#take sculptor instead

[circusinarun]

Welp... What should i say... Gays

Holly gave Ward honeysuckle as a gift (😏 look for the meaning)

"Y-yeah... That's for you..."

"Oh... Looks weird, but thanks..."

Also! I have a head canon that if they'd ever tried to show affection towards each other, they'll show it the way that their species shows it, leaving another one in confusion

"Hey! Ward! I got you some materials for your nest! I picked the best ones!"

"Erhm... Ok?"

So teegardenians show affection through feather grooming, helping to make nests (?), sharing with treasures they found, nuzzles and churrings. Looks obvious, but Ward just doesnt pay attention to it... You may think that Ward is a tough thinker but...

Holly is not better... 😅😅😅

"What was that? Is that another way you humans greeting each other?"

"Kind of..."

Aaaand Bonus!

"They're gay"

(Thanks Oscar, we didn't know...)

HEEEY! @somerandomdudelmao!! Nice to see ya!

[cipheramnesia]

It's pretty funny how much animal camouflage, especially insect camouflage, is a backwards engineered mess of unreadable code, that produces a result which only barely seems effective to human eyes because after millions of years of focus groups, that weird uncanny valley of colors is just the one that most consistently triggers "I am bark" or "I am poisonous" or "I am a larger predator" to potential predators. And it's not like a hundred percent success rate, it's just genetic blobs blindly feeling around for why they're making more genetic blobs instead of being digested into protein by the stomach of a field mouse. It's like "what made you" and the answer is one million years averaged out into some semblance of consistency. It's kinda cool, take a bunch of proteins, give them a million years to work on it, and they can figure out what a snake's head looks like, and build a worm shaped like that. They don't even have eyes, they're just like sculptors and all the non-snake worms get trimmed away by hungry birds.

[strangler-fish]

Todays bugs: Scott and Cleo! I love the designs for these two funky little guys

Info and doodles under the cut

Cleo is a sculptor/taxidermist, and Scott is a seamstress/ex-scrapper

(By taxidermist, I mean that she essentially puts the bodies of the dead back together to memorialize them. It’s a common practice for people to have those kind of ‘dead statues’ instead of burying the fallen, since graves take up too much land. I can explain more if you’re interested)

Pearl used to be a part of their group before she left to join Gem and Impulse, and although she didn’t mean to, it kinda left their relationship a bit rocky. They don’t outright hate Pearl, but they’d probably avoid her if given the choice

(Doodle of them before they split up)

The reason why Cleo doesn’t just fall apart is because most of her cracks have been sealed or somewhat fixed. But they weren’t healed perfectly, so it left the cracks behind as scars. It also slightly discolored the porcelain around it. Her most notable crack is the one near her waist, where a part of her is physically missing. (Fun fact! They’re mostly hollow inside!)

Scott used to be a scrapper before becoming a seamstress(he mainly quit because of the danger associated with the job). During that time, he got into an accident where a piece of rebar impaled him in the eye, and destroyed the entire area. Miraculously, he survived. Now he has a ‘donor eye,’ which- to simplify- is someone else’s eye melded onto him. It works the same as donor limbs- if it’s attached correctly, it works good as new.

Bonus flower husbands doodle

[holybibly]

Personally, I think we don't talk about Professor Choi San enough, don't you?

I don't like Mondays, but I like San, and this is just what I need to start the week sinfully.

"You've been behaving very badly lately, Y/N." The voice of your literature professor sounds light-hearted, as if he's talking to you about a fun game rather than an exam that you already failed three times. Besides, you have committed a number of other offences that could have earned you a reprimand, and Professor Choi seems to take every opportunity to remind you. "Skipping classes, constantly getting bad grades, and a generally destructive attitude..." He lists, turning to the blackboard to erase today's topic: "Sins and desires in Dante's Inferno." It was almost impossible not to look at his firm, toned ass, wrapped tightly in the fabric of his trousers. He reached for a particularly large inscription on the board. "For lack of a better term." He says this, turning to meet you, and the expression on his face tells you he notices where you're looking.

You lower your head in embarrassment, avoid making eye contact with him, and pull your skirt down a little.

"You and I both know that we've tried just about everything we could to correct your inappropriate behaviour." Professor Choi says this as you continue to look down in guilt as he walks over to you and slightly loosens the tight knot of his tie around his long, freckled neck. There was something about the way he was able to make such simple things seem so incredibly sexy, with no subtext at all, that made your stomach tingle. You'd be lying if you said you couldn't picture him tightening the tie around you and putting you on a leash as you rode his cock. "You were detained, suspended, counseled..." He stops in front of you, and you can smell his scent—something heavy and dark, like amber and whisky—or sex. God, you thought you couldn't be more despairing, but apparently Choi San was designed to destroy your sanity. "There is only one way that I can think of to solve this problem." He says. Professor Choi brings his hand to your chin, his fingers surprisingly cold, but the metal of his ring is hot on your skin as he gently raises your head to meet his feline eyes.

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as you stare into the handsome face of the man. If you didn't know better, you'd say Professor Choi's face was hand-carved by the finest Renaissance sculptors, because it's hard to believe that those sharp, perfect lines were created by something as trivial as genetics. He raises a questioning eyebrow and watches your reaction like a predator waiting for you to fall into his trap. Without realising it, you give him what he wants, nodding obediently to his words, your lips parting slightly.

"You have behaved very badly, and to correct this you must obediently follow what I tell you. Do you understand me, or not?" This could be your only chance to back out, but instead you look up at him through the lace of fluffy eyelashes with wide, innocent eyes.

"I do, Professor Choi."

His eyes grow darker and more predatory than they were before.

"I'd like you to bend down over my desk. Now." Professor Choi commands, and you obey immediately, throwing your bag on the floor and resting your forearms on his desk, facing the perfectly clean board. You can feel the fabric of your pleated skirt lift a little and slide higher up your thighs, exposing the delicate ruffled panties made of silk.

You hear Professor Choi move in behind you and feel his sinewy hands sliding down your sides in a teasing way to your hips before he pushes one hand down your lower back until your chest is pressed up against his desk. You support yourself with your arms, your plump tits falling out of the cups of your bra, and your hard, swollen nipples rubbing against the lace of the bra. You hear the rustle of fabric, and when you lift your head to look, San slaps your thigh so hard that you jerk at the impact, and your skin is instantly red.

"You better not move." He says it with a growl and puts his hand in front of your face. "Open your mouth for me." The tie that he has rolled up ends up in your mouth as soon as you open your lips—an effective gag. It's elegant, just like Professor Choi himself.

"Right now there are many other students here, obedient students who listen and respect their professors, unlike you, little whore." San whispers in your ear as he presses his chest against your back, his voice dropping several octaves. "We don't want anyone else to know what a whore you really are to me, do we?" His voice is becoming hoarse and sultry, and goosebumps creep across your skin.

A few moments pass in silence as you become more and more lost in the forbidden sensations of Professor Choi's hands as they slowly explore your body. Your eyes open as you feel San's warm breath on your thighs, his hands pulling down your panties, and the silk moving teasingly slowly against your overheated skin. A small stream of sticky liquid drips from your pussy as soon as your underwear is removed, and you hear San hiss at the sight of it.

"Look, you're dripping for me. Do you always feel like this during my classes?" San moans as he blows lightly on your wet folds, and the sensation makes your knees weaken. "Shhh, honey, I'll take care of that little cunt." Suddenly, the tip of his tongue plunges in and slides between your folds, drawing a strip from your little hole to your throbbing clitor. You gasp for air, but the sound is muffled by the gag. Your legs tremble, and Professor Choi slaps your thigh once more, this time stinging you even more on the skin.

"You will learn that lesson next time, but for now, you are going to take everything that I am giving you." You hear more of the rustling, and then, without warning, his cock is thrust into your tight, humid cunt. Your high-pitched moans are muffled by the gag, but San gives a contented, low purr as he pushes deeper and deeper into you until he's completely inside you. You can feel the fabric of his perfectly pressed shirt brushing against your naked skin as his balls slap against your buttocks.

He doesn't hesitate for a second before he pulls his cock out of you completely and immediately plunges back in. He puts his strong hands on your hips to pull you closer to him, your hands desperately gripping the edge of the table to steady yourself. The drawers of his desk rattle every time his dick slams into your pussy and you realise that, despite the gag in your mouth, anyone passing by at that moment would have no doubt as to what was going on inside the room. 

The sensation you are feeling now is so strong, almost overwhelming—the gag restricting your breathing and making your consciousness seem distant and hazy.

Blackened bruises were left on the tender flesh from Professor Choi's firm grip on your soft thighs. The almost painful friction of your breasts against the table and the lace of your bra made you whimper quietly from the rough stimulation, and of course San's cock—thick, warm, and veined—buried itself right into you, striking all the right places with each thrust. 

It was enough to make your toes curl up and your pussy squirt out of control. Your juices were sticky and glistening, sloshing around San's cock with every thrust he gave you. A wet, squelching sound filled the entire space of his office. It mixed with his hoarse moans and your pitiful whimpering, muffled by the thick fabric of his tie stuffed into your mouth.

"You won't come until I say so, you little bitch." San hisses, slapping both your buttocks, but not stopping his thrusting, continuing his cock deep and hard into your plump cunt. You whimper, but of course, not a sound comes out of you. Professor Choi leans over you and pulls his tie out of your mouth. "Say my name, pretty." You gasp for breath, the air burning your lungs, but you obediently follow his command.

"Professor Choi!" You squeal as his hand lands on the reddened skin of your ass once more.

"Say my name, Y/N." He growls, and the meaning of his command finally dawns on your mind, clouded as it is by lust.

"San!" As San pulls your shirt off your shoulders, along with your bra straps, and kisses your skin fiercely, the painful sound of pleasure turns into a prolonged moan.

"That's right, beautiful. Be obedient to me." He begins to fuck you more intensely, the thick head of his cock pressing against your cervix with each hard thrust, and before you can make another high-pitched squeal, San pushes two long fingers into your mouth.

You can feel the drool running down your chin, and you can imagine how dirty you must look right now.

"Fuck, look at you, darling." San moans softly, as if she can read your mind. "You're such a good girl, a perfect student." My little obedient slut." You moan around his fingers, and he reminds you that you can't come without his permission, but you can hardly stand it any longer. There's already so much tension in your stomach, and you know you'll be coming on his thick, long cock any minute.

He lifts his other hand from your hip and presses down on your throat, further interrupting your breathing as he drives you mercilessly into the table and fucks you with all his might. You have no chance to hold on.

"Fuck!" You moan, your juices squirting out with every thrust of his cock, and you squirt around him, coming in profusion with his name on your lips. "San, oh my God!"

He pulls out of you, and you feel your cum dripping down your thighs as you struggle to breathe. A few seconds of uncomfortable silence pass before Professor Choi chuckles darkly. He caresses the sore skin on your bottom.

"I thought I told you not to cum, my little one. I'm afraid it's time for your punishment now." When he speaks, his voice is dangerously calm, full of sugary menace, and yet your hole tightens at what he says. "On your knees, my love. I'm going to fuck your pretty little slutty mouth." You moan and almost fall to your trembling knees as you hurry to do what he asks you to do.

You look at Professor Choi for the first time since he asked you to bend over his desk. Apart from the trousers and boxers that have been pulled down around his hips to expose his thick, throbbing cock that is now right in front of your face, he still looks good—almost damn perfect.

"Fuck, are you going to smear that pretty pink lip gloss all over my dick, darling?" San strokes your hair like you are a kitten. He looks amazing—hair slightly damp with sweat, eyes dark and lustful, biting his plump lower lip as he shoves his thick cock into your mouth until the head hits the back of your throat. You gag on him, instinctive tears leaking from your eyes as he tangles his fingers in your hair, forcing you to swallow more and more of his cock as he goes deeper and deeper with each thrust, sloppily fucking your mouth. Your sticky lip gloss leaves a pink glow on his dick and is probably smeared all over your face, and you can see why this is such a turn-on for San.

Your eyes close as you concentrate on the relaxation of your throat and the rubbing of your tongue along the underside of his heavy cock.

"That's right, such an obedient girl." He moans, and you can feel San's cock pulsing in your mouth; he's about to come. He tightens his grip on your hair, pulling at it as you hear his sharp breathing through his nose. You whimper around his cock, the extra stimulation making him growl with pleasure.

"You're going to swallow every drop of my sperm. Every damn bit of it. Just like the pretty little bitch that you are." San gasps to breathe. You suck in your cheeks, suck hard on the head of his cock, and he curses fiercely. He comes out all the way and cums into your open, waiting mouth, spraying thick cum all over your tongue and some on your cheeks until his orgasm subsides. You swallow obediently, and the warm, bittersweet cum rolls down the back of your bruised throat.

You look up at him through your lashes and stick out your tongue to show him what a good girl you have been for him, swallowing every last bit of it.

San leans over, grabs you by the chin, and pulls you into a dirty, wet kiss. You can't even imagine leaving his office looking like that; you look like a total mess. As soon as Professor Choi lets you go, he brushes the sweaty hair from his forehead, runs his hand through it, and hides his dick in the trousers.

"I hope you've learned how to behave yourself, right?"

"Yes, Professor Choi."

"All right, you can go now." You nod in what you hope is a convincing manner and turn to pick up your knickers from the floor.

He quickly picks them up for you and puts them in one of the drawers on his desk.

"You'll have to come back for another lesson, love, if you want them back.".

"I understand, Professor Choi." You mutter, pulling your skirt down over your hips to cover everything.

You walk out of his office, not missing the way San is smiling at you, admiring the sight of your swaying hips, and you close the door to his office behind you.

You don't have any idea how you will come into his class next Monday.

[citrusandrottefruit]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Over the centuries, many poets, writers, painters, and sculptors were suspected of having Hanahaki. It seemed appropriate for an artist. A disease as poetic as it was tragic.

That's why, despite its rarity, Hanahaki was a famous disease.

Books, movies, plays, songs. It wasn't uncommon to find some portrayal of Hanahaki in the media. Everyone had some romantic and silly idea of ​​what it was like to have Hanahaki.

Usually, this knowledge was limited to emotional triggers and the fact that the sufferer lived with a chest full of roots. Sometimes, people believed that Hanahaki could be cured through love.

Steve hated that idea.

Because he knew nothing would cure him. He could get a lung transplant, a heart transplant, a liver transplant, a kidney transplant, or any other organ that failed. The most likely outcome was his lungs. He would probably need a lung transplant one day, considering how much scar tissue he had accumulated in his chest. Pulmonary fibrosis was a bitch.

But he wouldn't be cured, he would just have more time.

His mother had managed to improve her quality of life by following Mr. Harrington around the world. They even seemed quite happy sometimes. Steve figured that staying away from him, having few feelings for him, helped too, after all, he was one less thing for Mrs. Harrington to worry about, since she put most of her feelings into her husband.

And if not even his mother, who understood him better than anyone else in the world, was capable of truly loving him, who would be?

Hanahaki could not be cured through love, and Steve preferred it that way, or he would have to face the reality that he was not loved as much as he wanted.

But Hanahaki could be controlled as long as he was on medication, treating the complications, monitoring the disease, and having a support network. People who would take care of him, who would not hurt him so easily. Being loved so intensely helped, because his body would understand love. It would not cure the disease, but it would ensure a slower progression, giving his body more time to recover.

The positive side of the Upside Down was this. Steve gained the children, Robin and Eddie. With Eddie, came Wayne. And even Joyce and Hopper cared immensely for him, even if they were more busy being the parents their children deserved. Nancy and Jonathan were a more complicated subject, and yet they were trustworthy.

Steve found himself surrounded by more love, loyalty and protection than he could have ever dreamed of.

The negative side, besides all the trauma, was that having so many people close to his heart meant that each of them had immense power over Steve, and, except for Robin, none of them knew it.

So when Eddie and Wayne left, he smiled and accepted it graciously. He tried to help them move, but his health had become increasingly declining and they rejected any help. Instead, he simply wandered around their new house, watching as the people he had grown to love, who shared so much of his pain, fears, and traumas, helped make it a home.

When he got tired, Steve decided to sit in the garden and eventually fell asleep there.

That was another thing Steve had learned to hate: it seemed like the disease had decided to finish him off. Even though he had been sick for most of his life, everything was manageable, easy to hide except for the flare-ups. When the flare-ups were over, he would bounce back and be his old self again. A tired, aching, constantly medicated young man. Not anymore.

He would have terrible days, get a little better, and then have a worse day. It was like taking 3 steps back, 2 steps forward, and then 2 steps back again.

It had become impossible to go a whole day without taking at least one nap.

When he woke up, restless and with his heart racing, it was still light out, so it couldn't have been that long. Robin was there, staring at him intently through her hair, her eyes a little teary.

"You scared me, Dingus." Steve blinked, still feeling a bit of the brain fog that was becoming more and more common. "Your parents still pay for your health insurance, don't they?"

For the next three weeks, Steve and Robin were absent from activities and meetings with everyone else a lot. Steve because he had to go for tests, Robin because she wanted to be with him through it all.

"It's good that you have such a great girlfriend, Steve." The doctor, who had known Steve for years, commented almost too happily. "It'll be good for your health." The look of pity she usually wore when she met Steve seemed softer.

He had some blocked bile ducts, and they put in biliary stents. His platelets were low, and he received a transfusion. Since there were too many remnants of roots in his chest and throat, Steve had to stay in the hospital for two nights, dissolving and aspirating everything, to make sure he would be okay to go home.

He was also given a vitamin supplement, his medication was adjusted, and he discovered that he would need beta blockers to slow his heart rate and reduce the chances of having an upper gastrointestinal hemorrhage.

They also discussed the possibility of another surgery. Steve refused.

On the way home, Robin tried to convince him to accept it, to remove all the roots, every single one of them. “I don’t want to. With each surgery, there are more scars.”

“Who cares about a few scars? Steve! You… You never did, why now? Nobody gives a shit about that, and if some girl complains about it, she doesn’t deserve you!”

“On my lungs, Robin. I don’t think it’s worth another surgery right now, because it’ll just give me more scar tissue. They’re too deep, so it’s probably better to wait for them to get worse rather than dig through my chest to rip them out. Eventually, I’ll need a transplant, I guess, and I figure it’s better to put off unnecessary risks until there’s no other option. I don’t know. Does that make sense? I don’t want to have another surgery, just to delay the inevitable. Maybe it’s stupid, but…”

He paused, trying to find ways to say what he wanted to say.

“Sometimes I think if I keep doing all this, I’ll be so patched up that there won’t be anything left in the end. It’s stupid, isn’t it?” Steve laughed self-deprecatingly.

After that, they sat in silence until they reached Steve's apartment, and before they went in, Robin grabbed his hand and looked into his eyes with such intensity that he wanted to squirm.

"I'll be your donor, Steve. I have two perfectly healthy lungs."

"Robin…" She swung her arms so aggressively that she almost hit the door, and Steve's hand, which was still between hers, froze in midair. Robin's eyes widened even more, and she pulled his hand again desperately, as if letting go would make him disappear into thin air.

“If I’m not a match, I’ll steal it, Dingus. I swear I’ll steal all the organs you need with my own hands.”

Steve laughed and hugged him, because what else was there to do?

They spent the whole night snuggled up on the couch, watching movies until they fell asleep. Steve, who spent the whole day taking naps and had insomnia at night, woke up after a few hours, as usual, and almost went to Eddie’s room, before he remembered that Eddie wasn’t there anymore.

Steve coughed, just a little, with longing.

He looked at Robin, illuminated by the soft glow of the television, then looked out onto the balcony and, despite his better judgment, woke her up, who was alarmed until she realized he was smiling.

"I’m in love with Eddie."

[duckimate]

lost longing for someone you can't recall, but that someone's a faraway deity

"The ancient gods changed men to things, but left them A consciousness that smoldered endlessly, That splendid sorrows might endure forever. And you are changed into a memory."

so ! fanart for solar eclipse au by none other than THE @mochiwrites. but i switched the concept around?? (au of an au. woah)

.SPOILERS!!. spoiLERS!!!! I SAID SPOILERS. .

.

.

instead of solara being punished and casted down to earth for reincarnation it was proteus instead <333

yes i know amor solis takes place in a more modern setting but personally mumbo k jumbo with his vest and tie and british glory gave me more of a painter than sculptor vibe (artistic boyfriends,,,)

bros drawing his lover from his past life when he cant even recall any of those memories <3

[lets-try-some-writing]

I have observed several types of fic writers, and so for kicks and giggles, here they all are. Each of them scares me for different reasons.

The Prepared And Ready To Publish™:

Several documents dedicated to worldbuilding, planning, cross referencing, character lists & traits, plot twists, and then the actual fic document.

Dedicated to the max to creating a rich world. Probably knows more about the niche thing than you ever will. 100% could have written a thesis and chose to do fic instead (or did both at the same time).

Created a masterpiece and promptly vanished off the face of creation before coming back in with another banger to crush souls and save fandoms.

Their arrival is akin to the birth of a new era because they never fail to somehow make a niche ship popular, make a headcanon fanon, or otherwise give so much depth and interest to a character or setting that whatever they have devised is largely accepted as gospel by their readers.

They either use a high end writing program or wordpad. There is no in-between.

Mysterious. Very mysterious. Reasons for this mysteriousness vary between fics and authors.

100000/10 would be friends with them if I could. Legendary writers. But also they scare me because ??? What void offered you such power ?????

The Baby Writer:

All vibes and loosely strung plots.

It may not make the most sense, but good gracious the dedication is there.

Notable lack of comprehension when it comes to characters and places, but it's bad form to not leave a kudo because it takes guts to post anything in fandom.

They are still figuring things out and their grammar or formatting (possibly both) is probably a mess, but they've put heart into their work.

Sweetest rays of sunshine who want to be involved and are eager to learn the ropes.

The fandom's young ward or despised new arrival (depends entirely on fandom popularity and age).

8/10 would happily offer advice to them. Just can't read their work for too long without wanting to throw it into grammarly. The fear factor comes in the form of the miraculous misuse of fandom terminology. (Yeah it's tough bud, the fanon is wild. But goodness that term/canon word does NOT mean what you think it does.)

The Smut For Your Soul:

Meticulously plans the smut with all the loving care of a sculptor.

Somehow plot got involved.

Miraculously, they managed to not include an iota of plot and it has somehow managed to work.

Headcanons abound and cuteness and or angst lurks merrily behind every corner.

The tags mean everything and nothing at the same time. They are but faint guides to the fae wilds ahead. Tread lightly.

Has a mountain of unfinished WIPs that will follow them to the grave or emerge ten years after conception to grace whatever fandom spawned the idea.

The fandom thanks them for their service, although often that praise is late or hits like a freight train.

???/10 I personally avoid smut but I have friends who write it so it really depends. Terrifying because you never know who falls into this role of writer. It could be anyone. Normalcy is a mask poorly adorned for the sake of conforming to The Great Machine.

The Angst Lord:

Has a million slightly different ways to hurt their blorbo. Each are somehow more horrifying than the next.

The embodiment of the iceburg videos seen all over the net. Ask one question and you shall unravel and scheme of torment so great you shall regret having dared to speak up.

Has dozens of WIPs or unwritten ideas that they claim they will return to.

They are controlled by passion and emotion and can and will insert their own complicated situation into a fic.

Almost nothing is off limits.

Arrives to the fandom ready to brawl and somehow ends up respected or feared. They often stare in bafflement as they end up unscathed and watch angry comments fly toward the arguably innocent shippers.

Generally some of the nicest people who happen to enjoy inflicting The Horrors upon someone fictional.

'10/10 would befriend and promptly regard like a wild racoon. Offerings of angsty ideas yield delightful commentary. But also I need to prepare myself for anything they say because O U C H my SOUL.

The General Writer:

Fluff, cuteness, possibly a delightful touch of angst and pure unbridled creative simplicity.

They may not have the most brutal or soul wrenching tale, but they always manage to write something that someone, somewhere, desperately needs.

Devastatingly underrated and deserves far more praise for their contributions to the fandom.

Produces some of the softest of scenes and the most touching of interactions between characters in a contained, careful crafted, tale.

Introducing new ships or family dynamics in such a tasteful manner that brain chemistry can easily be altered.

Arrives to the fandom as a lurker and shows their appreciation through their work. Oftentimes, they are very quiet and go unnoticed.

INFINITE/10 Love these writers, honestly a gift to fandom. The sheer level of dedication to producing fluff is astounding and scary all at once.

The OC X Canon:

Has so many ships and headcanons that it's astounding.

The lore development rivals IDW and Lost Light combined. All the kudos to them for putting their souls into their characters.

The dedication is mind boggling.

They put up with so much crap they could be in MMA Wrestling if the verbal assaults translated into physical strength.

Has so many adjustments to lore and whole AUs devoted specifically to creating a perfect world.

Skilled in the extreme (or not) at integrating their ocs into canon.

Arrives to the fandom not intending to make ocs. Leaves with seventeen leashes for their new abominable creations. Is loved or hated by literally everyone, sometimes for no reason.

6/10 perfectly lovely people but very niche in their interest and thus not everyone's cup of tea. Scary because that level of sheer willpower is meant for demi-gods.

There are more types of writers, but these feel like the big overarching ones. Which kind of writer are you? :D

[beloveds-embrace]

Sometimes I wish my brain would shut the fuck up and then it comes up with things like this and I apologise if this doesn't make sense or isnt the best bevause Im at work bit need to get the thought down ; You and rhe boys are together, have been for years. You're another SAS soldier, one of the very best specialising in stealth and sniper shots, but you come from a dodgy background your family having ties to the mafia but you ran away when you were 14 to get away from them and that life, joining the military the minute you turned 18. The boys adore you and would do anything for you and they know all about your family, taking every precaution they can to keep you safe and away from them. Until you're sent on a mission to take down a cartel, one your family has started working with in recent years but you obviously dont know that until you see your brother while doing recon and he sees you and recognises you right away. When taking down rhe cartel, you get seperated from the boys and your brother grabs you determined to take you home and make you pay for leaving your family behind. When the boys finish the mission, their distraught thinking the worst has happened to you until John finds a note you slipped into his pocket before starting the mission the only words on it are 'they found me' and suddenly they have a new, unsanctioned, mission, get you back by any means necessary

The mission had been planned down to the last detail- covert infiltration, silent takedowns, precise shots. You had done this a hundred times before, slipped into the dark and pulled the trigger before anyone even knew you were there. It was what made you one of the best. It was why they trusted you to take point on the most delicate operations. But no amount of training could have prepared you for the moment you turned the corner and saw him.

(Even if you’d had a bad feeling about this mission from the start. Something in your gut twisted and turned, a slow-boiling alarm).

Your brother stood among the cartel men, older, harder, but unmistakable. The years had sharpened him, carved cruelty into his features like a sculptor’s chisel, but the recognition in his eyes was instant. You had once been a ghost to your past, slipping from its grip the moment you turned fourteen, but now it had found you again. His lips curled into something between a sneer and a smirk as he took a slow step forward.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice familiar in a way that made your stomach churn. You need to leave (bitch). “Look what we have here.”

Your body reacted before your mind caught up, gun raising to fire, but you had hesitated. Just a second, barely even a breath- but it was enough. Rough hands grabbed you from behind, yanking your arms back, disarming you in one swift movement. You struggled, twisting violently, but there were too many. You knew, even before the butt of a rifle cracked against your temple and sent your vision spinning, that this wasn’t going to be a simple hostage situation. You knew how your family worked, how your brother worked-

They weren’t going to kill you outright.

No, your brother wanted to make you pay.

The operation had gone exactly as planned- until it hadn’t. The cartel was eliminated, network dismantled, compound set ablaze. But when the dust settled and the smoke rose into the sky, you were nowhere to be found. The moment they realized you were missing, panic set in. Ghost and Soap combed through the wreckage, calling your name through gritted teeth. Gaz scoured the perimeter again and again, checking every fallen body, every possible hiding spot, every scrap of evidence that might tell them where the hell you had gone.

And Price stood still, breath steady, forcing himself to think through the roaring storm in his head. His hand dipped into his pocket on instinct, searching for his lighter, and instead, his fingers brushed against something small and unfamiliar.

He pulled it out, unfolding the scrap of paper, and the world narrowed to the words scrawled in your handwriting.

“They found me.”

His hands clenched around the note so tightly the edges crumpled beneath his fingers. The area fell into silence as the others turned to him, faces drawn tight with anger.

Gaz swore under his breath, throwing his cap aside. “No way in hell this is a coincidence. It’s them, isn’t it? Her family.”

Price exhaled slowly, his grip on the note unwavering. He had been waiting for this day, dreading it from the moment you first told them about the people you had left behind. You had always known they would come looking. That they would never truly let you go. And now, after all these years, they had finally caught up.

The mission was over. The orders were clear- they were to extract, regroup, and report back.

But fuck orders.

This had just become personal.

They weren’t going back without you. Even if they had to tear through every criminal syndicate between here and hell to get you back, they would.

No matter the cost.

[luminique]

wrio x you pt. 2 because the people (me too) asked for it

you’re the only exception of people who were in his past that he’d try reconnecting with. he swore to himself that he never would but the memory of you haunted him every day and night.

working in the fortress didn’t even make it easier. he’d reminisce the past during his daily checks, filled with fights, scratches and blood, but you were each other’s rock in this cold and dark prison. sleepless nights where he’d go over to your bunk, you’d both be talking and laughing about the future until other inmates woke up to give both of you a good beating.

a letter wouldn’t hurt. signed and sealed, ‘Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, Wriothesley’ with the wolf insignia on the wax seal. he read the letter multiple times until he got sick of it and threw it in the trash. any and every free time he had, it was spent to write the perfect letter to you.

he even consulted sigewinne, clorinde and neuvillette for more opinions. it was honestly humorous to see the Duke be this… frustrated over something as trivial as a letter. his trash basket was overflowing with crumpled up pieces of paper.

“wriothesley, this letter feels too formal.” was a comment by clorinde about his 10th attempt. “you should add more emotion!” sigewinne responded after reading his 27th attempt. “i am not too familiar with matters relating to human love however i do believe that you have not conveyed that in this letter,” said by neuvillette regarding his 59th attempt.

he lost count of how many letters he had written, how many ink bottles he had opened, how many seals he had stamped. it was eating at him, and now the heavy weight of whether you’d even feel the same way back was beginning to creep in.

the ink pooled on the paper. he had run out of ideas, his hand shaking from the fear of it being imperfect. he couldn’t handle it anymore and let his emotions take over him. every word he wrote that night came straight from his heart instead of his brain, putting aside his own formality and rules for you. it’d be another scrapped attempt anyway…

‘With all my love, Wriothesley’, signed off with no wax seal. he had read somewhere that colored wax was used by sculptors when they made mistakes. this letter was no mistake, his love for you was no mistake.

he used his connections, specifically neuvillette and the maison gardiennage, to find where you had decided to settle down. he originally intended to have it sent to you by courier, but here he was, standing in front of your front door. to have the Duke come all the way up to the surface and hand deliver you his letter, oh how smitten he was over you. a quick fix of his outfit, brushed off any dust and fixed his hair before he knocked on the door.

he could hear your footsteps as you scurried over to the door, your voice behind it.

“i didn’t order anything. why is there a-“

you were cut off by the sight in front of you. his charming smile and blue-grey eyes that captivated you the moment you became friends in the fortress. he straightened up his posture, clearly taken aback by how much you’ve changed but it seemed to go both ways.

“good morning, i believe we have some catching up to do.” he said before holding out the letter for you to take. the sun was still out, there was tea in the kitchen and you had time to spare. next thing you know, you were sitting next to each other on the sofa and chatting about each other’s new lives, times changed yet feelings stayed the same.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Wanna Make Purple?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.7k

Warnings: fluff

Summary: After one woman takes a look into your studio, she suggests hosting a class so others may enjoy the art of finger painting. Youn thought she wanted to know about the class so she could join. No, it’s her son who walks through the door and turns your world upside down.

Square Filled: diana reid for @spencerreidbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

Your small studio in the bustling city of Quantico is insignificant but you love it. You’re an aspiring artist who wishes to be featured in museums and have galleries open all over the country. If you work hard enough, you’ll get there one day. If you’re not in your apartment, you’re spending time in your studio that’s completely filled with art supplies, half-finished paintings, sculptures that you never finished, and furniture that’s paint-covered. You’re not a sculptor but you’re taking some classes to get better at it and broaden your artistic scope.

The curtains are open allowing natural sunlight to shine through the windows, and it gives your studio a homely feel to it. Even your apartment has bigger windows than it should because you love letting in natural light. The sun is setting which means it’s time for you to pack up and head back home for the night. You’re cleaning up the supplies you used when you notice someone standing outside the floor-length windows at the front.

The woman immediately leaves when she notices you looking but you don’t think much of it. Many people walk by when you’re in here to admire what you do so you’re not fazed by the woman. However, someone knocks on your door seconds after she leaves. You wipe your hands on your apron and open the door to see the same woman now standing right in front of you.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Sorry for bothering you but I couldn’t help but notice what beautiful art you have.”

You look back at your art and smile at the compliment. You like to do a lot of things to stay relevant but you feel happiest when you fingerpaint. You love getting down and dirty with the art and using what you have instead of what you can buy to create timeless pieces. Finger painting is more than just putting paint on your finger and making lines. It’s precision and knowing when you use your pinkie instead of your thumb or when you use a knuckle or your palm. You’re in control of every little thing so in the end, you can truly say you gave it all.

“Thank you. I have a lot of fun finger painting. I think more people should do it.”

“Do you offer classes?”

“I never thought about it.”

“Well, I’m here in Virginia for a little while so if you reconsider, I know someone who would be eager to take a class.”

“Thank you. I will think about it.”

The woman leaves shortly after but her suggestion stays in your head long after she is gone. Teaching a class? Do you even have time for that? With school and your own business, you’re not sure if you have the energy to teach a dozen students. If you can, how old should they be? Children or adults? No, don’t be silly. Yeah, adults are going to be a lot easier to work with. Hosting a class whether that be once a week or a few times a week is a huge commitment, but you always said more people should be finger painting.

A few weeks go by until you’ve convinced yourself that teaching a small class would be beneficial for you. If you can put that on your resume, it shows commitment and willingness to work with a team. Thousands of people are following you on social media, so that’s how you reach out to everyone that you will be teaching a small class on a trial basis. If it works, great. If not, then you won’t lose any sleep over it.

Dozens of people around the country wish they could be in Virginia to attend your class. If all goes well, you might be able to visit other places and teach more people. One thing at a time, Y/N. The ones that are local have expressed interest but none of the people online look like the woman who met you that evening in your studio. You’re not sure how to get ahold of her or if she has social media and thankfully, you don’t need to deal with it.

The woman walks past your studio while looking at her phone, and you leave to catch up to her before she is gone forever.

“Ma’am?” She turns and stares at you as if she’s trying to remember who you are. “Hi, you stopped by my studio a few weeks ago. You asked me if I was teaching any classes.”

“I did?” Something crosses her eyes and she smiles immediately. “Of course, I did! Have you reconsidered?”

“Yeah. I’m actually putting together a class this weekend.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic!”

“It’s at my studio at two in the afternoon on Saturday.”

“Perfect. Thank you for telling me.”

“Sure. I hope to see you there.”

You two part ways shortly after that, and you go back to prepping your studio to fit at least half a dozen people. You want them to have their own space so you spread out the canvases evenly throughout with a side table for them to keep their paints. Saturday comes quicker than you think and before you know it, your studio is filled with everyone who signed up for it. The woman you met isn’t here and you’ve been trying to find something to do to stall time, however, you’re already running ten minutes past two.

It sucks but you’ll have to start without her.

“Alright, thank you all for coming. I appreciate your eagerness to finger paint. No, I promise you that this isn’t like most finger painting is.” The door opens and a very tall and lean man walks in wearing jeans, a white shirt, a sweater vest over that, and a tie tucked between them. “Hi.”

“Sorry to interrupt but my mother signed me up for this class. Are you Y/N?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Spencer Reid.”

“Well, Spencer, take a seat. There’s one in the back.”

“Thanks. Sorry for being late.”

Spencer scurries to the back of the class and takes a seat, and you continue what you are saying.

“As I was saying, finger painting is so much more than putting paint on your fingers. I’ll have another class next week to go more into it but I want you guys to get used to the feel of paint on your fingers. I want you to create lines, and connect them if you want, but for the first ten minutes or so, I want you to really get used to the idea of not using paintbrushes. Use any color you like and begin.”

Everyone chooses the color they want and squirts the paint onto the palette on the small desk next to the easels. Two girls in the front giggle like schoolgirls at getting down and dirty with the paint while two men are apprehensive about getting their fingers dirty.

“Don’t worry about getting paint everywhere. It’s washable.”

Everyone seems to be in good spirits and you give encouraging words where you can. You approach Spencer who is having a hard time keeping paint long enough on his fingers to create a straight line.

“Having trouble?”

“A little, I guess. I just…”

“Just what?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s okay if you don’t like finger painting. It’s not for everyone.”

“No, it’s not that. I don’t get the point of finger painting. It’s messy and unpredictable and it’s hard to control what the paint is going to do.”

“Really? You think finger painting is childish?”

“Yeah.”

“Clean your hand. Let me show you something.”

Spencer does as he’s told while you squirt green, blue, and pink paint onto the palette. You grab Spencer’s hand and barely dip two of his fingers into the blue and two into the pink. You press his fingers to the canvas lightly, creating little dots that will represent the petals on a lavender flower. Once done, you have him clean his hand so you can create the stems of the flower.

“See? Finger painting is more than just putting paint on the canvas. It’s about manipulating the art as a whole and controlling every aspect of it. Brushes are different. They might have benefits that this way doesn’t but I’ve always found it harder to control a brush than it is my own fingers.”

“Impressive,” he says, looking deep into your eyes.

Spencer is in awe of your work. He doesn’t know what to say to this. He doesn’t mind being proven wrong. In fact, he finds it very attractive when someone can outsmart him. Someone calls your name and you leave Spencer’s side to help her out, but Spencer can’t take his eyes off you.

Throughout the entire class, Spencer has a hard time focusing on painting because he can’t help but notice you. He keeps asking for help knowing he can do it but he really wants to feel you right next to him holding his hand. You don’t mind. Spencer is the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

It doesn’t hurt to play a bit.

After the hour is over, everyone clears out of your studio, eager for the next one. If all classes are like this, you might consider doing this more often. Spencer is the last one out but instead of leaving like he should, he closes the door so that it’s only you and Spencer alone.

“Good job today. With a few more classes, you’ll be an expert.”

“You’re the expert, not me.”

He gathers everyone’s paint tubes and places them in the box at the front of the class while you grab the palettes that you’ll clean later. You and Spencer meet at the last easel but neither of you pick anything up.

“You got a little something…” He gestures to his own lips. “You got red paint on your lips.”

“Like I said, it’s washable. It’ll come off with a shower. Plus, it’s non-toxic so it can get in your mouth and it won’t hurt you.”

“Good to know.”

He takes two steps closer to you and you’re suddenly aware of how tall and handsome he is. Your eyes shift down to his lips and you smirk slightly.

“You got blue on your lips.”

“Wanna make purple?”

You don’t have to answer him. Pulling him in and pressing your lips to his is a good enough answer in and of itself. Spencer pulls you closer by your hips and you wrap your arms around his neck. Damn, he’s even a good kisser. Whoever his mom is, you gotta thank her for bringing her son to your class.

x

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[luverine]

Vincent Sinclair x fem! Reader

MDNI // nsfw // Bo is mean // Soulmate AU // Sculptor Vincent

1.4k words ᨒ ⚔︎ ᨒ requested by @stygianoir ᨒ ⚔︎ ᨒ

The clashing of swords was the last thing you remembered. Blood, pain, and the sight of your soulmate falling beside you. You tried to reach him, but your strength was fading. “We’ll find each other again.” You whisper, His hand stretched toward you, fingers brushing against yours before everything went black.

You were certain it was the end.

…But it wasn’t.

Unaware of the heavy heart you carried within. You had been reborn, yet something was missing- memories and flashes from a life you couldn’t quite grasp haunted you in quiet moments.

You worked at a gallery, a place that brought peace to your restless soul. Art surrounded you- paintings, sculptures, things that felt like echoes from another time. You always wore a mask,uncomfortable eyes on you. It became a custom of sorts.

Today was no different, except for the unusual buzz in the air. A new exhibit had arrived- sculptures created by a mysterious artist named Vincent. The name tugged at something deep inside you, but you couldn’t place it.

Bo you assume his brother or friend, who frequented the gallery, had been hanging around more than usual. He was charming, but there was something in his manner that made you uneasy. He had always been flirtatious, but today, it got too far.

As you were arranging a display, Bo slid up to you, his presence suddenly too close for comfort.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low. “You look good today. Why hide behind that mask?”

You turned to him, your expression hidden behind the porcelain facade, your discomfort growing. “It’s safe,” you replied curtly, hoping he’d take the hint and leave.

But Bo didn’t back off. Instead, he leaned closer, his fingers brushing against the edge of your mask. “Why don’t we see what’s underneath? I bet you’re even more beautiful without it.”

Before you could react, Bo’s hand gripped your mask and with one sharp tug, he broke it. The piece shattered, falling to the ground. Your face was exposed, and a sudden wave of panic gripped you.

You gasped, stepping back, a frown etched in your face, your heart racing. But before Bo could say anything else, a hand grabbed him away from you.

You turned toward the source of the hand, and there he stood- Vincent, the sculptor, you asssume. He was tall, with broad shoulders, his face half-concealed behind an intricate, off white mask that only revealed his sharp, intense eyes. The moment those eyes met yours, time seemed to stop.

Bo hesitated, clearly startled by Vincent’s presence. “Relax, Vince, It’s just a mask.”

Vincent’s gaze never left you, but his eyes carried a weight that left no room for argument. He glared sharply at Bo.

Bo grumbled something under his breath but eventually backed off, shooting you one last look before disappearing into the crowd.

For a long moment, it was just you and Vincent standing in the quiet corner of the gallery. You could feel the air shift, charged with something between you that you didn’t yet understand. Your face, bare now, felt exposed in more ways than one, but Vincent’s eyes softened as he took a step closer.

He reached out, his gloved hand gently brushing against your cheek. “I know you,” he whispered, his raspy voice filled with awe.

And that was when the memories flooded back. You saw the fight- the swords, the blood, the final moments before death took you both. You remembered his mask, just as it had been in your past life. The way he had looked at you then, full of love and sorrow, was the same way he was looking at you now.

“Vincent,” you whispered, your voice trembling. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of truth, of recognition.

His hand lingered on your face for a moment longer before he pulled away, reaching into his coat pocket. When he pulled out a small ring, your breath caught in your throat. It was simple, yet beautiful- an antique design, as though it had been waiting for this moment for centuries.

“I never got the chance before,” Vincent said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “In our last life, we didn’t have time. But now… we do.”

Without another word, he took your hand and slid the ring onto your finger. It felt right, like it had always belonged there. “It’s perfect,” He whispered.

Tears welled in your eyes, not of sadness but of relief, and reunion. You had found each other again, in this life, despite everything that had tried to keep you apart.

“We have time now,” you whispered, your voice filled with quiet certainty.

Vincent nodded, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly, a silent promise.

Vincent gently pulls you away from the crowded gallery, his rough hand against yours. There’s a tension in the air as he leads you to his apartment, just a few blocks away, away from prying eyes. You sense his urgency, the way he seems to shield you from the world, as if he has known you your whole life.

…

Once inside, the door closes softly behind you, the room bathed in a soft, green glow. Vincent removes his mask, his gaze intense, vulnerable. Without a word, he steps closer, leaning down and kisses you, tender at first, then deeper- his lips full of yearning. The warmth between you rises, spreading like a quiet flame, and for a moment, the world outside fades away.

Your heart races as you pull back slightly, breathless. “Is this too fast?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never-“

He silences you gently with a finger against your lips, his touch reassuring. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice low and calming. “It’s just us. Just you and me.”

The words settle something inside you, melting away the doubt and nervousness. The moment feels safe, as if time has slowed down just for the two of you. You meet his gaze, nodding, a silent understanding passing between you both.

He runs his hands softly against you, feeling you, caressing you. You let out a slight whimper. He looks down into your eyes. And tugs at your shirt.

You swallow some anxiety and nod once more. Vincent slowly unbuttons your shirt. His breath hitches at the sight of your covered breasts.

“Can I?” He begs, you mutter a small “yes.” His blue eyes widened. Moving his hands up slowly he unclasps your bra and gasps, ending with a small whimper. His shaky hands slide to your waist to your chest.

He groans you, his breath is still as he hears your soft moans as he teases your sensitive nipples. “Vincent- please, I need you.” you plead looking into his sparkling eyes.

His breathing picks up but he pulls away, slowly undressing himself from head to toe, giving you a little show displaying his pale, toned, body.

the anticipation is having your core pulsating, and so warm, you feel feverish. As Vincent finishes he moves to you where, pulling your pants down. There was a pause as he reached for your panties. You take a deep breath and say “take it off.” He nods and continues.

Slick stuck to your panties as he pulled, he exhales, a borderline moan. Once after it was completely off he pulled you underneath him. You both looked deep into each other's eyes, the unspoken bond stronger than ever.

“Please,” you whisper in his ear, your breath hot against his skin. He shudders, his lips finding the sensitive curve of your neck. His lean body pressed against yours, and you feel him, hard and ready, rubbing against your entrance before sliding inside you with one slow, deliberate thrust.

You both moan in unison, the sensation overwhelming. Vincent stills for a moment, gritting his teeth, his voice thick with need. “You’re so tight,” he whimpers, his forehead resting against yours.

You giggle softly, running your fingers through his hair. “Move, please,” you beg, your voice trembling. He lets out a low moan and begins to thrust, his pace slow at first, then steadily building in intensity.

His rhythm gets harder and faster, diving deeper into you, making you cry out, the pleasure is getting intense. “Vincent- I’m- oh fuck!” You scream out as your juices gush around his dick, making him crumble in bliss, he creams inside of you.

He holds onto your smaller frame tightly, breathing heavy, covered in sweat, flushed, he kisses your cheek and moves next to you. Grabbing your hand and intwing it with your smaller softer hand. “I love you.” He says turning to look at you with a small smile across his face, you can’t help but smile back.

This time, nothing would tear you apart.

ᨒ ᨒ ᨒ ᨒ ⚔︎ ᨒ ᨒ ᨒ ᨒ ⚔︎ ᨒ ᨒ ᨒ ᨒ

Likes, reblogs, comments appreciated!

[fangdokja]

He wasn’t your savior, but he would break you like a sinner.

❤︎ Synopsis. He claims to hate her, but his obsession says otherwise. A deadly game of spite and desire unfolds as enemies collide, and lines between hate, love, and possession blur in the most dangerous ways.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Divorce Attorney x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. Skin of the Saint - Part 5

♡ Word Count. 1,158

His fingers lingered at the edge of your jaw, the rough skin of his fingertips grazing your face like a sculptor testing the fragility of his work. The gesture should have been gentle—a touch reserved for lovers, for reverence—but there was nothing soft about it. His grip was too insistent, too heavy, as though each second spent touching you declared ownership rather than affection.

You remained still, unyielding. Your calm, quiet stoicism screamed defiance louder than any words could. And it infuriated him.

With a cruel deliberation, he tilted your chin upward, forcing your gaze to meet his. The corners of his mouth curled, something between a sneer and a smirk taking hold. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, slow and deliberate, as though drawing a map of his victory yet to come.

“Cold as ever,” he muttered, venom staining every syllable. “How much of yourself have you wasted on Him? On prayers that fall on empty heavens? Tell me, does it make you holy, or just pathetic?”

His words slid off you like raindrops over stone, failing to find purchase. You didn’t blink, didn’t shift—your silence mocked him in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine.

His smirk widened into something sharper, something hungrier. “What a waste,” he drawled, the edge of his tone biting. “That body of yours, that face… wasted on kneeling before a God who doesn’t even notice you. What do you think He’d say if I took you instead? If I ruined you?”

“Enough.”

The single word, barely above a whisper, sliced through the space between you like a blade. Even he faltered for a moment, the arrogance flickering in his eyes.

But he recovered quickly, and his grip on your jaw tightened, the pressure biting against your skin. “Oh?” he mocked, his lips brushing close enough for his breath to stain your cheek. “Did I finally get through to you? Or does it hurt to admit how little He—”

“Enough.” This time, the word carried weight, your voice cold and commanding as frost.

Still, he leaned closer, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip, slow, deliberate, just enough to push it open. “You act so untouchable, Church Girl. But I see you,” he whispered, his voice a low growl. “How long will you keep hiding? Behind silence, behind faith. That won’t protect you forever.”

It was the smallest of gestures, the shift of your hand as your fingers curled around his wrist. The touch was so gentle at first, a ghost of contact—until your nails sank into his skin.

His breath hitched, not in pain but in surprise. The smirk on his face faltered, his sharp confidence cracking.

“You think my silence is weakness,” you said softly, your words a quiet chill. “But it’s mercy.”

You released him then, the faint crescent marks of your nails imprinted against his wrist like a warning. Slowly, with the same unbothered composure that sent him spiraling, you stepped back, your fingers smoothing the sleeve of your dress. “I have no time for this,” you murmured, the finality of your tone slamming shut any argument he might have made.

And then you turned and walked away.

He didn’t follow. Couldn’t.

Left in the dying light of flickering candles, he stood frozen, his hand still tingling where you’d touched him, the sharp sting of your nails lingering like a brand. He curled his fingers into a fist, his nails digging deep into his palm, as though trying to erase the memory.

He hated you.

No, he despised you.

────────────

The memory of your touch clung to him like an unwanted ghost, stubborn and cruel. It should have been nothing—a fleeting moment already lost to time—but it wasn’t. It lingered, sinking deeper with every breath he took.

His hand ached. That faint ache where your fingers had dug in was nothing compared to the frustration boiling beneath his skin. It wasn’t the pain that haunted him—it was the reminder of how you’d looked at him. Cold. Unshaken. As though he were insignificant.

His gaze burned into your retreating figure, the modest folds of your dress swaying with each calm step. The fabric hid everything, and yet it showed just enough. The slope of your neck where the veil didn’t quite settle was a challenge, a provocation that mocked him. You weren’t trying to captivate him. You didn’t care. And that was what made you unbearable.

Because you were beautiful—not in the way others were, not deliberately or manipulatively, but simply were. Untouched, untouchable, as though your very existence denied him. And he hated that.

He lifted his hand, his fingers trembling faintly as he traced the ghost of where yours had been. It disgusted him—this feeling, this ache. He should have forgotten you already, shrugged you off as easily as everyone else who dared defy him. But you were different. You were untouchable… and he wanted to ruin you for it.

The thought made his jaw clench.

“No one stays untouchable,” he muttered to himself, his voice raw. The sound echoed in the empty church, swallowed by the shadows. His nails dug harder into his palm, punishing himself for even entertaining the thought of you. For imagining what it would be like to break you, to strip away that armor of faith and silence until you were as raw as he felt.

He imagined your lips trembling—not with prayer, but desperation. Your voice, finally cracking, begging him. He imagined you looking at him not with disdain, not with disinterest, but fear, anger, need.

He imagined pulling you down from that pedestal where you thought yourself safe, dragging you into the dirt where no God could reach.

It made him hate you more.

His eyes burned as he watched you disappear, your steps calm and deliberate, as though he hadn’t just threatened to tear apart your sanctity. The final flicker of your veil vanished beyond the aisle, leaving him alone in the dimness. Alone with his anger.

And still, his feet refused to move.

Hatred was a shackle, and you were its weight. A constant, lingering ache that he couldn’t rip free of no matter how hard he tried.

Because hate shouldn’t feel like longing. It shouldn’t gnaw at him like hunger. It shouldn’t leave him restless, empty, craving something he couldn’t name.

But it did.

So he stayed, his hand still tingling with the ghost of your touch, his mind replaying the sight of you walking away without a backward glance.

Because hate, when it festered, became something far worse.

And you—you had trapped him in it.

[beatlesbug]

Hear me out! What if the reader can’t sleep and tasm!peter lays on top because he knows that she goes to sleep faster with weight on top of them and put socks on reader as well.

I'm writing this under the covers so i could get in the mood 🧘🏻‍♀️

It's 3:37am and you haven't had a wink of sleep. Your anxiety has been coming in waves lately, mostly manageable with the support of your friends and the perfect human being you have lying next to you.

There's no particular reason you should be awake right now. The thoughts of every time you've ever humiliated yourself aren't new for you when you lay in bed so why can't you sleep. As many blankets that you snuggle into you keep feeling fidgety.

You sigh turn away from the alarm clock glaring at you, ruffling the several blankets you're snuggled under. Your new position allows you to look at him. Peter.

You take a second to just look at him, the curve of his face illuminated by the light of the city. His eyelashes so gently resting on his face as if a sculptor placed them there specially in order to create a person that personified love, and safety.

You couldn't resist, so you shuffle your wrapped up body closer to him, and press the most delicate kisses upon his cheek and messy head of hair.

He moans and shifts his face deeper into the pillow, and you smile at him.

"Bubba" you whisper, lifting a hand to poke at his cheek. Usually you'd feel guilty for waking him up but he had a light patrol tonight.

He doesn't move.

"Shnnnooookkkie" you say in a high pitched baby voice poking his cheek again. If there was one thing that made Peter cringe it was when you used baby voice.

He groans and lifts his hand to cover your mouth. Damn, you really thought that would work.

Giving it one last try you shuffled your cold feet under your shared blanket and slowly snuck them under his thighs.

His eyes shot open legs skirting away from your feet. He rose up in bed, resting his body on his forearms.

"Jesus Christ woman why are your feet so cold!" he frowns, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes

You giggle at his sleepy voice and lay flat, your head facing him.

"Petey I can't sleep," You pout.

He sighs understanding, any annoyance fading away. He lays back down facing you, and lifts his hand to run his hands through your hair, trying to sooth you.

This isn't the first time you've had trouble sleeping. It's pretty often that when your senses aren't distracted by something your brain runs a mile a minute not allowing you to rest.

You expected Peter to pull you closer and wrap you in his arms holding you until you fell asleep, but instead he groaned and rolled out of bed to his closet. You couldn't see what he was doing, only hearing the sounds of his sock drawer opening and closing.

He walked back over to the foot of the bed allowing you the angelic view of his shirtless body, with loose grey sweat pants hanging over his hips. When he lifted your left leg and rested your foot on his chest ideas of you and him in bed - specifically not sleeping - swarmed through your head. You bit your lip remembering the moment just hours ago when you were in a similar position.

Almost as if he read your mind, he shook his messy head of hair grinning. He separated the two socks that were in his hands and slowly tugged them on before gently placing your leg down on the bed and repeating his action on the next one.

"Bubs those are two different socks," you said wiggling your toes so you could see them together.

"Bubs I really don't care," He said placing your legs back onto the mattress.

He then crawled onto the bed, placing one arm on each side of your head. You closed your eyes as he leaned down and pressed soft kisses to your nose cheeks and lips. He then pulled away admiring your face with a small smile before collapsing on top of you.

A surprised grunt left your body at the sudden weight you were under. His messy head of hair tucked into your neck

"Can't breathe," you wheezed.

He lifted his head again frowning.

"Ae you calling me fat?"

You furrowed your eyebrows and looked at his chest resting against you.

Scoffing you said, "Pete if there's one thing you aren't, it's fat."

He squinted his eyes at you before readjusting his his head now lay against your chest, his one hand sliding under your (his) tshirt to hold you. The weight of his body seemed to allow you to relax your muscles.

"Good" he huffed before closing his eyes against your boobs.

As your feet shuffled against each other trying to keep warm, and your hands ran through his hair, the room filled with a comfortable silence. Your eyes fluttered closed before you heard a muffled voice against your chest.

"What if I wasn't sexy though?"

[itsabouttimex2]

Platonic yandere monkey family finding out y/n is dating redson

Monkiefam reacts to dating Red Son

(Alternate Scenario)

MK will no doubt be the calmest about this situation... depending on the season. In the start, he’ll be incredibly upset (even somewhat betrayed) about you dating his very dangerous rival. Let’s not forget that Red Son was once very willing to harm innocent people in his quest to take over the world/please his father.

Once Early!MK learns about your relationship with Red Son he’s genuinely worried for you, thinking you might have been coerced into the relationship in some way. This fear sets him on the war path, racing off to the Demon Bull King’s fortress. He’ll unhesitatingly smash through hordes of Bull Clones, ripping apart the metal of the drones like wet tissue paper. Each machine-shattering swing of the Ruyi Jingu Bang brings him a step closer to you, a step closer to the dining hall that serves as the center room of the armored fortress.

Where he finds you and Red Son sitting across from one another, happily sharing a meal together.

His heart is struck with anger and relief in unison, his diametric emotions spread between the both of you. He’s furious at Red Son, for daring to try and court his precious sibling, but also eased by the fact that you’re clearly unharmed and here by your own will and volition. By nature of being someone very precious to him, you garner far less anger from MK than his rival does, but he’s still upset. His voice takes on a gruff edge as he angrily scolds you, sounding much like Pigsy does when the chef flips his lid.

“You came here?! Without telling me?! To go on a date with my rival?!”

Any protests, excuse, or explanations from you are summarily dismissed as he grabs you by the wrist, swinging his golden staff against the ground. Bits of tech and clutter from around the house gather together, forming a small mech with the both of you in the cockpit. Red Son can only stare in shock as MK’s brand new mech stomps out of the fortress, each angry step shaking the ground.

The ride home is tempestuous, his emotions flaring as he pilots the gold and red mech, biting his tongue to keep himself from yelling at you. He’s angry, sure, but he still loves you. MK doesn’t want to drive you away or hurt your feelings, after all. He just wants to keep you safe.

Even if it means cutting you off from your ‘boyfriend’. He’s only doing it for your own good, of course.

Sun Wukong has seen people make a lot of bad decisions in his time. Even as knowledge and resources grow wider spread and more readily available, people stay foolish, small-minded, reckless. Sometimes by circumstance. Sometimes by choice. And one of the greatest motivators for foolish decisions, staying consistent through the centuries-

is love.

Love, whether fleeting and passionate or slow and drudging, changes people. It inspires them to perform grand gestures, to better themselves, to grow and learn. Love makes people into artists, writers, sculptors, all so that they can share with the world with the white-hot beat of their hearts.

And then, equal and opposite, it drives them to violence and bloodshed. Blood-red hands born of green-eyed envy driven to take up sharp knives and heavy cudgels. It breeds wicked plots and gruesome schemes, tricking people into throwing their lives away for a fleeting flame that’s destined to burn out.

Love is beautiful and dangerous in equal amounts, something to be both cherished and feared.

Sun Wukong has seen both outcomes. He’s personally dealt with tragedies born of love, many times over. Not every coupling ends with marriage and children, a ring and a promise.

His own sworn brother, Zhu Baije, was cast out of heaven for attempting to seduce Guanyin, being reborn as a pig demon. Then, he never returned to the maiden in Gao village that he fell for, instead spending his life as a cleanser of altar leftovers.

Kui Mulang was separated from his lover for his crimes, and forced to become a furnace keeper. Tang Sanzang refused to marry the queen of the Women’s Kingdom, and then rejected the scorpion demon that stole him away.

He doesn’t tell you all of that, of course. He nudges you with an elbow and gives you a cheeky grin, saying that: “It doesn’t always end well, bud. Trust me, I’ve seen more than a few things in my time that would have you running for a cloister.”

He doesn’t warn you off of love entirely, or threaten you to not start dating. In fact, he’s not entirely opposed to the idea of you having a significant other. He’s a pretty easy-going guy, even when he’s staring down his enemies or cracking skulls open.

In fact, depending on who you go after, he might be entirely supportive of you!

Red Son is not a decision he will abide by, unfortunately. There’s just too many flaws to count, in Wukong’s opinion. Short-tempered, egotistical, elitist, violent, power-hungry… nothing that qualifies him to be your partner, honestly.

So the Great Sage goes about trying to casually split the two of you up, whether it’s finding his way “by coincidence” into your dates, or crashing any meetings you and the demon have. What can he say? He gets around a lot more these days, doesn’t he? It’s not strange to meet up in popular places around Megapolis.

Even though he continues to show up wherever you and Red Son meet, no matter how “off the beaten path” or “hole in the wall” it may be. He’ll never justify himself or explain why he’s there. But he will grab a table and join the two of you.

He might not be outright sabotaging the relationship, but he sure makes it hard to maintain and grow. He won’t candidly ruin it, but he keeps pushing and pushing, slowly fraying your nerves. It’s a trap, where he’s trying to push you into snapping at him. And if you do fall for it?

It does get worse.

Try to lash out at him, or demand that he go away. Yell at him, or push him away. Try it, and he’ll throw you over his shoulder and hop onto his flying cloud, racing you back to Flower Fruit Mountain. From there, he’ll forbid you from being with Red Son again, grounding you for the outburst he intentionally provoked.

Watching you grow upset with his decree, Wukong will wipe away the tears gathering up in your eyes, and pull you into a hug to comfort you. He doesn’t want you upset. He just wants you to himself.

“It’s alright, bud. Don’t worry about that fire guy. He’s pretty awful, honestly. Let’s sit down and watch something fun to take your mind off him, alright?”

And; for now at least, he’s got you.

No. Absolutely not. Macaque refuses to allow it. He doesn’t want to see you with anybody, but least of all a “hot-headed demon with daddy issues,” as he puts it. Where Wukong will show restraint by never outright ruining your dates and outings together, Macaque crosses that line unhesitatingly. Once he learns that you’re openly and happily dating a dangerous demon, he sets out to find you and rectify this little issue.

He stalks out to the park that you and Red Son are walking through, quietly following along as his glare burns into the demon’s back. His fury reaches a boiling point when the two of you settle onto a bench, Red Son’s hand slowly reaching out to yours.

He furiously stomps through the park, coming up behind the both of you. The shadows writhe and roil with each step he takes, coming alive to lash at the ground around them with ice-cold tendrils.

He summons up his shadow staff and swings it down, smashing the middle of the bench you and your boyfriend are sitting on to announce his presence, cleaving the metal cleanly and easily. You and Red Son both scramble to your feet, shocked and more than a little scared.

You specifically.

If there’s anything that gives him reason to pause, anything that stops him in his tracks, it’s the look of outright fear in your eyes. He takes a moment to catch his breath, dispelling his staff and quieting the rioting shadows. He’s still angry, sure. But he doesn’t want you to be afraid of him. So, even though he’s seething with fury, he stops short of actually harming Red Son, instead settling for dragging you away by your ear as you argue and protest his rough hold on you.

Macaque pulls you over to a shadow portal, still gripping your quickly-reddening ear between his thumb and pointer finger, pushing you in before him. He whips around to shoot Red Som a death glare, then turns back and jumps in after you.

You both pop out inside your shared house, Macaque’s foot tapping impatiently as he folds his arms, staring at you disapprovingly. You rub at your sore ear, glaring right back.

“No dating. I already told you this. One, you’re too young. Two, anyone could be an opponent in disguise. Three, he’s dangerous. Seriously, bad call. I thought you were smarter than this, kid.”

He goes silent when he sees the tears beading up in the corners of your eyes, maybe from pain, maybe from his lecture. He did just technically call you stupid. Macaque sighs, and pats your head.

“Look, just… go lay down. See if you can’t get some shut-eye, alright? I’ll check up on you when it’s time to eat.”

He sends you off to your room, spinning you around and nudging you off, sighing as you go. His powerful ears make it impossible to ignore your quiet sniffles and the sound of tears hitting the hardwood floors.

He’s not the bad guy here, he reminds himself. The bad guy is whoever’s trying to corrupt you or steal you away from him. Them, not him.

Never him.

[pinkacademiaprincess]

Hiiiii! what extracurricular activities do you do?

Renaissance Woman: Being Well-Rounded via Extracurricular Activities 👩‍💼🧠🎨🏅

hi, ty for the ask! i’ve done many different extracurricular activities through the years. in high school i did dance, choir, ceramics, and i took elective classes in coding/ statistics. in college i’ve joined a book club, various accounting/ business organizations, honors program, research, and i take extra courses in interesting subjects like psychology and sociology. i’ve also worked part-time most of the time since i turned 16.

if you’re wanting to decide what kinds of extracurriculars to do, i’d say to try to make it a variety. and pick things that you are actually interested in doing and will be able to truly commit to. don’t spread yourself thin and don’t make yourself do anything you reeeally don’t want to do.

i try to have a mix of the following:

physical activities

a sport or exercise class is a great form of extracurricular activity because it keeps you active. depending on the activity it also develops your teamwork and collaborative skills. you can also build strong bonds amongst your teammates/ workout buddies. find something you truly enjoy & can see yourself committing the time to!

academic & career advancers

this can include clubs based on a field of study/ career path, academic/ business organizations, educational electives, practicing a relevant skill, and so on. these are useful if you’ve got a career path or field in mind and want to learn more about it. if it involves a group setting you can find like-minded people with the same goals. these types of programs also provide tools, resources, & guidance for success.

hobby/ fun

some of the most fulfilling extracurriculars may be something you just enjoy as a hobby. for me this was things like choir, ceramics, and other arts. i enjoy artistic stuff as a creative outlet to help relieve stress, and although i don’t want to be a professional singer or sculptor, i still highly benefited from those activities. they spark creativity and force you to use different parts of your brain.

money-making

i definitely consider having a job to be an extracurricular activity since it can go on your resume/ college applications/ etc. any job will help you build useful skills. if you’re in a position where you don’t need to work, i wouldn’t recommend getting a job tho, especially if you’re a student bc your time could be spent on your studies. i recommend seeking other extracurricular activities through your school instead if you have time.

[lisannastraussisanangel]

I love your headcanons so much! What careers do you think Team Natsu would pursue if they lived in our world?

I feel like obviously Lucy would still want to do writing. Maybe a bit of journalism (especially in regard to standing up for groups of people) on the side while also doing some modeling or influencing since we've seen her do it in the show and manga.

Gray I picture doing something artsy especially when you look at how artistic his magic can be. Maybe something like Sculptor. Just imagining him being in his art student years being an absolute heartthrob while he is being emo and artsy. I would imagine some fashion as well because he always has the best fits of fairy tail (when he hasn't stripped it off lol).

I'm not sure about Erza and Natsu yet.

But I would LOVE to hear your headcanons of what you think?

I can't believe I've never thought about this

Lucy is a fashion influencer as well as a booktoker. This popularity really helped her when she got her first novel published since she already had a huge fanbase

Now Lucy does both. Her passion being writing but her main source of income is influencing

Natsu is a firefighter. It's mostly volunteer work tho

He makes his money being a jackass level daredevil on the internet. Natsu does wild stunts and goes on all types of crazy adventures (sponsored by redbull of course)

Gray def has an artsy job. He doesn't have one set job and instead does a bunch of odd jobs here and there

He's a graffiti artist, ice sculptor, muralist, ceramist, and many other things

He also does nude modeling for art schools and helps Lucy with her fashion influencing. He's very popular on her page but is too busy to make his own account (Tho he does get requested to walk on runways)

Erza works in security. She's done pretty much every security type of work but prefers body guard work for celebrities. But that's mostly because she likes going to all the fancy parties and such

Her dream is to open a bakery one day, but she isn't sure how to go about it so she just does it on the side for her friends

Wendy is already taking classes to help her get into medical school. That girl will be a doctor and she will save many lives