#things will probably be added to this as well as time goes on

[twoidiotwriters1]

Chapter 17. Weeds

Summary: How can a man with this amount of heart remain in the shadows of society? Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Words: 2,089 Listen to: 'Wasteland, Baby!' -by Hozier A/N: This is the fastest slow-burn I've ever written, you guys are so lucky I can't keep it in my pants when it comes to Benedict -Danny

You help Penelope make a swift exit and lend her your carriage (the Queen had one for herself and Brimsley) so she goes away to print the real Whistledown, and you and your sister take Eloise's so the guests believe Pen and her left the party together.

While you're driving to Eloise's home, your sister is eager to get all the gossip, and after Eloise delivers, Marie starts asking about Benedict.

"Don't," you chastise her.

"Wouldn't you want to know more about my sister as well?" Marie offers, ignoring you. "I can tell you so many queer things about Y/N."

"Marie," you press, blushing.

Eloise manages to smile even in the worried state she's in. "You are not at all how I thought you'd be."

"Posh, stiff and boring?" You redirect the conversation happily. 

The girl chuckles. "Colin was right when he told us you're not like our crown. You're... more colorful."

Both of you perk up at the compliment, proud to be positively reviewed by a smart lady. Encouraged by this, Marie's even more tempted to get information out of her. "Do you think your brother cares for my sister?"

"Marie!"

"Oh, most definitely," Eloise admits easily. "I'd never seen him so set on helping someone. He wants her to thrive."

"Is that very strange?" Marie asks eagerly.

"Tremendously. My brother isn't the kind you'd see in society this often. He's been to more balls this season than in the last four years!"

"Well, I've forced his hand since the start," you feel obliged to defend his reputation. "I asked him to take me to the innovations ball, and your sister Hyacinth probably played a big part in his agreement."

Eloise snorts. "He would've invited you anyway. He told me he was going to invite you and offer friendship, I suppose you beat him to that," she lets out a dry laugh. "I imagine he didn't like feeling like he was one step behind you. Benedict is my most intelligent brother, you know? It vexes him when someone outwits him."

Marie turns to you with a knowing grin, but you're busy being baffled. "Benedict says Anthony is the smartest."

"Anthony is Benedict's only older sibling, so of course he would think him smarter," Eloise brushes it off. "But the rest of us know better. Don't tell him that, it does him well to think he's not the smartest, he'd be too terrible if he actually knew himself entirely."

Her words tickle you, added to the commentary Tilley once gave you about Benedict wanting to explore uncharted waters, and his reticence to study art after discovering the involvement of his older brother in the whole ordeal, it all starts to make a picture of the elusive man.

"Have you seen what that dreadful Cressida has said about your Bridgertons?" Marie shoves the paper under your nose.

You swat it away. "The Queen got it while we were having breakfast and she read it out loud to me—it was vulgar and plain bullying, she might've done competently with a few words, but it takes more than five well-written lines to be on the same level as Pen."

"Look at you, on a first-name basis with the ladies of the ton," Marie teases you, but she's proud. "So what now?"

"Now, I go on a stroll with you and Paula, and we look for Be—Eloise," you catch yourself on time, but not fast enough.

"I suppose you're itching to question Mr Bridgerton on his absence yesterday," she grins. "Very well, let's take a walk."

You find Eloise and Benedict at the same time as Penelope, and the five of you stop and freeze until lovely Marie grabs Penelope and Eloise by the arms and tugs them away. "So good to see you both! I am in dire need of a decent read and I've been told you are fond of books—Why don't you recommend me some?" She looks at you over her shoulder. "Y/N, do entertain Mr Bridgerton while we chat, I don't wish to bore him!"

She laughs almost maniacally, having too much fun taking part in something other than dull royal events for once. Benedict gives her a weird look before offering his arm to you. "Is she well?"

"Mentally?" You turn in the opposite direction from the girls. "Well, when we were children I dropped a vase on her head, so maybe not."

He laughs. "When I was little, Anthony would sit on my head, or hold me by the ankles to win arguments. Older siblings can be brutal."

You grin, playfully elbowing him. "I have a bone to pick with you, Mr Bridgerton, so don't tease me much."

"Do you?" He pulls you closer by half an inch, but it makes all the difference.

"I was abandoned last night, and I was wondering if I'll be granted the mercy of an explanation."

Benedict raises a brow. "You didn't need me. I was practically uninvited from the event altogether, and who am I to defy the crown?"

"Since when are you obedient and submissive?" 

"I have never been a stranger to submission," he replies in a lower voice, his eyes lingering an extra second on your lips before his lopsided smile returns. "I might've used the opportunity to spend some time alone."

"Was it enjoyable?"

"Very. I even painted," he raises a brow and makes a face. "Then I got bored, obviously, and went for a walk."

"Couldn't have gone for a walk at the Mondrich's ball, could you?"

"Was that lovely debutant in attendance?"

"The one that's been trying to corner you? Yes."

"Then no, I couldn't."

You laugh and shake your head, looking sideways and gasping. "Look!"

Benedict stops with you and stares at the spot you're pointing at. He grins, finding himself just a few feet from the place where you first met. "I see your weeds are thriving."

"Look, Paula!" You turn to your friend, who's been following you from a prudent distance. "That's the spot!"

She nods with a sweet smile. "You've always been fond of weeds, Your Highness."

You watch them lovingly. "Weeds are rather special, you know?" You glance at Benedict seriously as you begin your ramble. "They grow where other plants can't. Humble and unassuming but strong and smart. They would survive unattended for months on end. Years, even. I suppose that's why I like them, they're the only plant that I can't kill..."

Benedict looks at you with the same affection you gaze at the garden. "Weeds are not well-received in general," he replies softly, "but I don't think they mind much, if they have you to love them. Makes up for the snubbing from less worthy creatures."

The ground feels less firm after his response, and you forget what you were even talking about, to begin with. How can a man with this amount of heart remain in the shadows of society? Why is no one in awe of him like you are? He should be desired by every girl with half a brain and a wish to marry—all the gentlemen should be following his example. 

All he says always drips with poetry, and you can scarcely believe he's attracted to you, out of all people. You stumble over your own feet, spill tea over your bosom if you pick it up too fast, and blurt out whatever comes to mind when you're caught off guard. Yet he cares for you as no man has ever been interested in trying.

"Benedict..." You wish to ask him why, why was he so utterly abandoned, and why he is so set on staying that way. You want to ask why he acts as if he's scum when you plainly see he's pure, genuine, and good.

He senses it. He's used to that look in your eyes, the one that tells him you're getting too comfortable around him. He can't have that from a simple lady of the ton, so he certainly can't allow it in a princess.

"Let's return to our sisters," he turns you back around, almost running over Paula in the process. "I'm getting bored and loathe of this weather."

You allow him to take you back to your sister, the thread you're walking on much too thin to push it further.

"Your Majesty, Lady Bridgerton is here to see you," a servant announces.

"Let her in, then," the Queen sighs, then turns to you. "I don't see the point in wasting our time with this, I'm well aware of Miss Bridgerton's preferences and hold no lasting grudge against her. It is quite standard of the Bridgertons to snub my picks," she states, holding a bit of a grudge.

You chuckle good-naturedly. "Yes, but we ought to soothe the mother's mind. She's holding too high a bar for all of her children—higher than the crown, I dare say."

The Queen lets out a surprisingly nice and genuine little laugh. "Oh, I know. Violet, such a delicate heart..."

The aforementioned woman steps into the throne room, anxiously squeezing a handkerchief between her hands. "Your majesties," she curtsies. 

You nod at her, and then the Queen speaks. "Take a seat, dear."

She obeys and smiles at you nervously, fawning her face with the soft cloth. "I... I'm not quite sure how to start..."

The Queen waves her hand impatiently. "Princess Y/N has explained the situation to me. Congratulations on yet another successful engagement this season." The older woman gives her a look. "Unless, of course, you disagree?"

Violet blinks. "Your Majesty?"

Queen Charlotte continues with nonchalance. "If anyone has a problem with your daughter's engagement it is clearly you. We are on good terms, you and I, so I will grant you an unique favour and do it right now if you wish. Do you want me to put a stop to your daughter's betrothal?"

Your head snaps to the side so quickly that it hurts but you ignore it, shocked at what you're hearing. "Queen Charlotte! You surely don't mean it?"

She raises a brow. "This happens all the time, dear. I've done the very same favour to many mamas over the years. It's quite a responsible thing to do if a parent wants to rid of an undesirable prospect."

"Lord Kilmartin isn't undesirable," Violet blushes down to her neck.

"For you it is, clearly so my dear," Queen Charlotte insists. "He's not enough for your standards, and I quite understand that. Your older children have gotten such lovely matches—"

"Francesca and John are well-suited," she defends unyielding.

"They are dull to look at," The Queen says as if not listening to a word, and just then you understand what she's doing. "You're making the right choice, Violet. I wouldn't marry any of my daughters to such a bore, not for all the land in—"

"Your Majesty," Violet speaks up, displeased and flustered. "I did not come to force them apart. My daughter wants your blessing above all things, and so that's all I'll ask of you."

The Queen raises a brow as if not expecting this answer. "Are you sure?"

"My daughter loves him," Violet says proudly. "And John tries every day to be the man she deserves. That is love," she looks at you, asking for courage. You nod smiling. "Happiness has many faces. Rarely one of them is perfection. All it ever needs be, is enough."

Queen Charlotte sighs, taking a sip of her tea. "Your daughter doesn't need my blessing, but she's my diamond, and I shall respect her wishes. You can tell her that. Would you like to discuss anything else?"

Violet looks grateful yet sober. "No, Your Majesty, that would be all. Thank you for the time."

"You may go, then."

"I'll walk you out," you offer. "I'll be right back, Your Majesty."

Violet follows you to the entrance and shrugs off her shock. "That went... nicely. Didn't it?"

You laugh. "Are you alright?"

"I wasn't expecting her to offer..." she fans her face. "I know I had my doubts, but I'd never..."

"She's a good queen," you say benevolently. "She was only trying to help a loyal subject."

"Yes, but sometimes she... oh well, I suppose as a royal you ought to be less emotional..."

You feel a bit sheepish over her observation, your lack of tact with Benedict weighing on your mind. "It's not that. We're taught to manage others differently, that's all. But she means well."

Violet turns to you as you both reach the entrance and smiles tenderly. "I know, dear. And I thank you for your help, truly. I'm glad Benedict met you, you're a good force in our lives."

You gulp, guilt churning in your stomach. "Lady Bridgerton—"

"Call me Violet," she reaches for your hand and squeezes. "You're a friend to my family."

"Violet," you say gently—from now on, all your actions towards Benedict and his loved ones will be done with the best intentions in mind. "I could not have gotten a greater honour."

Next Chapter –>

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[puppyclown]

hey so um i'm high off my ass and rly want to brainstorm and flesh out some ideas for creative endeavors.. this is my blog and i need to be more insane about my own creations because i deserve it. so here we go!

here's a list of my current, ongoing projects!

🔪💊💘 dr. puppylove - a furry yandere horror visual novel

we play as a player-named nurse taylor, a spaniel. they are dissociative, and learn more about themselves and their past throughout the course of the game, given the player makes the correct choices. not entirely positive about any gameplay mechanics other than a branching storyline/dialogue tree. first draft of the script is currently in the works. based on this old poodle design i bought a few years ago.

🌈🦕🍭 tybius & phoebe - a candy-colored action-adventure rpg

started as a dream i had. evolved into a pitch for a fourth year thesis film project that never got greenlit. now potentially a game idea? no idea! i'm scared! anyways, phoebe is a freshman in high school. one day, a new kid - tybius - shows up at her school, and he's obviously a vampire. he leads her to a secret, magical world inside a locker, and phoebe must go on a journey with her new-found traveling companion to save the world that she has stumbled into.

❄️💀🧣 children of south park - a multimedia cult horror fan project

kenny is dead, and something is wrong with the town of south park. follows the kids of south park, now in their late teens, as they try to figure out the secrets behind their small town. story will be told via comics, individual art pieces (digital & traditional), animations/animatics, storyboards, videos, and anything else that we decide to include.

please please please send me asks regarding these projects!!!! i struggle a lot with finding inspiration and keeping myself motivated (burnout after college was super rough) so it would mean the world to me if anyone found them worth discussing. <:o3

[genshinmaburp]

Alhaitham who is a student at the akademiya, has exams coming up, and cannot remember where he left his keys or when he last ate so he has to make note of it somewhere every now and again. Him trying to keep a schedule over time so he doesn’t forget to take care of himself while he’s thinking of correlations and causations and the next paper he has to write. Just Alhaitham living alone without his grandma for the first time and realizing that no one else will look out for him (not necessarily in a self pitying way), so he has to build a routine schedule for himself to live a good life.

[thepandalion]

yknow

one of my favorite tropes is casual use of OCs in fanfic

like. the guy goes to a convention and makes some friends and they're all OCs. or the guy goes to a new school and all his friends there are OCs. or. any number of things like that

and it sucks that usually the connotation of "OC in fic" is actually about self inserts of the author (which... is fine? typically has bad connotations of being cringe or whatever but I'm currently technically co-authoring a reader insert fic so yknow. cringe is dead) and that the only OC in those types of fics is the self insert. gimme more fics where there's like a dozen OCs seamlessly integrated into the canon characters' lives

[mollyjames]

Even in food service, there is the demand for exponential growth. Each store has a profit target you're expected to hit every quarter. Each quarter the target gets bigger and bigger. The only way to make sure you hit or exceed that target is to increase sales or cut costs. Sales can only go so far though, so at a certain point there is the understandable temptation (not justifiable, but understandable) for your manager to start cutting hours. Once they do, your location has entered a Death Spiral.

The thing about the Death Spiral is it is nearly impossible to escape. It starts innocuous enough, with a few hours getting shaved off every week. And true enough at first you probably didn't need those hours. They were the slack, the extra hands that helped distribute the work and made it easier on everyone. You might not even notice they're gone. Maybe the morning rush is a little harder to handle, maybe there isn't as much time to chat as there used to be. But on the whole nothing has changed. You're still hitting your sales quota and, hey, everyone seems to be working a little harder. That's good, right?

Then the next quarter rolls around. You exceeded your quota. Upper management is very excited. But now your new quota is even higher than it would have been if you had simply performed to expectations. You raise prices a bit, push more expensive drinks, and sure, cut a few more hours. Bit by bit the slack gets tighter. The fat gets trimmed. All because continual growth, continual improvement, is not just demanded, but expected.

The endgame of the Death Spiral is the expectation that every worker will operate at 100% efficacy 100% of of the time, and that nothing will go wrong ever. It never reaches this point, as any food service worker will tell you, shit goes wrong. Service gets worse, you lose a few customers, and you miss your quota. This is the point of no return, because the only way to solve the problem is to add more hours. But there's no way upper management will approve spending more money. On a failing store? Don't be ridiculous. Maybe get those numbers up and we'll consider adding hours back. But the only way to get those numbers up is with no hours. It's a Catch-22. You're trapped. Slowly, inevitably, the store fails, and then closes.

The Death Spiral is a doomed strategy, but it is the one corporations push in response to investor pressure. It tricks workers into more work for the promise of relief later, if they do well and succeed, not realizing they'll only be asked to do even more next time. So how do you fight it? Know your worth. Don't let anyone give you more work without some kind of kickback. Don't fool yourself into thinking that being indispensable will lead to a reward later.

But the best defense? Join a union.

[anxiouslypretty5]

Combined like 3 methods and got results like instantly + some tips.

its not my first time getting in the void state so i’ll just tell you the methods i used

distraction technique

lullaby method

my own little method called the subway surfers method

you already know what to do with the distraction method since its made by @luckykiwiii101 the lullaby method was created by divineangelbee but her account has been deactivated for a LONGGG time but its on my page, i have a link to it (just go look at my page) and my subway surfers method is just me visualizing myself in subway surfers and instead of grabbing coins i would grab gift boxes that held all my desires and then after grabbing all the gifts of everything i wanted i would eventually run into a black void (aka the void state and then i would induce it)

but i’ll get to my desires i manifested TRUST just let me tell you how i combined these methods PUHLEASE?!

okay so we all know that the infamous distraction technique involves you having to be DISTRACTED right? and that the lullaby method slightly requires you to be in a sleepy state right..?????? RIGHT??? well all i simply did was get into a sleepy state which was like 20 minutes ago when i wanted to take a nap and i used the distraction technique and combined it with my subway surfers method. after vividly imagining myself in subway surfers and collecting all the gifts and stuff and running into my void thats when i felt my body float. because i would just imagine myself free falling after running into the void.

(i assumed for all of this to happen btw!!! and guess what it happened! *i say loudly for the people in the back who are insufferably dense*)

okayyy so whatever now i’ll get to what i manifested since you’re rushing me..

adriana lima and a jennie popularity effect (from blackpink)

the super cool reverse technique from life is strange

flowers blooming everywhere i walk + nature loving my presence

not being allergic to absolutely anything

my hair now reaching my knees

my life being similar to multiple shows (Tvd, when i fly towards you, alice in borderland) + guys i know it may sound a bit crazy but i added safety precautions before hand

better photographer

fluent in a few languages (italian, french, japanese, vietnamese, arabic and haitian)

better climate

being better at volleyball and badminton

MORREEEEE flexible (i do a bit of gymnastics and ballet)

knowing how to figure skate

and i manifested like a trillion other things but i DONTTT have time to type that all since im gonna go back to sleep and you’re probably wondering “who goes back to sleep after manifesting so much stuff?” me. because manifesting is like a fling to me + i embrace lazy manifesting so every time i manifest something i don’t shoot glitter out of my eyes. i give myself a little applaud and go on with my day.

bye now. also heres your tips since i know my dms will be flooded again in 3 minutes…

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, omegaverse, forced bonding, subjugation, some type of discrimination, elements of androgyny

♡ fem reader

Thinking about the big and burly behemoth Omega finally finding himself the cutest little Alpha to breed with…

He could never bring himself to breed with Alphas. Growing up, he developed a great disdain for them—all high and mighty rabid animals prone to violence, more often than not completely dimwitted to top it off, as if their massive ego had usurped the place of basic brain operation.

He couldn’t hate them more, yet he doesn’t correct anyone when they mistake him for one, either. In many ways, he wished he was born one instead of an Omega. It would make it easier to fulfill his desires that way. A dominant Omega isn’t all that normal, after all—and submissive Alphas are an even rarer breed to come by.

He hadn't found one yet. And other Omegas don’t really do it for him. They approach him, thinking he’s an Alpha, then feel disappointed when figuring out he’s not—which is fine, as he isn’t particularly interested in their scent either. Betas make for an okay compromise—they don’t care if he’s an Omega, it makes no difference to them—yet he could never really shake the feeling that something was missing when lying with them.

At the office, the scent of Alphas plagues him all day—how they strut around, stinking up the place with no concern for anyone else. This is a workplace, for fuck’s sake—can’t they have a little dignity and not treat it like a mating ground? He really hates them. All bigheaded assholes—

“Ow—” there’s bark and a hard thunk of something hitting the floor.

Someone just bumped into him—someone so small he hadn’t even seen them over the top of his clipboard. Looking down, he sees a fellow Omega—a pretty one. You must be as disoriented by the scent around you as he is—probably why you walked right into him—poor thing. He ought to help you up.

You hold your head in your hand, wincing at the sting of your rear—you’d fallen right on your tailbone. Looking up, you give the fellow Alpha who’d knocked you down a mean glare, “What the hell, asshole!”

His outstretched hand stiffens midway. That’s not a very Omega-like thing to say—especially not by one so small as you. No, wait… what’s that scent?

You ignore his hand and get up on your own, dusting down your pin-stripes with angry brushes—face pursed, almost pouty, but not quite, too stink-eyed as you lean in and jab a finger into his chest to punctuate your words, “Watch where you’re going next time, you…”

You soften up halfway through the sentence. It must have dawned on you as well. His scent. Not like other Alphas, but something else entirely—something that suddenly makes you blush all over, wide-eyed.

You don’t say another word, only giving a weak huff before turning tail and stomping away.

There’s something very cute about it—he’s left thinking while watching you, utterly stunned and still, replaying the events that just occurred over and over in his head—wondering how he’d never seen you before. You must work on a different floor.

Luckily, he’d made sure to read your name tag—pinned all properly on your chest like a badge of honor, neatly like the rest of you. Well put together from the top of your salon-styled hair down to the tips of your pointy black stilettos. Even with their added height, you must have been two heads shorter than him—no taller than any regular Omega.

It's no wonder he mistook you for one. You were as cute as one, too—like a doll he could put behind glass, up on a mantle, and keep forever. But oh my… that mouth on you and that awful snarl. Just like any other imposing Alpha, he supposed. Bratty and arrogant, quick to jump the gun and pick a fight instead of taking it for the simple accident it was.

He goes back and sets himself down by his desk—but he’s way too distracted to work now, too busy with the thought of you. That flushed face you showed him before teetering off was something he wouldn’t mind seeing again—also that cute scowl under certain circumstances and what type of expression you’d give him if he wiped it off.

He's lucky an office party came along so quickly. He wouldn’t usually go, but now he had a reason. He bet you’d be there—the way you were dressed when you’d bumped into him tells him you’re one to respect the memo—head to toe in such a neat suit, trying to come off as androgynous as if in desperation needing everyone to know you were an Alpha. It must be hard for you—looking like that but wanting to look… well, suppose more like him.

He's glad he never felt that way—wishing to be smaller and cuter like other Omegas. Sure, he’s been envious of them at times, but more so of their easy pickings and not their appearance. He’s happy being bigger and stronger—it keeps unwanted attention at bay. You probably struggle to do the same. He bets you get a lot of the wrong eyes following you. Yeah… you must attract the bad sort all the time—alphas swarming you only to catch your scent and lose interest. Or maybe not… Alphas are sick, after all. Come to think of it, most of them would probably get off on dominating another Alpha. In that regard, it must have been worse for you than for him. Luckily, both of your issues are now solved.

He wondered what you’d wear tonight. You’d look much better in something feminine and not that suit you’d been wearing. He hopes, but no, you’re wearing much the same thing—another tailored two-piece that all but drowns you.

He understands what you’re going for. You have to dress like that, or else what Omega would ever want you looking the way you do? Aside from him, of course.

No matter. When you move in with him, he’ll dress you in all the pretty things he knows you want to wear. After all, pretty colors, ruffles, and lace will suit you so much better.

“Hello again.” He approaches you by the hors d’oeuvres even after you’d visibly and explicitly chosen to ignore him.

You groan under your breath, responding without even bothering to look at him, “Do I know you?”

Your tough act is cute. He has to withhold a chuckle before answering, “Don’t remember? You called me an asshole a week ago.”

“You walked right into me, so it’s not like it wasn’t deserved.”

You have to love that arrogance—that air of unfounded superiority. He wonders, where do you keep it all? “Well, how could I not? You’re so small I didn’t even see you.”

You’re quick to bare your teeth—obviously, he hit a nerve—showing him that same snarl you’d done back then. Cute little canines—he bet they won’t even hurt going into his neck once you mark him.

“Watch your mouth, Omega.”

Still, with a small smile, he feigns surprise. “Wow—are you an Alpha? Funny, I didn’t know they came in such tiny packages.”

It flusters you, no doubt—your brows lowered into a full glower now. “And I didn’t know Omegas could be so rude.”

You turn to stomp again, as you’d done before—though this time, he grabs your arm before you’re gone.

You whip around with another bark, “Hands off—"

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes unexpectedly, giving you puppy-dog eyes you hadn’t thought him capable of. “I should have been more mindful of my steps. It was entirely my fault.”

You go still at the sudden show of humility and respect. Finding yourself softening by the tilt of his head, bowing at you in acknowledgment of your higher standing. Not that many bother doing that to you—between mistaking you for an Omega or otherwise neglecting your standing as an Alpha, both due to your physique. Seeing it up close and so abruptly flusters you.

“Let me get you a drink to make up for it?” he offers politely, almost in plead.

Struck with feelings of somewhat regret for your own uncouth attitude, you nearly accept on a whim. “That’s kind…” But then think it over. You don’t really want to lead him on, either. You nearly stutter, yet steal yourself. After all… “But you’re not really my type.”

He hangs his head with a dejected sigh, “That’s harsh.” But he’d already figured as much and didn’t really care. Giving you his most sorry grin, he insists, “Humor me anyway? Just one drink so I don’t feel like an asshole for the rest of my life.”

It’s clear you want to refuse—still, as suspected, your heart just can’t handle seeing a desperate Omega in need. Bless your dim Alpha instincts.

“Okay, fine. One drink, that’s all,” you end up agreeing. One drink can’t hurt, right?

You feel like a good Samaritan once the big hunk of an Omega runs off to fetch you a glass. Pitying him or even sympathizing, maybe—it can’t be easy for an Omega in the mating scene to look like that. No Alpha around would want an Omega bigger than them—it’s utterly emasculating, not to mention unnatural.

Of course, you’re aware you’re in much the same shoes as him—you’re not delusional. Only, it’s easy being an independent Alpha—you don’t mind being a lone wolf in the world—but Omegas were built to be domestic. So yeah, you pity him—the poor guy, he’ll probably never find a proper mate.

But you can’t let your pity grant him too many favors—you have no intention of taking on any charity case tonight, especially not a pity fuck. You’ll have one drink with him as a mutual apology. That’s all.

Luckily… one drink is all he needs. Add a little sprinkle of this and that in your glass, and you’re already in the palm of his hand.

He has to carry you bridal style before he’s even managed to lead you to the elevator—it’s empty all the way down to the garage. He puts you in his car, locks your seatbelt in place, then drives off. It’s honestly quite astounding how easy it had been. He’d thought trapping an Alpha would be a much more remarkable feat, an impossible one for an Omega—but this was no different from eating an unguarded piece of cake.

You’re drowsy as he carries you into his apartment. And that’s when the other drug kicks in. The overwhelming scent of being inside his nest sets off your rut like a matchstick being ripped along the red.

Your claws come out, puncturing his sheets as he lays you down on his bed.

You’re too delirious to do much but writhe—making it easy for him to unbutton your dress shirt, followed by your slacks. He has to scoff at your plain black boxers and binder bra. You poor thing, always trying to run with the big dogs when you’re no bigger than a bite-sized puppy. From now on, you’ll only wear lacey things he brings home for you. You won’t have to puff your chest—you can be as sweet and pretty as your delicate physique constitutes—his cutest, littlest, most perfect mate.

You gain newfound strength once he’s peeled your underwear down, baring your needy heat to his touch. Instantly, your arms spring into action, flinging themselves around him, pouncing like a predator at its prey with your fangs bared.

He stops you easily—placing his wrist between your teeth, using it as a muzzle. He chuckles, looking at you gnaw on it like a bone.

“I think the world has it all wrong,” he starts, though he’s not sure you’re even capable of understanding speech in your state. “Omegas are the ones better suited as leaders of society, not Alphas.”

As he talks, he continues with his ministrations, stroking your needy slit with a mean finger, swiping it cruelly before splitting between the folds.

“I mean, look at you—mindless in a rut, willing to pounce on anything that moves—like a wild animal.” Once he sticks his finger inside you, your teeth do his wrist the same justice—drawing blood, making him hiss through his smile, “I ought to keep you in a cage.” And yet he doesn’t pull either hand away. “It would suit you well—on your knees with a pretty leash and collar upon your throat.”

You’re wet in his hand—soaked and so warm he loses track of his own finger as if melting within you. His cock strains against his boxer, wanting to feel it for himself. But you’re still way too tight for that.

He feeds you another digit, and you moan—suckling on his wrist now more than biting, though still with your canines out and seeking.

“Look at these wittle teeth, tch—” he grins upon closer inspection, looking between them and your eyes—pupil-fat orbs, far gone in your instincts. “I bet they’re just itching for my neck instead, huh?”

The provocation seems to make you more desperate. Pumping you slowly, more so to stretch you out than stimulate, he can feel your breaths turn thicker with need, how you press your tongue against his wrist, wet and lousy, wanting for more.

“Well, go on then, Alpha...” He chuckles again, removing his arm from barring your mouth before wrapping your throat with the same hand, holding it like a collar, keeping you under control.

And then he bares his neck for you.

“I give my consent.”

♡ part two

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira, Isagi ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[hyperlexichypatia]

This is a semi spinoff of this post, but really its own thought.

When a job pays less than a living wage, it generally attracts one of two types of employees:

Desperate people (usually poor and/or otherwise marginalized or with barriers to employment), who will take any job, no matter how bad, because they need the money, or

Independently wealthy people (usually well-off retirees, students being supported by their families, or women with well-off husbands*), who don't care about the pay scale because they don't need the money anyway.**

And sometimes, organizations will intentionally keep a job low-paying or non-paying with the deliberate intent of narrowing their pool to that second category.

People sometimes bring this up when discussing the salaries of elected officials -- yes, most politicians are paid more than most "regular people," but they're not paid enough to sustain the expensive lifestyle politicians have to maintain, and that's on purpose. It's not an oversight, and it's not primarily about cost-cutting. It's a deliberate barrier to ensure that only rich people can run for office.

The same is true, albeit to less severe effect, of unpaid internships -- the benefit of "hiring" an unpaid intern isn't (just) that you don't have to pay them; it's also that you can ensure that all your workers are rich, or at least middle-class.

When nonprofits brag about how little of their budget goes to "overhead" and "salaries", as if those terms were synonymous with "waste," what they're really saying is "All our employees are financially comfortable enough that they don't worry about being underpaid. Our staff has no socioeconomic diversity, and probably very little ethnic or cultural diversity." ***

This isn't a secret. I'm not blowing anything wide open here. People very openly admit that they think underpaid workers are better, because they're "not in it for the money." This is frequently cited as a reason, for example, that private school teachers are "better" than public school teachers -- they're paid less, so they're not "in it for the money," so they must be working out of the goodness of their hearts. I keep seeing these cursed ads for a pet-sitting service where the petsitters aren't paid, which is a selling point, because they're "not in it for the money."

"In it for the money" is the worst thing a worker could be, of course. Heaven forbid they be so greedy and entitled and selfish as to expect their full-time labor to enable them to pay for basic living expenses. I get this all the time as a public library worker, when I point out how underfunded and underpaid we are. "But... you're not doing it for the money, right?" And I'm supposed to laugh and say "No, no, I'd do it for free, of course!"

Except, see, I have these pesky little human needs, like food. And I can't get a cart full of groceries and explain to the cashier that I don't have any money, but I have just so much job satisfaction!

And it's gendered, of course it's gendered. The subtext of "But you're not doing it for the money, of course" is "But how much pin money do you really need, little lady? Doesn't your husband give you a proper allowance?"

Conceptually, it's just an extension of the upper-class cultural norm that "polite" (rich) people "don't talk about money" (because if you have to think about how much money you have or how much you need, you're insufficiently rich).

*Gendered language very much intentional.

**Disabled people are more likely to be in the first category (most disabled people are poor, and being disabled is expensive), but are usually talked about as if they're in the second category. We're told that disabled people sorting clothing for $1.03 an hour are "So happy to be here" and "Just want to be included," and it's not like they need the money, since, as we all know, disability benefits are ample and generous [heavy sarcasm].

***Unless, of course, they're a nonprofit whose "mission" involves "job placement," in which case what they're saying is "We exploit the poor and desperate people we're purporting to help." Either way, "We pay our employees like crap" is nothing to brag about.

[pathologicalreid]

defrost | s.r.

in which the heat goes out in your apartment and Spencer comes up with a creative idea to keep warm

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: smut (18+ mdni) content warnings: fingering, hand job, good old fashioned dry humping, softdom!spencer, masturbation is referenced, unprotected p in v sex, sex on the floor (!!!), kissing, established relationship word count: 2.8k a/n: smut? havent seen that word since october. well past due if you ask me :-) hope you enjoy

It took entirely too much of your focus not to trip on the comforter that you were hauling from your bedroom, adding it to the heap of linens that you’d collected. The heat had gone out in the entire apartment complex earlier that afternoon, and while it was originally supposed to be fixed by five, the time was pushed back until the gas company finally just told you the issue wouldn’t be resolved until the morning.

Luckily, Spencer had managed to light the fireplace while you gathered every linen from the apartment and arranged a makeshift bed in front of the hearth, but even when you sat in front of the crackling flames, you were still cold. Pulling the cuffs of your sweatshirt over your hands, you tucked them beneath your thighs in an attempt to defrost yourself, you looked up at your boyfriend in desperation, “When did they say the gas would be back on?”

“They said eight, but before that, they said six, so there’s really no accurate measurement that they could provide. I hope we’ll know more in the morning,” he told you, taking a seat next to you and draping a blanket over your shoulders, making sure you were cozy before grabbing one for himself.

You sighed, admiring the way the movement of the fire reflected in his eyes. The two of you had ordered out for dinner, discarded takeout containers were in organized chaos on the coffee table, and two mugs were sitting on coasters filled with warm tea. Your range was out of commission, but thankfully, you had electricity. Admittedly, you were milking the situation, opting for candles over your lamps.

Spencer leaned over and nudged you gently with his blanket-covered elbow, “Are you warm enough?” He asked, looking around for another blanket to hand off to you, but coming up empty.

“If the gas isn’t back on by tomorrow afternoon, we should book a hotel,” you suggested, though, with your luck, Spencer would probably be called on a case tomorrow, leaving you to freeze on your own.

He furrowed his brows in response, “You were the one who didn’t want to stay in a hotel tonight, though?”

Shrugging, you looked at the thermostat on the wall, too far away to read, but you imagined it telling you that the apartment was becoming an industrial-sized icebox. “I don’t like staying in hotels if I can help it, I like having my things and my routine,” you responded as if he didn’t already know this about you.

“But?” He pressed.

“But I’m cold,” you told him, wrapping your blanket tighter around yourself and smiling when he opened his blanket cocoon. Gratefully, you obliged, shuffling yourself over to him and settling into his lap, sighing in contentment when he closed the blanket around you, “Oh, you’re warm.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, and Spencer took the opportunity to press a tiny kiss to the tip of your nose. “Is this better?”

Nodding, you closed your eyes and let your body relax into his, his arms wrapped around you, adding a reinforcement—a border of warmth, if you will. “Yeah, much better,” you murmured, trying to think warm thoughts.

“You know, it would be easier to share body heat if we weren’t wearing clothes,” Spencer told you, shifting one of his arms until his hand was on your waist, giving it a slight squeeze.

A shy smile bloomed on your face, turning your face to bury it in his neck, though the warm glow of your cheeks was a welcome sensation, “Are you trying to get in my pants right now?”

Spencer hummed, shifting beneath you slightly—a telltale sign that he was turned on—and gripping both of your hips, “Technically, I’m trying to get you out of them.”

Now grinning, you leaned forward, pressing your torso against Spencer’s until his back was against the blankets you’d stacked for your makeshift mattress. You took a moment to adjust the fabric that surrounded you, removing the layers of separation between you and Spencer when you finally reached his sweater. Carefully, you slipped your fingers beneath his layers of clothes, pausing abruptly when he inhaled sharply, “Are you okay?”

“Your hands are freezing, honey,” he told you; a lightness was present in his tone as if he was trying not to laugh.

Withdrawing your hands, you instead stuck them beneath his back, hoping to warm them up while you craned your head up to his, placing your lips on his and immediately sighing into him. You settled the rest of your body across his, bringing your knees up to his hips and grinding your core against his hardening length. The layers of clothing between you were proving to be a hindrance, but you weren’t ready to rid yourself of any insulation just yet.

You bunched up the wool of Spencer’s sweater in your hands, finding a rhythm between your rocking hips and moving lips, patiently waiting for the opportunity to slip your tongue into his mouth and hoping your hands were sufficiently warm when you moved your dominant hand back to his torso. Slowly, you lifted your hips from his and tucked your fingers beneath the waistband of both his flannel pajama pants and briefs, making sure he didn’t flinch at the temperature of your fingers when you wrapped them around his cock.

His mouth opened against yours at the contact, a low moan vibrating in his throat as you kept your hand in his pants. This was your opening, leaving you to slip your tongue in his mouth, deepening the kiss and speeding up your heart rate.

Moaning against his lips, you needed to sacrifice your kiss for the sake of a hand job, ducking your head so that you could focus on the flick of your wrist, the elastic waistbands working against you.

Spencer craned his head, dropping a kiss on the crown of your head, you could feel his abdomen tensing under your arm as you reached your other hand down to try and push his pants over his hips. “You wanna take my clothes off, don’t you?”

Your ministrations slowed as you peered up at him through your eyelashes and nodded, taking your cheek between your molars.

You hummed as Spencer used his grip on your waist to pull you up until your faces were close enough to meet again, he kissed you again, chastely this time, before whispering, “You first.”

Bracing yourself for the cold apartment air to brush against your skin, you assisted Spencer by pulling your arms through the sleeves of your sweater, gritting your teeth while he tugged it over your head. You were pleasantly surprised when the air surrounding you remained insulated, too distracted by the heat to think about the way Spencer was pushing your pants down.

While you regained your focus, you helped him discard your pants, kicking them off into the abyss of blankets that you were still cocooned in. “Are you still warm enough?” Spencer asked, dragging his knuckles up and down your bare waist as he looked up at you.

“Yeah,” you asked, the way he was so concentrated on keeping you warm and comfortable sent a flurry of butterflies to your stomach, making you all the more needier. “Spence,” you whispered, thinking about all of the layers of fabric that still separated the two of you.

He pulled you close to him, looking to the side before rolling you both over until he was on top of you. You quickly got to work, tugging at the hem of his sweater and relishing in every inch of exposed skin that touched yours. The inherent eroticism of skin-to-skin contact was beginning to drive you crazy, and Spencer noticed. He tossed his sweater off to the side, laughing lightly as you disappeared beneath the covers, finally pulling his flannel pajama pants off until it was up to him to get them off the rest of the way. Once you peeked your head back above the covers, you saw the lovesick grin on his face. “Hi,” he whispered, reaching a hand up to cup your face.

You reflected his smile back at him, “Hi,” you murmured, studying his face while he kept his every attention on you.

“You look so pretty like this,” he said, moving his hand down to grip your thigh, parting your legs around his waist while you kept your eyes on him.

Raising your eyebrows, your face warmed at his claim, “What? Beneath you?” You teased, grinning so broadly that you stuck your tongue beneath your teeth to try and tame the smile.

He didn’t falter. Instead, he tilted his head to the side and nodded, “Well, yes,” he admitted. “It gives me the opportunity to do things like this,” he said, dropping his hand down to your core, his eyes on yours as your mouth parted in anticipation. “It’s much easier to see your face while I touch you when you’re beneath me.”

As he spoke, his index finger slipped between your folds, causing your stomach to twist even as he was just barely grazing your clit with his knuckle. “And here I thought it was a control thing,” you challenged, your voice weaker than you’d originally hoped, practically breaking off into a whimper.

“That certainly doesn’t hurt,” he whispered, using his finger to spread your slick over your pussy, any sounds muffled by the blankets that still surrounded you. “But nothing will ever beat the look on your face when I slip my finger inside of you,” he teased, but his words didn’t reflect his actions, leaving you slightly disappointed.

You hummed, leaning your head back and checking on the fire before looking back up at Spencer, “You have an eidetic memory, don’t you have enough of me in your spank bank at this point?”

Spencer shook his head, watching you with an undying interest as he slipped his index finger into you tantalizingly slowly. Your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth parted, and a small, choked noise escaped your lips. “There it is, honey,” he cooed. “No memory will ever do that justice.”

Nodding, you forced yourself to open your eyes and meet his, studying the ring of gold surrounding his irises while his hand found a rhythm. Lifting your hips as his thumb applied pressure to your clit, you gasped at the sensation, your cunt clenching around his finger while his ministrations refused to cease. “Spence,” you breathed, “feels good.”

“Yeah?” He asked, taking your reassurance as a hint to add a second finger to his ministrations, “I like it when you let me take care of you, you spend too many nights alone in our bed for my liking.”

You lifted your hands up, just barely peeking over the blankets so you could place them on his shoulders, “I’ve never minded,” you reminded him. He always comes back to you, albeit in various states of disarray sometimes, but he always comes home.

He groaned, burying his face in your neck and leaving gentle kisses on the soft skin, never sucking long enough to leave a mark, but he paused once he reached your collarbone, “I mind,” he muttered against your skin, kissing down your chest until his lips were level with your breasts, taking the opportunity to take your nipple in his mouth.

As he sucked gently on the sensitive bud, you became all too aware of the familiar knot building in your lower belly, “Oh,” you gasped, your hips bucking up when he hummed against your chest in response, the vibrations going straight to your core, tightening the knot.

Spencer switched nipples, latching onto your other breast while he continued the pressure on your clit. A strangled moan made its way through your throat as the rubber band in your stomach snapped, and your orgasm rippled through you, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your entire body while Spencer continued to work you through it. He separated himself from your chest, leaving tender kisses on your jawline while you tried to remember how to breathe.

Your orgasm ebbed into a dull ache between your thighs, and you let your head fall back against the blankets, wincing when Spencer withdrew his fingers from your cunt. You caught your breath while Spencer adjusted himself, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking your juices from them—it made your walls clench around nothing. “Please,” you found yourself saying, looking up at him with wide, lust-blown eyes.

“Patience,” he cajoled, pinching your hip lightly as you squirmed beneath him. “Are you feeling okay?”

You nodded, taking your bottom lip between your teeth and trying to practice the virtuous trait, “I feel really good,” you assured him, your breath hitching when you felt his tip aligned with your entrance. “We should have sex on the floor more often,” you told him.

He smiled dropping a small kiss on your nose and deciding to adjust the blankets around you. Although, funny enough, you were beginning to get too warm. “You look gorgeous,” he told you, gently pressing into you, only part of the way.

Releasing a shuddering breath, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and met his shining eyes, which he accepted as an okay for him to slide further into you. You were sure you did not look gorgeous, in fact, you could feel your hair sticking to the back of his neck while he sheathed himself inside of you, giving you time to adjust and smoothing your hair out of your face in the interim—as if he had read your mind.

Your walls clenched around him, and he dropped his head in the crook of your neck, “You feel so good,” he muttered, lifting his hips from yours before pushing back in.

“Honey,” you whispered up at him before he found a rhythm, “Will you kiss me?”

You only saw his look of incredulity for a moment before his lips were on yours, you hummed contentedly into his mouth, your breathing faltering as he continued to thrust in and out of your cunt, finding a rhythm.

One of your hands dropped to the side of his neck, cupping his jaw while you moved your mouth on his, taking control of the kiss while he focused on fucking you. Separating your lips only to take a breath, your other hand was on his back, nails lightly grazing his otherwise unmarred skin as you searched for any semblance of stability.

 There had to have been something about the atmosphere, the various flames around you, or the heat of the blankets that covered you, that brought your orgasm on so quickly. You could already feel it building, and you gasped into Spencer as you felt it.

Using one hand to keep himself hovering just above you, he took his other hand and hooked it beneath your thigh, hoisting your leg up and opening your cunt even more to him. The change eased the pressure in your core, giving him more time to build up his own, but you had to separate your lips, “God, Spence,” you said, somewhere between overstimulated and overheated as your cunt clenched around his length.

He sighed, hot breath against your neck as he assured you, “I’ve got you.”

Just like that, you were a goner, head thrown back in complete bliss as your walls pulsed around Spencer’s cock, the sensation bringing on his own orgasm. You were trying to catch your breath while his cum spurted out inside of you. “Oh,” you sighed as he dropped your leg, letting your muscles stretch as Spencer’s hand massaged the inside of your thigh.

“Are you alright?” He murmured, dropping a soft kiss to your forehead.

You nodded, forcing yourself to open your eyes and look up at him, “Yeah,” you answered breathlessly, wincing slightly when he pulled out of you, more at the feeling of the fluid sliding out of you than anything else.

Spencer hummed, “Are you sure?” He brought a hand up, skimming his knuckles over your cheekbone, “It seems like something’s wrong.”

Shaking your head, you brought your hand up to hold his, leaving a soft kiss on his palm, “Promise,” you assured him. “I’m just warm, and I know I have to get up to go pee,” you told him, adjusting yourself on top of the rumpled blankets.

He gave you a lopsided smile in response, “What do you say you get up to pee, and I’ll get us some water while you’re gone?” He offered, bringing a smile to your face. “When we get back, we can watch a movie, your pick.”

Grinning up at him, you run a hand through his hair before ruffling it, “I say you’ve got yourself a deal.”

[cheer-nympho]

Steve was always being brushed off when he asked people to read things aloud for him,

In middle school his assigned partner for their ‘Frankenstein’ project gave him a scornful glare and ignored him when he had asked them to read the passages aloud.

In his sophomore year, he’d turned to ask Robin Buckley to read a old newspaper article about the ‘Wild West’ to him, because he couldn’t make it out through the fonts and weird words. She had fixed him with a cold look but before she could respond, Tammy was tapping his shoulder offering her help.

Then, while studying with Nancy and Barb at lunch, Steve had asked for help reading study cards. His own study cards. The paper was too bright and the squiggles too squiggly. Both of them had looked at him, them each other, clearly trying to decide if it was a joke.

Barb had scoffed under Nancys pointed look and gone back to her own notes. And while Nancy hadn’t read them out for him, she had handed him her own notes on some nice blue and yellow cards. It took him a while, but he could read them. Maybe she thought he hadn’t wrote any.

After that, he went a long time without asking anyone to read him things. Turns out that once you graduate, reading isn’t much of an issue. He’d gotten by just fine by looking at his Archie comics and ignoring the swirling lines of articles surrounding them.

He didn’t need to ask again until Scoops Ahoy. For a cheap, overly themed ice cream parlour there sure was a whole lot of memorising and reading to be done. He couldn’t see the charts properly, couldn’t really make out the dates on the tubs in the freezer. But every time he asked Robin for help, her frown would deepen and deepen until she just snapped. It hadn’t been that mean, really. Just an annoyed yell followed by accusations of being lazy, her not understanding how he managed to graduate, one last comment of him being a ‘bumbling idiot’.

After the Russians, she never said anything like that to him again. And she always did the inventory and lists for him.

It takes until summer, 1987, for anyone to read aloud to Steve. They were laying across Eddie’s new bed in comfortable silence.

Steve had his legs dangling off the edges as Eddie leant back against him, legs pointing up against the wall in a way he swore was actually comfortable. He had been reading a new book called “Spellfire” and he couldn’t seem to put it down.

“Eddie?”

“Hm?”

“What’s your book about?”

“This? Well I…Not sure it’s really your thing, man.”

“Maybe.” He goes back to reading. “I could see if it’s my thing?”

Eddie twists his head sideways to look up at Steve with a slightly confused face. “You wanna borrow it?”

“Was thinking you could read it.” He fiddled with the pocket of his jeans in a hopefully casual and not freaking out way. He didn’t look at Eddie as he waited, but after a few moments he responded.

“Sure. That’s fine, yeah. Want me to start over or go from here?”

“From there is good.”

And it was good, it was really really good. Steve hadn’t been able to read a book since middle school, hadn’t really tried again after that. But as he lay back and let Eddie’s voice wash over him he couldn’t help feeling that he’d been missing out.

Sure, it actually wasn’t really his thing, but the way Eddie read aloud painted such a clear picture that Steve enjoyed it anyway. The other would change his voice slightly for different characters and added emotions into his speaking. If it was a tense moment, he’d go slow and add gaps in just the right places. If it was fast paced he’d speed up and get more and more manic until the action cut off. He felt like he was reading along. Felt like he could see the pages in the book, but also the characters and the dungeon they were combining through.

So, for the first time Steve hadn’t been brushed off. He had probably found the only person he knew who could turn reading a book into a performance. One he would happily be seated for every night.

From then on, new books turned up at the trailer every week, Steve not far behind.

[venuslarkspur]

❤️Can I order a squid game fanfic of

You have them as your phone lock screen (anything similar) with the same characters as 'whos gonma marry the pink haired girl' plus recruiter its thats fine

OFC YOU CAN 💗

Having Them As Your Lockscreen

Summary: Squid Game characters with you have them as your lockscreen!

Characters: Thanos x Reader, Se-Mi x Reader, Kang Dae-Ho x Reader, Cho Hyun-Ju x Reader, Hwang Jun-Ho x Reader and The Recruiter x Reader.

Warnings: mostly All fluff. Squid game violence, the recruiters is sort of yanderish?

Note: I’m writing like 11 different fics no joke 😭 GENDER NEUTRAL READER! NOT PROOFREAD

Thanos

- His ego grows just a LIL bigger, loves that HIS girl/boy/whatever! Has him as their Lock Screen.

- Suddenly wants to match EVERYTHING, Tattoos, Nail vanish, piercings, even pfps if you bring it up.

- Would love if you dyed your hair as well, but probably won’t force you just recommended it to you <3

- Would change his Lockscreen to you and him as well, and on the angsty side of things we know Thanos struggled with suicide and you pulled him out a dark abyss, so he practically always wants to see your face.

- after matching with you he will randomly turn on his phone if he wants to just look at you.

- Suggests matching phone charms as well.

Se-Mi

- Jokes on you! you were her Lockscreen first. Ever since you guys hit the 1 year mark you’ve been her everything, her Lockscreen, her HomeScreen, even her password.

- You’ve nipped out to get snacks and she sees you’ve got a notification from a friend, she’s goes to check it just see you’ve got her and you as your Lockscreen 🫶 (she knows she’s found a keeper atp)

- If anyone dares bring it up or even make fun of you for your Lock screen , she’s very firmly telling them to shut the fuck up.

- Isn’t letting anyone talk to her partner that way 💕

- Will probably ask if you wanna get matching piercings as well.

Kang Dae-Ho

- A little part of him melts, is also wondering why tf he didn’t think of that first!

- Reaffirms himself and his security with you.

- Also changes his to be just of you.

- Adds little photo widgets of himself and you to his Lockscreen as well, he AWAYS wants to see you.

- He notices you’ve added your own widgets, like photos of the bouquet he bought you up, your holding hands and even photos of him in the early morning when you guys have just woke up.

Cho Hyun-Ju

- She’s smitten the first time she notices, knew she struck gold when she met you; someone who treats her with respect and love.

- She’s a little more clingy to you that day, not that you mind at all. Lots of hand rubbing and cheek kisses.

- You ask her “what’s wrong love?” And she replies with a simple “nothing, nothing at all.”

- Starts taking more photos of you both than usual because she wants to add them as widgets!

- Will ask if you wanna match home screens or phone charms next.

Hwang Jun-Ho

- The type of guy to point it out low-key, only because he’s found himself a keeper.

- Would especially love it if the picture of you two is from one the dates he’s taken you on.

- He was worried originally that you had fallen out of love with him, after he came back half dead with a bullet lodged in his shoulder. Knowing you still wanted to see him helped.

- I imagine he has a basic Lockscreen so when he asks to change his to you, you have to help him <3

- He just loves you.

The Recruiter

- Definitely another one who already had you as his Lockscreen, he wants to see you at ALL times.

- Would lose more of his marbles if he couldn’t see his partner.

- He lives a dangerous life so does worry for your safety sometimes if anyone were to ever find out your his spouse.

- Is very delighted to find out he’s yours Lockscreen as well! You’re the object of all his desires and you’re not going anywhere.

- Doesn’t dare brag to people, because he wants you to himself.

————————

I had to keep them all short because I knew damn well I’d get sidetracked 😭🫶

[phantasmicfish]

So I saw Dune Part 2 yesterday and I was initially super crushed because of the deviation from book canon but the more I think about it the more I sorta like it…

So without further ado here’s a list of stuff I liked about Dune Part 2:

- all the scenes initially of Paul growing closer to the Fremen. You can clearly see that they become friends, accept him as a Feydakin, that they’re laughing, joking, hanging out. (And contrast that to the end of the movie, where Paul has no more Fremen friends, only followers. In the book, this is echoed, where Paul recognizes that he has lost his friends to the Muad’Dib religion. Take book Stilgar, who truly embodies this… by the end of the book, Paul says: “I have seen a friend [Stilgar] become a worshipper.”

- giving Chani explicit rejection of Paul’s messiah status was an interesting choice. Chani’s main thought over part 2 is that they don’t need religion to save them, that through Fremen power and desert power, the Fremen can save themselves. She recognizes that this fanatical worship can be a vehicle to control and enslave her people, and I sorta wish we saw Paul lean into that more… that they found a way to stay together and ‘fight’ the prophecy together based on Chani’s ideals…

- also, I love how engrained this rejection of religion and prophecy is in her character. Book Chani takes no issue with her Fremen name, Sihaya (desert spring), but movie Chani hates it “because it’s part of some prophecy.” Later, we see that despite her rejection of prophecy and religion, that the prophecy does indeed come to pass— the tears of desert spring save Him aka, Chani saving Paul after he drinks The Water of Life. (Interesting how Jessica has to force Chani to save Paul using the Voice… another example of Jessica explicitly forcing Paul to become the messiah).

- adding more depth to Fremen culture— the South being the more religious fundamentalist tribes vs the North being more secular. Early on, the movie paints this immediate divide between the tribes of Fremen who accept Paul and Jessica versus those who treat them as offworlders (who murdered Jamis). In the books everyone accepts Paul and Jessica after Paul bests Jamis and Jessica quotes some scripture, but I think it makes more logical sense that there’d be friction over these two random offworlders coming in

- I love love loved Paul speaking at the meeting of the Fremen tribe leaders in the South. He fully accepts his messiah status, exercises his power of the Voice + his prescience as a way to command all the Fremen under his name

- I’m a big fan of omitting the two-year time skip, so with that I’m glad Leto II was skipped over entirely. I always felt that Leto II was an unnecessary character addition to the book, especially when he just dies and everyone sort of goes “oh well” and moves on, so I’m glad it’s omitted.

- another interesting choice was to paint Jessica as a straight up villain in comparison to the way her book counterpart was not. The movie Jessica we see here is seemingly corrupted by the Water of Life: she walks around talking to herself (Alia) and scheming Paul’s ascent to Lisan-Al Gaib. She knows about the Holy War, which is the very thing Paul is trying to prevent, yet she expresses no concern about bringing it to fruition. (Probably because Jessica knows it’s impossible to prevent, but still.) The very last line of the movie, where Alia asks Jessica what’s going on and Jessica says “The Holy War has begun” is just total villain in my mind— explicit acceptance of the Holy War, like it’s just another stepping stone in her plan. Plus, the fact that Paul has visions of Jessica leading him into this period of great starvation totally cements her as a villian.

- going off of that, I like that we see Jessica undergoing actual agony when she takes The Water of Life. When book Jessica and Paul take The Water of Life they accept it calmly and without obvious pain (book Jessica was sitting with her eyes closed, as if sleeping), so this physical reaction that Jessica has to the poison adds to the idea that The Water of Life did change her in a negative way.

- I feel like so far we’ve been introduced to Alia as just a weird talking fetus who’s been consorting with Jessica, so Paul’s vision where Alia says “I love you” really strikes home, that she really does care for Paul which we might not have understood otherwise

[prael]

Integrity

Newjeans Hanni x male reader smut

Happy Hanni Day!

Masterlist word count: 6,048 Kofi(donations/commissions)

It's a really long way to travel, and doubly so when you get fuck all from it. It's not like you were after anything ground-breaking—it's just a fashion show, after all.

It's about as close as you get to 'phoning it in' as a journalist. A few copy-and-paste interviews to accompany some snapshots of the season's latest designs. A couple hundred words, cut and run. Who wore what dress and who wore it the tightest. You could probably type most of it out on the plane without ever leaving your seat, and the public will still eat it up.

Somewhere over Austria, you mulled over that very fact.

Four days later, somewhere over Hungary, you're scrambling to do exactly that.

The whole thing is going fine. Fine, right up until it isn't. Maybe it's the sound of your fingers on the keys or the pocket of air that rocked the plane in that familiar gut-wrenching way, but her eyes are opening slowly. She's mouthing something, her fingers reaching around behind her, under the thin layer of blankets she is enveloped in.

"Are we there yet?" she murmurs, fishing her phone out of her blanket, sleepiness and all.

"Not even close," you say as flatly as you can, returning to a few words you'd been rolling over in your head for the better part of thirty minutes.

"What are you writing about?" She asks from down on her fully reclined seat that's moonlighting as a bed.

"You," you say with a small laugh, not looking away from your laptop.

"What about me?" Hanni's phone lights up, cutting through the darkness and finally making her face visible. The cabin is in full black-out since it's the middle of the night, and the dividers in first-class keep the two of you isolated.

"Your clothes, mostly. Generic fashion show stuff. Doesn't really matter. I put the names Gucci and Hanni Pham in an article and it sells itself. Instant clicks. S'like... two baits for one fish."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Probably is," you reply, knowing full well that there's little to be proud of in here. It's all surface level after all, since adding the things you know now might raise a few eyebrows. All the investigative journalism you've done over the past few days isn't exactly something you can write about. Though you can't deny it, an article about the beauty mark right below her waistline would probably send the masses into a frenzy.

You can hear her tapping on her screen a few more times, and with the silence in the first-class cabin at night, you find yourself focusing on those sounds more than your writing. Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Sigh. Tap. Tap.

"What is it?"

"Can't sleep," comes her whispered reply as she pushes herself up with that strange grunt you often hear her make, propping her pillow against the bulkhead and stretching out.

"Drugs not working?"

She shakes her head. "Not doing much."

"If my typing is too loud I can stop—"

"No, you focus. I'll find something to keep myself distracted." She locks her phone again and disappears into the darkness again, her soft breathing almost inaudible. Minutes go by. You manage a full two paragraphs before hearing her moving in the darkness again.

"Hanni?"

"Shh."

The slow shifting goes on for another few seconds, and in the darkness, you can make out the movement of her blanket as she slides off the chair down to your feet. What hits you next is her fingers reaching into your waistband.

"Hann—"

"Quiet," she whispers back. You quickly pick up the laptop from resting on your lap before her attempts to undress you can send it crashing to the floor. You're quick to place it on her seat and close its cover, out of her reach just in time before she slides your pants down.

She doesn't say anything, just lets you lay there in silence as her fingers guide you into her mouth. It is almost unnerving how used to it you have become in such a short time—how easy it has become for you, a supposed professional, to mix business and pleasure to this degree.

Hanni goes on unperturbed, wetting you between plump lips that trail up and down your length.

There is nothing you can do at this point but give in and just throw your head back. You grow harder under her touch and her tongue and judging by the way she grows more aggressive with her movements, Hanni is starting to enjoy herself as well. You can't quite make out her face, but you already know the look she's wearing. Can practically see it in your mind's eye; the look of wide-eyed desire as she takes you further in, lips rounding out over teeth as she welcomes every inch you give her until her cheeks cave in from sucking.

It's fucking burned into your brain. You've seen it so much, among so many other filthy expressions, you aren't sure if you could ever forget it.

Your hand reaches down blindly in the darkness until it finds the back of her head. The mere fact that the both of you are sitting on this plane hundreds of miles above the ground is instantly forgotten, fading out from consciousness and sense as she holds on, massaging your balls with one hand.

You let yourself lay there like this, fingers tangled in her hair, cock buried in her mouth. The thought of pulling her up and reciprocating is never far from your mind, but her grip on your hips is certain. This is all her right now. She's in charge.

She does not lack the pace to prove it.

Her head bobs up and down in the dark, tongue guiding you further in with every motion, lips slipping further down along your shaft, saliva pooling at your base. Her humming is growing—you can't hear it, but you can feel it. It resonates all the way through you, down the aching hardness she keeps stroking with her tongue, and even further to fuel that tension building in your lower stomach.

"Holy fuck," you curse under your breath, voice catching in your throat, lost in the motion of the plane's droning vibrations and her eager motions.

She pops you from her mouth, stroking your cock with a twist of a wrist and something she is doing with her tongue at the tip. As your eyes begin to adjust, you can see that spit has mixed with precum, dribbling down and over the back of her knuckles. It's lewd and over the top and everything that Hanni Pham, an innocent idol, pretends not to be.

"What? You want me to stop?"

"Fuck no," you whisper back, heart pumping in your ears. The feeling of her strokes, suddenly more controlled and tense without the benefit of her mouth is as jarring as it is fleeting.

"Didn't think so." With that, she brings her head back down to take you in her mouth again, hot breaths hitting the spit-slick surface of your dick. It's dirty and clumsy, messy and wet, and each time she swallows you, your entire body shudders with pleasure, coiling every muscle and feeling it climb upward until your stomach goes tight and you find yourself pushing her down, further, faster, until she is sucking what little air she has.

You are wound tight. Agonising, torturous tension pulling ever outward from your centre with each motion she makes. Every twitch of her tongue—fuck, does she work her tongue—spurs some sort of response down to the very tips of your toes.

It's a complete relapse. Back to four days ago, in the back of the car, with nothing but a divider between you and the driver. Cumming inside Hanni's pretty mouth and feeling her swallow every bit, then going on like nothing happened.

-

There's usually not a lot of enthusiasm for an interview. You have spent the whole morning being shrugged off by star after star after star. To them, they're there to look pretty. To show face and represent their brands. Answers are pre-written garbage to be regurgitated over and over like everyone is sharing the same stupid fucking tongue.

Then there's little miss backless-top. Denim jeans and a shirt with frills that barely keeps her modesty. Big, brown eyes and a smile that fills her whole face. Add her vibrance and energy and she really gets your journalistic gears turning. There's something fresh about her. How when you approach her, she engages you in a conversation like you're an actual person and not just some cardboard cut-out of a journalist.

Hanni Pham knows her shit. It's part of the training. She handles media with all the grace of someone born to do it and the energy of someone who loves it. So not only does she give you answers there and then, but when you make the request to sit down with her later and get all you need to do a whole feature on her, she's quickly turning to the powers that be to make it happen.

She should have been a ten-minute addendum. An hourglass figure strutting and posing and laughing her pretty little ass off for cameras for the adoring public. Instead, Hanni fucking Pham, you've got her. For hours.

So you sit down in a quiet little room you managed to reserve with the company card, and she's right across from you, with two glasses of water and a notepad on a table in an otherwise empty room.

"Is this going to be recorded?" She asks first, though looks sceptical and unprepared.

"Normally, yes. But I would prefer us to be a little more comfortable. I'm going to take notes, that's all."

"I like that." She claps, like there's an imaginary audience watching, even if you're the only one there. "So, what are we covering?"

"Everything. To start," you shift a little closer to the table. "Think of this being more about you rather than what you're wearing."

She gives you a little bit of a quizzical look.

"I know. Fashion show. Just, work with me here. The Gucci brand gets the clicks, I want to introduce those clickers to the girl wearing the clothes."

Hanni nods, her eyes light up a little and you can't help but notice how she is really fucking adorable. Up close, she's even prettier. It throws you off for a second as you bring up the notepad. The blank pages stare up at you—mock you. Where do you even begin?

"We met briefly earlier, and you're standing alongside stars from many industries and the lead designer at Gucci."

"Yes," she smiles politely. "That was exciting. Kind of surreal, really."

"So what does it take to be who you are? A girl of Vietnamese blood, born in Melbourne, working in South Korea and travelling to Europe for fashion shows?"

"Uhm, like, honestly?" She shifts in her seat. "Really a lot of hard work. Endless and stressful and never-ending hard work. You know? From singing and dancing, to the language lessons and the dieting and working out. It needs hard work and, well, a lot of luck too."

"You make your own luck." You nod, before jotting down into your notepad.

She tilts her head in response. "I suppose so. That's very quotable if you want. I made my own luck by working hard."

"And yet you're still young, what, turning twenty?"

"Just." Hanni nods.

"Barely twenty and making waves. Do you still feel like you have so much more to give?"

"Oh fuck yeah," she quickly confirms. "Wait, don't write that down."

"Oh... fuck... yeah." You sound out the words as you pretend to write them in the notepad.

"Hey!" Hanni laughs, and it's beautiful. It fills the room and just makes her glow with warmth. "Cut me some slack."

"Alright. Alright. So is this what you envisioned? Being twenty and being here?"

"You mean in this room with you?"

You laugh too. The jokes come so naturally to her.

"I'm happy where I am, it really was always my dream."

"To be in this room with me?"

"Fuck you," she laughs. "But, in a way, yes. I wouldn't be here if I didn't achieve my dream, would I?"

"That's very true. Then what is next for you?"

"There's no end goal." Hanni tilts her head. You follow her hand as it passes through her hair. She's studying you just like you are studying her. "I don't think I'll ever sit back and say 'that's enough.' That's not who I am."

"Ambitious. The question now is what are you chasing?"

"Is that you asking or the article?"

"Both," you say with a wry smile.

"For the article: I want to tour the world, keep improving and working hard. Release more music."

You scribble down a few notes and then click the top of the pen. "And off the record?"

"To spend a little more time focusing on myself. Time is fleeting. I should try and enjoy it while it lasts."

"You're young, pretty and successful. You have plenty of opportunity to do just that."

"Is that flirting?" she jokes, cocking her brow with a seductive smile.

"I'm just stating facts. I'm married to the truth." You gesture to your notepad. "So let's get back on the record, shall we?"

-

One delayed layover later and you're back in the air, and after your brief break to let Hanni drain you into her throat, you managed to get back to finishing up the article, so for the final stretch, the two of you are lying together in one of the first-class beds, and the conversation kept going.

"How are you single?" she's asking, while you're spooning her.

"Mostly because of my job. Definitely the baggage and constant travelling. Takes a special woman to not hate this."

"Sounds like idol life. I know so many idols who try to date but you just never have the time to see each other. We tour constantly and are always on the road. A long day of practising and comeback planning and comeback filming and comeback rehearsing, and more hours of sleep and eating to prep for the next comeback, you're always too exhausted."

"Such a shame." You lower the blanket that's covering her bare chest. Her breasts fill your palm as you caress them, gently. "A pretty thing like you deserves so much better than empty hotel rooms."

"Flirt," she playfully chastises, pressing her ass to your crotch before sliding forward to give you some friction, grinning at you over her shoulder. "These past few days, all the sex, I'd be lying if I said I couldn't get used to this."

It's a sentiment so heavily shared, that even now you're thinking about how easy it would be to pin her onto her back and mount her. It isn't easy to shake the thought when her body is practically inviting you inside her.

You're asking instead, still exploring her naked form, "How do you overcome the needs?"

"Other ways..." Hanni replies through closed eyes, her cheeks blushing. "Toys. Helps and hurts. They're no real substitute."

You run your hand over her toned stomach, heading between her thighs and gently prying them open. And there she is. Right fucking there, wet and waiting for you. Your finger glides over her lips and runs the full length of her, and she strains to contain a gentle moan. The problem is, Hanni is really fucking loud, and the walls of this pod are paper thin.

"I want you again," she whispers, and it's a real fucking dilemma.

She guides your cock through the folds of her pussy and leans back her head as she takes it. Fuck, it feels so good being back inside her. Wet and tight and made to grip. A small whimper escapes her when you are in deep, which she tries to swallow.

"You gotta be quiet," you tell her, while all but refusing to move inside her.

"I can be quiet," she grinds against you, but you're not convinced, and with a firm grasp of her jaw, you pull her closer.

"Can you?" you speak under her ear. "Can the oh-so-talented Hanni Pham control herself?"

She lets out another trembling little sound of pleasure while pushing herself onto your shaft. "I think so. All I know is you need to—yeah, right there. Yes." She closes her eyes and tries to stifle that deep groan of enjoyment.

You hush her before it gets too loud with a hand over her mouth. Tentatively, you begin moving, an aching slow journey backward and forward. As tight as her cunt is around your dick, the movement becomes easy. Dragging more pleasure from both of you and as she rolls her hips again, grinding against the motion, the whimpering returns.

"Hanni," you scold gently, pushing further into her with each stroke. "Shhh."

She mouths an 'I can't' into your hand which elicits a laugh from you and turns a smirk into a smile. You're rutting against her ass, savouring the feeling of your hips hitting her soft flesh. Ample curves along with a narrow waist begging you to embrace her. A pretty little thing taking all your cock and urging you on. It's hard not to go harder. "Need you."

"Careful what you wish for," you whisper as she tries to lean back her head in bliss.

Her tongue brushes your knuckles, and the soft sweep feels like a warm, wet invitation to probe further. A few seconds of uncertainty follows, and then her mouth closes around the tips of your fingers and starts to suck. Sharing the same excitement that has gotten the better of you the past few days of endless debauchery.

You sink your fingers deeper. She sucks harder, her moans stifled behind her pursed lips. Anywhere but here and you would throw her face down on the mattress, fuck her into a state of bliss. Make her beg for you and claw the bedsheets. Such an innocent girl, a girl who should have stayed wrapped in silk and lace, but who demands you take her, just a moment longer, just a bit rougher, and how can you refuse a beauty like that?

Just as Hanni settles and relaxes, her body is dragged into tense peaks of delight. Tiny gasps leak from around your fingers as you thrust deeper. She chokes as she orgasms, digging her nails into the arm that is holding her close, her face going bright pink. Sweat on her temples, on her chest. An earthly aroma of wet skin and hot breaths. She swears and curses the pleasure as you pump your orgasm between her thighs.

You fill her. For a while, you are one, grinding together in mutual fulfilment, breathing heavily and lost in your actions. The mess you're making runs from her sweet cunt, down her thigh, onto the bed.

The rush leaves the both of you exhausted. Hanni does nothing to resist you pulling out and emptying the last few drops over her ass. It is all over as quick as it began. It comes with a strange realisation of how natural it all feels to cum inside Hanni Pham.

-

It's not often that someone you interview not only takes your card, but doesn't immediately throw it away, and actually uses the number on there. You're in the back of a cab when it rings. Today's show has just about finished and while you didn't quite manage to snag another interview like the one you did with Hanni, it has been a good day.

"Did you get enough to write about?" is the first question she asks when you answer.

"I got a few bits here and there. Some surface-level stuff from others, but you gave me the marquee piece. I'll fluff up what I have with the spec sheets released and I'm sure it'll be a nice little exclusive."

"That makes me sound important," she giggles.

"You're a fucking celebrity, of course you are important."

"No need to swear."

"Apologies." There's a momentary pause. You let it linger on the call and soon enough, Hanni's laugh fills the silence.

"I'm kidding. Keep up that energy,"

"So, why are you calling? Usually, when I get a call it's to recant some statement or explain a misquote. Did I make a mess of something?"

"Well, not yet. But I have some ideas."

"Ideas?" You repeat, brows raising.

"Where are you now?" she asks, and for a moment you wonder if you shouldn't be answering.

"Taxi. Headed back to the place I'm staying."

"Where are you staying?" It's a strange question for her to ask, you think. Or maybe, it's not strange at all, but timing and circumstance have you considering the way it sounds.

"A hotel."

"Look to your right," she says, making a confusing request, but you look. Of course, you do. Outside the window, in the next lane over, stuck in the very same traffic as you are, is a familiar face. She gives you the widest grin, pressing the phone to her ear.

"Are you following me?" you joke.

"Do you want me to?" There's something playful in her voice, an attempt at seduction that's not exactly subtle.

"Hanni, what are—"

"Just answer the question," she interrupts.

And that's it. There's no reason to evade the truth. Lying to yourself gets no one anywhere. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Good," she murmurs, "you know, I'm still wearing the same outfit as I was at the event. These jeans are getting really uncomfortable." She pulls the phone away from her ear for a second and you hear her call out, "Driver? See that taxi on our left? Follow it, please. And can I get some privacy back here?"

There are some distant sounds from the other side of the phone. An affirmation of orders. Then her voice is right back with you.

"As I was saying, these jeans are really uncomfortable."

"Fashion can hurt," you say flatly.

"You're supposed to tell me to take them off or something. You're not very good at this are you?"

"I didn't realise 'this' is what we were doing." You've developed a stupid fucking smile, even if it's going unseen.

"Hmm, it can be." There is a moment of quiet as if she's thinking. "Hold on a second," Hanni says. There are some vague sounds you can't make out before she comes back to the phone. "Got bored of waiting. Now, keep talking will you? I like the sound of your voice."

"Hanni, what—"

"Just keep talking. Tell me what you think of me." She can't see it, but the look of confusion must be shining bright on your face. At a loss, and under duress, you speak your mind.

"Well, you seem nice." It's a weak first effort. "Very funny, a little confident. You must know you're pretty. Young, but driven." The words you mumble are stilted, but telling the truth.

"Really. You think I'm pretty?"

"Yeah."

"Not sexy?"

"Hanni, you're fucking sexy."

"Thanks," her laugh is like bells, ringing through the car. "That's better. What did you think of my outfit?"

"Daring. Not often do I see an idol go completely backless. Risky."

"Sometimes a risk is worth taking."

"Seems so."

"Tell me more. Tell me what was the part you liked the most?" Her voice drops from that relaxed confidence to a pitch that has your head buzzing with possibility.

"Nice waist. Really looked good with the way those jeans hugged your hips."

There's a long, heavy breath from the other end of the line. Something rustling and then a deep gasp from Hanni.

"What's happening?"

"Nothing. Keep talking. Describe me to me." Her voice is fraught with need, a small tremble in each word.

"Okay." That was permission, or demand, whichever is. You swallow before continuing. "Backless was a good choice. Your bare skin looks great. I'm sure those pictures are going viral already. Betting they are all over the web, all over people's phones."

"Are we close to your hotel?" Hanni strains out the question as if it were hard to say, every syllable wrought in pain.

"Close."

"Good, are you excited?"

"To?"

"See more of my bare skin."

Fuck. The image floods your mind like a dam breaking. Suddenly, she's right there, unclothed and naked and spread open. Suddenly, she's right there, moaning in pleasure, your cock lodged deep inside her.

"Yes," you groan into the phone. It's a painful admission. "Really, Hanni. Really fucking excited."

"So tell me, what are you excited to see?"

"Your ass. Love the way you wore the jeans just a little too tight. Really framed it."

She whispers, "That's all? Anything else, anything special you wanted to see?"

"Your breasts. Like what the top does. Would like to pull it down and play with those breasts." This whole thing is obscene. You're shamelessly spilling your desire to a girl you just met and she's loving every second of it.

Another soft gasp is heard on the call. It's more than that, it's her panting, short snatches of breath as her little gasps become regular, heated and urgent. "And then what?"

"That's a surprise. We're here." The cab pulls up and her car pulls in behind you.

"Room number?"

"Oh-one-two-two," you say, handing over cash to pay the driver and stepping out. "See you there."

-

It's deep into the night now, and her back is pressed against the wall as you're kissing down her neck. For a young woman who looks ever so innocent, you're quickly learning the taste of her body could have the alcohol industry aflame. She's intoxicating and you're addicted. Lips sucking, teeth pressing lightly against tender flesh.

She told you to not wear a condom, not this time. She described your first load as a waste, a sinful injustice after all the things she had done to wring it from you. So now you're back inside her, thinking only of how you're going to decorate her this time, about the moment you can't hold back any longer and cum, uninhibited, spewing mess over her delicate, flawless little body.

So you're just fucking nailing Hanni against the wall, her leg pulled up and knee hooking around your elbow. Holding her there, pounding her cunt the best you possibly can. Her hands scratch deep lines into your back, and her fingernails leave dull aches along your spine. There's something primal in the way she's urging you to fuck her harder, stronger, faster. She wants all of you, just like you want all of her.

You lift her other leg and hold her there, folded against the drywall. The steady pounding begins to churn her insides, to break her fragile body to the rhythm. She's mewling a mixture of sounds in your ear. Begging. Incoherent sounds of need. Then you feel her cunt clenching and tightening, a sudden strength to the grip she has on your shaft.

Hanni screams your name, howling it at the ceiling and the walls while you drive her ever deeper through an orgasm that's torn apart her expression. Utter beauty, sheer excellence. Her quivering pleasure comes with warmth between the two of you. She cums so hard that she goes limp in your arms. Your legs really begin to strain as you pump her full of cock, and her lips find yours again.

Your kisses are savage, the gnashing of teeth and the crush of lips. She's asking for more. Demanding more.

So you throw her to the bed, turning her over and she instinctively drags herself to her knees. Her palms run to the edge of the bed, clawing the blankets as you climb behind her.

"Do you like my ass?" She breathes. Your grip finds the firm flesh with purpose.

"Love your ass," you mutter, taking a hold and angling her towards you.

"Then fuck me." Hanni arches deep, pushing her soft ass in the air and pressing her tits against the mattress. She backs right up to you, begging to be fucked, once more.

The penetration is perfect. Balls deep inside this horny little girl, grabbing a fistful of her hair and using it as leverage. It's hard, it's fast, it's a brutal rut. A sweaty, wet fuck driven by nothing but raw need. She's too wet, too accommodating, clapping herself against your pelvis, meeting your every thrust.

It's not the time to think. Simply let instinct take over. Leaning into it and fucking her.

More words spill from her mouth. More dirty, lewd praises that have your balls aching. It won't be long now. Every muscle, straining with effort, pulls taut. It's such a fucking trip. This once innocent-looking person sucking the life right from the core of your being, bending over for you to force a hand along her spine and bend her further.

"Cum on me," she whimpers again and again. Over and over. She's pleading with you. "Please, cum on me. On my back. Cover me."

There's no further thought, no plan, no point of focus. Everything narrows down to the slick friction around your shaft, and your stomach starting to become strained from the endless effort. To how her ass shakes as your fuck yourself to the edge and how she cranes her neck to watch you.

At the very last moment, you draw out of her and jerk yourself, quick and urgent motions of your wrist. Hanni's knees give way and she lies flat, looking back and watching you as you start to cover her.

The first spurts land high, just beneath her hair. They collect and pool before forming and dripping forward along her shoulder blades. The next spreads across her shoulders. A thin coating that has you shiver as it lands. It goes on and on until you're slathering her in thick lines and ropes.

Something about the sight is so fitting, so delectable, as she lays there and writhes with need, adoring the feeling of being bathed in your lust.

Her expression is an aphrodisiac as she cries out in ecstasy. Her tongue runs across her lips, and then she lets out a soft lass before crashing her face into the soft bedsheets with a moan. Your fist is still pumping rope after rope of cum across her until every muscle feels drained, and you manage to collapse beside her on the bed. You trace a finger across her smooth, plump ass as you catch your breath.

"This is the life," Hanni gasps. "If I could just have endless sex, the world would be a far happier place."

-

You could have been forgiven for thinking it would be a one-off. Just one night of wild sex together before going your separate ways and never speaking again. A nice memory of a beautiful girl to always sit fondly at the back of your mind.

But the very next night, you're in her hotel bathroom. Sharing a bath together, her back pressed flush to your front. You can't fucking resist running a hand between her thighs, working gently over her cunt to hear the wonderful noises she makes.

"Please," she whispers over and over, grinding against your touch.

Ordinarily, you might tease her, and have her beg a little more, but there's nothing more enthralling than the sounds and sights of Hanni's face when she cums. So instead, you're knuckle deep with two fingers and curling them into her cunt, hitting that magic spot just a little more, faster and faster.

On the brink of her second orgasm in ten minutes, Hanni draws a noisy, shuddering breath, the exhalation quickly becoming a sharp, high-pitched wail that fills the bathroom, her eyes glaze as she climaxes. "Fuck. I—that's—more." Her head falls backwards and rests on your shoulder, "yeah, more."

Hanni's petite frame writhes in orgasm. Back arched, panting breaths quickly turning to gasps for air. Eyes flutter and roll backwards before shutting entirely. Every muscle in her tight cunt grips your fingers as waves of pleasure pour from deep inside. She grinds on you, riding the sensation of your touch through the spasms until they finally slow.

"You're so fucking cute when you cum," you kiss her cheek.

It's the compliment that has her rising from the water, she stands in front of you, her wet ass and thighs dripping as she turns toward you. "Me? Cute?" She smirks, lowering herself onto your thighs, resting your cock against her pussy. "Am I really?"

"Cutest fucking thing."

She guides your cock to her wet pussy, sinking down and slowly filling herself, the both of you making a whimper at the sensation. She's in no rush, though. She prefers slow, she favours long, lingering motions where you're all the way inside her and stay there for just a few moments before climbing once more.

Her rhythm has you melting back against the bath. Long, even strokes have her ass lifting and sinking, and she rolls her hips so elegantly that it's natural to reach for her waist and run your hands along her curves.

"I hope you don't think I'm easy," Hanni whispers, her fingers grabbing the hair on the back of your head, locking her hot body against yours, keeping you close, wrapping around you. "But I'm twenty and sex-deprived, so deal with it."

"You're allowed to enjoy sex. Nothing wrong with that," you answer through closed eyes, focusing only on the heat, the skin, the feeling of your cock rubbing through her.

With a mischievous chuckle, she rests her weight on you. Chest to chest, nose against nose.

"Careful," she whispers, her voice fluttering in between soft sighs of excitement. "I could get used to having a man around. Someone willing to get me off, over and over again. You might be stuck with me. Wouldn't that be scandalous? A reporter who's secretly fucking a star like me?"

That alluring, seductive voice makes your body tense. Her kiss threatens to undo you right then and there. She's riding you harder now, bouncing her ass in your lap. Driving the pleasure, the friction, harder and deeper.

"I have a confession to make," you speak with heavy breaths, trying to restrain yourself. "I think I could get used to this. Every day. If I could."

"It's a deal then. How about we celebrate by letting you blow a load inside me? Would you like that?" She nibbles at your earlobe, giggling as she sucks it between her lips. "How good would it feel to feel your hot, thick cum slide all the way up inside me?"

"So fucking good."

"And maybe tomorrow I'll keep you inside me and let you fill me all over again, and maybe I'll do the same the day after." There's a devilish smile across her face as she continues, "I'll ride you again and again and again..."

She keeps repeating it, the word stamped into your head over and over and each time she says it, she drives her hips down into you. Hard. The water ripples. Her ass slaps the tops of your thighs. It's a relentless rhythm, an insistent grind, a desperate desire for more.

"You're filthy," you tell her as you take a firm grip on her ass, her flesh filling your grasp and the muscles rippling through her skin as she moves.

"Maybe. Maybe I am, and maybe you like it." She laughs. A sound as sweet as honey.

"You know I do."

"Then show me how much. Fill me. Let it go."

That's all you need, just her words and the way she fucks you. She's the one doing all the work, and it's all the reason you need to relax and let the bliss consume you.

Hanni is kissing you when it hits. She swallows your groans of release, sucking them into her lungs. Her hands press down into your shoulders, nails sinking deep into your skin.

She doesn't stop moving, not once. Keeps grinding. She maintains the pace until you can't take any more. Until there's nothing left. Only then does she ease her motion, settling onto your lap, keeping you deep in her.

"That was amazing," she sighs.

"Fucking was."

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° every move is magic

♡ a/n — this is probably one of the longest things i've written lol. it's only bc it's yuki i swear.

♡ word count — 2.3k

♡ content — yukimiya kenyu x fem! reader, fem! reader, model! reader, childhood best friends, friends to lovers, mutual pining, goes from like kindergarten all the way to the u-20 game, mentions of yuki modeling, decided reader needed to be a model too, reader is shy and reserved as a kid, i made yukimiya one of those gremlin kids

♡ synopsis — Even if the world could never keep up with Yukimiya Kenyu, you’d always be grateful that he’d chosen to stay by your side.

The first time you met Yukimiya Kenyu, you were sitting on the edge of the playground, quietly watching the other kids play. You didn’t join them—not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t figure out how. It was easier to sit by yourself, even if it meant being lonely.

Then he appeared, a blur of energy and determination. While the other kids were too slow to keep up with him, Yukimiya’s restless nature had finally found something that caught his attention: you.

“Why aren’t you playing?” he asked, tilting his head as if the idea was incomprehensible.

You shrugged, unsure what to say other than, “I don’t know how to play the games they’re playing.”

He blinked at you, his head tilting like he was trying to figure you out. “That’s dumb.”

Your eyes widened at his bluntness, and he quickly added, “Not you! The games. They’re boring. Wanna play something else?”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Something fun,” he said with a grin. “We’ll figure it out.”

He didn’t wait for you to answer, instead grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the sandbox. From then on, he never left your side. While he was still a whirlwind of energy, he always made sure to include you, even if it meant slowing down.

“You’re my best friend now, okay?” he declared one afternoon after you’d spent hours building an intricate sandcastle together.

“Okay,” you agreed, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

From that moment on, Yukimiya became your shadow, and you became his anchor. While he zoomed around the playground like a whirlwind, he always circled back to you. And when you sat quietly coloring, he sat next to you, fidgeting but staying put.

He slowed down for you.

Yukimiya’s talent for soccer became apparent early on. By the time you reached the third grade, he was already being called a prodigy. Coaches marveled at his footwork, his speed, his ability to outplay anyone who dared to challenge him.

You watched every game from the sidelines, cheering louder than anyone else. He always made sure to find you in the crowd afterward, his grin wide as he asked, “Did you see that? Did you see how I scored?”

“You were amazing, Yuki,” you’d say every time, and he’d beam like your words mattered more than anyone else’s.

But as his talent grew, your insecurities began to as well. You weren’t particularly athletic, or artistic, or academically gifted. While Yukimiya excelled at everything he tried, you felt like you were just… there.

You were proud of him, of course, but a small part of you always felt like you were standing in his shadow. Everyone noticed him. Everyone praised him. Meanwhile, you were… you.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” Yukimiya said one day, lying flat on the grass beside you after practice. His bangs stuck to his forehead, sweat glistening under the sun. “What is it?”

Your mother had always said that Yukimiya had "great emotional intelligence" for a 3rd grader.

You didn't know what that meant, but you thought so too.

You hesitated before mumbling, “I don’t think I’ll ever be as good at something as you are at soccer.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, frowning. “That’s stupid. You're good at being my best friend." The way he said it, with so much conviction would've made you laugh if his face didn't look so serious.

"You don’t have to be ‘good’ at anything for me to like having you around.” He mumbled, just a quick little add on.

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache in a way you didn’t understand.

By the time you both entered middle school, Yukimiya’s popularity had skyrocketed. Girls giggled and blushed whenever he walked by, and boys challenged him to soccer matches, hoping to prove themselves.

At first, it didn’t bother you. Yukimiya was still the same boy who ran to your side after every game, who walked you home even when he was exhausted, who always made time for you no matter how busy he was.

But then the love letters started.

“Another one?” you asked one afternoon as he stuffed a folded note into his bag.

“Yeah,” he said nonchalantly, not even bothering to read it.

“Don’t you care what they say?”

“Not really.”

You frowned, not understanding how he could be so unaffected. “What if it’s someone you like?”

“Nah. I don’t feel that way about anyone.” He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Besides, why would I need another girl when I already have you?”

The casual way he said it made your heart skip a beat, but you brushed it off as a joke. He couldn’t possibly mean it… could he?

No. You were best friends, he just didn't need another girl in his life right now. You were only in middle school, dating was the last of your worries.

But what would happen when a girl he did like gave him a letter? What would happen to you?

Your friendship with Yukimiya had always been effortless. He was the first person you turned to for help with anything—homework, outfit choices, or just figuring out life’s little mysteries. And he was the same with you.

You’d spent countless afternoons in his room, sprawled out on his bed while he juggled a soccer ball, the steady rhythm of it hitting the wall almost comforting.

This time was no different. You’d come over for a “study session,” but neither of you had cracked open a textbook. Yukimiya was sitting on the floor, bouncing the ball off the wall with practiced ease, while you lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Yuki,” you said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Yeah?” he replied, not looking up from his game.

“Do you think we stop each other from learning?”

The ball thudded against the wall again before he caught it, turning to look at you with a confused smile. “What do you mean? You’re here for a study session, silly.”

“No, not that,” you said, sitting up and hugging your knees to your chest. “I mean… learning how to kiss someone. Or how to go on dates. Stuff like that.”

His smile faltered, and he stared at you, the soccer ball forgotten in his hands. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice soft. “It’s just… we’re always together. And I love that, I do. But what if we’re keeping each other from… I don’t know, growing up or something?”

Yukimiya’s brows furrowed as he thought about your words. He stood, tossing the ball onto his desk and sitting beside you on the bed. “So… you want to learn how to kiss someone?”

“I guess,” you said, feeling your face heat up. “Don’t you?”

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands. “I’ve thought about it,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ve never… y’know…”

You nodded, the awkward silence stretching between you. And then, to your surprise, Yukimiya looked up at you with a small, nervous smile.

“Maybe… we could help each other,” he suggested, his voice trembling slightly.

Your breath caught in your throat. “You mean…”

“We’re best friends, right?” he said quickly, as if trying to convince himself as much as you. “It’s not weird if it’s just to… learn. Right?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. But the way he looked at you—hopeful, nervous, and maybe a little excited—made you nod. “Okay,” you whispered.

His hand reached for yours, his palm warm and slightly clammy, if he was any other guy, you'd have been grossed out. But he was Yuki, your Yuki, nothing about him was gross.

He leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away. But you didn’t. When his lips finally pressed against yours, it was soft and tentative, like he was afraid of doing it wrong.

It didn’t take long for the awkwardness to melt away. What started as a simple kiss turned into something deeper, something neither of you had planned.

His hands found your waist, yours tangled in his hair, and before you knew it, the lines between friendship and something more had blurred entirely.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your cheeks flushed. Yukimiya looked at you with wide eyes, his glasses slightly fogged, his lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

“Did we just…” you began, trailing off.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely audible.

Neither of you knew what to say after that, so you didn’t say anything at all. Instead, you lay back on his bed, your hands still intertwined as the silence settled over you like a blanket.

Both you and Yukimiya were scouted for modeling—him for his sharp, athletic looks, and you for your natural, understated charm. And maybe because Yukimiya dragged you to every meeting because he "couldn't do it alone."

He could, by the way, but he didn't want to be without you longer than neccessary.

But you were always so thankful to him, the industry was intimidating, but having him by your side made it bearable.

“You’ve got crumbs,” Yukimiya teased one morning during a shoot, brushing powdered sugar off your cheek from the donut you’d been eating.

“You’re one to talk,” you shot back, wiping coffee foam from his lip. Lips you'd kissed far too often to be considered 'just friends' anymore...but all you were doing was helping each other release energy.

It was Yuki, your Yuki, nothing was weird whenever you were with him.

The photographer snapped a picture of you two mid-laugh, and it became one of your favorite memories—a candid moment that felt more real than anything else.

When Yukimiya was invited to Blue Lock, you encouraged him to go, even though the thought of being apart made your chest ache.

“Don’t forget about me,” you joked, forcing a smile as you handed him his bus ticket.

“Never,” he promised, his voice low and serious.

You couldn't put a finger on why your heart was screaming at you to make him stay when he leaned down to give you one last kiss while your parents backs were turned.

If this wasn't his dream, maybe you would have.

Leaving for Blue Lock was the hardest decision Yukimiya ever made. He hated the thought of being away from you, but he knew he had to take the chance if he wanted to achieve his dream.

He worked tirelessly, determined to prove himself and earn his way back to the real world—not for glory, but so he could call you.

The day he scored enough goals to get his phone back, the first thing he did was call you.

“Yuki?” Your voice on the other end of the line made his heart ache with relief.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you admitted, your voice thick with emotion.

His teammates teased him mercilessly when they saw his lock screen: a picture of the two of you in matching robes, laughing over coffee and donuts.

“Who’s that?” Karasu asked, leaning over his shoulder.

“My best friend,” Yukimiya replied, his tone too soft for the teasing that followed.

“Just a ‘best friend,’ huh?” Karasu smirked. “Sure doesn’t look that way to me.”

He ignored the crow-like boy the rest of the night, but the truth was, Karasu was right. You weren’t just his best friend. You were his everything.

The roar of the crowd still echoed in the stadium as Yukimiya scanned the field, his gaze darting between his teammates and the celebrating fans. But then he spotted you. Standing at the edge of the field, looking up at him with that same smile he’d seen a thousand times before—on playgrounds, in his room, and through the screen of his phone.

Without a second thought, he ran to you, dodging past reporters and teammates. Before you could say a word, he wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off the ground and spinning you in a circle. The world blurred around you, and all you could focus on was the way his laughter vibrated against your chest and the warmth of his embrace.

When he set you down, you barely had time to catch your breath before he cupped your face in his hands, his forehead resting against yours. “I think…” he began, his voice trembling. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Your breath hitched, and before you could respond, his lips were on yours. The kiss was soft and sure, as if he’d been waiting his entire life to do this. The noise of the stadium faded away, leaving just the two of you in your own little world.

“Oh, is this the best friend?” Otoya's voice cut through the moment, and you pulled away, cheeks burning as you turned to see him smirking, Karasu snickering beside him.

“ ‘Best friend’ my ass,” Karasu added, crossing his arms and shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Yukimiya’s ears turned bright red, but he didn’t let go of you. Instead, he shot Karasu a glare before looking back at you, his gaze softening. “They can say whatever they want,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear before he leaned down one more time to kiss you again.

You couldn’t help but think back to when you were kids, when Yukimiya’s speed and energy left everyone else in the dust. You’d always been the shy one, the one who struggled to keep up. But Yukimiya had never minded.

He’d slowed down for you, waited for you, and in doing so, made you feel like you were the only one who could ever truly match him. And now, standing here in his arms, you realized that he’d never stopped waiting.

Even if the world could never keep up with Yukimiya Kenyu, you’d always be grateful that he’d chosen to stay by your side.

yeah i chose yuki for this bc im bias, so what ?

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[lc-holy]

Here's a summary of the latest information we have on Miraculous special episodes and season 6.

(Please be respectful in the comments and tags on this post or create your own).

Special episodes:

- I think you already know, but the special London episode will be broadcast on October 5 on Disney channel France at 9:00 a.m. (French time).

A trailer has been released on the official Miraculous Ladybug France Youtube channel. A second trailer was released at the TFOU press conference. (video available on TF1Pro).

-The Tokyo special is currently in production, and will feature 3d and 2d animation.

-Thomas replied to someone who asked about a spin-off of the Paris special with Shadybug and Clawnoir: “If all goes well, it should become a comic book series.”

Season 6:

-The season 6 trailer was also broadcast during TFOU's press conference, it's the same trailer shown in June at Annecy. And they've added a few new sequences at the end of the trailer.

(The trailer probably contains some unfinished animation.)

-The September issue of Licensing Magazine still announces Season 6 for the end of 2024, but with no further details.

For those wondering why there's an animation change in season 6, here's what Thomas answered on Twitter:

-"It was necessary as the assets we had didn’t work anymore with newer maya versions. We needed to switch to something that will last at least for the next ten years."

-"There's a big improvement in the design, which I've been waiting for, and a big improvement in the animation, which goes beyond what I'd hoped for. It's only in terms of rendering that we still have a few technical issues to sort out, but there too, it will be much more beautiful."

For those wondering why Adrien doesn't have any new clothes in season 6, Thomas replies: "Very good question, you'll understand."

One last thing:

Even if you don't like the new animation, don't harass the writers, don't harass the animators, don't harass the new animation studio, don't harass Zag etc...

Be respectful of all the people who work hard on the series. Be patient and wait to see the final result. And even if you don't like the end result, at least give yourself time to get used to it.

[x-brik-x]

I'm seeing a lot of people say that punk fashion is expensive and inaccessible, which is very wrong. here is a list of some ways you can make punk fashion easier, cheaper and more accessible for you, since that's... kinda the whole point.

others are encouraged to add onto this!! (just don't recommend corporations like amazon. not cool.)

1. patches!! you don't need to buy them. DIY patches are not ugly or boring. in fact, they are encouraged here!! DIY, in my opinion, is always the best thing to do when it is an option and is safe to do so.

2. speaking of DIY, spikes!! you can make them!!

cut the top and bottom off of an empty can. cut down the middle of the cylinder and flatten it, so it's just a flat rectangle of metal.

cut out a shape that is kind of a third of a circle, but around 3/4 of the curved edge is taken up by triangle shapes. (I'm not very good at describing, so here's a badly drawn picture)

roll it into a cone, leaving the 4 triangles sticking out at the bottom. this bit is optional, but you can fill it with hot glue to make it more sturdy, just be careful touching the hot metal. I tend to hold the cone by one of the triangles with a bit of fabric wrapped around my fingers for this bit. cut 4 small holes in your fabric in this kind of shape:

and put the spiky bits of triangle through the holes. fold the triangles in on themselves to secure the spike in place. boom. spike obtained. this is one I made and attached to a little piece of fabric to test this method out:

3. battle vests!! (like the base jackets). the best places to buy these are charity shops and second hand websites in my opinion, but if anyone else knows any better options, please reblog with those!!

a good trick I find works well on eBay is to filter search results to your country (or state? can you do that in the US? idk) so that a: fast delivery because local, and b: all the sellers of everything that shows up are in YOUR TIME ZONE.

why is this important? when people sell something for really cheap, it goes FAST. check eBay at like, 2am or something. all the scalpers in your area are asleep. grab the cheap stuff while they can't.

4. sewing!! want patches, but can't sew for whatever reason? I've heard of a lot of people with joint conditions like arthritis complain about the inaccessibility of patch stuff, and that does sound extremely annoying, however:

safety pins!! while they are still a little fiddly, they're much less work so you don't have to fiddle about for long. if you can, you could even ask a friend to help, since it doesn't take long at all I'm sure someone will be willing to help out!! (I know I would, but that's just me, and I love this kind of thing). safety pins on clothes are also widely considered to be a symbol of solidarity, so if anything, you're adding some extra love and meaning to your patch pants/battle jacket.

if that's still too fiddly, fabric glue is always an option. unfortunately this means you won't be able to remove/reposition patches, at least without leaving a massive patch of residue, but if you're ok with that then fabric glue is probably your best bet.

for people who prefer sewing: as for where to get the thread, I've heard a lot of people recommending dental floss, as it's apparently much cheaper and works just as well. I haven't tried this myself so can't confirm that, but I thought I'd share it regardless.

5. where to get fabric!! old clothes. rip em up. you don't need any kind of fancy fabric from the craft store. my patches are made of old jeans that I grew out of.

don't have any old clothes and you don't want to waste any good ones? I'm not sure about other countries, but in the UK, as long as you're not on private property (trespassing), dumpster diving is perfectly legal.

I definitely ;) do NOT encourage ;) trespassing rich people's land ;) to steal from their dumpsters ;)

or tbh it doesn't matter too much how rich the person is, since it's all going to landfill anyway. if it's in the bin, it's free game, but you didn't hear that from me. ;)

please add onto this where you can!! and if I missed something or got anything wrong, add that on too!!