enough already, that he ought to get home and into dry clothes and forget about this mess, you don’t. It’s definitely selfish, almost greedy, but you don’t want him to go. Even if you only get to look at him across the gymnasium without saying another word to each other the whole rest of the night, you’d like him to stay.

A grin squirms across your face before you can stop it; you have to look away to smother it as you tap one foot against the floor. 

“Okay,” you say coolly, returning your gaze to him once you’ve gathered yourself. “But you can’t go in there looking like this.”

The theater department’s costume room gives you the creeps. Has since the first day you stepped foot in this place back in August when you got the grand tour—anywhere with this many mannequins is cursed, frankly—and it turns out it’s even worse in the dark. When you swing open the door, pale light from the hall slants against the black floor, and you reach blindly across the wall for the switch as your heart patters with dread.

Then finally: light. Weak, stuttering, yellow, but light all the same. You breathe.

Regardless, stepping into the costume room feels like being squeezed. Cramped alleyways have been formed by clothing racks stuffed well past their capacity—gowns of past Shakespeare productions hang beside the gothic frocks of Morticia and Wednesday Addams—forcing you to inch between racks, grazed by a parade of empty sleeves.

Sarah’s dad, bless him, hardly fits at all, and has to shuffle through the aisles sideways to follow you on what must seem to him like a blind mission without any destination. 

But you’ve been in this place. You know exactly what you’re looking for. Turning a corner, the next section is too narrow for the man to fit through, so you point out a chair across the room by the mirror and tell him to wait. 

“And you can ditch the flannel,” you call out as he goes. “Can hang it over the heaters to dry.”

Though you hear the low thunder of him mumbling, you miss the words.

When you emerge from the dusty racks, unnerved by the looming, half-dressed mannequins standing guard over their lot, Sarah’s dad is sitting where you asked him to wait, stripped out of his flannel, left in a slightly damp white t-shirt, his shoulder blades faintly visible in the stuttering light. If him shrugging was doing something to you earlier—this is likely to kill you. 

You clear your throat as you approach and he quickly straightens his posture. When you’re close enough, you hold out the hangers to him, even give them a little shake when he cuts his eyes at you, doubtful. You roll your own in reply. “Come on,” you insist. “Sarah will love it.”

That gets him to stand, albeit with a scowl, but it still makes you grin. With a grumpy hmph, he takes the hangers from you and you duck between racks again to give him some privacy. Sure, maybe you’d like a peek as he strips off those wet jeans, but even you know better than that. So you stand in the disordered aisle of costumes and listen instead. 

For a long time you hear nothing, like he’s hesitating. You did have to guess the sizes, but you worked plenty of retail jobs in your early twenties. Aren’t so bad at guessing. Every breath in this room, now that you’re silent, feels agonizingly loud. Not just yours, but his. The swelling of his chest with air. 

Then finally—clink. A belt buckle slacking open. Your eyes slam shut even though you’re looking in the opposite direction, at some 60s-style dress from what must’ve been an old Hairspray production with construction paper polka dots duct-taped on. He lets out a soft grunt. There’s a shuffle of fabric. Then a wet slop as his jeans hit the floor.

Your whole body throbs with heady, certain want.

Yes, you definitely need to get laid. This is humiliating. 

When you hear the belt buckle’s metal clink again, signaling he’s got the new, dry jeans on, you feel it’s safe to speak again. “I never asked you your name,” you say, still staring at the costumes. You hear him set the next hanger on the chair and even though putting it on requires no further undressing, you’ll stay exactly where you are until he’s done. Don’t trust yourself not to leer.

More shuffling, this time of sturdier fabric. “Joel,” he gruffs, and after a pause adds bitterly, “I look ridiculous.”

Chuckling, you squeeze out of the aisles and find him standing before the full-length mirror wedged in the corner of the room, into which Joel is sneering at his reflection. 

Also, he’s dead fucking wrong.

The jeans are a little tight, but frankly they’re better this way. His thighs taut beneath denim, his calves hugged. He’s a little bow-legged. So Texan. From the waist down he might as well be a cowboy. From the waist up, however, he looks like he’s just strutted off the set of Grease, putting even 1978’s Travolta to shame. His white t-shirt sits crisply beneath the black leather jacket, which he snaps to adjust the lapels. Fits him perfectly, like it was made for those shoulders, and he’s raked back his wet hair, giving it the look of being gelled, one stray curl rebelling over his forehead.

He catches your eye in the mirror, mouth twitching again, but it doesn’t become a grin or a frown. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t know what you’re looking at,” you say. “But you do not look ridiculous from where I’m standing.”

His nose scrunches as he breaks his eyes from yours in the reflection, ducking his head to rub the back of his neck. Seriously, you’d crawl all over this guy if he weren’t the dad of one of your students. Future students—whatever. But you’ll save yourself the humiliation, gotta get this show on the road, and so you jut your chin in the direction of the door. “Let’s go. Got kids to supervise, hands to keep from wandering.”

Joel balks, hands flat to fists in an instant, ready to kill.

“Oh please,” you tease, and wave one hand dismissively as you make your way to the door. “Like you weren’t thirteen once.”

You listen as he stomps after you, muttering a cranky, “Gonna have to be at all these fuckin’ things,” that makes your head fall back with a sudden laugh.

The moment you return to the gymnasium, you’re needed by everyone—so and so needs to know where the extra ice is; what’s-her-face is concerned about the sugar content of the fruit punch; and some parent wants to talk about their kids’ English grade like this is the appropriate venue for such a conversation. You immediately lose Joel to the call of teacher-slash-host duties, and he slips past you, hugging the wall as he strides over to man the drink table which, in your absence, has stood without supervision. The man might as well be a saint—you manage to catch his eye and mouth a silent thank you across the gym, to which he half-grins from a pool of neon pink glow, setting you ablaze.

Most of the night you spend running around like a madwoman, responsible for switching in new music as each CD ends, refilling snack bowls, and pulling one student off another when you catch them kissing in the hall. Thankfully neither of them is Sarah, but you do have to give the kids a talking-to.

Late in the night, you’re chatting to some of your colleagues against the gymnasium wall and watching the kids shimmy to Rock Around the Clock, poodle skirts billowing like spinning tops, when you spot Sarah rush across the floor toward Joel—apparently only spotting him now. You’re too far to hear them, too far to read their lips, but Sarah’s runaway smile is obvious at any distance. She hops in place, delighted, and forces Joel to do a little spin for her. 

Though smaller, you catch his smile too. The dimple in his cheek as he fails to restrain his contentment at her approval. How he shakes his head, embarrassed to be fawned over. Adorable.

When the Spanish teacher makes his rounds with the school’s camera, snapping flash photos of the kids’ eager smiles and costumes as they pose with their milkshakes or friends, you tap him on the shoulder and point in Joel and Sarah’s direction. “Get one of them, would you?” you whisper, and he nods, shuffling off.

Joel spots him coming a mile off, camera in hand, and immediately frowns. He makes eye contact with you across the gymnasium like he knew exactly where you were standing, and shakes his head as if to say no way. You smile, wicked, and mouth yes. One of his hands balls to a fist. 

But when Sarah spots the photographer a second later, she wraps an arm around Joel’s waist to pose and his resistance crumbles. When you were thirteen, you’d have been humiliated to be seen posing with your parents in front of your classmates, but Sarah doesn’t seem to mind at all. Her adoration is obvious, abundant. Anyone can see how much she loves him—you can see, too, Joel’s love for her. Once the Spanish teacher raises the camera to shoot, he throws his arm around Sarah’s shoulders, looking down at her with a soft, grump-less grin. The white flash snaps in the dark gymnasium, photo taken, then Sarah returns to her friends.

You cut your eyes away when he starts to turn his head in your direction, returning your gaze to your colleague. Don’t need him catching you staring. Your dignity has suffered plenty tonight.

You cave about twenty minutes before parents are due to pick up the kids at the end of the night—not due to stress, just exhaustion—and sneak out into the black night to smoke. Tucked just out of view of the parking lot and doors, you sink onto a wooden bench and light up, letting the tension unwind from your body. Gray smoke tendrils as you exhale a half-formed smoke ring. Never could get those right, but it’s fun to try while crickets croak unseen from the shadows, braiding their eerie melody. With every drag, you relax into a kind of trance, at one with the night. 

Eyes shut, you don’t hear him coming. It isn’t until he clears his throat that your eyes snap open and you realize someone’s caught you smoking.

“Shit,” you mutter, adjusting your posture to sit up straight.

Joel stands over the bench, caliginous in the dark. His hair has dried, curls loosening from each other. You hear a low chuckle that must come from him, but you can’t quite make out his face until he lowers himself onto the bench beside you—then you see he’s smirking. 

You tap ash onto the sidewalk beside your feet, away from him, unable to look him in the eye. “Not worth trying to defend myself, is it?” you joke sheepishly.

He adjusts his position, thighs spread just a touch, and crosses his arms over his chest. The leather jacket is practically criminal, it fits him so well. 

“That’s alright, darlin’,” he replies. “Don’t need to.”

You bring the cigarette to your lips to smother your impulse to smile, the filter stained crimson by your lipstick. You risk a glance at him. “You want one?”

Shaking his head, the corner of Joel’s mouth tugs. “Quit when Sarah came around,” he admits.

“Very responsible,” you say, and though you really shouldn’t flirt, it comes out a little snarky, like you’re teasing him. “Quit after college, but I get to indulge twice a year.”

Joel quirks an eyebrow at you, though doesn’t question the obvious flaw in your logic. “Miss it?” he asks.

You shrug and exhale a thin stream of smoke from the corner of your mouth. “Always think I do,” you say. “But it’s so much grosser than I remember. Can’t believe I used to smoke these everyday.”

He lets out a deep hmph, not quite a laugh. 

“I’m serious,” you say, grinning now. “These things are vile. They reek and make kissing gross. I might as well burn the clothes I’m wearing after this. Don’t even like it anymore—it’s just nostalgia, I think.”

Shifting again, Joel’s legs spread a little wider, though from the other side of the bench you’re still nowhere near touching. As you click one lacquered nail against your cigarette, ash rains softly to the ground. 

“Never minded,” he mumbles. He’s looking out at the dim street, not you. Streetlamps dot the street with coins of gold between cedar elms that have already begun to drain their color. The breeze is next to perfect, whisking your smoke politely away from Joel.

“Minded what?”

“Kissin’ someone who smokes,” he says matter-of-factly. His tone isn’t flirtatious—nor is his expression, his face still profiled to you—but goosebumps scale your arms all the same.

“Hm,” you hum in reply. 

Best not to dwell in this breath of quiet. The long pause in which you feel yourself want. You shift on the bench, cross your legs, and prepare to change the subject—but Joel beats you to it. 

“Looks good in there,” his voice rumbles, and in your periphery, he turns to look at you for just a moment, handsome and leather-clad. Practically put on this earth to punish you. You hold your breath until he turns his head away again. “Impressive.”

Your heart squeezes like he’s crushed it in his fist, but you tilt your head back and forth nonchalantly. “Guess it doesn’t look so bad,” you admit. To your surprise, this drags a quiet chuckle from Joel, and your eyes drop quickly to his hand where it hangs from his still-crossed arms—a brief and discreet glance, you think—and see no ring. It shouldn’t make a difference, but you're glad.

“Gotta be more subtle than that, darlin’,” Joel mumbles, despite the fact that he’s not looking at you.

You feel your face rash with heat. “Fucking eagle eyes,” you mutter, pinching the last of the cigarette to your lips for a final drag. You hold the smoke in your lungs as Joel laughs again, this time with more warmth.

He shakes his head. “Could’a just asked,” he says.

“You’re not even looking at me,” you say, smiling despite your embarrassment. You bend over to crush your cigarette against the bottom of your shoe, then pocket the spent filter, disappearing the evidence. “How the hell did you even catch that.” It isn’t so much a question as it is a whine. 

Joel shrugs. “Don’t have to be looking at you to be watchin’,” he says.

You can’t decide if you’re glad or disappointed that the moment you both look at each other, the whole of his face finally visible in the murk of nightfall—warm eyes, summer skin, that stubbly beard you’d like to nuzzle into—a caw of noise erupts inside the school and shatters the moment. The sound of students emerging from the gymnasium into the hall draws Joel’s attention first, and you allow yourself a long look at the back of his head to study his curls, just beginning to thread with gray, before you let the noise draw your attention, too.

“That’d be our cue,” you say, and you both rise from the bench.

As Joel starts shrugging off the leather jacket, you put a hand on his bicep to stop him and shake your head. So solid. Warm. He freezes under your touch, black leather slumped part-way down his arms, until you withdraw your hand. 

“Nu-uh,” you say. “You’re keeping that.”

He frowns. “Not sure I like the idea of stealin’ from Sarah’s school,” he says. 

You roll your eyes, wave one hand dismissively. “You saw where it came from, they’ll never miss it. There were at least half a dozen more in there.”

When Joel narrows his eyes at you, you narrow yours back stubbornly. Finally, he sighs and snaps the jacket back over his shoulders—a gesture that turns you to honey—and shoves one hand into the back pocket of his jeans. The also-stolen jeans. You’re gonna make him take those too. Not like anything that fits him is gonna fit any of the students here. You don’t even know why the theater department has costumes this size. 

“Least take this and sign me up for,” he gestures vaguely with one hand as he pulls something from his pocket and holds it out to you. “Whatever. More chaperonin’.”

Pinched between his fingers is a crisp business card bearing the same logo stickered to his truck. Miller Construction Ltd—Joel Miller, Co-Owner. His phone number is printed squarely at the bottom. You take it, running your thumb across the printed text. 

“Very generous,” you tease, and Joel looks down at you and grins, one dimple creasing his cheek. When you smile in return, his dark eyes slip down your face, landing on your lips.

As you make your way back up the path to the school, he walks close enough that his arm brushes against yours just once. Your body purrs with want, made worse when he smirks and leans toward you, lowering his voice. “Trust me,” he rumbles quietly. “Offer’s entirely selfish.”

Then, entirely composed, Joel yanks the front door open for you and winks.

Moodboard created by @studioghibelli!

[dorkszn]

DATES WITH THE BROTHERS + choso, yuji, ryomen

SYNP — what dates with the brothers are like

PAIRINGS — choso kamo x reader, yuji itadori x reader, ryomen sukuna x reader

not proofread, big brother sukuna au, gn reader

YUJI

yuji is a fun and hyper person. he always tries to take you somewhere fun. places like amusement parks, carnivals, trampoline parks, arcades, etc. it’s never a sit-down or dull date with him.

“hey, i betcha i can win you one of those prizes.” yuji suddenly says. you turn your attention from the funnel cake that was in front of you and to the boy. “no way. these games are rigged, yuji, you can’t win.” you shake your head with a small laugh. “there has to be some way to win, there’s a few people around with prizes.” yuji replies, looking around for a moment before he finds his target. “the bottles game. first try and you got one of those huge stuff animals.” he challenges, grinning at you. “try if you wanna, you’re wasting tickets.” you hum. “you’re so mean.” yuji sighs, giving you a sad puppy look. “i am not.” “you are.” “I’ll be nice if you buy me some fried oreos.” yuji eyes light up. “deal!”

CHOSO

choso is just a bit calmer than yuji. his dates are more authentic, you can say. things like picnics, drive-in movies, top golf, aquarium trips, and fruit picking are choso’s ideas of dates. wherever he can just hold your hand and stare at you lovingly is great for him.

“woah choso, look! it’s the penguins!” you gasp, standing barely inches away from the glass of the enclosure. choso stands beside you, your fingers interlocked. suddenly, a penguin with a black stripe on his beak approaches the glass. it stares at the two of you with a blank expression. “oh my god, cho, it looks like you!” you squeal, facing your boyfriend. choso’s face flushed slightly. “no it doesn’t.” he pouts. “it has the same stripe on it’s nose. i think it’s cute.” you scoff, turning to look back at the bird. “y—you do?” choso stammers. “yeah, i do.” you nod, giving him a soft smile before pressing a kiss onto his blood mark.

RYOMEN

sukuna spoils you. he likes to act he doesn’t or as if he doesn’t like it but he does. he likes taking you to fancy or expensive places even when you tell him not to. places like nice restaurants, almost courtside seats at sport’s games, concerts, snowboarding, things like that. 

“ryo, come back!” you exclaim, struggling to find your balance. the pink haired man stands just a few feet ahead, watching you with an amused expression. “c’mon! don’t be a scaredy-cat, just come down.” he shouts. he stands on his snowboard confidently while you stumble on yours. you reluctantly push forward on your board. you glide down just for a few seconds before a squeal leaves you and begin tumbling through the snow, eventually landing at ryo’s feet. “get up, you’re fine,” he says, taking your hands and helping you up. you stare at him with a sad glare. “what’s wrong?” he questions. “you left me, asshole!” you scoff, hitting his chest. his coat protecting him from the blow. he sighs before grinning at you, shifting the black markings on his skin. “don’t be a baby, I was right here. want me to your hold your hand the rest of the way?” ryomen teases, cooing at you. “sure, whatever.” “i think you mean ‘thank you, ryo.’”

[seoulzie]

범규; whispers of the unsleeping

───── orphic ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 (adj.) mysterious & entrancing; beyond ordinary understanding

synopsis: in the small city of yeosu, insomniac choi beomgyu seeks refuge in his school's abandoned astronomical observatory to catch some sleep. there, he encounters y/n l/n, a sociable and carefree girl who shares his struggle with insomnia. together, they form an unlikely friendship and revive their school's defunct astronomy club, spending their nights exploring the stars.

彡 pairing: beomgyu x f!reader 彡 genre: fluff, angst, strangers to lovers au, university au 彡 warnings: mentions of mental health & insomnia, parental abandonment (?) chronic illness, strong language, grief & loss

RELEASE DATE; 07/26/24 — this week, friday

index: prologue i. sleepless encounters capella ii. a place of our own vega iii. rekindling the stars proxima iv. phases of the moon, phases of us rigel v. cosmic challenge polaris vi. beyond the horizon altair vii. heart to heart betelgeuse viii. tomorrow's sunrise arcturus the end: epilogue

TAGLIST: OPEN! leave an ask in my inbox, reply to this post, or send me a dm!

CHOI BEOMGYU ( 21 ) ( M )

a student who struggles with trouble falling asleep most nights. consequently, he is irritable at school, always searching for an opportunity to find a secluded place to doze off. despite his gruff exterior, he is well-known around campus for his charming looks.

Y/N L/N ( 20 ) ( F )

a cheerful and enthusiastic student, the astronomy club president, whose secret battle with insomnia leads her to the solace of the astronomical conservatory at night. determined to keep her condition hidden, she finds refuge among the stars until she encounters another night owl, beomgyu.

PROLOGUE: CHAPTER 0 word count: 3.1k

another sleepless night. beomgyu stared up at the ceiling of his room, counting the cracks for the hundredth time. it was a game he played with himself when he couldn’t sleep, a futile attempt to trick his brain into shutting down. spoiler alert: it never worked.  he groaned, the sound echoing hollowly in the silent room, and threw an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the faint glow of dawn creeping through the dusty blinds. the alarm clock on his nightstand blinked 6:00 am in angry red numbers, a mocking reminder of the day looming ahead.

with a sigh that condensed the exhaustion clinging to him like a shroud, beomgyu rolled out of bed. every muscle screamed in protest, a dull ache thrumming through his limbs. he shuffled to the bathroom, his movements heavy with sleep deprivation. his reflection in the mirror looked as shitty as he felt—dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction, and a permanent scowl etched on his face. he splashed some cold water on his face, hoping it would wake him up enough to function through another hellish day at school.

he reached for his usual blue and white striped tube of toothpaste, but his fingers met only the cold, hard plastic of the sink. panic clawed at his throat. empty. of course, it was empty. why wouldn't it be? just his luck.

frantic, he rummaged through the cabinet under the sink, desperately searching for a spare tube. nothing. nada. just a half-empty bottle of mouthwash that reeked of peppermint and disappointment. he slammed the cabinet shut, the sound echoing through the small bathroom like a gunshot. “fucking hell.”

defeated, beomgyu straightened up, bracing himself for another blow. he hobbled over to his laundry basket, a tangled mess of unmentionables. he started digging, desperately searching for a matching pair of socks. hope flickered when his fingers brushed against soft cotton, then died a slow, agonizing death as he pulled out a lone, navy blue sock. where was its partner? had it been swallowed by a rogue dryer gremlin? eaten by a sock-hungry monster lurking in the washing machine?

beomgyu stared at the single sock in his hand, a monument to his perpetually bad luck. he was starting to think the universe had a personal vendetta against him. this wasn't just another day; it was a full-blown disaster waiting to happen, and he was just the hapless protagonist caught in the middle.

after throwing on his uniform and grabbing his backpack, he headed downstairs. his dad had already left for work, as usual. the house was eerily silent, a stark contrast to the chaotic mornings of his childhood before—stop it, he thought to himself. beomgyu shook off the unwelcome memories and grabbed a piece of toast on his way out.

he dragged himself to the front door, his feet protesting with each step. a splash of color outside his window caught his eye. mrs. han, his elderly neighbor, was kneeling by her rose bushes, her weathered hands wielding a watering can with surprising vigor. despite his fatigue, a small smile tugged at the corner of beomgyu's lips. mrs. han was a fixture in the neighborhood, a tiny woman with a heart as big as her prized hydrangeas.

"good morning, mrs. han," he managed, his voice rough from disuse.

she looked up, her eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile. "good morning, beomgyu. off to school already? you look a bit pale," she said with a motherly concern that always made him feel a flicker of warmth.

"just a little tired, mrs. han," he replied, offering a weak smile. "those history essays won't write themselves, you know."

mrs. han chuckled. "always busy, that's you. but remember, dear, rest is important too. don't you burn yourself out."

"i'll try my best," he promised, though the words tasted like ashes in his mouth. he knew the truth – sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford.

beomgyu continued his walk, the rising sun painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. the usual sights and sounds of the morning held a peculiar distance, muffled by the fog in his brain. the bakery across the street, usually a source of enticing aromas, only offered a dull ache in his stomach – a reminder of the breakfast he hadn't bothered with.

as he neared the school gates, the sounds of chatter started to seep in, a rising crescendo of greetings and nervous laughter. he braced himself for the usual barrage of hellos and high-fives, his trademark charm already feeling strained. beomgyu wasn't just tired, he was running on fumes, his charisma a flickering candle in a hurricane of exhaustion.

just as he predicted, a cheerful voice chimed in from beside him. "beomgyu! looking handsome as ever this morning, even at this ungodly hour."

he turned to see yeri, a girl from his class with a smile as bright as her sunflower hair clip. she was notorious for her bubbly personality and her unashamed crush on him. usually, beomgyu would respond with a playful jab or a witty remark, adding to the innocent flirtation. but today, a single word was all he could muster.

"hey," he croaked out, a smile barely flickering across his lips.

yeri's smile faltered slightly. "everything okay? you seem...out of it."

he shrugged, the movement feeling like wading through mud. "just a late night studying." it wasn't a complete lie, but the truth felt too heavy to share.

"well," yeri continued, her voice losing a bit of its usual chirp, "don't let it get you down. math class first thing, right? let's just hope ms. choi isn't in one of her moods."

there was a time when such a comment would have sparked a playful banter, a shared groan about their least favorite teacher. today, beomgyu merely nodded, a hollow feeling settling in his chest.

despite his exhaustion, beomgyu couldn't help but notice the way heads turned in his direction, the whispered greetings, the stolen glances. he was undeniably popular, the school's resident charmer. but the weight of that popularity felt like a suffocating cloak.

a group of guys from the basketball team hollered a greeting, their voices echoing off the lockers. beomgyu offered a weak wave, the movement seeming to drain the last vestiges of his energy. a couple of girls from the dance club giggled as they passed, their eyes lingering on him for a beat too long. all he could do was muster a tired smile, the effort feeling monumental.

he reached his locker, the familiar combination numbers a blur in his sleep-deprived haze. as he shoved his books inside, a hand landed on his shoulder. it was kai, his best friend, his partner in crime (or at least, they were when beomgyu had the energy for crime fighting). kai, unlike beomgyu, was a beacon of energy, his perpetually ruffled brown hair and mischievous grin a constant source of amusement.

"dude, you look like a deflated balloon," kai commented, his voice laced with concern. "another night?"

beomgyu slammed his locker shut with a sigh that spoke volumes. "yeah," he mumbled, leaning against the cold metal for support.

kai's brow furrowed. "seriously, beomgyu. you've been like this for weeks. we talked about this already! you said you’d try anything besides looking like you haven't slept since kindergarten."

beomgyu ran a hand through his hair, a grimace creasing his face for a moment before smoothing out into a tired indifference. "yeah, yeah," he mumbled, more to himself than to kai. "it's whatever at this point."

kai's concern flickered, then died down as he picked up on the subtle shift in beomgyu's demeanor. he knew that tone – the one that said beomgyu was resigned, shutting himself off. pushing wouldn't help.

"alright," kai said, switching gears with the practiced ease, “come on, zombie boy. let's get to class before ms. choi starts discussing the square root of boredom."

the morning dragged on, each class blending into the next in a haze of exhaustion and boredom. beomgyu could barely keep his eyes open, let alone focus on the lectures. 

his first class was math, and he trudged to his seat, slumping down with a heavy sigh. he rummaged through his bag, only to realize he had forgotten his pen.

“hey, taehyun,” he whispered to the boy sitting next to him. “got a pen i can borrow?”

taehyun glanced at him and chuckled softly. “forgot yours again? here.” he handed beomgyu a pen, shaking his head in amusement.

“thanks, man,” beomgyu muttered, trying to muster a grateful smile. he opened his notebook and attempted to take notes, but his eyelids felt like lead weights. the teacher’s voice droned on, a monotonous hum that only made him feel sleepier.

his head began to nod, his vision blurring as he struggled to stay awake. just as he was about to give in to the sweet embrace of sleep, he heard his name being called.

“mr. choi,” the teacher’s voice was sharp and reprimanding. beomgyu jolted awake, blinking rapidly.

“y-yes?” he stammered, sitting up straight.

“care to repeat what i just said?” the teacher asked, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

beomgyu’s mind went blank. he hadn’t heard a single word. “uh… something about calculus?” he guessed, hoping he was at least close.

the class snickered, and the teacher sighed in exasperation. “detention, mr. choi. maybe next time you’ll pay attention instead of dozing off in my class.”

beomgyu slumped back in his seat, cursing under his breath. “great. just fucking great,” he thought.

by the time lunch rolled around, beomgyu was ready to collapse. he shuffled towards the cafeteria, his head hanging low. he spotted his friends at their usual table and dragged himself over, the fluorescent lights feeling like a personal attack on his already throbbing head.

"yo, beomgyu!" yeonjun called out, waving him over. "you look like shit, man. rough night?"

beomgyu slumped into a chair, the metal groaning under his weight. a defeated grunt escaped his lips as he slumped his tray onto the table. "yeah," he mumbled, picking at his food with a complete lack of enthusiasm.

soobin, munching on an apple, raised an eyebrow. "again? dude, you really need to see a doctor or something."

beomgyu shrugged, picking at his food without much appetite. "what are they gonna do? prescribe me more useless meds? no thanks."

yeonjun leaned forward, concern etched on his face. "have you tried, like, meditation or something? i heard it can help."

beomgyu rolled his eyes. "yeah, 'cause sitting still and doing nothing is gonna magically cure my insomnia. thanks, but no thanks."

taehyun looked at him, frowning. "you really should try something, man. this can’t be good for you."

beomgyu sighed. "yeah, well, i’ve tried everything. nothing works. now i’ve got detention ‘cause i fell asleep in math."

taehyun winced. "harsh. what are you gonna do?"

"skip it, maybe. find a quiet place to sleep," beomgyu muttered, pushing his tray away.

beomgyu wandered the halls, his mind a jumble of thoughts and exhaustion. the school was a labyrinth of possibilities, each one fraught with its own set of risks and potential rewards. he needed to find the perfect place to nap, somewhere quiet and out of the way where no one would bother him.

places to (possibly) sleep 1) the janitor's closet

the first place that came to mind was the janitor’s closet. beomgyu had passed by it a million times, always noticing how the janitor, mr. lee, would leave it unlocked while he went about his duties. beomgyu headed towards the closet, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. he carefully turned the knob and slipped inside.

the closet was small and dark, filled with cleaning supplies and equipment. the smell of bleach and disinfectant was strong, but beomgyu didn’t care. he saw a small space behind a stack of boxes and decided it would have to do. he crouched down, wedging himself into the cramped space. the floor was cold and hard, but he was desperate for some rest.

he closed his eyes, trying to let the darkness and quiet lull him to sleep. just as he felt himself drifting off, the door creaked open. beomgyu’s eyes snapped open, and he held his breath. mr. lee stood in the doorway, a look of confusion quickly turning to annoyance on his face.

“hey! what are you doing in here?” mr. lee barked.

“shit,” beomgyu muttered under his breath. he scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding. “sorry, i—uh—i got lost?”

mr. lee narrowed his eyes. “out. now.”

beomgyu didn’t need to be told twice. he quickly slipped past the janitor and out into the hallway, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. so much for that.

places to (possibly) sleep 1) janitor’s closet 2) library

next, beomgyu decided to try the library. it was usually quiet, and he figured he might be able to find a secluded corner to catch some z’s. he made his way to the library, the scent of old books hitting him as soon as he stepped inside. the librarian, mrs. tanaka, gave him a stern look over her glasses, but he ignored her and began his search for the perfect spot.

the library was mostly empty, with only a few students scattered around, hunched over their books. beomgyu walked past the rows of shelves, looking for a place where he could hide from prying eyes. he found a spot in the back, behind a tall stack of books on astronomy. it was quiet, and he could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning.

he sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall, and pulled his knees to his chest. the cool air and the silence were soothing, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy. just as he was about to drift off, he heard footsteps. he peeked around the stack of books and saw a group of girls walking towards him, giggling and chatting.

“great,” he thought. “just great.”

the girls didn’t notice him at first, but as they got closer, one of them spotted him. she nudged her friend, and they both started whispering and giggling even louder. beomgyu felt his face heat up with annoyance and embarrassment. this was definitely not going to work.

he got up, brushing the dust off his pants, and made his way out of the library, ignoring the stares and whispers of the girls. “too many people and out in the open,” he thought. scratch that idea.

places to (possibly) sleep 1) janitor’s closet 2) library

beomgyu trudged on, defeat clinging to him like yesterday's gym clothes. he formulated a mental list in his head, each possibility crumpling under the weight of potential interruptions. the rooftop? too exposed. the music room? a rogue trumpet could shatter any hope of sleep.

his weary eyes scanned the familiar halls, a sliver of hope flickering as he rounded a corner. there it stood, a solitary figure against the twilight sky—the astronomy tower.

the tower, a relic of a bygone era of scientific exploration. its once-gleaming silver exterior was now weathered and rusted, the windows dark and vacant. It had been years since anyone had ventured inside, rumors of asbestos and ghosts swirling around it like dusty cobwebs.

but for beomgyu, in his desperate search for a haven, the tower's isolation was a siren song. no students lingered in its shadow, no teachers patrolled its perimeter. in that forgotten corner, a flicker of hope ignited. it might be dusty, it might be creepy, but it could be perfect. as he neared the tower, the details became more pronounced: chipped tiles forming the entrance walkway, a rusty weather vane groaning in the faint evening breeze, and the peeling paint revealing the faded inscription "ad astra per aspera" - "to the stars through difficulties." an odd prickle ran down his spine. the inscription felt oddly fitting, a challenge on this day of immense hardship. could the tower, in its own dilapidated way, be his path to the stars? to sleep, the most elusive star in his current reality? the door was old and creaky, and it took a bit of effort to push it open. just as he was about to reach for the door handle, the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day.

“fuck,” beomgyu muttered, feeling his shoulders slump in defeat. the observatory would have to wait. he decided then and there that he would check it out tomorrow during his free period. he turned and trudged back down the hallway, the prospect of a good nap tantalizingly out of reach.

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© 2024 seoulzie

[your-local-uwu-artist]

it was suggested I post this to the tags as well >:D

fuck it ima tag @transcendence-au as well because tbh I'm very proud of my silly little animation

some me being a nerd under the cut!

okay so this all started when I read the original post this was inspired by and though 'wouldn't it be silly to add some art to this 3 year old post?' but then I decided to animate it for funsies!

and gosh I sure do love animating!

So I got the base sketch and then got into the lineart animation for each component!

i don't have the sketches/wips saved at all sense this wasn't really a project and it took less than a day to complete. but here's a peak at the timeline

I animate entirely in my ususal drawing software: clip studio paint. It's just what's easiest for me.

all of these layers outside that folder are just the sparkles! after I finished I added some sparkles for fun! there's a lot of them because it involved a lot of copy and pasting sparkle layers

the bottom folders here are the wings body and facial expression! for everything like the wings arms and flags I was able to just copy paste, reverse, and then align the timing correctly in the timeline

one thing unique about this animation is that the lineart and colors are in separate layers! I tend to do line and colors on the same layer but this time I was using a brush that doesn't have the same lack of anti-aliasing and sense it's a small animation I wasn't as worried about keeping a minimum of layers like usual.

also the movement of the body is only 4 frames! and one one of those is just the hat shifting position

initially I wasn't going to have the second facial expression but when I got stuck on animating the flags I added the second facial expression while taking a break.

the arm animation is just 8 frames! honestly the only tricky part in this is the flags, everything else was pretty simple, which made it super fun to work on because I got both a challenge and mindless therapeutic drawing out of it.

NOW THE FLAGS there was 3 throw away attempts before I got it: you see the thing that made this tricky is finding the balance between believability and visual appeal. a big part of animation is creating the illusion of physics, this is the 'believability' part, I need these to look like flags that are moving and made of flat fabric, HOWEVER if I animate these one-to-one with realistic physics: it won't look good! I can't apply wind to the whole drawing because then the hair would have to react, and wind goes one way, and I wan't the flags to be pointing opposite directions. so without wind the flags would be laying down flat, but that won't look good at all! and furthermore realistic physics would have the flag not being all nice and front facing most of the time. so the trick here was figuring out how much physics to apply to make it look believable, while still making it look good.

one trick I did to help me animate the flags is I actually made a plan rectangle flag as a guide so that the general mass/volume of the flag would stay consistent, this is something i highly recommend when animating! like having a circle guide along a characters head to keep their height and proportions consistent.

after I finally found the balance with the flag lineart coloring wasn't too hard! sense I just had to follow the lines, and THANK GOODNESS the trans and aroace flag have the same number of stripes: saving me time!

and then it all comes together to make a satisfying perfectly looping bundle of cuteness >:DDD I feel like the tau fandom doesn't have as many artists with particularly cartoony/chibi art styles so I've gotta play my part in spreading the joy-whimsy-adorable-sillys >:D

anyway! hope you get to see a cool beetle today :D

[fatesundress]

⭑ life of the party. tom riddle x reader

summary. when one game is ruined, another begins.

tags. explicitly fem afab reader, smut with as minimal plot as i can physically allow myself, minors SCRAMMM, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, flirting via mutually assured jealousy, impeccable communication skills, established relationship, the guy the reader is talking to gets annoyed she doesn’t want him but he doesn’t do anything, religious undertones that might have accidentally become overtones, party setting (background drinking & general degeneracy), probably the meanest tom i’ll ever write and i still tried making him nice because lots of heavy jealousy tropes are misogynistic icks fo me, fingering, piv, a little degradation but that's life, fawwwk the weeknd but the song this is based on is so sexy, etc

note. Me writing this: nightguard: ON, religious themes: RIFE, shame: ABOUNDING. i am so embarrassed by this. have i mentioned smut doesn’t come naturally to me? i don’t even know how i got here. i’m on heelys at the proverbial skatepark and everyone else apprenticed under tony hawk. Do you understand? ok.

word count. 4.5k

request. yes!

He is what he is. Stoic, sacred, silent and then verbose. You knew he had his fixations before you knew him at all — no one made top of every class without a shadow of obsession to contrast the glint of their excellence — but you could not anticipate how that obsession might translate when applied to a person. You’re not sure he had either.

He is what he is. The muggle world taught him religion and in it he learned only the tenor of devotion. When his fingers take your jaw, trace slow at the stripes of your thighs, steady your hips from under you and hold tight, there’s reverence in it. His kisses don’t wane with the months gone by; they soften with purpose. They rouse with hunger. His eyes don’t waver. Should a good man gaze upon his altar? Should he smile like sin when he gets on his knees? 

He does.

Tom Riddle is what he is and you solemnise in equal part.

You don’t come to these things often, taken aback by the sight of the Slytherin common room in ribbons and banners tattered within the first hour of the night. Bottles glow green in the lake-light on every available surface, scattered about the place and spilled in sticky puddles. 

You’re a wallflower tonight, though not for lack of options. You observe from a comfortable distance the drunken antics of new adults, free to carry their liquor in hand rather than hidden away in pockets and pillowcases. There’s something vaguely entertaining about it, intoxicating where someone else might mind their business and actually get intoxicated, but you see no harm done. Whispers fall on your ears before the rumours make their rounds, couples slink away in the darkness where someone in the crowd might not notice, and the night’s first instance of someone hurrying up the stairs in tears comes barrelling right past you. You invent a story for why to keep yourself busy. 

It’s all just buzz.

Now, if you don’t come often, he certainly doesn’t.

Tonight, he has, and for reasons explicable but few, you’ve found yourselves on opposite sides of the room.

It began on the green couch by the window with a chess set spilled across the velvet — a bet you made with him upon arrival; you find wizard’s chess trite, Tom finds it feckless, but it makes for a good challenge. 

What else could convince a man so perpetually controlled to pour himself a drink? And you imagine, from his perspective: what else could convince a woman so determined to outwit him?

It’s for no nefarious reason — to slight him or see him stumble — but because you love the fractions of relief that colour him, soften him, temper him. It’s because he loves you in every shade, in every pliancy, in each and every fervour. But mostly it’s because you love kindly to best him, and he loves mirthfully to best you.

So you play. The game is slow and teasing, hard to see in the ripples of the lake, and toppled over in the final moves (which you’ll insist you were winning) by the same swaying body that spills its drink down the front of your dress. And so you’re up, brushing your index finger over the corner of Tom’s sudden scowl. You whisper like a joke not to kill anyone but he’s so quick to look like he might that you consider repeating yourself with more conviction.

You poke at the spot where his jaw is tense. “I’ll be right back.”

Drying liquor from lace is a matter of precision even with magic, and this is half-gelatinous like someone raided the kitchen’s supply of jelly and steeped it in something offensively alcoholic. You utilise the clearer light of the Slytherin girl’s lavatory, wetting your dress before evaporating the water from it. There’s the matter then of transforming the stained fabric back to its original colour, and you huff in the mirror at having a game you thought you didn’t care much for ruined so close to its end.

You care about Tom, though. The omphalos of your issue resides there.

(It is fair to say most of your issues reside there.)

With only minutes gone by, the common room crowd looks doubled when you return, and though you wade through you’re pushed back like debris caught in a tide, the bodies more stubborn rubble than you. So you retreat, stand flush at the wall with your arms crossed, and wait for Tom’s eyes to land on yours. To, perhaps, open your mind and let him in, tell him exhaustedly from afar that the game is at rest and you’re ready to leave.

But even he’s hard to find in the bodies unified in breath, flux like a big set of lungs —  and nothing about Tom blurs into the background.

So you wait. You wallflower. You pour yourself a drink.

The moment stretches on longer than anticipated, and after many detached observations of the room, someone else finds you instead. He’s tall, blond to Tom's inkwell black, kissed by summer sun even as autumn soothes its blister. Your gaze wavers back to him a few times though his own is uncertain for all its focus. He seems to be waiting for you to stop, perhaps for the silhouette of someone else to slip by and prove you were looking at them instead. When no one else comes, he traverses the crowd with a straightened inch of pride, stepping through new colours until he’s close enough to you that the light settles emerald-black and you can see the great chasm of his beauty up close. 

His freckles are carefully dusted, his structure strong, all squarish, rugged lines and shades of August.

The chasm is not a lack of allure, per se, it’s just a lack of him. One man’s August to your adherent’s December, the intention of his warmth, a thing that does not come to him like everything else but that he makes and makes and mends when it lapses because he does not want to see you cold. The singular reward of a rarity like that.

“Hi," you say, glancing over a broad shoulder.

“Evening," he responds. He takes you in with a look of (unappreciated) appreciation. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

He extends a hand. “Oliver Belby.”

“Pleasure.”

You don't offer much in the way of conversation. He’ll vie for your attention regardless of how much of it you offer. So you lean against the wall where the buzz of sound prickles your hair, let him talk, let his hand come up to rest beside your head, and you find Tom.

He’s right where you left him, a new clearing in the crowd making space for your eyes to meet.

His are ice even at a distance. As if you proselytise — as if you could — kneel for another man or let one kneel before you, all of your trysts together faithless.

They aren’t. He must know they aren’t.

But you put yourself here and standing at the target of his gaze has never been marred by the severity of it.

You decide then; when one game is ruined, another begins.

In truth, you can’t deny the element of theatrics in the way Tom denies everyone but you: his soft, penitent smile, the apologetic cant of his head, how his eyes can find you in any crowd and whoever is clinging onto his every word that night will follow his gaze and deflate when they discover you at the end of it. Sometimes it’s harsh. Final. He lacks the patience of pretence. 

Sometimes, the week is dull. Sometimes, the whoever is undeterred. Sometimes you’ve pushed him here. 

No — You’ve never done that before. This is new.

So it’s one of those weeks, and one of those whoevers, on an anomaly you may as well have directed the encounter yourself, and Tom is half-indulgent as he forces his eyes away and you force yours to stay. 

You watch him from across the room as the woman drapes herself across the arm of his chair. There's a furious blush on her cheeks even in the dark, a pretty disarray to her shoulder-length hair, skirts pleated over knees she faces toward him. She smiles and offers him a glass of something, and you know for certain Tom understands this game because he accepts it, eyes flicking back to you as he swirls the glass in contest. 

To that you take an inappreciable sip of your own.

“ — Which is why no one has even attempted to kill one in decades. And capturing one is another thing entirely. My mother works with the Greeks on occasion, and the nearest she came to a den was in the twenties. If she had gone any nearer I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm?” You look back at the man in front of you. His lips glisten with having licked them between every phrase.

“The manticores,” he says, undeterred.

“Right. Five-X beasts, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I said. I heard from one of my mother’s colleagues that — ”

The woman is whispering something in Tom’s ear, her hair on his cheek. He’s looking at you as if you had said the words. You don't shy away when Oliver leans in to whisper too. It's a strange, fractured language. Too intimate while too detached. Whispers from across the room, desire from another in the place of desire for each other. But the strangeness should not surprise you anymore. This is Tom: beautiful and wicked and the one you chose.

“ — And Nundus are worse. Deadliest creature there is — ”

She’s laughing about something, the woman. Half-reserved, she’s angled toward the party despite her leaning on his shoulder and the dissipating inches of distance.

“ — They stalk in silence. Think of the size of one, right? They’re apex predators… so commanding and still they could be in front of you one instant and gone the next.”

You engage with detached interest. “Really?”

And now Oliver barricades your view, his other hand coming to rest on your other shoulder.

“Do we have any classes together?”

You blink up at him. “No.”

“No, right,” he says, eyes darting to your lips. “I’d remember you.” 

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you wonder if for some men one-sided discussions of class five beasts qualify as foreplay.

You place a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised and half a startled smile curled. 

“You’re not going to kiss me," you inform him.

His face falls, but with it, at least, does his hand.

“Did you hear me?"

“It’s loud,” he decides suddenly. “Can we go somewhere else?”

You’re not sure you believe that. 

You duck under an arm and search the crowd again. The woman is on the arm of the chair looking thoroughly dismayed, and for good reason —

Tom is gone. 

Your breath is caught.

“This isn’t… You’re not going to…?”

You flash Oliver with a glare. “So you did hear me.”

He makes a pathetically sad face, and you think: it’s a wonder he made it this far when his courtship evidently hinges on the subject of his affection not listening to a word out of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” you say tersely.

“What was that for, then?” he asks, and it comes out practically whined.

“That was talking.”

“But you’re —”

“Belby.”

He is what he is. It shouldn’t surprise you when he appears beside you all fatal rage on a quiet lead, narrowly fixed to you. 

Tom’s cold is his median temperature, yes, but in moments like this it’s as much for you as his handmade warmth. He’d pluck the fingers off a boy like Oliver. The digits would string eaves like icicles.

Oliver is looking between you and Tom like something terrible has dawned on him, hands urged to his pockets to soothe the flames your unveiled ties to a man seemingly singed him with.

“Riddle — Mate, I didn’t… I didn’t know she was…”

Tom’s voice is flat, edged with something that makes his monotony sound merciful. “Pity. If only you knew as much as you talked.”

Oliver’s mouth opens and closes and opens again, but wisely he settles on silence instead of excuses, and wastes no time fleeing slowly into the crowd. 

The instant he's stolen by the wave Tom's eyes are on yours and they’re molten. You move to say something but his patience was for show — he’s dragging you by the arm out of the common room and into one of the dungeon's empty classrooms without giving you the chance.

“Tom —" You start to protest, mouth twisted in a scowl. “Tom, you're being —"

He shuts the door behind you and locks it with such delicacy your breath catches at the question of how badly he's holding himself back right now.

“I'm being what?"

“You're…" It's hard to formulate an answer when he's like this. “It was a game. Don’t pretend you weren’t playing too."

Tom inches in, chest rising with angry breaths. “A game, was it? Did he know that?"

“Did she?” you hiss.

“It certainly became apparent when she was discarded so that I might retrieve you.”

“It was as apparent to Belby, judging by the way he was left gawking.”

“And with great restraint I let him. A mercy I didn’t take his eyes so he was left without the ability.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now I understand; the problem wasn’t the game, it’s that I played it better than you.”

He looks at you for a long time before casting a silencing charm on the room.

Oh.

Oh — your heart barrels off somewhere. You’re without it for a moment, breathless in the wake of the implication of a spell like that.

“Tom," you say politically, “It was hardly a matter of rescuing.”

He nods imperceptibly. “No, it wasn’t.”

“So we’re in agreement.”

He hums a non-answer.

Each step he takes forward, you take back. It's a peculiar way to have a conversation, but part of the game, you suppose.

Interesting he’s still playing.

You still gasp when you inevitably hit the wall, hands going to the carved edge of a windowsill.

“You’re terrible when you win,” he whispers. His lips brush your ear.

You shudder, mouth dry as you press against his shoulder. “You’re worse when you lose.”

His mouth drags down your jaw but he refuses to kiss you, still withholding something, still holding back in some terrible, electrifying way. Instead one of his hands starts to dip down your side. You shiver as he grazes the skin of your breast, exposed by the cut of your dress, and continues down your waist. His mouth traces your bare shoulder as his tongue makes a slow pass, skin beneath leaping at his careful ministrations.

With long, slender fingers he's pulling your dress off button by button, torturously slow, and you feel mocked to have cleaned it earlier. You feel foolish to have left knowing the night would have ended like this regardless.

“Tom,” you say. His name is followed by staggered breaths. Your fingers are clutching the windowsill.

The air is thick as he watches you, flesh exposed by each undone catch. And still he will not kiss you, even as his lips trail along your collarbone and you start to tug instinctively at his belt. He makes the barest sound of disapproval and spins you to face the window, your hands urged on instinct to press against the glass.

“Tom...”

He hikes your dress up your thighs. It clings to your hips, a meagre two buttons left attached to keep it from falling.

Your wand clatters as his fingers work the clasp of your bra and his teeth skim your shoulder, leaving little bites he laves at softly with his tongue. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction. His touch traverses the shape of you and stops feather-light between your legs.

“Tom —”

“Quiet," he admonishes, a little tut.

Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid up your thighs, like he hasn’t done this before, like it’s care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour.

His index draws upon the lace of your underwear and tugs it aside with a tenderness that makes you gasp. Is there a way to press harder to the glass without breaking it? Is there ever enough to grab onto when he gets like this — so singularly focused on ruining you? 

One of your hands latches onto the arm half-disappeared in your skirts instead, clinging steadfast to the white of its sleeve, your body swaying as if at sea. He keeps you steady, but this is his crown achievement: that he is all there is that can do it when you’re so singularly focused on being ruined by him.

The sinews of his forearm work imperceptibly under your fingers as he appreciates the newly unfettered flesh, two digits sliding between your legs, and he makes a satisfied sound against your shoulder at the wetness he finds there. 

You’re swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realise, and feel like you’re choking when he starts to move, gripping his arm somehow tighter.

As a rule, you know how much he loves this, but it’s tenfold under his jealousy and you think deliriously, probably wrongly, that for how much he enjoys pushing you you enjoy pushing him to get here. You’re his and he’s yours, there’s no doubt in it — but what he can reduce you to — this desperate creature, writhing and panting, trying in vain to satiate herself with a simple finger — this is the translation; the fruition of his fixations put to a person rather than a subject. This is what it is to be his.

Tom’s mouth opens in a smile at your throat, and there it feels more like bared teeth, a smile that is as animal as it is pretty. 

And still he whispers with all the affection of a lover, your name peppered between kisses.

His fingers inch inside you and curl. You’re wedged in the perfect balance of his discrepancy; your disciple and your devil. He worships you in white. He ruins you in it too.

Now his name comes out in a babble, wet, half-drooled. A nip pinches the little space beneath your ear and you clutch impossibly harder to his wrist, your free hand squeaking down the window pane as you grind on his palm. He crooks his fingers against a spot that has you seeing stars, thumb pressed to your clit in a subtle motion, and you feel yourself tip off into an unknown he aquaints you with often. In a blurry, flickering moment, the light gleams somewhere beyond the stained hues of the window. And that should be it. The edge is at your heels and you should be falling. But the sinful press of him at your back commands you to lurch against him, and when you moan for more he pulls his fingers free.

You stumble weakly into his chest, startled.

“What… What?”

“Ask me for it,” he says, his voice hoarse, markedly wanton in spite of himself. But there is hunger and there is greed. There’s a sacrificial lamb and there’s a hunted one— there’s religion and there’s Tom. He invents something that demands greater devotion.

And the sound of leather rasping serge and metal clinking metal reels your conscience in. There are no stars. There’s just him. His belt is coming undone.

“Tom.” You swallow. “I told you —”

“And I want you to ask.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Nicely.”

Your mouth opens for him and you shiver, pressing further back for contact he doesn’t allow. Instead another small tut is whispered at your neck, relinquished to a kiss.

His finger brushes your teeth when you speak. “I want you.”

You feel him shake his head and you all but whine.

“I want you inside, Tom — need you — please.”

“Please?” he echoes mockingly.

“Please,” you say in an uneven voice, and when your tongue grazes his thumb he eases it further into your mouth with an appeased hum.

And so his zipper comes down and you hold your breath with the weight of your dress at your hips.

He pushes inside you with minimal pause, slow still, to relish the way your little pants hitch, stop, and shudder out in a broken moan; the way your breath is guided by his rhythm, how you’re shaped by him, fitted around him. You careen forward and your palms flatten on the window, trembling at the first thrust. Your fingers quiver down the glass.

Tom pulls you into him on the second, patience abandoned. His lips chase your pulse. His grip on your jaw tightens as his thumb pops free with a string of spit. He nudges deeper at a new angle, your body forced as far as it can lean back, gasping heavenward when your head falls helplessly onto his shoulder.

It’s profane. Your ears almost dull to the sound of his hips snapping against yours, the obscenity of your skin on what he offers of his, but you waver between earth and something else, brought back to him by the torturous sight of the edge he stole you from. Always brought back to him. 

He’s gripping your jaw in one hand as he pushes deeper, and your fingers are lost for purchase on his forearms, trembling to hold onto something.

When he pulls out of you at your brink again, you practically cry out. But you understand when he spins you around again, hiking you up against the windowsill, your shoulders hitting the cool glass with a gasp you barely register in the fog of your desperation. His eyes are dilated to midnight rings. The weight of his desire is frightening. The insistence to claim you better yet.

He wastes no time before slamming into you again, pausing at the hilt to watch your eyebrows wrench together before resuming his pace. When your mouth falls open, he swallows the noise that tries to come out of it.

It doesn’t feel like a kiss. It feels like the prolusion to a bite.

His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There’s a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear. The vibration of him is everywhere. You’re too hot and it only occurs to you because your fingers are clawing at fabric instead of skin that he’s fully dressed and your last button has finally snapped, lace pooled on the classroom floor as he fucks you. The thought is consigned to oblivion as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter.

You're clutching at his shoulders, the nape of his neck — trying to kiss him back, but you feel torn in two by the intensity of his ministrations, a low, immolating pressure building in your abdomen. He’s proving something with you, and his is a relentless, unending appetite. You don't really stand a chance. You think you've known that from the start.

Tom is all-consuming. Tom is a force of nature, a whirlwind that sweeps over you. He leaves you breathless and somehow needing more as he wraps his hand around the small of your back and seizes you in place.

Still you find yourself wanting to be held tighter.

“T-Tom —" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it. He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. He’s not withholding your release now; he’s spurring you towards it.

When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray curls pulled across dark, wicked eyes. The sight of him alone is condemnable, but it isn’t for you.

He likes to watch you like this. When your moans dissolve to the torn syllable of his name, again and again. The veneration. Your choked litanies.

You give them to him.

Sleeves drawn up by your body’s baser instinct for skin, you’ve carved a canvas of praise into his arms, marked up to his elbows where your fingers had jerked upward to rake at his back. This time, when you find the cliffside, nothing stops you from teetering off its edge. Flames dance across your skin in an explosion, your collar damp and bitten, your waist in Tom’s vice-like grip. One hard thrust and you’re falling.

The stars are blinding. You decide then they were made by him.

Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, the hard shape of him inside you demanding impossibly for more. You stumble through the light, vision blurred, praying and praying and praying. His grip comes to find your jaw again.

You keen, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddy.

He always comes apart soon after you, but it happens rarely that your body is so taut on the wire of rapture that his twitching inside you takes you with him. 

This time it does.

You sink against him, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from his figure and swiping across condensation-foggy glass. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first. It’s slow. It feels like being caught from the last fall. You land in Tom’s arms and they’re holding you through whitened knuckles. His eyelashes flutter, ink-dipped twines of quills, and he steals the shaky sigh from your mouth by pressing it to his.

You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.

It’s hard not to fall against the window when he slides out of you. You slump on quivering legs into his chest instead, heaving, spend trickling down your legs.

Tom holds you close, adjusting his trousers before sinking down to settle you on his lap. He wipes the sweat from your face and presses his lips to the feverish skin it plastered. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, whispers of your name down your jaw like a prayer answered. Your eyelids flutter shut and he kisses you there, too. His lashes tickle.

You love him more than you worship him. You think he likes that more.

He grabs your forsaken dress from the floor and slips it over your bare shoulders, summoning the snapped button back in place before he begins to meticulously clasp the rest together again. His mouth leaves a path at the skin under each one before it closes, and you hum in dizzy gratitude.

“That was,” you say in a very worn voice, “a terrible way to reinforce not making you jealous.”

He glares at you from one of the lowermost buttons and you giggle sleepily, curling a hand into his hair. “Don’t look at me like that. You liked it too.”

He leans back up at that, tipping your chin with his fingers, gaze darting over the wrecked state of you with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You liked it? What a modest interpretation.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

He is what he is — pursuit of buttons forgotten as you’re laid down on the moonlit floor to be reminded just how much you liked it.

taglist. @lyis @indimoss @poddzi @esolean @d1anna @maripositanoctruna @mentally-in-northern-italy @ronniemaximoff1234 @moobell55 @jaerang @ramayantika @saltwaterbythesea @acube07 @togenabi @adazito @kitcat334 @blaurghhh @shutupfinn @jaymeeshayden @lilu842 @leaosee @garfunkelworld @definitely-not-captain-america @multiplefandomstan @mangoesareorange [ note: inexplicably, a bunch of my tags aren't working. i tried to fix it but if you didn’t get a notif i’m sorry! ]

[ddejavvu]

for mvm can you do fratboy anakin ? i know he's horny absolutely all the time and i need him so bad 😭 maybe just hanging out with him and he can't keep his hands off of you ? thank you !

today is multiverse monday, send me any au you can think of! :)

lmk if anyone wants a full fic/part two to this where they actually get the dice in the mail and use them !! thank you for changing the wiring of my brain fratboy!ani is now all i think about every day - please send more anakin requests especially if they're fratboy!ani!!!!!

this post is 18+, minors dni.

It's not uncommon for Anakin to have his hand down your pants. One of them is there now, while you lay in the small twin bed of his dorm room, still where it rests sandwiched between your thighs. It's not wandering, though you're sure he'd like it to be, it's merely resting against your skin. The lace on the hem of your panties must be itching against his wrist where he's snuck his hand through both your pants and your underwear, but it never seems to matter enough for him to withdraw his hand.

He's spooning you from behind, his arm stretched over your hip to slot itself between your legs while you decompress from your day. You're online shopping, or rather, online window shopping, browsing through countless products you know you'll never buy and scoffing at the more ridiculous ones to Anakin.

His face is resting against the back of your neck where he's planting soft, sticky kisses to the skin there, and you've got your phone propped up on a pillow so that he can see the screen over your own head. You're scrolling lazily while he pampers you with affection just the same, but a glowing green picture catches both of your droopy eyes.

"Look at those," He murmurs, his breath coming in hot against your neck, "Sex dice."

They are, in fact, sex dice.

They're glow-in-the-dark cubes stamped with words like 'lick', 'suck', and 'bite' on one die, body parts listed on the other: 'tits', 'thighs', 'neck'.

You can't see all six faces of either die, but you're sure they're equally filthy. You snort as you feel his hand squeeze into the pliant flesh of your inner thigh, his lips still pressing sloppy kisses to the back of your neck.

"Ani, we don't need those. You already do all that shit, you don't need dice to tell you to do it."

"Look," He gestures to the screen again as the picture of the dice changes, displaying a shot of them in action.

"'Suck navel,'" Anakin reads in a snicker, "Babe, I've never sucked your navel before."

"Do it." You challenge him, but when he immediately pushes himself off of the mattress to dive for your stomach, you roll over onto it, "No, don't do it!"

"Come on!" He laughs, collapsing atop you where you lay on your belly on the mattress, "You told me to do it!"

"I was kidding!" You shout, muffled into the pillow, crushed by his weight, "Anakin, you're not allowed to suck my navel."

"Aw, you're no fun." He chuckles, prodding at your cheek and slipping his hand beneath it as he turns your head, offering him access to the side of your face that isn't still pressed against your pillow. He puckers your lips by squeezing at your jaw and he kisses the side of your mouth, slightly sloppy and uncoordinated.

"What about that other stuff, hm?" He asks, your face still held in his grasp while you lay beneath him on the bed. "Can I do that other stuff?"

"What other stuff?"

"'Lick thighs'," He reads off of the picture, now changed once more to show different faces of the dice, "Can I lick your thighs?"

"You can lick my thighs," You hum bashfully, hyper aware of the slight tingling beneath your stomach at the mere thought of Anakin's tongue dragging wet stripes up your legs. He grins devilishly at you, pressing one more sideways kiss to your mouth before releasing his hold on you and pushing his weight off of the mattress. He pries at your side and you turn over at his command, neck craned to watch as he slinks down to the end of the bed.

"Come here," He seems to be talking more to your lower half than to you as he drags your stretchy pajama pants down, leaving your lace-lined underwear on. He hums dramatically, stuffing his face between your pillowy thighs to muffle the sound.

"Fuck yeah," He groans, the words morphing into an open-mouthed groan as he licks a thick, sloppy stripe up your inner thigh. The tip of his tongue ghosts dangerously close to the hem of your panties around your legs, and he hears the way your breath hitches in your throat at the feeling.

"Thanks, babe." He mumbles, licking another line of saliva this time towards your hip. He hoists himself up with his arms to reach for your navel and you recoil slightly, but he catches your sides to lean down and press a firm kiss to your belly button.

"Buy those dice," He instructs you, sinking back down between your thighs to jam his tongue between them, "Use my card, I don't care. Just get them."

[frostbitebakery]

Last Line Challenge

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like). 

(I’m loving that so many peeps have adopted the rules including artist heh 💜)

Tagged by @omaano and @marbled-polecat thank you both 💜💜💜

This is for Loud. - the cyberpunk aesthetics AU that follows mute Shadow!Obi-Wan around the Galaxy being a spy and falling in love with the GAR’s highest decorated clone and second in command to Master Windu.

Cody’s theme is War Of My Demons by AleXZavesa.

The last lines were actually the paint stripes so Cody is recognizable XD This is just throwing ideas at the wall how to cyberpunk the clone armor. Here’s a snip of the snippet:

“Yes.”

Cody crosses his arms, one of the cameras in his visor rotating as if in a huff. He’s standing casually but securely. Casual enough that he’s probably ready to sprint, dodge, roll, jump, dive at a microscopic moment’s notice.

“I apologize,” Obi-Wan signs, perhaps widening his eyes into an innocent expression very slightly. “I did not mean to offend.”

“You didn’t offend me,” Cody says, his lovely voice distorted with the vocoder. “You asked if all the antennas were truly necessary. I replied.”

Replied with a long, static silence followed by a single word.

Obi-Wan struggles not to smile. He inclines his head. “Very well.”

No pressure tagging (but we all know I lovingly pressure you :D): @elwenyere @adiduck @foreverchangingfandomsao3 @tired-bshocked @lttrsfrmlnrrgby @other-peoples-coats @bluemaskedkarma and @chiliger

[containment-zone-art]

[ID: Digital black and white image, shaded in "pencil." Bakugo and Midoriya standing next to each other. Venus symbol above with arrows pointing to both of them. They are dressed as the sisters from Ginger Snaps. Bakugo: light peacoat, dark sweater and skirt, striped socks, thick loafers. Midoriya: dark winter coat, turtleneck sweater, ankle-length skirt, boots. She holds a notebook. They wear matching bird-skull necklaces. /End ID ]

[ID: Same medium. Midoriya in upper right, holding a camera and glaring downward. Dialogue: "Too much blood... And I can see your gonch!" Below, Bakugo lying with her back bent over a low garden fence. Two fake posts stick out of her shirt. Bright red streams down her chest and over her face. She is glaring back and holding up her middle finger. Dialogue: "Just do it!" Arrow pointing to her says "fake blood." /End ID]

[ID: Same medium. A panicking Midoriya has her arms hooked under Bakugo's from behind, holding her up. She is shouting as a few tears fly from her eyes. Bakugo looks dazed. The left shoulder of her coat is badly torn and soaked with dark red that covers that splatters out to cover that side of her face. Arrow pointing to her says "real blood." /End ID]

BakuDeku Ginger Snaps AU, aka my self-imposed drawing challenge for October 2024 (if you haven't seen one of the greatest werewolf films of all time, it's currently free on Youtube!)

They aren't sisters in this. Midoriya spends a lot of time at Bakugo's place because both of her parents are busy.

My goal is to update this weekly until Halloween : D

Next>

[beetleviolet]

@midwesternvibes 's rottmnt villain leo au will never fail to haunt my brain so, hark! I bringeth tidings of fanfic!

I was really curious what it would take to drive Leo so apart from his family, so I tried to write it in a way that from right to me. This one really challenged me, so I hope yall like it!

To be clear, I feel like this would take place like before Leo is a villain. When the possibility it just. There.

TW: child abuse/emotional abuse, panic attacks/flashbacks, crying, murder, suicidal thoughts, ptsd

The anger started- well, no. It didn't really have a definitive start or finish. A collection of moments Leo could look back on and think, maybe this was it. Maybe this is when it all began, maybe this was when it gained momentum, maybe this was the point of no return. 

And again, even the single moments he could pick out always had other ones tangled around them. Leo took the fall for, well, everything. Not that his brothers never got in trouble but, well, if the dish broke it was Leo who broke it. If an argument started it was Leo who crossed the line. If the chores weren't done then it was Leo's turn, even if it wasn't everyone else said it was and Dad believed them. Looking back, it was an easy thing to blame Leo. He was already labeled trouble, what was a little more? 

The trouble stuck with him like his stripes, like yeah there was a mask there but come on dude, we can both see them peeking out the edges. Leo wasn't to be trusted. Leo was easy to blame. Leo was trouble. 

“Why would you do that??” 

“It was one mistake, Raph!” Raph seemed too flabbergasted to speak, only gesturing at the burning building behind him. So yeah, Leo had started an eensy-teensy little fire. He'd gotten everybody out! 

Leo's mistakes were big. There were few, but they were big, and no one wanted to let him forget it. 

“This is just like that time you broke the TV!” Mikey giggled as he brushed the plate shards into a dust pan. At least he didn't seem mad. Leo tilted his head at him,

“Uh, you broke that.”

“Did not!” Mikey protested. 

“We were playing basketball and you tried to throw it to me!” 

“You didn't catch it!” Leo felt his fingers twitch, wanting to flex, maybe a tic he picked up from Donnie. Frustrated. Angry. A start. 

Leo couldn't remember what happened next, really. They got interrupted by some other brotherly shenanigan. It was just. Well. Leo loved Mikey. He shouldn't be mad! You weren't supposed to get mad at the people you loved, right? Right? 

“Leonardo!” Yikes, full name treatment. Leo jumped, scrambling on 7 year old legs. “You did not help Red cook dinner!?” 

“Uh..” Leo peered behind the looming figure of his Dad, where Raph was half hugging a sniffling Mikey with a bandage on his finger. “..no?” 

“Your brother got hurt!” Oh, that made sense. Mikey was still learning. He had been clammering Raph for a chance to help in the kitchen, that's why Leo didn't today. But he couldn't say that because Splinter had that- that look. That clenched jaw that scared Leo more than anything. Dad didn't hit them, usually, not really. Maybe a small fwip behind the head if they were very bad, a sandal thrown by if they said something out of line. It wasn't that, really. Dad didn't like to do that, sometimes he even apologized for it. Usually to Donnie and Mikey, but whatever. But it wasn't that. 

It was more the glaring, the teasing, the yelling, oh when Dad yelled at him Leo could do nothing but shake. It was his brothers watching. It was his brothers watching when it was Mikey who had thrown that basketball so it hit the TV, the TV Donnie was fixing as Dad screamed. Leo shook, he set his jaw and blinked and he didn't cry, he didn't cry. Leo wouldn't start crying. He didn't start. A start. 

Once, when April came over after a fun mission, she did this announcer thing, where she gave everyone an intro as they entered the room. Leo was up to go last. Turned out he wouldn't go at all. And them everyone went to bed. 

It overshadowed those little papers Leo kept in the drawer of his bedside. Notes and doodles and things his brothers had said to him, happy things. Like the time Donnie said he loved Leo, not “I love you guys”, he said “I love you”, just to Leo. The time Mikey made his favorite pizza because he was sad. A big hug from Raph, paper airplanes with good messages from April. That bedside table got crushed when the lair was, well, shredded, and Leo sat on his knees, seiza, picking up as many as he could before his brothers caught up. 

“Come on, Leo.” 

“Gimme a second.” He heard Raph shift impatiently,

“You're taking so long.”

“Can't rush perfection.” He could feel Raph's eye roll. 

“You know bein’ down here makes Don upset.” Sure, this was about Donnie. Leo shoved a few more into his pouch. 

“It's not a party for me either.”

“This isn't about you!” Raph snapped, and Leo felt like a scrap of paper as he trembled in the wind. That was the first time Raph had said it to him. The first time. The start. 

On one of those scraps of paper was a time when his Dad lectured him, and Leo shook and he didn't cry and Dad sort of faded out and watched him. Leo stared at the floor next to Dad's feet, waiting to be told to bring his eyes up, waiting for the, “Look at me when I'm talking to you!”, but it didn't come. Dad just. Looked at him. Looked at him for longer than he might have ever before. Splinter never looked at him when Leo was talking. Or when he wasn't, really. Not really.

“...go to your room.” He said, and Leo just about ran. In his room, he was allowed to cry. Well, there was no rule against crying, not one written or said, but Leo could feel the pressure when he did it, eyes and expectations on his skin, and so he didn't cry. Except now he started to. Now he sobbed. He jumped at the knock at the door. He'd never heard that knock before. Mikey did the one from Frozen, knock knock kno-knock knock!, and Raph would bang twice, Knock! Knock!, and Donnie did morse code, something different every time. This was a simple knock, a tentative, knock knock knock against the door frame. Leo didn't answer, maybe couldn't. The curtain rippled as Splinter entered. He had a plate in his hand. He watched as Leo scrubbed his eyes before placing the plate, a plate of fruit, on the bedside. Then again, he watched. Stared. 

Leo wanted a hug.

It wouldn't fix anything, and there was something inside of himself screaming, no! He didn't need it! He wouldn't mean it anyway! And maybe he wouldn't. But soft fur, warmth around him, a gentle hand against the dip of his shell. Splinter had this lullaby he would sing to a fussy Mikey, a sick Donnie, a sleepy Raph on the couch. Leo wanted to hear it. He wanted it so bad. 

He and Splinter stared at each other. And then his father left the room. Leo ate the fruit. Oranges and strawberries. 

He didn't write all of that. He wrote, “Dad cut fruit for me.” And that was all. That was all. 

And then

And then there was the Krang. 

Leo was a lot of things. He was a hero, he was a martyr, he was a brother, he was a son, he was dead, maybe, somewhere, and he was hurting and he was trouble. 

His family loved him. They opened that portal for him, so they loved him. But Mikey loved Draxum too, because he was family. So yeah, his family loved him. They wouldn't be the same without him. But did they like him? 

Dad avoided him for a while. So did Raph. They were mad at him, Leo thought, for starting this whole mess. Mikey was a whole mess. He cried a lot, happy and sad, and Donnie sat on the medbay chair, not spinning like he usually did, just sitting. No one would give Leo a straight answer about anything. Eggshells. Sometimes, everything got too much and darkness closed in and Leo lost control. Raph would help, when that happened, but when that happened Leo wasn't Leo, he was just scared and he didn't think, he only flinched away from the red and green above him. Raph started to cry. They all looked at him. Leo looked back. He couldn't speak. They looked away. A start, or maybe a finish, because Leo hadn't expected anything more. 

Dad sang that lullaby to him. 

That he didn't see coming. He was alone, still in the medbay, still still still, and his thoughts were pulling at his skin and dragging him down. Leo couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He couldn't talk. Small, clawed feet padded closer. Leo shook. 

Stroking fingers on his forehead, a quiet hum, smooth Japanese, and Leo got everything he had been asking for. 

It wasn't enough for him to calm down, no, not nearly, so after a while, a blessed, blessed while, Dad left, and Donnie appeared. He counted his breaths orderly, fingers flexing because he wanted to leave and get back to work. He was anxious. Leo couldn't help but catch it, his breathing ok but he couldn't stop shaking. Donnie didn't know what to do. He asked something and Leo nodded and then they left him alone. His breath began to catch. A beginning, a start. An end. 

All alone. It was funny, how he felt that phrase with his whole soul. There was no one for miles. His chest was an empty bell. Leo swung his legs over the edge of the skyscraper. It was funny, when he tried to die, they didn't leave him alone for days.

It wasn't that he wanted to, it was just. 

He wanted to know what they'd think, just a little. Maybe this could finally prove that they need him, just a bit. But Leo was all alone. 

He shook it off. He was 16 years old, and he didn't want to die. He was 16 years old, and he had to start for home now if he wanted to get back before anyone noticed he left. Had to start for home. He had to start. 

So naturally he sat right there and stared at the skyline. 

They sent April after him, when he kept missing calls. He watched the text messages roll in, telling him that breakfast was ready, that they had training in an hour, that he better be back by tonight for patrol. That he was worrying them. His heart rate was steady, according to Donnie, but he was worrying them. 

April was dropped off by a Genius Built something or other, Leo didn't turn around to check. She stepped forward and, oddly enough, stayed quiet as she sat next to him. She watched the city with him, rustling and bustling below, and then she bumped their shoulders together, arm against arm, and Leo was shaking and and and

He couldn't cry. He couldn't start. April pressed warm against his arm and she stayed there until his breaths were even, his face still dry. 

He might have written that down on a scrap of paper, if he did that anymore. Maybe he should start, he thought, laying staring staring at the ceiling. His room was sound proof, but he could feel them talking about him. That was the only reason he was still alone. Probably. Maybe. It was just. 

It was just. 

Leo felt everything. It was like 16 years of feelings had all slammed together into a knotted mess in his chest. There was probably some logic to that, if he were to ask Mikey about it. Something about the connection between recent traumatic events and coping skills. He didn't care. Leo just curled up on his bed and imagined he was drifting. He imagined he was somewhere else. 

When Leo was little, when he was trouble, more then usual, he would imagine he was a scrappy kid on a forgotten planet with lore only he knew. He pick pocketed Jupiter Jim, which was bad, but Jim saw he was just hungry and desperate and decided to take him with them. Red Fox was hesitant, but by the end of their adventure she trusted him completely. Which sucked because Leo was a spy for the planet leader the whole time. What was he supposed to do? There was something about Leo that was just fundamentally different then Red Fox and Jim. Why fight that? 

But whenever Leo got that far he started getting tired, so he mentally skipped his redemption arc and right to the dramatic moment, where he was told everything would be ok. And 7 year old Leo fell asleep imagining he was held. 

He stopped when he got older, well aware that self-insert JJ fanfiction, however G rated it may be, was still pretty weird. Leo was pretty weird. Yeah, his whole family was, but Leo was different from them, another category, walls and subway tracks between them. 

It all came down to Leo wanting to be as close to his family as possible, but never actually succeeding. So he just ran away. 

Maybe he could just. Run away. 

It would be easy enough, right? With his portal swords and everything. 

Run away. A fresh start. 

Leo stared at the wall. He had some money from picking up shifts at Run of the Mill, but knowing his family he couldn't just go back there, so he would have to find a different job. Donnie had access to the whole city at the press of a button, so he would have to move out of New York. Maybe somewhere in the Hidden City, out of his families reach. Maybe-

Knock knock knock. 

Tentative. He knew that knock. 

“Blue? Your brothers say it is time for your patrol.” Right, that. What was he doing, getting all wrapped up in maybes? He wasn't running away. This was just a phase, he just had to wait out all of his tangled emotions and then everything would go back to how it used to. 

“Coming!” He called, tieing on his mask. He straightened it in the mirror, pulling it a little wider to hide more of his stripes. His phone was dead, so he left it charging by his bed, snatched up his katanas and stepping into the hall. 

Raph was mad-worried, Leo could smell it, literally and figuratively. April must have told him something. Leo would have to balance on his tightrope of being obnoxious enough to not cause worry, but not too much, or he would earn a lecture for missing the training he himself had scheduled. There may be a couple snide comments eitherway, but Leo would smile from his spot 50 feet in the air, dancing, daring. 

But before he could leave, his father had looked at him. 

“Have a good time, Blue,” He said. And then, “I love you.” 

Oh. 

Leo could have gone through at least 300 different memories, at least 600, at least 1000. Every moment of wanting and wishing and now he was here. And now. 

Leo looked at his Dad, at Splinter. He looked at the super-star turned rat, celebrity turned father, and he just. 

“Bye, Dad.” Leo said, and he didn't cry. He turned on his heel and he walked. 

…it felt kind of good that he was the one walking this time. A kind of good he didn't want to think about.

—

Hypno and Warren. 

Months ago, that wouldn't have sent a shudder up his spine. Months ago, that wouldn't make the room go cold and his heart started to thud. But months ago, Hypno and Warren hadn't made the biggest mistakes of their lives. And months ago, the simmering mass, the start in Leo's chest wasn't hell bent on proving it. 

His brothers did their usual banter, if a little strained from nerves, but the two villains were as mediocre as ever. 

The three of them kept trying to catch his eye, concerned because Leo wasn't talking. He didn't really know why. You'd think they'd like it better this way. Even Warren was making comments. Why should he have to pretend around them, anyway? Joke and smile to what, make them feel better? Leo loved his family, he loved them with all of his heart, but his chest was on fire and today he just. He couldn't. 

And then Mikey went down. 

It was just a sprained ankle. Just a sprained ankle. But Mikey yelped in pain and his eyes shone and he was about to start crying. About to start. Raph's eyes went white. Donnie bared his teeth. And Leo. 

Leo. 

He didn't really think about it too hard. Not really. He just opened a portal. Just a small one, right around Hypnos torso. He spoke, voice a little stilted, a little to the left, 

“Will you grow back too?” Hypno looked at him with round eyes. Warren began to stutter, something high and pleading, but Leo couldn't hear. 

“Let him go!” Raph commanded. Why did he care? These were the ones who started it all, who stole the key in the first place, who was Raph to protect them? Leo's brother had the worst kind of savior complex. 

“Nardo, what are you doing?” Donnie asked. He already knew, he asked anyway. Wasn't he supposed to be the logical one? Emotional bad-boy? What a joke.

Hypno would cause nothing but danger for his family. Nothing but trouble. Why did they care? 

“Leo.” Mikey said, soft. He met Leo's gaze, fierce, “Let him go, please. I'm alright.” Oh.

Oh no, no, what was he doing?

“Step out.” He whispered. Hypno scrambled away. Leo let the portal snap close. 

Oh no, no no no no. 

What was he

“Leo?” 

Hate him. He had to go. Had to start. 

Leo slashed in front of himself, stepping through without a second thought. 

Maybe he should have just

No, no, don't think like that. 

Maybe

Leo stumbled, landing heavily on the ground. He pressed his palms into the pavement, cement leaving indents into his skin, cold and damp. Grit coated itself on his knees, tremors working through them in waves. 

No, no, no. 

Maybe

He should have

Stop.

But he couldn't slow his thoughts, ringing through his bones like a bell. 

He should have done it. 

Maybe this was the point of no return, the end, it was over. Regret curling in his gut, a photo in his pocket that he didn't spare a glance. It hitched in his chest, and Leo felt his face grow hot. Burning eyes, burning burning, tears.

A start. 

[ninjagecko72]

Day 13: Best Don

Challenge by @tmaynt

Behold my 03 AU version of Don.

Honestly he’s still the same Donny and he wasn’t going to have stripes but then he just felt naked without them. (I’m definitely going to have to fix them again later.)

And yes he has pants on. It’s a color inverted version of the ninja suit concept. I will draw those suits one day!

[makeitmingi]

Cause Baby You’re My Muse [Chapter 6]

Genre: Romance, Idol!AU, Music, Slight angst

Pairing: Mingi x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Producer!Reader, IdolLyricist!Mingi, IdolProducer!Hongjoong, Idol!Seonghwa, Idol!Yunho, Idol!Wooyoung, Idol!San, Idol!Yeosang, Idol!Jongho, cameo(s) by other celebrities

Summary: You always preferred producing underground, having an unknown face and governed by your own rules. But when you start freelancing for idol groups, you say goodbye to your lone wolf lifestyle as you learn to work with idol producers and lyricists.

Word count: 3.1K

There was a skip in your step as you approached KQ Entertainment today. In today’s work, you were going to record the guide vocals for a few of your tracks. You entered the building and waited for the lift. When it reached the producing floor, you stepped out.

“Thanks, Maddox hyun-” Hongjoong, who was exiting Maddox’s studio stopped in his tracks. You froze too, eyes scanning him. 

“I wore it first!” You were quick to blurt it out. You and Hongjoong were basically wearing the same outfit; black ripped jeans, a striped turtle neck inside and a red leather jacket over.

“No, I wore it first. You copied me.” Hongjoong scoffed, stepping closer to inspect your outfit. 

“Is this the same jacket? Cause I got mine at the corner shop in Insadong.”

“Corner shop in Insadong.” The both of you said at the same time. You both burst out laughing, what were the odds that you were wearing the same outfit and the accent piece was from the exact same shop.

“Joong, you left your- Woah.” Maddox stopped, seeing the two of you. He handed Hongjoong’s notebook over to him.

“You guys should take a picture.” He laughed. You were fine with the photo, knowing that Hongjoong wouldn’t post it online, so you handed your phone over to Maddox. You stood next to Hongjoong and Maddox took the picture. He did the same on Hongjoong’s phone, just that Hongjoong wanted you to have matching poses.

“No copying me next time, understand? It’s good to be original.” Hongjoong put a hand on your head, shaking it lightly with a baby-like teasing tone. You frowned, glaring at him. You slapped his hands away.

“Excuse you, you copied me. I know I’m cool but stop trying to copy my style.” You slapped his arm. 

“Yah, you can’t hit your elders.” Hongjoong scolded.

“Yes, I can! Watch!” You reached over to flick his forehead. His eyes widened in outrage as he threw his entire body weight over you, putting his arms around you as you squirmed. 

“Ack!” You choked. You broke free and ran down the hallway, making him chase you. The both of you burst out laughing.

“Mingi! Help me! Protect me! Hide me!” Seeing the tall boy emerge from the lift, you ducked behind him and held him in front of you. 

“W-What’s going on? Indigo?” Mingi was utterly confused as to why you were using him as a human shield against his captain. Hongjoong tried to reach for you and you both ended up running around Mingi.

“Hyung, you told us not to bully Indigo. You can’t do the same.” Mingi decided to help you against the captain. Being so much taller, he was able to help you block Hongjoong off. Since you couldn’t stick your tongue out at him, you shot him a peace sign, having successfully turned Mingi against him. 

“Mingi, you’re my favourite.” You hooked arms with him. You didn’t realise your actions made Mingi flustered.

“As happy as I am to hear that I am your favourite, I don’t want Wooyoung to know that and kill me.” Mingi chuckled sheepishly, covering his red ears.

“It’s a secret then.” You giggled and Mingi nodded his head. Hongjoong stared at the two of you, rolling his eyes. He couldn’t believe his own team member, a brother, would betray him. 

“I’ll happily tell him that he isn’t your favourite.” Hongjoong scoffed and you squinted your eyes at him, mentally challenging him.

“I just realised that you’re dressed the same.” Mingi pointed out, looking at you and the captain.

“He copied me. Then when I called him out, he got upset, that’s why he started chasing me.” You explained with a disapproving shake of your head. Mingi nodded slowly, understanding your words.

“You are such a liar.” Hongjoong stuck his tongue out at you. 

“Don’t listen to him, let’s go Mingi.” With your chin up, you marched away with Mingi, leaving Hongjoong behind.

“Wait, go where?” Mingi scratched his head, still a little lost. As you led him away, he turned and waved to Hongjoong, who scoffed. You ignored his question and walked with him until your studio. You keyed in your passcode and finally entered the room. Mingi stood in the hallway, unsure of whether you wanted to invite him in or not. 

“You can come in if you’d like.” You chuckled, realising he was standing there in the hallway awkwardly. Safe to say, you have grown very comfortable with the boys. There was no need for you to tiptoe or be wary of them. 

Like Hongjoong said, they were harmless 5 year olds.

“You seem very happy today.” Mingi noted. Not that you were broody all the time, but he noticed your happier demeanour.

“Oh, I’m recording some guide vocals today for some tracks so I’m rather excited. It’s a break from the more technical producing and mixing.” You explained to him, turning on your system.

“But don’t you have to edit later?”

“Shush, let me have my moment. Don’t go crushing my little pockets of happiness.” You held a hand up to him to silence him. 

“Actually... are you free later today? Do you want to help me record the rap for my guide? San is coming in soon to help with some vocals.” You turned to him with a sparkle in your eye. Mingi took his phone out, scrolling for a bit.

“I’ll be free after lunch.” He informed.

“Great! I’ll see you then. I’ll send you what we’re working with for you to practice. And don’t worry about the lyrics, it’s just a guide.” You eye smiled at him. 

“Okay, I’ll see you later, I guess.” Mingi smiled and waved back before exiting your studio. Once the door closed, you put your headphones on and became serious as you did your work. It was a good laugh that you had with Hongjoong this morning but now it was time to focus. 

“Ah, ah. Testing.” You spoke into the mic as you set up in the recording studio. You’ve never worked in this recording studio before. 

You didn’t have a nice enough voice to record the track but you did record your own vocals to send to San for him to practice. After much contemplation, San’s voice was the best to fit this part compared to Jongho’s.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

“Come in.” You replied. 

“Hello.” San smiled with a bow as he entered. You looked up from your screen and waved to him. 

“I brought you coffee. Oh, and a cookie. I hope chocolate chip is fine.” San slid into the seat next to you, putting the tray of coffee down. He took your coffee out and place the bag with the cookie next to it. 

“Thank you, San. I needed this. And thank you for doing this for me.” You giggled and took a sip of the coffee. 

“No problem at all. It’s always fun to be in the recording studio.” He had a kind smile. 

“Okay, so before we begin, do you have any questions for me? This is just guide vocal recording so I’m sure you know that the lyrics don’t matter. I’m more concerned about matching the pace and tempo, getting a feel for it. See if the song can come together cohesively or whether there needs to be any changes to it.” You asked him. 

“Actually, I have one question. Your voice in the sample you sent me was good, Indigo. Why don’t you use your own vocals?” He tilted his head.

“No, I don’t think my voice is very good. Plus, I have this thing about hearing my own voice, I’m not a fan of it. I think your voice is better and suits this piece better.” You laughed.

“Well, thank you for choosing me.” He put a hand on his heart.

“We can start whenever you’re ready.” You told him. He stood up and went to the recording booth, putting the headphones on.

“Can you hear me?” You spoke into the mic. 

“Yes. Loud and clear.” He gave a thumbs up, adjusting the volume on the panel. You waited for him to do some vocal warm ups then he took his phone out to refer to whatever notes he took. 

“We will start with the bridge and chorus first.” You told him. San, just like the Ateez members, was very hardworking and focused right from the get go. Even if this was just guide vocal recording, you could tell that he was giving it his all, as if this was a real recording.

“Playing back.” You said and played the recording for both and him to listen to. San took some notes on his phone. 

“Can I record the chorus part again? I think I should change the tempo for the last two lines.” San spoke into his own mic.

“Sure. Cue yourself in with the bridge.” You instructed, playing his recording of the bridge to him. He had his phone in one hand to refer to his lyrics and notes. You bobbed your head along. 

“Good job. Playing back.” You played the track for him. From the look on his face, you could tell he was so much more satisfied with the re-recorded part.

“Who is doing the rap part?” San asked.

“Mingi said he can come in and do it for me later.” You informed. The rest of the guide was recorded in parts, making it easier for you and San to make edits and adjustments when necessary.

“There’s a pause there, so no need to rush into it. Wait for the guitar to pick up again before starting.” You said.

“Okay, I’ll go again.” San nodded. 

“Okay, nice. Let’s have a break. Thank you for your hardwork.” You spoke. San nodded and bowed, putting the headphone back on the stand. He appeared at the door again, taking a seat beside you to sip his coffee. He curiously peered at your computer screen, watching you arrange and adjust the vocal pieces together with the instrumental.

“Wow, this is cool. Actually, I’ve never really recorded guide vocals before. Hongjoong hyung produces with Edenary and they do the guide vocals since he can sing and rap.” San explained. 

“I used to record my own guide to send out but I really don’t like it. That’s why I asked if you and Mingi would be interested in helping me.” You said.

“Anytime I’m free, I’ll help you. I’m having fun and I get to learn about this whole process too.” He grinned. 

“Do you think this is an Ateez song?” San asked. 

“You never know. I just have these pieces and if I think they fit the concept, I’ll submit them in. Whether the company decides to choose them is out of my hands.” You said and he nodded in agreement. 

Before moving on, you and San chatted, sharing a little bit about yourselves. San was also kind and patient enough to tell you things about Ateez, as well as answer any questions that you had when you were researching.

“So, the Wanteez episode where you guys drank...” You started, eyes not moving away from your computer screen.

“Ah... What about that?” His voice slightly squeaked at the end of his question, making you snicker. 

“Was it real? Like you guys were really drunk?” You asked.

“Yes, it was real. I don’t remember much from what happened in the episode, only when we re-watched it then we knew how it all went down. Plus, we watched the uncut version from the editors so it was a lot worse. But I do have to say I hold my alcohol a lot better than what was portrayed.” He defended.

“You were very cute during the yelling game. I agree that Wooyoung was mean in yelling to the point where you fell off the chair.” You laughed and turned your head to see him bury his face in his hands.

“I’m never doing that again. And I hate the yelling game or rather, I think I just hate people yelling at me. It’s scary.” He pouted.

“I’ll make sure no one yells at you if I’m ever there.” You promised.

“Thanks.” He blushed.

“Besides your adorable singing and snacking in the photobooth, Hongjoong wanting to go into the chair to go home was the highlight. He is such a dork.” You couldn’t contain your laughter as you remembered the scene.

“We don’t hold our liquor very well... Yunho and Jongho would be the best, I think. I can’t remember.” He scratched his head.

“Wooyoung seemed to be okay.” 

“He either giggles a lot or gets angry or switch between the two. I’m sure you saw the episode where we all got colonoscopies and how his anger unleashed.” San said and you nodded your head. 

“Who knew it was possible for you guys to be more chaotic than you are now? All you need to do is add some alcohol.” You scoffed.

“Or he could get touchy. Like how he kissed Yunho.” San added.

As you continued to get to know more about San, you realised that his tough appearance and powerful dance moves were just one aspect of him. He is actually sensitive, gentle and has one of the biggest hearts you’ve ever met. You could tell that he cares a lot about people, which softens your heart. You found his sulking pout very cute too. 

“Thanks again for coming in. Have a nice day.” After the recording was all done, you bowed to San gratefully. You were going to part ways for him to go for his schedule. San reached out to hug you.

“Call me anytime. It was fun.” He laughed. You nodded, wrapping your arms around him, patting his back.

“Bye.” He waved and left while you went back to your studio. 

“What should I eat?” You scrolled on your phone, looking for a place to get lunch from. Since you wanted to work and eat at the same time, you got some chinese food, which wouldn’t be too messy. 

*DING DONG*

“Delivery.” You heard the deliveryman outside your studio door, the doorman must have let him in this time to give the food directly. 

“Thank you.” You picked up your order and brought it into the studio as the deliveryman left. You ordered fried rice with black bean sauce and a small portion sweet & sour pork. 

“Alright, where were we?” With your bowl in one hand, you sat at your desk and began to arrange the guide vocals. While San was recording, you had made notes of changes you wanted to make to the instrumental so you applied those changes and layered the vocals over.

“Better...” You nodded your head as you played back the track. While listening, you ate a spoonful of food. 

When you were done with your food, you bagged up the trash and took it out, not wanting the food smell to linger for too long. You even sprayed air freshner in the studio afterwards.

“Hey.” Mingi appeared at your door just as you were coming back from using the bathroom.

“Come in. You’re early.” You chuckled, keying in the passcode. 

“Yeah, my schedule ended early.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Since you were still editing, Mingi sat down on your couch to wait for you. He quietly looked around the decor of your studio. It was very minimalistic.

“Just let me finish this up real quick and we’ll start. Sorry.” You turned to bow your head.

“No worries, I’m early anyway. Please take you time.” Mingi smiled. He watched you put your headphones on and begin working. You bobbed your head gently, hand tapping against the desk. 

“Tch, this isn’t it either...” You mumbled to yourself with a shake of your head. Then you lifted your head to look at the big monitor and began clicking with your mouse to move things around. Mingi usually watched the other producers and Hongjoong do this but seeing you do it was somehow mesmerising to him. You were so focused and in the zone. 

“Okay, I’m done. Let’s go to the recording studio.” You stood up, stretching yours arms. Mingi nodded and waited for you to gather your laptop before walking to the same recording studio you used with San earlier.

“How was recording with San?” Mingi asked.

“It was good, a productive session. We managed to do quite a bit. You all are very hardworking.” You giggled.

“We have to be when our captain is such a perfectionist.” Mingi chuckled as he held the lift door open for you to enter. You walked in with a greatful bow of your head.

“But I think there’s passion and appreciation for the craft too. San was able to pick up corrections before I could and wanted to re-record parts he thought he could improve on, which is commendable.” You explained. 

“Plus, he helped me learn some things about Ateez.” You added with a laugh.

“O-Oh? Like what?” Mingi grew a little nervous, wondering just how much San told you about them. 

“Like how people call you Princess Mingi, especially Yunho.” You teased. Mingi immediately grew flustered, opening his mouth to defend himself but no coherent words seemed to form.

“T-That...”

“Relax, I’m just teasing. I teased San plenty too, especially with the drunk Wanteez episode. He turned to red when I brought up what happened. And if it is any consolation, I think you’d make a great princess.” You snickered. Mingi knew you were just teasing him but his cheeks burned. 

“Anyway, I’m looking forward to recording this with you.” You told him as you entered the recording studio with him. Mingi watched you set up your computer and sat down in the seat San had. 

“That’s a lot of pressure...” Mingi gulped.

“No, don’t be pressured. This is just a guide recording so like I said this morning, lyrics don’t matter. Just have fun with it.” You eye smiled at him.

“I just tried to follow the tempo and speed mainly, the words are gibberish.” Mingi scrolled on his phone.

“That’s fine. Don’t worry, Mingi. You’ve got this.” You tiptoed and patted his shoulder. Your soft, encouraging tone and pat on the shoulder seemed to melt all of Mingi’s anxiousness aaway. 

“Alright.” Mingi nodded and went into the recording booth. 

“Can you hear me?” You spoke into the mic once he had the headphones on. He gave you a thumbs up. 

“Ready when you are.” You told him. From your side of the glass, you watched Mingi mouth and run through the lyrics and notes that he had on his phone. He took a deep breath before turning to you and nodding as the cue to start the track. 

~

Series Masterlist

[thewisaaaaad]

AAAAAND here's a bit more from Narinders Locker AU!

this time its about spooky cat himself, along with the failed vessel!

Narinder is very much the same, but instead wears a white coat with a red stripe down the middle. They are still a half skeletal cat, but his chains do not strictly keep him in place; the other captains just chained him to four anchors and threw him into the sea, after all. So he just drags himself across the seabed, looking through wreckages and searching for adventure with his two adopted demigods.

The lamb always knows where to find him, though. The crown makes a very handy compass.

Narinder loves fighting, more than everything else. Everything except his morals. When he was mortal, he loved to start bar fights, especially in defense of people who could not protect themselves. When he ascended to godhood with his family, it was his and Shamuras idea to include an oath to protect the mortals of the sea, to watch over them and not use them as tools, so as not to become the very gods they had set out to slay.

Narinder knows that one day he will no longer be a god. As per the oath, a Captain is chosen by their crew, not the other way around. And the lamb has a naturally magnetic personality, and a drive that pulls faithful crew to their side. One day, when the Captains have fallen, he will challenge them to a duel. He will naturally give up his godhood, but wants to go out on his terms: a blaze of glory, a legendary fight that the crew will talk of forever more. That will be his immortality, as his soul gets to rejoin his family in the deep.

But that isn't what happens, of course; the Thing in the Moon has other plans for their lost champion.

Ratau is an old bartender at this point, running a lonely tavern on an island far from the Captains strongholds. He holds on to the old Iron Veil, beached deep in the forest of the island he retired on, hidden within a lake at the center.

He has a sailors tongue, and passes the time playing nucklebones with his trader friends, when they come to visit.

When the small sloop loaded with woolly refugees docked at the lonely island, Ratau welcomed them with open arms, inviting them to stay the night at no cost. The sheep, exhausted from running, gladly took shelter with the unaligned tavern master.

While there, a young sheep took interest in his craft, and Ratau taught them many things, including a couple knife tricks to help defend their family.

Imagine their surprise when they see that same sheep show up at his bar in an empty ship once belonging to the green Captain, drenched and dripping seawater on his floor, bearing the red crown.

Both of them took time to mourn that day, and the Lamb has returned many times since.