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˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ welcome !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ hii, I'm mel !! thank you for finding your way here ♡ I'm a writer and artist, and this is where I post all of my creative works !! I hope you find something you enjoy while you're here ^^ ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ about me !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ ❀ 18+ ❀ writer and artist !! ❀ reality shifter !! ❀ I also go by melancholiacs on ao3 !! ❀ I don't have a strict posting schedule, but I try to post at least once a week !! ❀ I've been writing for a while now and finally decided to start sharing publicly (scary). I'm excited (and nervous!!) to put my work out there, so thank you for being here//being supportive!!! ♡ ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ what I write !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ I write a variety of content including !! ❀ full fics (oneshots, multi-chapter, drabbles) ❀ headcanons ❀ blurbs ❀ scenarios ❀ and more as I expand !! I write for characters of any gender !! women, men, nonbinary characters, anyone. if I know the character and feel inspired, I'll write for them ♡ reader information !! ❀ I write primarily x fem!reader content !! ❀ reader is typically written as a sub, but I can and do write dom!reader as well depending on the request or my mood !! (this refers to nsfw dynamics !!) ❀ I plan to have sections in my masterlist for specific reader types such as chubby!reader, insecure!reader, and others !! so keep an eye out for those if that's something you're interested in ^^ ♡ ❀ occasionally I may write other reader types outside of fem!reader, but it won't be my main focus !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ requests !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ my requests are open !! I love hearing ideas and I'm happy to write for a wide range of scenarios and characters. feel free to send something in and I'll see what I can do ♡ a few things to note !! ❀ I can write pretty much anything, but I do reserve the right to decline a request if I'm not comfortable with it or if it doesn't inspire me !! please don't take it personally ♡ ❀ be polite when requesting !! I'm much more motivated to write for people who are kind. ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ before you interact !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ ❀ this is a judgement free zone !! I want this to be a safe and comfortable space for everyone. ❀ any hate directed at me or at others will be ignored. I have no time or energy for negativity ♡ ❀ please be kind !! ^^ ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ important !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ ❀ my content is 18+. ❀ not everything I post will be explicit, but a good amount of it will contain mature themes, nsfw content, or darker topics. ❀ please just be mindful of what you're reading !! I trust you to know your own limits ♡ ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ where to find my work !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ ❀ ao3: melancholiacs ❀ masterlist: coming soon !! I'll update this section once I have more content posted. for now, feel free to browse my blog or check out my ao3 ♡ ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ navigation !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ ❀ all the tags I use can be found in the tags section of this post !! that way you can easily browse through my content ♡ ❀ I'll be adding more tags as I go, so check back every now and then !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ faq !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ ❀ coming soon !! if you have any questions, feel free to send an ask and I may add it here ♡ ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ fanart !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ if anything I write inspires you to create fanart, I would love love love to see it !! please tag me ♡ ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ thank you !! ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ thank you so much for reading all of this and for being here !! I appreciate//love every single person who takes the time to engage with my work, whether that's reading, liking, reblogging, or just lurking. you're all welcome here ♡ see you around (hopefully) !! 🌿 ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚ ˚ · . · ✿ · . · ˚

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satoru gojo / public vs. private

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• He bought things for you in public. Constantly. Without asking. You'd be midsentence and he'd disappear for fifteen seconds and come back holding something. A crepe. A drink. Once an entire bag from a shop you'd glanced at for less than a second while walking past. He'd hand it to you still talking, picking up whatever conversation you'd been having like he hadn't even left, and the worst (best?) part was he never waited for a thank you. Didn't seem to want one. He just liked doing it. Megumi had stopped commenting on it. There was nothing left to say. Satoru had been doing it to his students for years. Nobara had started loudly demanding equivalent treatment.

• In a crowd, he made himself easy to find. He was already the tallest person in most rooms and the white hair helped, but beyond that he was loud. As in, loud loud. He talked with his whole body, his chin tipped up or head tilted, his shoulders loose, one hand lazily gesturing in the air while he explained something he found boring to someone who found it very important. You could track him through a room by sound alone. And every once in a while his head would turn and he'd find you across whatever distance was between you and the corner of his mouth would shift, quirking up, like he'd been watching you the whole time and just then decided to let you know.

• His students figured out you existed because Satoru had the self restraint of a golden retriever about things that made him happy. Which was to say, approximately none. He never sat them down and told them. What he did do, whether realizing it or not, was start mentioning you mid training, mid lecture, mid fight, mid everything, in contexts that made no sense. Especially in contexts that made no sense. Yuji told you once that Satoru stopped a sparring session to answer his phone and all anyone heard was "Yeah, I'll grab it on the way. The good one, 'kay? Okay." And then he hung up and went right back to explaining domain amplification like nothing had happened. Nobara was the one who put it together. Not the phone call itself. Satoru would answer a call from a vending machine if it rang. It was how quickly he'd agreed. No bit or joke, no bargaining, no annoying questions about why he had to be the one to grab it. Just a yeah, 'kay, almost as if he'd been waiting to be asked.

• Other sorcerers looked at you differently when they figured out who you were to him and he found it deeply, personally entertaining. He'd watch them connect the dots, eyes moving between you and him and back, and grin. He never clarified anything. Never put a label on it where other people could hear. He didn't need to, or seem to particularly care in doing so. He'd only stand close enough that the answer was blatantly and glaringly obvious and let them sit with it. "People are so weird about it," he said once, on the way home, hands laced behind his head, walking at a pace that made you take two steps for every one of his. "Like they can't figure out why you'd want to be around me." He paused, though whether it was for dramatic effect or affronted surprise was hard to differentiate between. "Which is insane, by the way. Look at me."

• When the blindfold came off his eyes were overwhelming. Not in the awful way. Simply bright. An absurdly, impossibly blue, catching whatever light was in the room and somehow refracting it back in different shades, and they moved constantly, tracking things you couldn't see. He told you once that the Six Eyes processed cursed energy at a level so precise it was essentially atomic. You had been standing in the doorway. He was lying on the couch with his head tipped back and his eyes open, looking at the ceiling, and he said it the way someone else might mention it was raining. He noticed you go still and glanced over, one eye half closed against the lamplight. "It's on all the time," he said. "Can't turn it off." He looked at you a second longer than he needed to, unashamed and hard to read the way he was positioned. "It's fine. You're interesting to look at."

• Alone. The volume came down. Definitely not all the way. Satoru didn't have that setting. Ever. At a three he was still louder and more dramatic than most people at a seven and he never fully stopped performing, even for himself. But the pacing did shift. He'd talk to you from another room while he rummaged through cabinets looking for the kikufuku he was almost certainly hiding from himself for later. He'd circle back to wherever you were sitting and fold onto the nearest surface, usually too tall for it, his knee against your thigh and his shoulder against the wall with his head tilted down toward you. He always ended up tilted toward you when no one else was around. You weren't sure he knew he was doing it.

• He took up space in private the same way he did in public. Shoes → door. Jacket → thrown over a chair. Blindfold → hanging off a doorknob, more often than not. Sunglasses → on the bathroom counter. A half finished konpeito bag → on the nightstand, next to whatever sweet thing he'd bought specifically for you and was currently stealing bites of. A glass of melon soda → abandoned on a shelf he could reach and you could not. Evidence. Evidence that someone too tall and too careless had been there and was still there and had no intention of ever being tidier about it.

• His hands were different in private. Careful wasn't the word for it. Patient, maybe. Or, more accurately, specific. In public his touch was strategic, all the placement and timing gauged and then adjusted for an audience even when it looked effortless. Alone, though. Alone he touched you as though he were just curious about it. His fingers would walk or brush along your arm while you talked, tracing the line of a vein at your wrist. His palm would press between your shoulder blades, his thumb moving slow while he scrolled through his phone with the other. Other times, he'd pull you into him by the belt loop or by the hip or by the fabric of whatever you were wearing, and he'd do it so casually while mid sentence; it was punctuation, the way he used it. As though contact was the natural end to whatever thought he was having and he only needed you closer to finish it.

• He wasn't practiced when he wanted you. Practiced wasn't really the word for Satoru. Practiced implied rehearsal, and he didn't rehearse (or, if you asked him, he'd tell you loudly and at length that he didn't need to). He merely found something he liked and refused to leave it alone, and the thing he refused to leave alone the most happened to be you. He'd crowd you against the counter while you were doing something mundane, his chin dropping to your shoulder, his voice warm and right against your jaw, talking about nothing, his hands low on your waist, thumbs pressing soft and slow and lazy circles into the skin above the waistband of whatever you were wearing. It was repetitive. Absent. Like he'd found his spot and wasn't interested in looking elsewhere. "Keep going," he'd say, close enough that you could feel the shape of the words and his mouth. "Look at me. I'm being good." He wasn't, of course. He just wasn't going to say it out loud.

• He asked questions when he wanted to take things further and the questions themselves were half of the problem. His voice dropped lower in his chest to a register he never used in public because it would have ruined the bit, the persona, the act. He would put his mouth against your ear and say something like "is this okay?" while his hands were already somewhere that made the question feel redundant. Either that, or he'd stop. Fully stop. Look at you with those ridiculous, always-seeing-everything eyes and say, "Tell me what you want." It was casual. Patient, yes. Even lazy. It was as if he had all the time in the world and the Six Eyes weren't already reading every single microscopic shift and fluctuation in your energy. He knew, as always. He only wanted to hear your voice.

• He always, always got worse about it once he actually had you. The asking turned into narrating. Inventorying. The Six Eyes meant he could read every reaction off you faster than you could have it. And Satoru had never been subtle about a single thing in his life. Your breath hitched and he noticed. Your pulse jumped under his thumb and he noticed. You shifted a certain way and he noticed, and he would also tell you every single time. "There," he'd murmur against your throat, pleased with himself, like he'd solved something. "Hmm. And that." His hand on your thigh, stilling, holding you right where he wanted you. "You okay?" he'd ask, already knowing, already grinning against your skin. "Yeah? Use your words, sweetheart." He'd make you say it back. He'd make you say a lot of things. And when you finally got him to stop talking it wasn't because he'd run out of things to say. It was because his mouth was busy.

• People always seemed to assume there had to be two versions of him. The loud, annoying one for the world and a softer one he kept for you. There weren't two, exactly. There was just one of him, loud and impossible and too much in pretty much every room he walked into, whether the room had 333 people in it or just you. The only thing that changed was who got the brunt of it. At home and with you it all came down on you at once, every ridiculous ounce of him, focused in a single direction. You had asked him once if he was ever quiet, lying on the couch with his head in your lap. His eyes were closed. He cracked one open to look up at you. "Nah," he said. "You'd miss me if I was quieter."

extras !! (a small apology for being so busy as of late <33) nsfw (18+) under the cut !!

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leon kennedy / he drags you to a work event & keeps finding his way back to you

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You could smell the floor polish before you even got through the door, and after that it was the chandeliers hung high overhead and the marble and the low hum of too many important people talking to each other in a room designed to make them feel more important. Leon looked like he wanted to leave about forty minutes ago, which was impressive given that you'd only arrived thirty minutes ago. He cleaned up well, though. You'd give him that. The dark suit fit him like someone had actually measured him for it, which meant the agency probably had, because Leon Kennedy left to his own devices would have shown up in tactical gear and called it formal enough. His hair was falling into his eyes again, dirty blonde and impossible, like no amount of occasion could convince it to sit flat, and he'd loosened his tie within the first twenty minutes, one finger hooked under the knot, tugging it down just enough to breathe. And when he caught you watching him do it he held your gaze a little longer than he needed to before someone from the DSO pulled him away to talk logistics.

That was an hour ago. Since then he'd been passed around the room like a handshake with legs. A woman from some European liaison office touched his arm when she laughed and left her hand there too long. A man with too many medals wanted Leon's take on interagency protocol, which Leon delivered in as few words as humanly possible while holding a glass of something he had not once brought to his mouth. And every single time, without fail, he ended up back next to you. The first time he appeared at your elbow while you were standing near the far wall, hands in his pockets, shoulder almost touching yours. "Having fun?" The tone made it clear he wasn't. You said something about the painting nearest to you and he glanced at it for about two seconds. "Sure," he said, and then someone called his name from across the room and he made a sound through his teeth, low and annoyed, and went.

The second time you were at the bar and he was just there, suddenly, ordering something neat, the sleeve of his jacket pressing into your arm when he reached for the glass. A man in a gray suit approached and started talking about something classified enough that Leon angled his body between you and the conversation, automatic, the same way he'd check a sightline. When the man left Leon turned back to you. "Sorry about that." You asked what it was about. "Boring," he said. And leaned his weight against the bar beside you and stayed there, unhurried, for about four minutes before somebody else pulled him into a circle of uniforms near the center of the room.

The third time you'd found a quiet spot near the windows, away from the thickest part of the crowd, and you felt him before you saw him. His arm against yours as he leaned into the space beside you, facing the room, that untouched drink still in his hand.

"You keep coming back," you said.

He took a sip. Actually took one this time, like he needed something to do with his mouth before answering. He looked out over the crowd and you could tell he was clocking every door in the room even now, even here, even standing next to you in a suit that probably cost more than his rent.

"Room's big," he said. "You're the only thing in it I actually want to talk to."

He'd pushed his sleeves up at some point. That was the first thing you noticed when you looked up at him, stupidly, because he'd just said something like that and your brain decided to pay attention to his forearms instead. The dark fabric was folded back to his elbows and you could see old scars there, pale against muscle, running under the cuffs and out of sight. You must have been staring because when you looked up again his mouth was doing something it hadn't been doing all night. Not quite a smile. Close, though.

"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Don't get used to it."

You asked how much longer you had to stay and he checked his watch, made a show of thinking about it, jaw tilted like it required genuine tactical assessment. "Technically? Another hour." He looked at you sideways and you watched him give up on whatever composure he'd been holding onto all evening, just quietly let go of it, his eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second before coming back up. "You want to get out of here?"

"You said it was mandatory."

"I say a lot of things."

He set his glass on the windowsill and his hand found the small of your back, palm flat, and steered you toward the side door. "Before someone tries to talk to me about interagency protocol again," he said, near your ear, near enough that his breath touched your neck. The hallway beyond was dim and the noise from the reception dropped to nothing behind you and his hand didn't move. His fingers stayed exactly where they were, his palm still pressed to your spine, and when you turned to look at him his face was nearer than you'd expected. His hair falling forward. His eyes on yours with the kind of focus that, in his line of work, usually preceded something trying to kill him. You were not trying to kill him. He didn't seem to care about the distinction.

"You planned this," you said.

"Always plan."

He was smiling. A real one this time, small and crooked, and you lost your train of thought for a second looking at it. Your hand came up to his chest, fingers gripping the lapel of his suit, and you could feel him breathing under your palm.

"Story of my life," he said. Quieter. "Sitting through the mission to get to the good part."

"What's the good part?"

He looked down at where your hand was fisted in his suit, then back at your face, and his grip on your hip tightened. The hallway was empty. The reception was still going behind a closed door and neither of you were in it anymore and Leon, who had done nothing all night except keep finding his way back to you, wasn't leaving now.

"Working on it," he said.

And he leaned in.

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boothill / when he wants your attention

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• He's never been subtle about it. If you've been reading too long or looking at something that isn't him, he'll cross the room with those heavy deliberate footsteps, spurs clicking against the floor, and plant himself right in your line of sight. Doesn't say anything at first. Just stands there with his arms crossed over that silver chest plate, hat tipped low, waiting. And when you finally look up he's already grinning, sharp teeth on full display. "Took ya long enough, darlin'."

• Sometimes it's the hat. He'll pull it off, rake his mechanical fingers through that long white hair, and drop it onto your head before you can protest. It's too big. You can't see anything with the brim swallowing your vision and he knows that. That's the point. "There we go," he says. You don't have to see his face to know he's grinning. "Now I got your full attention."

• The man will just pick you up. No warning. One second you're focused on whatever it was you were doing and the next his arms are hooked under your knees and behind your back, lifting you clean off the ground. His grip is solid, mechanical joints whirring soft against you, and he's looking down with that crooked smile like he's already won something. "C'mon now, you've been ignorin' me a whole five minutes. That's about five minutes too long."

• He'll start talking. Loudly. About nothing. Just rambling in that drawl of his about Bart 17 Years or some bounty he's chasing or how the IPC are a bunch of muddle-fudgin' shirtbags, and he keeps going until you finally give in and look at him. The second you do he stops. Grins. "There she is." Like that was the goal all along. It was.

• When he's feeling theatrical about it he'll drop into a crouch right in front of you. Elbows on his knees, chin propped in one hand. That black eye with the targeting reticle fixed on your face, waiting you out even though patience has never been his strong suit. "Y'know," he says, voice low, "I ain't exactly used to bein' ignored. Might hafta start takin' it personal." He won't move until you give him what he wants.

• Or he just shifts his weight from one boot to the other so his spurs clink against the floor. Once. Twice. Keeps doing it until you look over just to make him stop. He tips his hat when you do. Grins but says nothing. Doesn't need to.

• If you're standing somewhere he'll come up behind you and hook his chin over your shoulder, arms loose around your waist. His chest plate presses solid against your back. He doesn't say anything for a while. Just hums, low and content, until you turn your head. And then he's right there. Close. Black bangs falling messy over his right eye. "Well hey there, darlin'," he says. Casual. Like he didn't just spend the last five minutes figuring out how to make you look at him.

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cantarella / falling asleep on her

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Sebastian stopped halfway across the terrace, tray in hand, and Cantarella watched his expression flicker before he smoothed it into something carefully blank. She tilted her head. Smiled. He set the tray down on a nearby table, bowed, and retreated without a word. Wise man.

You hadn't stirred through any of it. In fact, your head still rested heavy against her shoulder, your breathing slow and deep, and your body had gone completely slack sometime between the third and fourth paragraph of the old Fisalia record she'd been reading aloud. The proper methods for Violaca fermentation, a process she could probably recite in her sleep by now. You'd seemed interested at first. The book lay closed in her lap now, the worn leather cover warm under her palm.

"Look at you," she murmured. Soft strands of lavender hair fell across her shoulder as she shifted to see your face, brushing lightly against your forehead. "Hehe... so peacefully asleep. Right here, where anyone might see." One hand rose to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. Her fingers traced down along your jaw, light as anything, watching your parted lips, the slack ease of your features. "You must learn to relax, you know. You can't help others if you don't take care of yourself." Her touch lingered at the corner of your mouth. "Though I suppose you're managing that well enough at the moment."

She settled back against the chair, careful not to jostle you. The long, trailing panels of her dress had pooled over your lap where you'd curled into her side, white and blue and violet fabric soft against your sleeping form. Her hand came to rest gently in your hair, pale fingers carding through slowly before eventually stilling. She could wake you. Suggest somewhere more private, more befitting a Fisalia matriarch and her partner. But your hand had migrated and found hers at some point, fingers loosely tangled even in sleep, and when she tried to reach for the book again she found she couldn't without disturbing you. Well then.

The afternoon light shifted slow across the pale terrace floor. Somewhere deeper in the castle, she could hear the faint clatter and bustle of servants going about their work, voices echoing down the corridors. None of them had wandered this way yet. Let them talk, when they did.

Cantarella closed her eyes and let her head tip back against the chair. The breeze was cool against her skin. You were warm against her side. She could get used to this, she thought. To someone who wanted her for nothing at all. "To fall asleep beside the Bane so easily," she said softly, thumb tracing across your knuckles. "You really do trust too much." But she was smiling. Her grip on your hand tightened just a fraction. And she made no move to let go.

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#mel writes !!#drabble !!#not requested !!#fluff !!#x reader !!#unspecified!reader !!#wuwa x reader !!#fem!reader !!#cantarella x reader #x reader #wuwa #wuthering waves #drabble #fluff #fem!reader #first post kinda nervous #send me requests i need more ideas pls pls pls #gaghafkjhkaj i did my best to write her in character i love her sm ^^#she's so pretty <33

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