#and found now while searching for a different sketch

[ratatosk777]

i want mothiva merch

[himbo-kuto]

plot: when you're about to argue but you're so pretty that his brain short circuits (all lads men)

rafayel:

when your phone rang early this morning while you were on your morning jog with a panicked rafayel on the line, you knew what he was calling about. yesterday while you were visiting rafyel’s studio, you found it in disarray. paint, brushes and a variety of different papers littered any and all surfaces. you usually asked rafayel when you throw away scraps in his studio, but this time the clutter was driving you mad that you just threw away anything in sight that looked like garbage.

“hey– sorry to call you so early in the morning. did you or thomas clean my studio yesterday? there was this sketch somewhere around here with a bunch of colors and scribbles for my exhibits that’s coming up and now I can’t find it–” busted. you heard the ruffling of papers through the phone as he frantically searched for it. the guilt washed over you as you tried to formulate what to say. 

“i– i’m actually pretty close by. let me come over and help you find it.” he sighed in relief as felt like his drawing was saved. 

“thanks, i’ll see you soon.” it was your turn to sigh as you continued your jog (now sprint) over to rafayel’s studio. you might as well use this time to try and figure out ways for him to forgive you. 

you stood in front of the gate for a moment, chewing your thumb out of nervous habit before pushing through. you knew rafayel wouldn’t be mad at you, but just the fact you set back his work upset you. 

upon entering, rafayel’s back was to you. one hand was in his hair, the other on his hip as if he was trying to retrace all his steps. but before your brain could even register, you just blurted out the truth. 

“raf, i threw away the sketch– i’m so sorry! i was in here yesterday and the clutter was driving me insane! i couldn’t even get through here so i just grabbed things that looked like garbage and threw it away–” you had your eyes squeezed tight, not even wanting to see the potentially frustrated expression he was wearing. but when no response came, you peaked through your right eye to see that he was only blushing behind his own hand. 

it didn’t register that you were wearing your workout clothes– a matching set that hugged your body, well everywhere. the top you had on was a fitted cropped quarter zip jacket and unbeknownst to you on your sprint over, it had unzipped all the way– your cleavage on full display. though your hair was tucked under a cap, the way it clung to your face and chest from  your sweat didn’t go unnoticed by rafayel. 

you couldn’t help but bite back a smile as you saw the tips of his ears go red. you decided you were going to use this to your advantage. inching closer to him, you clasped your hands behind your back which only pushed your chest out further. he weakly held up his forearm as he looked away trying to get ahold of any working brain cells, but he showed no resistance once your chest made contact. you rested your chin on top of his arm, looking up innocently at him. 

“i’m sorry raf.. could you forgive me? i’ll clear my schedule and help you come up with another draft…” you spoke just above a whisper, afraid he’ll explode if you spoke any louder. a long (shakey) sigh escaped his lips along with what you interpreted as “you’ll be the death of me i swear…”

he fully turned toward you, one hand on your shoulder as the other one zipped your jacket all the way up to your neck. he cleared his throat as he cupped your cheeks together, swiftly kissing your pursed lips. 

“you better keep your promise, cutie! we have a lot of work to do.”

zayne:

you did one last swipe of lipstick as you checked yourself in the mirror. you and zayne were going to an event hosted by akso, but zayne made it clear that there was a stritch one hour limit to say your pleasantries and then go home. sometimes these gatherings were entertaining but oftentimes they were grueling to sit through, even for zayne. 

you stood up from your vanity, turning your body from side to side making sure that your dress was sitting in all the right places. gold embellishments hung from your ears and neck bringing the look all together. but in the midst of your review, you heard a series of ruffling and mumbling coming from the kitchen followed by your name. you reached over to open the door and called out to him.

“what was that, love?” 

“did you eat the fruit tart in the fridge?” you froze in your spot. you totally forgot that tart was his and you had it with your lunch this afternoon. you zoomed out to the kitchen to see zayne looking into an empty pastry box and a dejected expression like you took candy from a baby. 

“zayne– i’m so sorry i forgot that you said you wanted it and– .. i ate it” he slowly shifted his gaze from the empty box to you across the counter. your eyebrows were downturned and there was a big frown on your face. zayne always looked forward to having a sweet treat before these events, it was his reward for mustering up the courage to go. you should’ve known to save it for him, but your hunger got the best of you.

you rounded the corner of the counter, taking his hands in yours. your eyes on the verge of tears, as you continued on apologizing but all zayne could hear was blah blah blah proper name, place name, backstory stuff– your perfume, citrusy and sweet, enveloped him like a trap. with your eyelids sparkly, your lips all plumped and your hair pulled back to expose your shoulders, he couldn’t even comprehend your apology.

“okay, zayne?” he blinked once, only now registering that you’ve been talking to him the whole time. the blush immediately grazed his cheeks and ears as he looked away from you. 

“it’s okay.. i forgive you.” he pulled you in by the waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck and taking a deep breath, letting the notes of your perfume be his treat until he was able to get one later. your fingers reached up to scratch the nape of his neck as you turned to kiss his cheek, not even noticing. 

“i’ll buy you whatever you want from the bakery tomorrow, i promise”

caleb:

“you did what?!” you screeched to gideon over the phone. 

“look, i didn’t have a choice okay? caleb can be very persuasive with that evol of his. i’m sorry but i didn’t want to lose my fingers” a big sigh left your lips as you ran your fingers through your hair. you had been taking some secretive pilot lessons with gideon to try and impress caleb on your next flight lesson, but you bit off a little more than you could chew and ended up with a big bruise on your abdomen. 

“no, i get it. it was only a matter of time before he found out anyway. thanks though for holding out as long as you did.” you lifted up caleb’s shirt to take a look at your little accident. it was about the size of a grapefruit with hues of yellow, purple and blue painting your skin. 

“no, me and my fingers thank you for being understanding. but you know the drill kid, ice and heat every 15 minutes.” 

“yeah, yeah, yeah. you sound like–” before you could even say his name, you heard the clattering of the locks. 

“gotta go, the colonel is in.” you quickly hung up the phone, looking around the bathroom for places to hide and decided the closet was your best option. you pulled the door shut, trying to close it as silently as possible upon hearing his footsteps approaching. 

“pipsqueak.” not a question of where you were, but a known fact. you didn’t answer, choosing to ride this out for as long as you can. 

“you can’t hide from me. you left your phone on the counter and the hallway smells like your shampoo.” damn his obsessive nature (and your stupidity thinking you could ever hide from him in his own place). 

you held your breath as your eyes snapped to the handle. he was right in front of the door. there was a pause and.. nothing. his footsteps slowly faded to where the shower was, swiftly pulling the curtain back to expose an empty tub.

“come out, come out pips. i won’t be mad, i just want to see.” liar. you got the smallest scratch on your face from a mission and he wouldn’t let you hear the end of it for weeks. 

there was no use in hiding anymore. you turned the handle, but didn’t open it all the way. he reached his fingers through the gap and opened the door to find you looking like a dog with its tail between its legs– looking down at the ground, arms guarding your mid section. caleb cautiously took you by your hands and pulled you out of the closet. 

“let me see it.” he gently requested. you huffed as you carefully lifted up the shirt to reveal the bruise. he let out a distressed noise, quickly ridding himself of his gloves before his bare fingers grazed your skin. 

“i’m fine caleb, it’s not even that bad–”

“not that bad?!” he exploded like a volcano that was waiting to erupt. 

“pips, you have a bruise the size of a meteor on your stomach and it’s darkening by the second! what did you even do?” he took the shirt between his fingers, pulling it up even higher to inspect for any more damage. it was then that he realized that you were only in your bra and underwear with just his long sleeve to cover up. he took his moment to take you all in as he effortlessly towered over you. 

hair wet, smelling like apples, in a matching set, in his clothes.. brain go brrrrr….

he didn’t know if it was his chip kicking in or his brain malfunctioning, but thank god you were looking away from him. he felt the blush spread throughout his face, every inkling of scolding you fading by the second

he cleared his throat, gently letting his shirt fall back into place as he gingerly wrapped his hands behind your back, pulling you close. burying his face in the hair, he let the scent of you calm him down. he just hated seeing you hurt, especially if there was a mark or bruise to show for it.

“i’m sorry. i was only trying to impress you for our next flying lesson and then the weather suddenly changed and then the throttle did a thing–and i got launched into the control panel and..” you admitted embarrassingly. he laughed as he pulled away, taking your cheeks into his hands.  

“okay, okay. just next time please be careful. we don’t want you getting a bionic arm or anything–”

“CALEB!”

xavier:

exhaustion was oozing off xavier the moment he stepped into your apartment. his footsteps were dragging, shoulders hunched over, with a severe lack of motivation to keep his eyes open.  it was a series of: lack of sleep, fighting off more wanders than he could even count and then doing that over and over again for the past week. his back and body hurt and all he wanted to do was lay down and sleep for a week undisturbed. 

he ridded himself of his uniform, begrudgingly forced himself to shower, dried off his hair and plopped so hard on the bed it skirted and hit the wall. as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was already in his rem cycle, letting sleep take him for however long sleep would have him. 

though he was a valiant hunter, he knew that your place was safe. so if he felt a bump or a shift in the bed, he knew it was only you. though he wasn’t expecting you so soon. even with his eyes closed counting sheep, he was able to feel you crawl over his body. your hair tickled his collar bones as you leaned down to shower him in kisses. from his neck, cheeks, forehead, with a final blow to the lips, he didn’t budge. he wanted sleep and so he was going to have it (even if it meant hearing from you later) but you didn’t relent. 

you continued to lay kisses all over him, knowing that he’s done this to you before when you wanted to sleep but he wanted you to get up. you wanted his attention and much like xavier, you were going to have it. you held his face in your hands, laying loud kiss after loud kiss, trying to pull him out of dreamland but to no avail. you huffed as you sat your tush on his stomach. you moved his face from side to side before resorting to squishing his cheeks together. 

there was a slight twitch in his eyebrows signifying to you that he was slowly waking up, which resulted in you poking and prodding his face. after several minutes of working like a cat clocked in at the biscuit making factory, he let out one final groan before his eyes barely opened. 

“there he is.” you said sweetly. he huffed, turning to the side while covering his face to try and avoid your advances. 

“no he is not…” you took that as a challenge, now wrestling with him to lay on his back. when xavier was asleep, he was like a log. with much resistance, he flopped on his back while you pinned his wrists above his head. he peeled his eyes open, ready to let you have it only to find you with your hair all disheveled, the top buttons of your pajama shirt all undone and askew with the faintest wash of pink over your cheeks. 

“i just wanted some kisses and snuggles…” you admitted as you let go of his wrists. a sigh of defeat left his lips.

“well if you say it like that, of course i can’t be mad at you.” a giggle left your lips as he wrapped his arms and legs around you. it was his turn to shower you in kisses which you happily received. when the shower was over, you laid ontop of him with your face buried in his neck. 

“i’m sorry i disturbed your sleep.. you can go back now. i promise i won’t wake you until tomorrow.” he nuzzled his cheek into your head, already mumbling a bunch of nothings into your ear.

“i love you too, honey.” 

sylus:

“i said no.” sylus was being unreasonable. all you wanted to do was join him on an ‘auction’ to help him out. he had been stressed about it all week– skipped meals, jaw clenched in his (lack of) sleep, dark bags under his eyes– you haven’t seen him this stressed in a while. 

“why not? you know that it would be easier with me there and i want to go, so why no–” he held up his hand to you, too focused on the papers in front of him to even look you in the eye. 

“my decision is final. it’s too dangerous, i wouldn’t even go if it wasn’t a necessity.” you knew that he was only looking out for your safety, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt any less. if he wasn’t going to willingly take you, guess it was time to take matters into your own hands. you didn’t utter another word, choosing to leave his office in silent rage. 

once he knew you were out of sight, he heaved a deep sigh. he could feel the pounding headache coming on. removing his glasses, he leaned back onto his chair while squeezing the bridge of his nose. he was already trying to think of ways to make it up to you, though this one would be tough. 

—

it was a few quiet days in the N109 zone. you decided to keep your interactions with sylus to a minimum, only greeting him the times he came to bed or when he came to dinner. he chose to respect that distance, trying to make the most out of the times you did give him the time of day. he couldn���t wait to get this mission over and done with. 

then came the day of his departure. you weren’t petty enough to not send him off, especially on dangerous missions such as this one. the last thing that you always handed off was his leather jacket. you had done it the first few missions he went on, and from there it kinda stuck. send offs never felt right without it. as he loaded the last suitcase, you stood behind him with his coat. 

he leaned in and gave your forehead a kiss. 

“i’ll be back soon, kitten.” he mumbled the words into your temple. you offered him a soft smile before holding up his jacket. he swiftly dropped his arms into the sleeves, pulling it over his shoulders, now counting down the minutes until he could be back. 

“i love you, get back safe.” you waved off him and the twins as you watched the car went off into the distance.

“you won’t have to wait long, dear.” 

—

shit. 

this was bad. 

sylus knew it was going to be, but he hoped just a little that it wouldn’t be. removed the hand from his abdomen to check if the bleeding had stopped, but surely enough his hand was covered in his crimson red blood. he leaned against a wall, knowing that the twins wouldn’t be here another 30 minutes. he knew his regenerative powers could kick in soon, but he was sorely outnumbered. he heard footsteps behind him and what sounded like a “he’s in here!” and just as he was about to set his guns ablaze, he heard a few shots coming from that same hallway. he squinted his eyes as he concentrated on the commotion.

‘one… two…..three.. four down. who?? they’re not supposed to be there for ano–’ the door swung open and upon instinct, sylus swiftly held up his gun to the intruder ready to shoot. he never hesitated in his life, but something was telling him to do otherwise. his fierce eyes met your intense ones in the same position. you both retracted your weapons before sylus pulled you through the doorway, crashing your back against his chest.

“how many are left?” he leaned down and whispered. 

“ten. five in the front and five in the back. the twins should be able to handle them. i took out all the ones in here for now.” for a second he breathed out a sigh of relief, leaning against you. sylus would’ve made it out, but certainly not in the best of conditions. 

“why are you here?” 

“i think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’” he rolled his eyes, turning you around to take you in. stunning, as always. your hair was a bit disheveled, straps fallen down to your shoulders and your dress was torn around the edges, but in this moonlight he was utterly captivated by you. all his anger and many of the words that he had for you suddenly flew out the window. he tugged your straps gently back up to your shoulders before giving you a kiss. 

“i’ll deal with you when we get back.” you basked in his presence for mere seconds before smelling the copper in the air. you stepped back to examine him before your eyes landed on his hand. he showed no resistance showing you his wound, knowing that you were right and he was caught. a heavy sigh left your lips. you knew he would be back to himself in no time, but it reminded you that he wasn’t all that invisible. 

“still think you don’t need me?” sylus chuckled as his face made its way into the crook of your neck, arms snaking around your waist. he took in one long inhale. 

“... you changed your perfume.. that’s why i couldn’t tell you were here.” you laughed breathlessly into ear, but not before you heard more footsteps coming in from the hallway. you both tensed, trying to remain as silent as possible. he tapped two of his fingers on your left side signalling that’s where he was headed. but before you could move, he noticed a shadow coming from the window. he pulled you down, letting off a few rounds towards the window. it was seconds before all hell broke loose once again. 

luckily you both were able to fend off the second wave until the twins got there. when it was all said and done, you two were able to make it out with a few bumps and bruises, you’ve definitely done worse. the car ride back was silent as you were taping up sylus’ arm. you knew he was angry at you, now having to be in pain because you didn’t listen to him.

“i don’t regret coming.” he wiped off some dried blood from your cheek, now his turn to tape up your wounds. 

“i know you don’t.” the conversation settled back into a comfortable silence. he started by dabbing some ointment on your scratches.

“... and thank you.. for saving my ass back there.” 

[moonlight-joy]

The Painter’s Secret

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary:  Benedict has been sketching you in secret for weeks, his affection growing with each stroke of the brush. One day, you stumble upon his hidden artwork and realize how deeply he sees you.

Pairing: Reader/Benedict Bridgerton

You always knew there was something different about Benedict Bridgerton.

While his brothers concerned themselves with duty and the rigid expectations of the ton, Benedict existed slightly apart—watching, sketching, as though the world he saw was entirely different from the one everyone else lived in.

Perhaps that was why you had always felt drawn to him.

And perhaps that was why, when you stumbled upon his greatest secret, it felt like stepping into a dream.

It was by accident that you found it.

You had been wandering through the halls of Aubrey Hall in search of quiet when you noticed a door slightly ajar—a room you had never paid much attention to before.

Curiosity got the better of you.

The moment you stepped inside, the scent of oil paint and parchment filled your senses. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting golden light over the cluttered space. There were stacks of canvas, half-finished works propped against the walls, and a wooden easel in the center of the room��its latest subject still hidden beneath a cloth.

And then you saw them.

Sketches, scattered haphazardly across the desk.

All of you.

You froze, your breath catching as your fingers brushed over the pages.

In each sketch, you were captured in moments so intimate they stole your breath away—laughing softly at some long-forgotten joke, gazing out of a window lost in thought, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Benedict had drawn you as if he had memorized every detail of your face, as if he had studied the way your eyes softened when you smiled and the precise curve of your lips when you frowned.

It was overwhelming.

It was breathtaking.

“You weren’t meant to see that.”

The deep, familiar voice sent a shiver down your spine.

You turned sharply to find Benedict standing in the doorway, his figure framed by the light behind him. His hands were stained with charcoal, the sleeves of his white shirt pushed up haphazardly. There was something raw in his expression—something caught between vulnerability and hesitation.

Your heart hammered in your chest.

“You…” Your voice faltered as you gestured to the sketches. “You’ve been drawing me?”

A muscle in his jaw tensed.

“I suppose there’s no use denying it now.”

He stepped forward, slowly, as if uncertain whether you would run.

You turned back to the sketches, unable to tear your eyes away. “How long?”

Silence.

Then—so softly you almost didn’t hear it—

“Since the first time you smiled at me.”

The confession was a whisper, barely louder than the rustling of the wind through the open window.

Your breath caught.

You had always known Benedict was kind. Witty. Charming. But this? This was something else entirely.

You looked at him then, truly looked at him, and saw the way his hands clenched at his sides, the way his gaze flickered between your face and the sketches as if bracing for rejection.

You swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Because I was afraid.”

The words hung between you, heavy with meaning.

“Afraid of what?” you whispered.

Benedict let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Afraid that if you saw the way I see you, you would never look at me the same way again.”

Your heart clenched.

Because he was right.

You would never look at him the same way again.

You stepped closer, your fingers tracing over one of the sketches—a softer one, a portrait of you looking away, lips parted as if caught mid-thought. It was intimate. Loving.

You looked back up at him, and for the first time, you let yourself see what had been there all along.

Every lingering glance. Every stolen moment. Every time Benedict had looked at you as if you were something more than just a friend.

Something precious. Something his hands ached to touch.

Something his.

You took a deep breath, your voice barely above a whisper. “Benedict…”

He was watching you so intently, as if he was memorizing this moment, sketching it in his mind.

And then, in a breath of movement, he reached for you.

His fingers, stained with charcoal, brushed against yours, hesitantly, searching.

“I should have told you,” he murmured. “I should have told you a long time ago.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “Told me what?”

“That I never wanted to sketch anyone else.” His voice was rough, full of something you had never heard from him before. “That every stroke of my pencil, every painting, every shadow and line—it’s always been you.”

Your breath hitched.

His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “And I will.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you did something reckless. Something inevitable.

You leaned in.

And Benedict met you halfway.

The moment his lips touched yours, it was like stepping into one of his paintings—soft edges and blurred lines, all color and warmth and want.

His hands, still dusted with charcoal, cupped your face, tilting your chin so he could kiss you deeper, slower. It was not urgent, nor frantic. It was a confession, a promise in the shape of a kiss.

When you finally broke apart, your forehead rested against his, both of you breathless.

Benedict’s thumb traced your cheek, smudging a bit of charcoal across your skin. “I suppose I’ll have to paint you properly now,” he murmured, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You laughed softly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I think I’d like that.”

And as he kissed you again, the unfinished canvas behind him stood waiting—ready to capture a new masterpiece.

Please support my work with like and comment

[sigilcatt]

WHAAA BLOCKTALES!!!!!! Is it ok if you could write some headcanons for Cruel King with a gender neutral significant other that's an artist? And that artist had like a (secret) but special sketchbook that has doodles and drawings of *just* him <333 and it has like silly notes on the side, js basically the s/o lovesick despite them being together for a while lol, but the catch is that the artist accidentally left the sketchbook out in the open and he found it? Hopefully this isn't too specific, but please have a good day/night!!!!!!

ᰔ・︴ gn!reader x cruel king ｡°✧

Cruel King had always loved your hobby of art.

He enjoyed watching you, whether it was painting, or just sketching right next to him.

Sometimes he’d let you take a pen/marker and doodle on his arms a bit.

He'd always admired art in general; not being able to really do it himself- He never had the time anymore, especially due to the voices, which were practically tormenting him everyday.

So when he finds out his SO has the passion for it, he's truly enamored.

gives you sweet compliments as you draw.

"It looks lovely, my dear."

"My love, could you show me your recent art? I'd love to see what you've been working on lately."

He'd choose a few of his personal favorites and have them hung up on the walls around the castle.

Now sometimes, you had a habit of losing your belongings. No big problem, though; either cruel king or his knights would retrieve whatever you'd lost.

But this time was a little different.

He'd be able to recognize what belonged to you. But a random sketchbook he'd never seen before? That left him a little confused.

You'd showed him all of your sketchbooks, and every little thing in them. He felt like he'd be aware if you had gotten yourself a new one.

He's even more surprised when he opens it up to see neatly done sketches of himself, each page inscribed with your signature at the bottom, written in sharp ink.

He gives himself some time to gently go through each page, admiring everything, from the small, affectionate messages about him, to the most detailed of illustrations.

Later, he finds you frantically searching for the journal, watching you with tender eyes.

"I believe I've found something of yours," He says softly, taking the book from behind his scarlet cloak.

Saying you weren't at least a little bit embarrassed would be a lie.

He took note of your widened eyes and couldn't let but laugh a little.

"It's alright, my dear. This means a lot to me, truly. You know how much I love you."

Overall, makes him extremely happy to know how much you love him; Not that he had any doubts beforehand.

~

happy to get this one out! sorry if it seems a little off, I wasn't entirely focused while writing. but i loved this idea so much!

[jinwoosbabyboo]

Him or Me?

LADS Men getting jealous over your latest hyper fixation. [Requested by: Anon]

Zayne

Who: Keigo Takami (Hawks) - My Hero Academia & Sanemi Shinazugawa - Demon Slayer

Zayne: You received another package today?

MC: Ahh my figurines!

You tear the box open in excitement while Zayne watches.

Zayne: You have quite a few figures of that red winged character

MC: He's my favorite

Zayne: He's your ... favorite?

MC: My favorite character from my hero academia yes

Zayne: and who is the bug eye'd one?

MC: Don't call him bug eyed

Zayne: Defending him now?

MC: His name is Sanemi he has a bit of a temper but he's really a sweetheart

Zayne: and he's also from your hero show?

MC: No he's from demon slayer

Zayne: Oh

MC: These two are definitely my top 5

Zayne: So there's a list

MC: A mental list

Zayne: Who is on this mental list

MC: Well number one is my red ear'd jealous boyfriend who's trying to hide the fact that he's jealous of these 2D characters

Zayne: I'm not jealous

You stand grabbing your figurines boxes as you move around him heading towards your room to build them.

MC: Sure *Kisses his cheek* jealousy is cute on you but don't worry no one can take me from you

Rafayel

Who: Trafalgar D. Law - One Piece & Itsuomi - A Sign of Affection

MC: Raf have you seen my sketch book?

Rafayel: *Avoiding eye contact* Nope

MC: Did you do something with it?

Rafayel: Nope

MC: Found it. Why was it under the couch?

Rafayel: You're a silly girl with a bad memory

MC: RAF!

Rafayel: What!?

MC: I'm missing like four pages in here!

Rafayel: Have you tried not missing them?

MC: Very funny ... coincidentally its only the sketches of Law & Itsuomi

Rafayel: Why do you need to draw that taffy guy and umami dude? Draw meeeee I'm your boyfriend

MC: I've already drawn you before

Rafayel: I only had one page in your book they each had two that's not fair *pouts*

MC: You're such a baby if I give you a second page can you stop ripping up my hardwork?

Rafayel: Make it four pages and you have a deal

Xavier

Who: Kento Nanami - Jujutsu Kaisen & Vash - Trigun

MC: Xav?

Xavier: yes my love

MC: Would you like to explain what happened to my Nanami plushie?

Xavier: I don't know what you're talking about

MC: He has mysteriously gone missing

Xavier: Are you sure you searched everywhere? You did work sixteen hours yesterday It's common to misplace items when you're tired

MC: I don't know I never move him from the shelf .... have you seen him?

Xavier: I haven't sorry

MC: Interesting ... my phone case with Vash is also missing

Xavier: You seem quite smitten with those two lately do you like them more than me?

MC: Xavier they're 2D animations they'll never be better than you

Xavier: Promise?

MC: I put it on my pinky

Xavier: 🥰

MC: Can I have my phone case and plushie now?

Xavier: Absolutely not

Sylus

Who: Sung Jinwoo - Solo Leveling & Shinichiro Sano - Tokyo Revengers

Sylus: What's so great about that show that you need to go to four different stores to get the entire book collection?

MC: I tried to get you to watch Solo Leveling with me

Sylus: I'm a busy man princess

MC: I think you'd really like it Jinwoo looks like a cinnamon roll and is a cinnamon roll but could still kill you

Sylus: Are you implying that me and this 2D man are similar?

MC: Hell no you look like you can kill and could kill ... you're only a cinnamon roll for me

Sylus: How perceptive ... and what book is that

MC: It's a manga get it right ... its Tokyo Revengers I'm still waiting on the next season but I need to know what happens because I need to see Shinichiro

Sylus: Who is Shin and why do you need to see him eat a cheerio?

MC: Not Shin eat a cheerio ... Shinichiro Sano aka the weak king

Sylus: How can you be a king and be weak?

MC: Those around you are strong

Sylus: Sounds like a kingdom waiting to fall ... are you almost done?

MC: What's with the curt tone?

Sylus: No reason we just have dinner reservations soon princess

MC: That's in five hours

Sylus: *Grabs the stack of books from MCs hands* My how time flies lets go

[goldfishinaplasticbag]

lol found an old jason sketch i did a while back when searching for my old 1-800-GOTHAM fanart.

i draw jason with his hair parting on his right and the scar being slightly different now, but this was before everything! and coincidentally my first ever jason todd drawing

somebody had requested him with long hair once so i thought i’d just try my hand at it

[cozmowrites]

How to Train Your Dragon

The first time Bakugou Katsuki saw you interact with a dragon, he knew you were either an idiot or a genius.

He was betting on idiot.

You were nothing like the other warriors in your village. While everyone else raised their swords and battle axes, you raised your hand—calm, steady, as if you could tame a beast that had terrorized your home for generations.

And, somehow, you did.

The jet-black Night Fury—one of the rarest and most dangerous dragons ever seen—stood before you, its green-yellow eyes locked onto yours, its wings shifting restlessly. The village would've celebrated if you'd slain it, but instead, you reached out like you belonged in its world.

Bakugou had never wanted to punch someone more in his life.

"You really think that thing won't bite your damn hand off?" he barked, arms crossed as he watched from behind a tree.

You didn't flinch. Your fingers hovered inches from the dragon's snout, your voice soft. "I don't think it wants to hurt me, or us."

"You don't think—?!" Bakugou stomped toward you, scowling. "This is a Night Fury, dumbass. The unholy offspring of lightning and death! It's not a damn pet!"

You ignored him, focusing entirely on the dragon. It was wounded—its tail fin torn, the reason it hadn't escaped yet. You had spent weeks tracking it, not to kill it, but to understand it.

And Bakugou hated that.

Not because you were reckless. Not because you made him question everything he knew about dragons.

But because you were right.

He had spent his life proving himself, being the strongest warrior in your village, the one who would slay dragons without hesitation. But you? You had done the impossible.

You made him doubt.

+++

The next time he found you sneaking off into the woods, he didn't yell. He just followed quietly.

You sat in the clearing with the dragon, sketching something in the dirt. It was a rough drawing of a tail fin—your way of fixing the dragon's injury.

"You're unbelievable," Bakugou muttered, stepping into the clearing.

You smiled at him, that stupid, hopeful smile that made his chest tighten. "You followed me." You noticed him easily. He wasn't exactly quiet. The dragon watched the two of you, and the drawing, whipping his tail on the sandy ground.

"Tch." He rolled his eyes. "I came to make sure you didn't get eaten."

You raised a brow. "And if I did?"

He scoffed, crouching beside you. "Then I'd say 'I told you so' at your funeral."

But there was no venom in his voice, no real anger. Just frustration—the kind that came from watching you rewrite the world he thought he understood.

+++

Training with you was different than before. You weren't much of a coward, but you were studying other dragons you were supposed to fight and being friendly. The others didn't like that.

You used your mind a lot, notes you've taken in a notebook, and using it on those dragons in the rings. You earned trust. Bakugou had spent years fighting dragons, but now he stood beside you, watching in awe as you flew with one, one that was previously in the ring.

And damn it, he hated that he was impressed.

He hated that when you grinned at him from atop the Deadly Nadder, his heart stuttered like a clumsy first flight. That was a dragon he wanted to ride. He wanted to learn about that dragon for himself the moment he saw you effortlessly ride it.

+++

"You don't have to prove anything," you told him one night, sitting by the fire, working on the tail wing for your Night Fury.

Bakugou's jaw tightened. "That's easy for you to say."

"Is it?" You tightened a leather strap, adjusting the artificial wing, voice quieter. "No one in the village believes in me either."

He turned to you, surprised.

You sighed. "I'm not a warrior. I don't fit in. They think I'm weak."

Bakugou frowned. "You're not weak."

You met his gaze, searching. "Then why do you keep trying to stop me?"

Because he didn't want to lose you. Because the way you saw the world made him want to see it differently too.

Because every time you smiled at him, he felt like he was falling—and for the first time, he didn't mind not landing.

But he wasn't good at words. So instead of answering, he grabbed your hand, squeezed it once.

Your eyes widened slightly, but you didn't pull away.

+++

masterlist ⟢

more bakugou ⟢

requests ツ

c.ai bot ⟢

[doodledrawsthings]

you. Oh my god, you. (Positive)

listen. Before I had internet access, all I had was 1 hour of allotted browser time, bing image search, and a single dantdm play through of a hat in time that never got finished. I googled fanart and got pretty much nothing, I googled fancomics and got pretty much nothing, but you know what I did end up finding?

your art.

from ages 11-14, my goal in life, in art, was your art. I can’t tell you how much I loved finding random screenshots of your posts, because I was always just so impressed by how clean and consistent your sketches are, how the characters always stay on model, the shape language, how you could somehow sketch a character in like 20 lines when it took me 50 to draw sans in my little spiral notebook— like! Holy shit! For years I have looked up to your art! There’s still a photos folder on my dads old huge-ass 12 inch work iPad labeled “holy crap” and filled with your art. Because it inspired me so much. It’s become an undeniable part of my artstyle, now — I still have fanart I drew way back in the day of Hattie and the rest, I didn’t even know anyone’s names because I couldn’t play the game, but you’re the reason I eventually did play the game. Your coffee shop au and different versions of the prince— one of those ieterations inspired the main character of my novel! Well, novel that I tried to write, I was 13 so it was eh, but I tried!!

I’m submitting this on-anon because I don’t want to out my age on the wide internet (I like my privacy) but. Your art has really meant a lot to me. It’s the reason I played hollow knight, and it’s the reason I kept trying to develop an art style I was happy with. You’re the reason I started scribbling comics in my notebooks. Being 13-14 was pretty much the worst two years of my life, but I had Bing image search and the occasional glimpse of your signature, and I’d be so happy every time I found a new (if crusty) three-times screenshotted jpg. You literally introduced me to the concept of polyamory and nonbinary-ness with the coffee shop au. I had no other access to that in my household, and. Yeah. It meant a lot to me.

Anyway. I’m so glad I’ve finally tracked you down (in the most non-ominous way possible) and I’m so glad you’re still active— Please never stop making art. Your art is incredible, and amazing, and also you never know who’s out there on Bing image search. Thank you for creating for as long as you have. You’re pretty much the reason I’m shooting for an art degree (Wish me luck!) so just…Thank you.

(Also I had no idea you were a professional storyboarder, which is insane because that’s what I want to be when I’m through college. Hey, maybe I’ll end up storyboarding a remake of something you’ve storyboarded! hehehe)

Hi anon!

So right off the bat, I gotta tell you that this message made me start bawling when I woke up and saw it. Like I had a full-on cry session while reading your message and lying in bed for almost an hour. I am crying as I am typing this response, on my phone, still in bed. It’s 11am and i woke up at 9. So I hope it turns out coherent.

The last two years have been. weird. I say that a lot because I wanna say “rough” but that still doesn’t feel quite right. I’m almost hyper-aware that there are so many people that have it worse than me rn, so it feels hard to even acknowledge when I’m going through anything, myself, sometimes- REGARDLESS, it’s been kind of an all-time low for my mental health. There was a point within in the last year where I just HATED drawing. I struggled to bring myself to work, I struggled to bring myself to even draw for fun. It felt like I was posting just to post, trying to keep people aware of my existence and it almost felt physically painful to force myself to sit down and do it, sometimes.

I’m getting better now, I think, but. Yknow.

It’s so easy to get caught up in the “oh I can make money off this,” “oh I can get attention off this,” “oh I can prove myself a functional person in society with this,” of it all. I forget why I actually do this, sometimes, or if I even enjoy it. And then I get messages like yours, about the kid with limited internet access looking for A Hat in Time fan art on Bing image search, and I get taken back to when I was a kid scrolling Google images and deviantart for the same thing.

I don’t mean to like. Foster some kind of parasocial thing with you or any one of my followers. There’s a reason I’m saying all this, I hope it ties up in the end.

We don’t know each other. I’m not some mysterious legendary artist, or whatever. I’m a person who gets burnt out, and jealous, and insecure. I need inspiration to function, just like you, and when I don’t have it, I get art block. But I also really like to draw fictional characters kissing and hanging out. I like coming up with comics and stories and playing out dramatic and funny scenarios in my head like I’m mashing Barbies together. And when other people tell me they enjoy the stuff I put out when I do this, it makes me really, really, really happy.

I think I needed to read your message, probably. With the state of… Everything… Right now, especially recently, I feel like a lot of artists are also struggling with a sense of purpose, pride, and reason as the world makes it harder and harder to even BE an artist, these days. And when I read this message it was like Anton Ego at the end of Ratatouille, I got taken back to when I was a kid looking at my favorite artists and studying their style and striving to be better and better at it over years of my life. Not just because I wanted a job for it or cuz I wanted to be a famous Disney animator or whatever, but because it was fun and I just liked doing it.

Thank you, SO much. I say this in the most genuine and earnest way I possibly can possibly express. I wish you luck on your own path in art and art school. And if you decide that animation industry is your thing, then I wish you the best in that endeavor, as well. I think I will keep making art for a long time.

Peace and love on the planet earth ✌️✌️✌️

[akairawrites]

When silence breaks | Damian Wayne x Reader

At Gotham Academy, no one asks too many questions—especially when your past is too heavy to carry out loud. Y/n L/n is no exception. The daughter of a once-feared mob figure, she hides behind sharp eyes and graphite sketches, trying to stay invisible while the weight of her childhood still claws at her spine. When a school project unexpectedly pairs her with Damian Wayne, the two begin to orbit each other in quiet, careful steps.

Previous | Next

The halls buzzed with tired energy. Rain had come early—light drizzle misting the stained glass windows, the scent of wet leaves curling through open corridors.

Damian walked the halls like he belonged to the building. Not to the people inside it. His backpack slung over one shoulder, boots silent against the tile.

Eyes followed him. They always did.

But his were searching.

Then—

There.

Y/n.

Standing by her locker, head tilted slightly as she flipped through her notebook. Her hair still damp from the walk in. She looked as composed as ever, but something about her felt different. Quieter. Like something in her had shifted overnight and hadn’t quite settled.

Damian watched her for a second too long.

She noticed and their eyes met.

This time, she didn’t look away.

He didn’t either.

Someone bumped into his shoulder in the hallway, but he barely registered it.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked into her first period class.

Damian stood there for another beat.

Then followed.

The bell rang sharp and sudden. Lockers slammed, voices rose, footsteps scattered in every direction. But just past the main stairwell, where the hallway dipped into shadow and the stained-glass window muted the morning light, it was almost quiet.

Y/n stood near the wall, her back against the cool stone, notebook clutched to her chest. She wasn’t hiding—but she wasn’t trying to be found either.

Then she heard steady and familiar footsteps

She didn’t need to look up to know it was him.

“Most people don’t avoid classrooms this early,” Damian said, stopping beside her. Not blocking her path. Not too close. But close enough to feel.

“Most people aren’t me,” she replied, eyes still forward.

He studied her face, the faint tension in her jaw, the way her fingers pressed just a little too tight into the notebook’s spine.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said quietly.

Y/n’s gaze slid to him, sharp. “You watching me again?”

“No,” he said simply. “I noticed.”

She held his stare. Didn’t blink.

“Noticed,” she repeated, like it tasted strange in her mouth.

Damian shifted slightly, arms folded now. His voice dropped a little lower. “You looked… different today.”

“Different how?”

“Like someone who’s trying not to break.”

That landed harder than either of them expected.

Y/n looked away first, exhaling slow through her nose. “Well, if I break, at least I’ll do it quietly.”

A pause. Not awkward—just dense with everything unspoken.

Damian stepped closer. Barely. “You don’t have to.”

She slowly blinked.

“Don’t have to what?”

“Pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

Her throat tightened.

No one had ever said that to her. Not once. Not her mother. Not her teachers. Not the friends she’d stopped trying to make years ago.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because her silence wasn’t distant now. It was heavy.

And Damian didn’t push.

He just stood there with her, in the quiet.

The sounds of the school faded—the bell’s echo distant now, footsteps dying off, voices swallowed by closing doors. The hallway had emptied around them, the light from the stained-glass window painting fractured colors across the floor like some holy spotlight meant only for them.

Neither moved.

“I should probably go,” Y/n said softly, almost to herself.

Damian didn’t answer.

And she didn’t move.

The silence stretched, not cold—just… honest. Something rare between two people who had learned too early to guard everything.

Finally, she slid down the wall, settling cross-legged on the smooth stone floor. Her bag dropped beside her with a soft thud. She pulled out her sketchbook.

Damian followed, wordlessly. Sat beside her, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, eyes forward.

“I don’t usually let people see these,” she said without looking at him.

“I’m not most people.”

That pulled a small breath from her nose. Not quite a laugh. But something close as she remembered her words from earlier

She flipped past blank pages. Past half-finished scenes. Past the ones she didn’t want anyone to see. Until she stopped—last night’s drawing.

The boy. Watching her. That familiar, unreadable gaze.

Damian caught sight of it before she could turn the page again.

His brow twitched. Just a flicker of recognition.

“That’s me,” he said, quieter than before.

Y/n tensed.

“I wasn’t going to show you that one.”

“You didn’t need to.”

He leaned slightly closer, studying the sketch—not for vanity, but something else. The detail was unmistakable: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes held more than they gave away.

“You drew me like I’m waiting for something,” he said after a beat.

Y/n looked at the page, then away. “Aren’t you?”

Damian didn’t answer.

But his silence wasn’t dismissive.

It was an admission.

The two of them sat there, still as statues in a room the world had forgotten. Y/n started sketching again—slow lines, soft shading, letting her hands speak where her mouth never could. Damian didn’t move. Just watched. Not intruding. Not analyzing.

Just being there.

For once, neither of them was pretending.

Time stopped trying to hurry them.

Y/n sketched with quiet concentration, her pencil moving in slow arcs and soft shadows. Damian stayed still beside her, his presence not pressing or distracting, just there. He didn’t ask what she was drawing now, didn’t lean over to look.

He simply sat.

The hush between them was warm. Not something either of them was used to. But neither spoke it aloud, afraid the words would make it disappear.

Outside, rain tapped gently against the high windows. The colored light from the stained glass shifted, casting soft blues and golds over Y/n’s sketchbook, over the curve of her wrist, over Damian’s shoulder.

He glanced at her, once.

She looked peaceful. Or as close as he’d ever seen her to it.

And for once, he didn’t feel the need to say something clever, or defensive, or distant.

He just let her be.

Let himself be.

Then suddenly a door creaked open at the far end of the hall.

“Miss L/n. Mister Wayne.”

The voice was sharp and unamused British accent

Y/n froze, pencil pausing mid-line.

Damian didn’t move.

Mr. Howarth—Literature—stood near the stairwell, his gray cardigan hanging off one shoulder, coffee cup in hand, disappointment already blooming in his expression.

“I assume there’s a reason you’re both loitering here while the rest of the school is attending class?” he asked, walking toward them with slow, deliberate steps.

Y/n closed her sketchbook quietly.

Damian stood first, smooth and unapologetic. “We were studying independently.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Mr. Howarth arched an eyebrow. His gaze flicked between them. “Interesting posture for independent study, Wayne.”

Damian didn’t flinch. “The classroom was too loud.”

The teacher turned his eyes to Y/n, expectant.

She didn’t offer anything. Just hugged her sketchbook to her chest and stared forward, chin high.

Mr. Howarth sighed. “Your reputations precede you. Try not to make skipping class part of them.”

He paused—almost like he wanted to say something more—but then just turned and walked off, his footsteps fading back into the hum of the school.

They stood in silence.

Y/n spoke first.

“We should go.”

Damian didn’t argue. But as she started walking, he fell in step beside her.

Not a word passed between them on the way to their next class.

But the space between them?

It wasn’t empty anymore.

Damian followed Y/n in silence as she crossed the courtyard, the drizzle barely clinging to their shoulders beneath the overhangs. She walked with quiet intent—like she wasn’t sure what she wanted, only that she needed to keep moving.

They reached her classroom door at the same time.

Y/n turned to him, arching a brow. “You’re following me now?”

Damian blinked once, then reached for the door handle. “I have this class too.”

She huffed softly. Almost a smile. “Of course you do.”

They stepped inside.

The classroom was warm and bright, high ceilings draped with hanging student work—charcoal sketches, oil-painted portraits, a mosaic made from broken mirror shards in the far corner. Twenty-something students turned to look as the door creaked open. A few poorly hidden smirks and a few whispers and giggles.

Y/n kept walking. Damian didn’t blink.

Their teacher, Ms. Elara Greaves, a tall woman with white streaks in her dark hair and an artist’s permanently ink-stained hands, glanced up from her desk, brow arched.

“How lovely of you both to join us. Please, do find your seats—though you’re a bit behind.”

Y/n slid into the nearest empty stool. Damian took the one beside her without waiting to be told.

Ms. Greaves tapped the chalkboard with a piece of soft white pastel. “Today, we’re beginning our Renaissance crossover project—art meets analysis. You’ll be recreating a famous Renaissance work of your choice… but with a twist.”

She turned, gesturing to a canvas already on display: Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, reimagined in a dystopian neon cityscape.

“You’ll reinterpret the imagery—through your own lens, through the modern world—but preserve the symbolism. One of you will take on the visual execution,” she nodded to Ivy’s desk, “and the other will compose a historical and symbolic breakdown of the piece, comparing it to the original.”

A few students groaned.

“And before you ask—yes, partners were already assigned based on last week’s seating chart.”

Damian’s fingers tapped once on the desk. Y/n straightened.

Ms. Greaves gave them a look—half amused, half warning. “Which means, Mr. Wayne and Miss L/n, as the last unpaired souls… you’re together.”

Neither of them said anything—Y/n just opened her sketchbook, flipping past the earlier pages with swift, practiced fingers.

Ms. Greaves smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing. “You’ll have until next week. I suggest you use your time wisely.”

The class had broken into low murmurs and the scratch of pencil on paper. Students were already flipping through books of Renaissance art, picking their pieces, tossing ideas back and forth. Y/n and Damian remained at their table, a quiet island in the noise.

She finally looked over at him, eyes narrowed. “Okay, so… what now?”

Damian leaned back, arms folded, his voice calm. “We pick something that means something. Not just the first pretty painting in the book.”

“I’m assuming that means you already have one in mind.”

He tapped his finger twice on the edge of the desk. “Caravaggio. Judith Beheading Holofernes.”

Y/n raised a brow. “Of course you’d pick the one with a decapitation.”

“It’s a study in power,” he replied, matter-of-fact. “Control. Fear. But the fear isn’t in Judith—it’s in the man. Her expression is calm. Almost surgical.”

Y/n tilted her head, thinking. “You want me to redraw that?”

“Reimagine it,” he said, now watching her sketchbook like he could already see it happening. “Put her in Gotham. Let her be someone else. Someone real.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her pencil tapped against the paper. “Judith doesn’t look like she wants to be there,” she murmured.

“That’s the point,” he replied. “She does it anyway.”

They sat there, the energy between them shifting again. Not exactly comfortable—but not cold either.

After a beat, Damian stood, sliding his books into his bag.

“You should come to the manor after school.”

Y/n blinked. “The Wayne manor?”

He nodded. “There’s space to work. Quiet. No interruptions.”

“And your butler doesn’t mind you bringing home random classmates?”

“He likes artists,” Damian said with a shrug, already heading for the door. “He won’t mind.”

She watched him for a second, the absurdity of it sinking in. “So what—you’re just going to bring me to your mansion like it’s a coffee shop?”

Damian turned at the doorway, eyes steady. “Would you rather work in the school library where they still think we skipped class to hook up in the hallway?”

Y/n glared at him. He smirked.

She grabbed her bag. “Fine. But I’m not impressed.”

“Didn’t ask you to be.”

The sky had turned heavy and gray by the time the final bell rang. The sidewalk outside the academy was flooded with students spilling out into the fading light—laughing, griping about assignments, making plans.

Y/n stood at the bottom of the stone steps, arms folded, sketchbook under one arm. She scanned the school lot half-expecting Damian to have ghosted her.

But he was already there. Leaning against the sleek, black limo parked at the curb like it was no big deal.

Of course he was.

He glanced up as she approached, straightening. “You came.”

“I wasn’t going to let you rework Judith without me,” she said, stopping in front of him. “And I’m still half-convinced you live in a haunted castle.”

He opened the limo door. “You’ll see.”

The inside was just as ridiculous as she imagined—leather seats, tinted windows, soft ambient lights humming overhead. She slid in with a skeptical glance, and he followed, shutting the door behind them with a soft click.

The car pulled off smoothly, the city starting to blur past the windows.

They didn’t speak at first.

“So do you have, like… secret passageways in this place?”

Damian didn’t smile, but his voice carried the faintest flicker of amusement. “More than a few.”

Y/n raised a brow. “That wasn’t a no.”

The limo turned onto a long, winding drive framed by old trees, their bare branches like reaching fingers. The manor came into view slowly—massive, gothic, and almost too quiet, perched at the edge of the hills like it was watching the city from a distance.

Y/n stared out the window. “Okay. Haunted castle confirmed.”

Damian said nothing, just stepped out and motioned for her to follow. The giant wooden front doors creaked open before they even reached them.

Alfred stood there, warm but precise as always—pressed vest, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, hands folded in front of him like he’d been expecting them all day.

“Miss L/n,” he said with a small nod. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

Y/n blinked. “Have you?”

“Only flattering things,” Alfred added quickly, stepping aside. “And a bit of worry. Master Damian rarely brings people home. You must be exceptional.”

Y/n looked at Damian, who stared straight ahead like Alfred hadn’t said anything at all.

She stepped into the manor, trying not to gawk—but the grand staircase, the polished wood, the portraits on the walls made it feel like walking into another century.

“This place is insane,” she whispered. “Do you have a dungeon?”

“Two,” Damian said without missing a beat. “But the west one’s out of service.”

They settled in a quiet study tucked deep in the manor—bookshelves to the ceiling, an enormous desk in the center, and a soft pool of yellow light from an old brass lamp. Y/n laid out her sketchbook, pulling out pencils, pastels, a small set of charcoal sticks.

Damian stood behind her for a moment, watching her set up with careful precision. Then he placed a thick, leather-bound volume on the desk beside her—an original Caravaggio collection. Well-worn. Annotated.

“You’ve actually studied this,” she said, flipping through it.

“I don’t like guessing.”

Y/n nodded slowly, flipping to Judith Beheading Holofernes. She stared at the image for a long time.

“She’s not afraid,” she said softly.

“No,” Damian replied. “But she’s not proud, either.”

Y/n set her pencil to paper, beginning to sketch. “I don’t want her to be a hero. I want her to be tired.”

Damian sat across from her, pen in hand, beginning to write. “Then that’s where we start.”

And in the stillness of the manor—quiet but not cold—they worked.

Side by side.

In silence that didn’t demand anything from either of them.

Just presence.

The room had settled into a kind of quiet only old houses could hold—deep and steady, the tick of the antique clock on the mantle barely noticeable beneath the scratch of Y/n’s pencil and the soft rustle of turning pages.

The drawing was taking shape now.

Judith stood in an alley, bathed in the flickering orange of a neon sign above her. The sword in her hand wasn’t clean. Her eyes were sharp—but exhausted. Hair wild. Clothes torn. She didn’t look like a goddess.

She looked like a girl who had been pushed too far.

Across the table, Damian read in silence. Notes lined his page already—clean, thoughtful, dense with meaning. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask for more. Just kept working in tandem with her, like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Eventually, Y/n set her pencil down.

Her fingers were smudged dark with charcoal.

She leaned back, stretching. “You know, this is probably the most peaceful I’ve felt in days.”

Damian didn’t look up from his notes. “It’s the quiet. Most people don’t realize how loud the world is until they step outside it.”

Y/n nodded. “I try to make things quiet at home. Doesn’t really work.”

He glanced up. Said nothing.

She hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “My mom and I… we don’t really talk. Not about anything that matters. We exist around each other.”

Damian watched her closely, still silent.

“I guess she’s trying now. But it’s hard to forget when someone chose silence for so long.” Her voice dipped softer. “Especially when they could’ve said something. Done something.”

She didn’t mention her father. Didn’t need to. The edge in her tone, the way her posture tensed—it said enough without details.

Damian leaned forward slightly. “You blame her.”

“I used to,” she said. “Now I just… I don’t know what to feel. She made a choice. I lived with it.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Damian said, “She may regret it more than you think.”

Y/n looked up. “Is that what you think about your parents?”

There was a flicker in Damian’s eyes then. The rarest break.

“No,” he said. “Mine weren’t together long enough to regret anything.”

Y/n blinked, surprised—but didn’t push. That was enough honesty for now.

He leaned back again, studying her. “You should stay for dinner.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation or a command?”

“Does it matter?”

She smirked. “A little.”

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. “Then yes. It’s an invitation.”

Y/n looked down at her sketch again, quiet. Her voice was softer now. “I haven’t had dinner somewhere like this in… I don’t know how long.”

“You get used to it,” Damian said. “Eventually.”

She looked back up, something gentler in her eyes.

“Alright. I’ll stay.”

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[agent-darkfest]

Ok… Guys… hear me out. I just accidentally got an idea:

What if— there was an alternate universe where the Jinns were never imprisoned by the humans and they managed to integrate into human society? What if Professor Y/n got hired by two Jinns to help them search for their history and lost records? What if those two Jinns were filthy stinking rich and literally funded the whole expedition and went with the Professor on this adventure? You know, just asking…

What if instead of "Arabian Knights" this alternate universe was called "A Tale of Two Jinns"…

I already have sketches… and I actually wrote a thing. A concept—really more of like a little snippet of a concept. (I’m not a writer, so please bear with me while I finalize the sketches)

———————————

"Why them, Sun?" Moon asked as he approached the mahogany desk in the middle of the large office. "Why have them lead this expedition?"

"Because, Moon…," Sun replied as he grabbed a stack of museum inventory documents and puts them away inside his desk drawer to be sorted out later. "I have a good feeling about them!"

"A feeling?" Moon asked with a derisive chuckle looking at Sun like he lost his mind. "Oh, ok, yeah. ‘A feeling’… heh… You mean to tell me that in the last 3000 years, you now start getting ‘a feeling’ that this particular human is special enough to lead one of OUR multi-million dollar expeditions!?"

"Fine, not a feeling, my research! Just—Look at their record, Moon!" Sun pulls out a folder and throws it on the desk. The folder opens showing various newspaper clippings, each celebrating the expedition and discovery of various unknown ancient sites led by different archeological teams. The only constant is your face in the background in each of the team photographs. "These teams had found RARE and long forgotten ancient sites…" Sun picks up one of the clippings as he stands up and walks around the desk to Moon. "And while the teams were led by other Archeologists, what they failed to mention is that these expeditions were only possible thanks to the efforts and artifacts found by Professor Y/n!" Sun points to you in the picture.

Moon scoffs as he looks away. Sun walks around to face him once again, he looks at Moon as he tightens his grip on the newspaper clippings.

"Moon, we NEED them."

"Well, maybe if your memory wasn’t such crap, that wouldn’t be the case."

Sun groans in frustration.

"How can you expect me to remember almost 3 millennia worth of history!? Our people lost all records thanks to the ancient humans that nearly imprisoned all of us!" Sun slams the clipping on the desk adjacent to him, never breaking eye contact with Moon. "When we escaped… when we ALL escaped, we leveled that human kingdom to the ground and terra-formed the land. Mountains rose! Continents were formed! Sands were shifted and BURIED our temples!" Moon flinches, he glares down away from Sun.

Sun takes a deep breath and speaks calmly, "Our people cannot find our temples anymore… every dune, every piece of land that we dug up… it only became a blank slate for a new human civilization to pop up— I mean, look at the Egyptians! They built the pyramids where we started searching!" Sun sighs, "We found one temple—after almost a millennium of searching. All the records were destroyed and artifacts looted." He looks around his office. "And we haven’t been able to get them back."

"Then why keep searching?"

"Why?" Sun asks with blank expression in his face, "Because if we don’t, we may never find it." He crowds Moon backwards towards his desk. "Because in the 3 weeks that Professor Y/n has been in this side of the world, they found an artifact from THE ancient kingdom." He grabs Moon and forces him to face him.

"HEY—"

"Because if we don’t find it… Afton will. And when he finds it… History will repeat itself."

Moon looks at Sun in the eyes, his breath shaky as fear begins to grip him. Angrily, he shakes off Sun’s grip and stomps his way to Sun’s office door.

"I know you lost your faith, Moon." Sun calls out as Moon pauses and grips door handle. He stands before the door and listens to Sun. "But you were a Priest once upon a time…" Sun looks at him hopefully, "Surely, you must sense something?… right? I mean, I’m a scholar and can deduce things through my research but even you—"

Moon tightens his grip on the handle. "That was a long time ago… I don’t believe in any of that anymore." Moon opens the door in front of him. "You should just give up this wild goose chase, we have a Museum to run. And besides, that human looked scared of us, they will never—"

A honk from outside the building interrupts Moon. They both pause and look out the 3rd-story window of the building to see you step out of the limo they sent out to pick you up. If you were here, that meant you were willing to accept Sun’s business proposal. You adjust your glasses as you gawk in admiration, completely blown away by the size and architecture of the Museum in front of you. Sun begins to smile as you quickly turn to thank the driver for handing you your bag—and a box of sweets? You must have made pit stop along the way. Sun turns to Moon with a Cheshire grin, only to see him already make his way out the door.

"This changes nothing!" He yells from the corridor as he slams the door.

———————

I gotta finish those sketches… I’m literally eyeballing them as I wrote this.

[dragonnova]

Every May... I do Mer-AU's for Patreon and I've been having entirely too much fun with See Turtle AU for the Donnie, Leo, and April (I'm working on designs for Raph and Mikey right now). These are some of the sketches I did while working out their designs. Donnie is a Green Sea Turtle. Leo is a Flat Back. And April will have Yellow Tang coloring (and she has the fins) with green accents. (Reason I chose those two turtles is because when they're young they look exactly alike but they're completely different species. So I thought it was fitting for the Disaster Twins.) Story that started developing is Donnie will carry April up on land so they can loot lost and found boxes and items left by beach combers in search of glasses that will fit her. They are absolute Gremlins and terrorize tourists.

[miitokii]

ok so imagine if joker killed someone and the guilt stained his hands with blood forever

so he understands why akechi wears gloves all the time lol

btw i traced the hands from an anime called Beyond the Boundary (just search anime bloody hands and it’s like the first result), i wanted to focus more on the effect and the expression

also have some drawings of akechi i did with a different fit. imagine if joker had a dream with akechi in it with phantom thief outfit before akechi revealed his persona to the thieves lol

ALSO if you want more context for the joker killing someone idea, and an edit i did with these drawings to please the instagram algorithm, please see under the cut

ok so i was thinking about the PT’s plan against Akechi, and a common gripe i see is how the cognitions don’t die like that in other palaces, they just dissipate into black smoke. BUT ALSO other palace rulers don’t really see people as actual people unlike Sae.

so Kamoshida sees people as nothing more than dolls/slaves he can use how he wants, hence cognitive Ann just dissipates when sliced (a puppet with cut strings is useless). Okumura sees people as robots so cognitive Haru explodes because she’s a robot. Kaneshiro sees people as ATMs so they just malfunction and break down.

i imagine the cognitions in Madarame’s palace are kinda just like… 3D living statues, just there to admire Madarame’s work, so if they were killed they’d probably dissipate or crumble like Kamoshida’s. and obviously there are no cognitions in Futaba’s palace (apart from Wakaba, who has a whole boss) because she’s a shut in.

anyway, the PT would notice that cognitions have different behaviour even in death depending on the palace ruler, so to confirm the plan would work, they would have to kill a cognition to see what happens in Sae’s palace. Makoto is probably sure her sister still sees people as people so it would work, but she also knows it’s vital they check this. in a way it would ease her too, since it would be confirmation.

and of course Joker being the leader he is would volunteer to do the ‘deed’. so he kills an innocent, harmless, cognitive person, watches them beg for their life as he holds a gun to their head and fires. he knows it’s just a cognition so it’s irrational, but the guilt he feels is all the same, especially as he watches the cognition slump to the floor just like a real corpse and bleed out onto the floor. Unlike other cognitions in other palaces it doesn’t dissipate after a while, it stays there, because Sae, how distorted she may be, still sees people as people, in life or death.

ALSO even when cognitive Ren and the guard dissipate after a while, it’s not because they’re cognitions, it’s because Sae has by then found out the whole thing was a ploy. she now knows both Ren and the guard are very much alive - so then of course the corpses would disappear

leave out the Joker kills a cognition bit (let’s say they were confident enough in their reasoning) and it could basically be canon

lol anyway yeah i wrote that in a fic and wanted to draw it in a sort of quick sketch lol

anyway here’s the edit lol

[archangeldyke-all]

imagine sevika finding all the drawings reader has made of her in their sketchbook. Drawings of her face, body, nose, back, everything. 🙃🙃

wahhhh now i'm crying

men and minors dni

she's rifling through your drawers looking for a clean tank top to borrow when she finds a manila folder hidden under your socks.

she hums, opening it, expecting to find your birth certificate or tax documents. she freezes when the first thing she sees is her own face.

sevika knows you like to draw. she's always laughing at the little doodles and sketches she finds around the house, on the back of old receipts or napkins.

one of her favorite pastimes is reading in bed while you doodle away in your sketchbook beside her.

but she's never seen you draw her before.

she gazes down at the sketch, soaking in every scratch of your pencil, a lump forming in her throat at the loving way you've captured her sleeping face.

she moves the first sketch to the side. the next one is a bit messier, clearly done in a rush. black ink smudged in some spaces where your hand smeared it on the back of an old receipt in your attempt to quickly capture the rare sight of sevika's toothy grin. she chuckles at the little hearts you've drawn around her smiling face, then moves onto the next.

it's her whole body from head to toe, naked and asleep on your bed. she's got one hand above her head, the other resting across her stomach. she looks... soft. you've drawn each and every scar on her body with loving reverence. you've captured the hickeys you'd sucked into her neck earlier that night with a gentle smudge of your graphite. a gentle smile creeps up sevika's lips as a tear falls from her eyes.

there's hundreds of sketches in the folder. sevika gives up on her search for a shirt and situates herself on the bed, rifling through all the papers in the folder.

some of her hands, some of her back, some of her lounging on the couch with a cigarette between her lips.

her favorite is a quick doodle you'd obviously done when she'd pissed you off, a caricature of her flexing, captioned with 'all these muscles and she still makes me shovel the driveway.'

she loves the little studies she finds on various parts of her face. one page is just full of her nose from different angles. another is of her hands, both flesh and prosthetic.

you find her while she's admiring a particularly saucy sketch of what she assumes must be your view of when she's fucking you missionary.

"sevika?" you ask. she jumps off the bed, scrambling to stack the papers and slam the folder closed. you chuckle. there's a lovely little blush on her cheeks, and she's still clutching the folder to her chest like it's her prized possession. "you found your folder." you say. she blinks at you.

"why didn't you show me these before?" she asks. you shrug.

"'s kinda embarrassing. i'm, like, obsessed with you." you say. sevika chuckles.

"'m your muse." she says. you roll your eyes.

"i didn't say that--"

"these are beautiful." she says. you blink at her. "i've-- fuck, i spent like an hour and a half lookin' at 'em. you made me beautiful." she says.

you blink back tears. sevika's always saying stuff that takes your breath away, then acting like she's said nothing.

"you are beautiful sevika." you say. she gulps, and then in a flash she's kissing you.

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[bosbas]

Chapter 7: you search in every maiden's bed for something greater

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: benedict bridgerton x best friend!fem!reader WC: 3.2k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, misogyny (not by anyone relevant dw), idiots in love being idiots in love, angst, mentions of sex and drinking

Summary: You and Benedict have been best friends since childhood, but things change dramatically once you come out in society. You’re struggling to find someone you’re as compatible with and who knows you as well as Benedict, all while trying to quell your ever-growing feelings for him. Shenanigans ensue.

A/N: errr.... it's going to get worse before it gets better. sorry in advance

June 19, 1814 - Perhaps word of this author's disappointment by the ton's lack of happenings has reached Bridgerton ears. Whispers around the ton indicate that Mr. Benedict Bridgerton has been packing his belongings for an extended duration, leading one to speculate if this departure is more than a fleeting journey. The observant eyes of society are left to wonder about the purpose behind such preparations and whether, in the midst of packing, the second Bidgerton son is inadvertently leaving behind not only his material possessions but also a potential union with a certain Miss Beaumont.

Benedict was just about done packing, disappointed that his upcoming trip had been pointed out in the ton's gossip column. He was hoping to slip out relatively quietly, not needing further speculation on why he was leaving you, an undoubted topic of conversation for Lady Whistledown. The very reason he was leaving was for your sake, and he didn't want anyone making his own absence harder for you. 

The past days had been nothing short of agonizing for more than a few reasons. Ben knew his mother was disappointed in him for leaving, not immune to her sad stares and soft sighs, but he just couldn't go on like this. If he ignored his feelings, he knew he wanted you to find a husband, just as you had asked him to let you do. But he couldn't ignore his feelings. Not entirely, at least. Benedict was going half insane watching you dance with eager suitors and hearing you talk about the exotic and beautiful bouquets you had later received from them. He could barely sleep, plagued by thoughts of someone else making you laugh, and the dull ache in his chest had become a permanent fixture. 

His art studio felt cold and empty now, rarely graced by your warm and lively presence. Ben couldn't find it in himself to spend the hours he used to in there, missing your animated commentary as you read whichever book you had taken from the Bridgerton library that day. He had barely been able to paint at all recently, inside or outside his studio, frustrated that every single sketch or painting he started was in some manner related to you. Worse, he found he had little to no inspiration for new works without you by his side. Every single aspect of his life was completely turned upside down by your absence. Even the moon looked different. He could not look at the stars at night without remembering how your eyes looked at night, reflecting the soft starlight in the sky. 

So he was leaving. Perhaps it was a cowardly thing to do, but Benedict was desperate to regain some sense of normalcy in his life. He knew he couldn't have you, but he couldn't watch someone else have you, either. The only viable choice he saw was to go away, back to the countryside. Of course, his family saw right through his weak excuse of "needing time away to work on his art," but at least no one had the sense to confront him about it. Yet still, the truth lingered in the look of pity he received from Anthony and Colin and the quietly exasperated "Are you joking?" he heard Francesca whisper to Hyacinth. 

Ben had come to see you a few days ago and broken the news, and you had barely been able to concentrate since. Even though you had established some distance from your best friend, you still relished in the comfort of his nearby presence. You knew that even if you had a dreadful dance at a ball, one quick smile from Ben could immediately heal your stepped-on feet and put you in a better mood. 

But you supposed him leaving was for the best. At the moment, you weren't seriously considering any suitors yet. No longer having Benedict by your side might end up being more beneficial to you, even if your eyes were constantly filled with unshed tears and your lower lip was raw from nervous biting at the thought of him away in the country for months on end. You supposed you would have to move on from him, laying your feelings to rest. That was the whole point, was it not? Benedict would leave, and you would stop wishing every man you talked to was him. 

You were in your garden now, hiding in your usual spot behind the rose bushes with your nose stuck in a book in an attempt to evade your mother's call to practice your needlepoint. With Benedict leaving tomorrow, you reasoned that you should be excused from mind-numbing activities such as sewing due to your emotional distress. Unfortunately, your mother did not share this opinion, and you were forced into hiding to escape her demands. 

Hearing footsteps coming your way, you shrunk further behind the bushes, hoping you hadn't been caught and could spare another five minutes of peace. 

"Y/N Beaumont, come out of there this instant. You cannot simply avoid me when you don't want to play the pianoforte," came Benedict's voice from above you, taking on a high-pitched voice as he attempted to imitate your mother when she was frustrated with her children. You instantly relaxed, bursting into laughter.

"You are so evil! I thought I had actually been caught out. Although my mother wants me to practice needlepoint instead of pianoforte this time," you said as you rolled your eyes, playfully hitting his arm as he sat beside you. 

Ben laughed, shaking his head and snatching your book from your hands, leafing through it absentmindedly. "Hmmm, I figured it was something like that. I came into your house and saw the Countess quite exasperated, asking me if I knew where you were hiding," he said. Seeing your widening eyes, he quickly continued, "Oh, but don't worry. I would never betray you like that. The rose bush stays between us."

"Well, since you're leaving tomorrow, you very well could have revealed the hiding spot and escaped an untimely death," you retorted. Although you meant it as a joke, you couldn't help the break in your voice as you took in the reality of Benedict leaving for the countryside. You wrapped your arms around one of his, resting your head on his shoulder. You were breaking every rule you had established for your friendship, but you didn't care anymore.

Sighing deeply, Benedict placed his hand on top of yours. He could easily sense the pain behind your playful dig and couldn't help feeling the same way. Not finding the strength to continue the faux-playful exchange, Ben simply placed a soft kiss on the top of your head. "Either way, I could never. You're still my best friend. Always have been, always will be, Y/N Beaumont." 

You could feel a wave of tears welling in your eyes, starting to flow as you softly said your next words. "I know. I'm going to miss you, Benedict Bridgerton."

He looked down at you, feeling a fondness so fierce he felt the prickling of tears in his eyes. He cleared his throat, wanting desperately to end this chapter of your lives on a good note. He grabbed your hands and stood you up so you were facing him. He could barely stand the sight of your tear-stained face, beautiful as ever despite your reddened eyes. A few quiet moments passed between you, both of you attempting to regain composure, but the pain of losing the other made it entirely impossible. 

He was still holding on to your hands, thumbs rubbing softly up and down in the way he had always done. But this time, they did not bring you comfort. Instead, you burst into tears, closing the short distance between you and sobbing into his chest, not caring that your tears might ruin his clothes. To be loved was to be changed, after all, and God did you love him.

Wrapping his arms tightly around you as you sobbed, Benedict was at a loss. He couldn't fathom what life would be like after you, barely remembering what it had been before you. To willingly walk away from this, from you in his arms, from your shared intimacy, from the unbreakable bond the two of you had formed over two decades... he had to be insane. Yet he had no choice, as the past few weeks had shown. All Ben could do was rub a comforting hand on your back as you cried, murmuring sweet nothings in an effort to alleviate the excruciating pain he knew you were feeling as well. 

Finally, he spoke. "I'm going to miss you more, Y/N. And I'm so sorry. I never wanted it to end like this. I never wanted it to end at all, actually." 

Feeling another kiss at the top of your head, you lifted your head to look him in the eyes. You were no longer sobbing, just sniffling as tears ran down your face. "Me neither," you choked out, eyes still on him. You wanted to take in as much of him as you could before he left. You wanted his face burned into your mind forever, leaving a permanent mark you could never get rid of. 

As you sniffled again, you felt him pull you into his chest, hearing him say softly, "It's going to be alright, darling." He placed a tender kiss on your forehead, pulling you back again to look you in the eyes. He then followed a delicate trail, pressing soft kisses between your furrowed brows, on the tip of your nose, and along the tear-streaked canvas of your cheeks. Then, hesitantly, he reached your lips. 

His eyes were intense, heavy with emotion, as you felt his lips hovering above yours. You had never been kissed before, but you would so easily forgo social norms if he just closed the distance between you. You were inches apart, breath intermingling, eyes boring into each other. You could feel the palpable electricity between you, a mix of fear and familiarity. In that suspended moment, your heart beating with his, anticipation hung thick in the air. You were about to cross a precipice of intimacy you never had before, finally acting on the pressure that had been building for years. You wanted him so badly, and you could tell he wanted you, too. At least right now. Desire was running through you in a way it never had before, and you wondered whether the sort of itch you were feeling right now was the same one Ben talked about when he explained the night of the marriage. Is this the itch that would be scratched? You understood what he meant now, needing him so desperately to touch his lips to yours, to bring you the relief you sought in him. Benedict moved a fraction of an inch closer to you, and you drew your breath in anticipation, lips forming into a smile. 

Yet suddenly, Benedict groaned and abruptly withdrew as if an unseen force compelled him to sever the burgeoning connection. Pushing you away in more senses than one, he roughly rubbed his face with his hands. You could tell he was in a state of complete panic. Hurt and confused, you watched him rub his eyes frustratedly, refusing to meet your gaze.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry," he stammered, a haunted look in his eyes betraying the fear of losing all the meticulously constructed defenses he had placed between you. "I don't know what came over me. That was so not right. I just—" His words stumbled, a confession hanging unspoken in the charged air between you.

You couldn't stop yourself from flinching, understanding the implications of his words. You supposed it should never have been like this. The two of you were best friends, after all. But you were desperate for him to look at you and give away some of what he was thinking, needing any sort of reassurance, so you reached out, softly gripping his bicep. "It's alright, Ben. I know you didn't—"

But he cut you off, his head shaking in fervent denial, avoiding your pleading eyes. "No, it's not. I'm sorry. Look, I should go; I still need to finish packing. But I'll come by early tomorrow morning to say goodbye if you're awake."

Without granting you a lingering look, he turned away, leaving you alone in the garden where you had played together as children, where your friendship had once blossomed. Tears ran unobstructed down your cheeks, and your heart broke cleanly in two. 

---

You found yourself promenading alongside Mr Henri Deschamps in Hyde Park once again, politely nodding every time he looked to you for reassurance that his talk about hunting was not, in fact, the most boring thing you had ever heard in your life. And it wasn't, but you were inclined to think that it was pretty close. Nevertheless, you liked Mr Deschamps more than most other suitors, enjoying the philosophical debates the two of you would sometimes engage in. 

Henri was from France but had come to England with his younger sister to see her married off last season. Although he was successful in this endeavor, he liked England so much that he chose to stay and find a wife for himself. Still, you were a tad fearful that Henri would want to return to France when, and if, the two of you were married. He had been courting you for a short time, only a couple of weeks. Still, you were careful in expressing your desire and taking it slow, despite thinking that you would probably end up marrying him if all kept going the same way it was now. 

All things considered, Mr Deschamps was an adequate match for you. He was intellectually stimulating at times, came from a good background to be able to provide for you, and he wasn't bad-looking either. Besides, his accent was fun to listen to even when his words were not. It had been nearly three weeks since Benedict had left for the country, and though you missed him terribly, you were having a much easier time actually thinking of your suitors as potential husbands instead of fun ways to pass time before you spoke to Ben next. 

Hearing Henri mention something related to a book you were currently reading, you perked up, excited. "Actually, I read that—" you started, only to be interrupted by the man at your side. 

"Ah, of course, you read this, you read that. When does it stop, Miss Beaumont? You are always reading something. Men do not want this. We want an obedient wife who will not cause us any more stress than we have in life. We want a wife who will give us heirs quickly and who will listen to what we say," came Mr Deschamps' interjection. You were stunned, frozen in your spot, but he grabbed your arm and continued speaking as he dragged you with him. 

"Men do not want a woman who is smarter than them, Miss Beaumont. How about you stick to your good qualities, oui? You are very beautiful, but no one will ever marry you if you keep discussing books. No one wants to hear about books," he finished, sending you a pointed look.

You could barely believe what you were hearing. "But—," you tried, only to be interrupted by Mr Deschamps once again. 

"But— But— But—," he mocked cruelly. "But nothing, Miss Beaumont. This is the truth, yet you still argue with me. It is the same in France as it is here: women should not argue with men. You would do well to remember that." 

You wrenched your arm out of his grasp, appalled by his egregious behavior. He rolled his eyes at your reaction, turning around and throwing his hands up in the air, clearly exasperated. You angrily stared after him as your mother, who had been walking a few paces behind the two of you, caught up. 

"What in the world was that? I cannot believe he spoke to you in such a disrespectful manner and in front of everyone, at that," she exclaimed, fuming. Clearly, she had heard at least some of your conversation. You could only shake your head in disbelief, still reeling from Henri's sudden outburst. He had effectively squashed your hopes of ever finding an appropriate husband in under three minutes. It would have been impressive if it didn't leave you so hopeless.

---

Far from the hubbub of the city, Benedict lay in his messy bed, staring at the now-empty spot beside him, illuminated by the moonlight filtering through his half-open curtains. With ever-deepening bags under his eyes and a dwindling excitement about life, he grappled with a reality he never thought he would confront. The echoes of your shared dreams from your youthful days mocked him, a poignant reminder of a time when marriage felt like a distant concept.

This had become somewhat of a routine by now. Benedict had taken to finding solace in the arms of various women, seeking momentary distraction from the ache in his heart. With each encounter, it became glaringly evident that physical intimacy offered no relief from the unending yearning he felt for you and your friendship, forever changed by his choices. 

Loneliness enveloped him each time the women left, a feeling he had become all too familiar with in the past few weeks. He barely slept, opting instead to imagine your life back in the city, full of exciting balls and surrounded by the warmth of your family. And his, he supposed. But most of all, he couldn't help the painful thoughts of you with another man, discussing your favorite books, or forming inside jokes with one another. 

He was comforted only by the fact that he had not yet received a wedding invitation. Surely Benedict would have been invited to the momentous occasion had you finally found someone to spend forever with. However, the comfort he felt from this was significantly overshadowed by the implications of your inevitable wedding. One last goodbye. A proper goodbye, this time. Here, in the countryside, he could theoretically return to you anytime. But once you were married, you would be gone forever, and the wanting he felt now would only multiply, consuming him entirely. 

In the quiet hours before dawn, he often wondered if the past could be revisited, a past where the two of you made plans to get married. The idea of a marriage where he was free to pursue his artistic endeavors and you continued your literary pursuits lingered in his thoughts every single night. It seemed that he was only interested in marriage if it was an arrangement similar to the one you had dreamt up as children, and the chances of attaining that were slim to none. Benedict found himself yearning for a simplicity that had been lost in the complexities of adulthood. With you married off, he would have to find a wife eventually. But perhaps he did not want to marry at all. Maybe he would stay a bachelor, making vows to his art rather than a woman he knew could never compare to you. 

For now, he continued his escapades. In the long run, he was not confident that this would help him forget you or forget the fierce love you inspired in him, but he was desperate for any way to stop thinking about you, if only for a few hours. So he indulged, going to raucous gatherings, mainly populated by artists. People used their canvases at these parties as a means of liberation, but he only used them to mask his true feelings. He could momentarily quiet his mind, painting and dancing and drinking before he eventually came crashing down to reality. 

—

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[yyawnjun]

THEO AS TATTOO ARTIST

from my serie: P1HARMONY STUDIO

A tattoo of water lilies, an attractive and talented tattoo artist, a phone number that is seemingly impossible to obtain, and certain feelings that are hard to hide. What could ever happen? a.n.: first part! hope y'all appreciate the lil connection between the stories ndaja (you will understand reading the other stories when they will be out <3) ; 2,5k wc ; fluff !!; no warnings ; theo being a tattoo artist makes so much sense. ; shootout for this beautiful banner AND for proofreading this to my favorite girl ever @gfnextdoor @sobun1est (GO TO FOLLOW HER RN) ; writing this to find all of the few p1eces on this app!!

event taglist : @tkooooop (send an ask to be added)

Soon the receptionist found your name on the appointment list and led you down a hallway to room 11 where you would speak for the first time with your tattoo artist about your first tattoo. You had been thinking about getting it for years, and you were looking for the right place and the right time in your life. So one day, after moving alone to a new city to continue your studies, you decided to celebrate the new beginning with a tattoo.

After a long search for the perfect shop, you were lucky to come across "P1HARMONY," a shop with great reviews despite being little known. You had previously decided what you wanted tattooed, where on your body, and in what style. After seeing some tattoos on the Instagram page, you decided to visit the place. In particular, the amazing and simple style of a specific Theo caught your eye. Unfortunately, the tattoo artist you wanted wasn't available when you first visited. However, you were able to schedule a meeting for the next day so you could talk to him face-to-face about your tattoo.

It was around 10 am when you entered room number 11. When you walked in, you saw that the blinds were still a touch low so the light was reflected enough to illuminate the room without being overly blinding or annoying. You immediately saw the boy who introduced himself as Choi Taeyang, your tattoo artist seated on the chair next to a desk. His pale skin provided a pleasing contrast to accentuate his reddish lips, and his jet-black hair matched the color of his eyes. His expression seemed calm and even his glazed eyes were softened by a small smile. He didn't have any tattoos on his arms as you expected, but you could see one on his chest because of the shirt's neckline.

“I heard this will be your first tattoo. What were you thinking of doing?” He asked you after you walked in and sat down in the chair across from him. Even though a whole desk between you two, you could still feel your heart pound as his black eyes remained to gaze at yours. His calm attitude quickly made you feel comfortable, to the point where you began discussing your desired tattoo design. You clarified that you wanted a water lily to be placed on the inside of your arm. To ensure that his style was appropriate for you, he got up to display his collection of tattoos. 

He got up and took a big notebook from a shelf that had sketches and pictures of tattoos he had done. As you reviewed that type of portfolio, you grew to admire his lovely line and the numerous incredibly accurate details that accompanied it. You saw that, although focusing more on the medium-sized tattoos, he had no trouble applying color and that the size of his tattoos was the most different.  

As soon as you finished looking at his notebook. You looked up, convinced now more than ever that he would be the one to give you your first tattoo. You started to look at him, but he was already looking at you. You looked away for a moment while he kept his gaze. “Okay, I’m convinced”

“Perfect, then by this evening I will send you some ideas of your tattoo, both colored and not. Once you have seen them, we can discuss the price together.”

“Thank you. Do I need to leave my email or my number to the secretary?”

“Yes… I mean, no, don’t worry. If it’s okay with you, you can leave it with me and I will contact you,” all his confidence seemed to waver as he said that. His voice sounded halting, and his cheeks were flushed. You didn’t pay much attention and gave your number to him.

“So, water-lily girl, what’s your name?”

You chuckled at the funny nickname "Yn, my name is Yn," to which he responded with a smile and a firm handshake.

In contrast to your hand, his hand felt quite warm and had a firm hold. You got up to go a little while later, and he got up right away to open the door.

A quick nod and you were out of room number eleven. You walked towards the main exit where you ran into two boys, one tall with red hair and lip piercings, and one with black hair and a temporary henna tattoo on his arm.

“And you know that, even though I’ve known Theo for a week now, I still haven’t managed to get his number!” said the red-haired boy.  Suddenly, their conversation took on a more intriguing tone. I mean, because you already had his number…

"Of all the people I know, very few have his number." the other boy replied. And after that sentence, you lost a heartbeat skip and an involuntary smile. Why did they ask for your number? Or was it all just your imagination? The truth is that you had to move from your hiding spot to get out. You did this by lightly smiling at the two boys.

“And she didn’t leave her contacts at the secretary’s office,” the receptionist told the two boys that were still looking at the girl that just left the shop.

“Either Theo scared her, or Theo took her contacts,” the henna boy replied.

“She was really cute, I don’t know whether to hope that he scared her or that he thought she was cute,” the redhead added.

“The second option,” said Theo, who had just joined in the discussion. No one had noticed his arrival, and everyone was slightly scared by his sudden comment.

“You did well, I’ll be rooting for you. You should give me your number so you can keep me updated.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Jiung,” Theo chuckled before going back to his studio to take care of your tattoo.

It was 8 pm and you had just finished taking a shower when your phone rang. It was a message from an unknown number. But you immediately recognized who it was from the profile picture, and his introduction in the message; it was Theo, the tattoo artist. For a little while you felt the emotion rise, even if he hadn't written you anything so crazy... but you could still hear the voices of those two boys talking about how rare it was to have his phone number. And you got it right away... that boy blushed and stammered when he asked you for it. Oh, how all those romantic Kdramas are starting to bring out your delusional side…

“Hey, I'm Theo, the tattoo artist at p1harmony. We met today and I texted you to show you some tattoo ideas. Sorry, there are a lot, I ended up getting carried away. I hope you like at least one. Let me know so I can fill a spot for you starting tomorrow if you're available.

Have a good evening Yn”

You grinned at the message and began glancing through the pictures. Every one of them was more beautiful than the last.

The style was similar in all of them, and yet they were so different. You fell in love in particular with a water lily colored in a reddish pink with green petals. It had little stars around it that lit up the water lily, giving it a fairy-like tone-

You stood alone thinking about the tattoos and imagining the boy doing them. As he worked on his graphics tablet, you could picture him focused, with his eyes half closed and his forehead slightly furrowed. After a while, you responded to him, telling him which one was your favorite and asking if you could have an appointment the next day.

“A date tomorrow. Sure, see you at 10 am.” he sent the message shortly after your confirmation.

“Of course, I meant for your tattoo.” at 1 am, when you were still awake watching your favorite TV series.

You smiled and replied with a funny emoji to let him understand that you knew it.

“...unless” was the message he sent you at 1.54 am, which you saw fleetingly - because you were still absorbed in watching the series - and which he deleted a minute later.

You wanted to scream because that message had caught you off guard. Unless what? You were fantasizing a little too much about a boy you had met the day before…

Shortly after you fell asleep lulled by those sweet thoughts.

“Welcome,” he said to you as soon as you returned to room number eleven. You found him standing next to the armchair where you were supposed to lie down. He was wearing black gloves and a white shirt that highlighted his hair, which was particularly neat, pulled back by a light layer of gel. 

He had a warm smile that lit up his face, and his eyes shone with the light that came in from the windows.

“Come and sit here, so we can try the stencil,” he told you.

You sat down while he went to print the stencil of the tattoo you had chosen. You had time to admire his studio. Everything was clean, and the predominant colors were black and white. On the walls hung some of his tattoos and sometimes certifications. 

You smiled when you saw a print of a painting by Monet, of water lilies that stood out next to his desk. It seems like he did some research for your tattoo. He appeared so young, yet so skilled; the room featured a few bookcases filled with different tattoo manuals and journals containing pictures and sketches of his tattoos.

You took a moment to lean over and check the year he had won the competition, so you could figure out how old he was.

Just as you were checking he came back and stopped your train of thought. “I was born in 2001, and now I’m 23.” he smiled at you as you shyly sat back down.

“Oh okay..thanks,” you said blushing.

“Here’s the print, stay still while I try to position it on you.”

He was able to place the print on top with extreme delicacy since you sat down and stretched your arm. "Are you ready, Yn?" and you gave a nod.

"Alright. I've already prepared everything I need; we can get started."

Suddenly your arm contracted at the contact with his hands, the fear of the needle of that machine mixed with the delicacy of your body gave you shivers all over your body.

Your arm suddenly tightened at the touch of his fingers; the combination of your body's sensitivity and your fear of the machine's needle sent shivers down your spine.

"Is everything okay?"  he asked you, stopping before even touching you with the needle.

"Yes." 

"They won't hurt; they'll be like tiny pinches, I swear. - he said - tell me a little about yourself so you can distract yourself in the meantime."

The proposal seemed acceptable to you, so you started to talk about your recent move. He nodded in silence and added a few questions. You noticed that the pain had become bearable, and you took your time observing the boy so concentrated while he tattooed you. His eyes were half-closed, and his head was scrunched up, just as you had imagined. His mouth was slightly open, and he was carefully holding your arm while he tattooed you. With more time to focus on him, you became aware of how near your face was to his, and you made an effort to glance aside to keep your eyes from meeting.

“And would you like to tell me something about yourself?” you asked him bravely. You were used to listening, but you had been pleased to be able to talk to someone. He also spoke a little bit about himself, saying that he had moved into the studio a year before and was gradually getting to know all the people who worked there. He cherished that work environment, and they were all wonderful people. He spoke and you listened to him; he and he remained focused. He was so attractive that even if you tried not to get lost in his words, you found yourself missing a few sentences.

You had lost a few heartbeats, your sense of time, and now even your shred of dignity when you decided to ask him if he was dating someone.

He looked up for a moment, shook his head, and asked you the same question again.

“No, I’m not,” you told him.

Theo and you both began to smile, but you hardly noticed his as you felt his heartbeat quicken due to your posture allowing your palm to lightly feel his heartbeat. 

Before you knew it, the tattoo was finished.

“It’s so beautiful,” you said

“Yes.. beautiful.” he said looking into your eyes, and then added “Yes, the tattoo. I’m proud of it.” he continued pretending as if nothing had happened.

Shortly after he placed a specific wrap around your tattoo, to prevent it from getting ruined or infected. You quickly paid for the tattoo and stood up to go.

“It was nice meeting you, you can text me if you need anything. You already have my number anyway”

“Thanks again, Theo.”

“Unless…” he said to you when you were at the door with your back turned.

You connected to the deleted message right away. Was that cryptic method he was asking you out? Instead, you chose to be naive and pretended to be confused.

You turned around and found him standing a few meters away from you.

“We can see each other again tonight, you and I. But not for your tattoo. I mean, would you go on a date with me?” he asked you.

Your heart started to beat wildly.

“Sure Theo, I’d love it.” and immediately your gazes moved. “I’ll text you the details then,” he said to you.

Out of excitement, you turned around and tried to push the door to leave…even though it said “PULL” in large letters.

He smiled and tried to open it for you, but you managed to be quicker.

When you opened the door intending to listen in on your conversation, you found two boys outside the room you saw the first day.

We are even now, you thought, recalling the first time you overheard their chat...

But Theo didn’t see it that way and started chasing while the two tried to escape.

“INTAK, JIUNG STOP NOW.”

You smiled and greeted them, then tried to leave while giggling at the funny scene.

At the entrance, you find a boy with platinum blonde hair who has just arrived. You noticed from his bags that he was probably a make-up artist who worked there.

“Hey, you must be Yn,” he said to you

“Uhm yes, who are you?”

“ Oh sorry, I’m Keeho. I work here as a make-up artist, and Theo told me about you. Just tell me if that dork dared to ask you out.”

“He did.” you smiled.

“Let's go, Jongseob owes me 10 euros… may I ask you again if you accepted?” And you nodded.

“YES! Thank you. Now Soul also owes me 10 euros. One day, I will offer you free makeup.”

You laughed at the amusing interaction, nodded, and walked out, your thoughts still wandering as you imagined the upcoming date with Theo.

[whatsnewalycat]

No Strings Attached

Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella - Psychomanteum AU

[ psychomanteum masterlist ][ ao3 ]

WC: 2.7k+

Tags/Warnings: lua 2nd person pov, ghosts, psychomanteum au where they were together in spring, set after chapter 2, bickering, alcohol, drugs, addiction, ethan, anonymous sex mention, a boat load of sweeet sweet yearning folks

Notes: This is a doc I just found in my Psychomanteum folder. I think this is what I was originally writing for Chapter 3, but changed direction. Some of these conversations and prose proooobably got recycled into different chapters, but I can't remember. ANYWAY it's cute so I'm posting it as a Psychomanteum AU Snackie Poo (i'msosorryforsayingthatohmygod)

-----

Since Katie’s party, the two of you have hung out a handful of times, mostly with Parker, going out to a bar and having a few drinks. Between whatever actor things actors do while they’re in the city, he’ll sometimes text you to see what you’re doing, and what you’re usually doing is baking. 

It surprises you a little every time he comes over. Why would an exciting guy like this want to hang out in your apartment while you work? Not that you mind. The company is nice. Most of the time he’ll chat with you while he sketches and happily disposes of any defective product. Sometimes it goes quiet while the two of you concentrate on your respective tasks, but it doesn’t feel awkward. 

This is the modus operandi when Dieter slides his pencil it into the spine of his sketchbook and studies you, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Out of breath from rolling out puff pastry dough, you look at him and pant, “What?”

“Ghosts,” he leans against the counter, pressing his thumbnails to his lips as he waits for your answer. 

You huff, setting your rolling pin down, and remember the picture frame on the spare bedroom floor. The face you imagined you saw in the mirror. Sometimes you hear noises in that room, but can’t bring yourself to investigate. The only time you enter the room is to get supplies, and even then, you speed run and don’t dare look up at the mirrors. 

“No,” you avert your gaze from his and turn around to wash your hands in the sink. 

“Wow, you’re a terrible liar.” 

You turn around and gape at him as you dry your hands, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“So you do believe in ghosts, got it,” he gives you a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes but don’t deny it. He leans forward onto his elbows again, “If I tell you something, will you think I’m crazy?”

“Dee, I texted you yesterday and asked if you think that Avril Lavigne is really herself or a body double. I don’t think I’m qualified to make any judgments on the sanity of other humans,” you toss the kitchen towel over your shoulder, then start folding the dough into layers. 

He tilts his head and frowns, then points at you, “I think you might be onto something there,” then shakes his head, “Ok, well…” 

His Adam’s apple bobs and his eyes flick to the spare bedroom door. You stop folding the pastry dough and stand up straight. A shiver runs down your spine. He gnashes his jaw back and forth, then takes a deep breath, “I see him sometimes.” 

You shake your head and search his eyes. Not out of confusion. You just don’t want him to say it. 

He slides his sketchbook across the counter, flipping it around so you can see what he drew. There, sketched in graphite on the creamy paper, is your husband. He’s standing in the open doorway of the spare room. The illustration is unruly, yet intricate. Your mouth falls open as you press your fingertips to his face, and you feel his sorrow. So much so, you flinch back and shake your head again, “Sorry, um, I–”

Dieter watches your eyes start to well with tears and his shoulders slump, “Fuck, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

“Is he still there now?” you whisper, meeting his big, sad, brown eyes. 

They flick to the door and back to you, and he gives you a nod. Your stomach drops to the floor and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. 

“I need to leave,” you announce, throwing the kitchen towel off your shoulder onto the counter, then take off your apron and drop it on the towel, “Right now. I have to leave.” 

He stands up off the stool, pushing it out behind him, pointing to the puff pastry, “Should–I, uh, should I wrap that up?” 

“Um, y-yeah, put it in the fridge, thanks,” you walk around the counter and past him to grab your purse, shove your feet into your boots, then walk out the door and wait for him in the hall. 

He emerges while putting on his jacket, then you lock the door and start toward the elevator. The hall is silent except for the rustling of their clothes and footfalls. You slap the down button on the elevator and cross your arms. 

“He was trying to talk to you,” Dieter explains. 

You shake your head, “I don’t care.” 

“You don’t care?” he challenges. 

“Mhmm,” you nod, hitting the button again, harder this time. 

“Terrible liar,” he mutters to himself, then stares forward at the elevator doors. And he probably thinks he’s being funny. But it’s not funny. You don’t react. 

Once the elevator dings, you’re inside, pressing the doors closed button before they even open all the way. He steps onboard. They accordion shut. 

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he tells you earnestly. In the foggy reflection of the stainless steel doors, you can tell that he’s looking at you. 

“Well, you fucking did,” you snap, and wish you could take the words and shove them back into your mouth. He faces forward and his gaze drops to his feet. 

The doors open and Dieter pushes out in front of you, storming out of the building. By the time you make it outside, he’s gone. A pang of guilt stabs through your chest. The cool, dewy air sticks to your skin and makes you shiver. You regret not grabbing a jacket, but start off towards your favorite hole-in-the-wall bar anyway. 

O’Malley’s is a dingy dugout bar about a block away from your apartment. It’s so dimly lit in contrast to the bright afternoon sun, you have to squint and go off of muscle memory when you walk in the door. On a Tuesday, during daylight hours, when the temperature outside is finally warm enough to melt the gritty snowpiles that have been accumulating for months, the establishment is essentially empty. One sad sap sits at the bar, jacket hanging off the back of his stool, staring down at the lowball glass clutched in his fist. He’s leaning onto the bar with a ringed hand propping his head up. 

You approach and pull out the barstool next to him, droning, “Hey there.” 

Dieter casts a glance to you with a raised brow, then scoffs when he recognizes you. He lifts the glass to his lips and empties it into his mouth, then pushes his sweater sleeves up to his elbows.

Nick, the portly bartender you see here frequently during the week, approaches, “The usual?”

“Yeah,” you nod towards Dieter, “I’ll get his, too.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” he sits back and pulls a wallet from his pocket, then throws some bills on the bar top, “I was just leaving.” 

Fucking hell. 

“Dee–” you reach out and touch his arm, and he turns towards you and stares expectantly. You chew on your bottom lip, dropping your gaze to the floor before sighing, “Please stay. I’m-“  

Nick returns with a whiskey neat and vodka cranberry, sliding them in front of you and Dieter before asking you, “Tab?” 

“Yes please,” you answer with a polite smile, then turn back to Dieter, whose scowl has softened, “C’mon.” 

He sighs and his shoulders release, then he relaxes back into the barstool. Neither of you say anything as you take a sip of the drink, then you turn to him, “I know. Like, um. I know that he’s there sometimes. But I don’t—“ you shake your head, “I don’t want to know.”

He sits up and leans his elbows against the bar, turning to watch you. You chew on your bottom lip and watch the ice cubes clink together as you stir your drink. 

“What was he trying to tell me?” you ask finally. 

“I don’t know,” Dieter frowns, “I couldn’t tell.” 

You saw Ethan cross into the threshold. Through some kind of an otherworldly osmosis, he was absorbed by the membrane that met the two of you at the end of the silent, iridescent wormhole. 

“Why would he come back?” you whisper, mostly to yourself. 

“Why do any spirits come back?” Dieter shrugs and takes a big sip of whiskey, “Unfinished business.” 

All you can think is that it better be a fucking apology. He owes you that much. Ethan was so fucked up that night. Did he even know what he was doing? Or had he been planning it? 

The man that woke you up in the middle of the night on Christmas and made you get into his car with the intention of totaling it… that wasn’t the man you married. You wonder how much coke he had really been doing in the weeks, maybe even months, leading up to the accident. Towards the end, it became commonplace for him to be out all night without explanation. 

He would stumble in at 7am, talking a million miles a minute, a sharp sniff interrupting his monologue every 10 seconds, hands trembling like your grandma’s when she started showing symptoms of Parkinson’s disease. When he finally crashed, he’d go to bed and sleep until the sun went down, where he would isolate himself for a day or two. Then he would go out to run orders to your clients and not come back until 7am. Rinse, wash, repeat. 

One night, when big, fat snowflakes were fluttering to the ground outside in big, he was standing in front of all the order boxes ready to go, making sure he had everything. You came up behind him and wrapped your arms around to his chest, laying your cheek against the back of his winter coat, “Can you come home tonight? I miss you.” 

“Baby, I’m with you all the time,” he chuckled, placing a hand over yours, rubbing his thumb against you affectionately. 

“That’s not what I mean,” you told him quietly. His thumb stopped undulating and his body tensed. Your heart was pounding in your chest when you finally admitted out loud, “I’m worried about you, Ethan. I think it’s becoming a problem again.” 

You let go as he stirred beneath your embrace, turning around to face you. His body only became more rigid, shoulders tensed up to his ears, jaw gnashing, as he assured you, “It’s not a problem. I promise. I’ll come home after dropping these off, ok?” 

He pressed his lips your forehead, sealing his promise with a kiss, and you mumbled, “Ok.” 

He didn’t come home until the next morning. You weren’t surprised. 

“You ok?” Dieter nudges you. 

A lie waits, ready to roll off the tip of your tongue. Instead, what comes out is the truth. 

“No. I don’t think so,” you take a sip and look down at your drink, “But, what can ya do?” 

“Mmm, I think I have something that could help,” Dieter mutters in a suggestive tone. Your heart skips, then you look at him and realize he’s pressing a joint up between his lips, “Wanna go for a walk?” 

This brings a smile to your face, but you protest, “I didn’t bring a coat, it’s still chilly outside.” 

The joint bobs as he frowns and grabs his jacket, “Use mine. I’m fucking sweating, anyway.” 

—

The passersby barely pay the two of you any attention as you stroll at a leisurely pace through the park, passing the joint back and forth. His sepia fleece jacket hangs down to your knees and keeps you almost too insulated. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, tasting the vapors of melting snow clinging close to the earth. The sunshine seems to melt away the foul mood you were in earlier. In your euphoria, you trip on a crack in the pavement, stumbling a bit. You steady yourself and giggle in embarrassment. 

“So glad you don’t have anyone following you with a camera right now,” you comment. 

Dieter plucks the roach from his lips, holds the intoxicating smoke captive in his lungs, and offers it up to you, “How do you know we don’t?” 

You scrunch your face up and make a full 360, scanning for any potential paparazzi, and shoo the roach away. He exhales and shrugs, then tosses it into a disintegrating snow pile, “I’m just kidding, I think I’m off their radar for the time being.”

“Yeah? Have you been a good boy, Dee?” you giggle. The way his whole body seems to perk up at the question is not lost on you. 

“Not so much that as I’m not the biggest shitheel in the media at the moment,” he smirks, looking you up and down through his sunglasses. 

You hum and nod, although you have no idea what he’s referring to, “Ah, yes. That one guy did that one thing.” 

He laughs, “There’s always another guy doing another thing. It never fails.” 

“Ol’ reliable,” you respond, then tilt your head in curiosity, “How is your divorce going, then?” 

“Boring, next,” he groans. 

“No no no, sir, you told me my dead husband is haunting my home today. Even the scales.” 

“Are you sure you’re not the press?” he raises an eyebrow at you. 

And, of course, it’s a joke. But that side glance gnaws at your gut the same way that Ethan’s narrowed eyes did. Looking at you like you’re an informant. 

‘I didn’t tell anyone about the ink, Lou.’

“What?” your shoulders slump. You come to a standstill, and stammer, “I wouldn’t–no, what?” 

He stops, too, and turns to you, “I’m just kidding, Lua.” 

“Oh,” you breathe a sigh of relief, “Ok. I’m not, um, trying to be snoopy.”

“You are way prettier than a cartoon beagle,” he smiles, then starts walking again. You catch up to him and try not to let the way your stomach flutters show on your face. It does. He smiles wider, then it fades to a frown as he shrugs and scratches his neck, “The divorce is going. Annie is staying at the house until it’s finalized, so I’ve been living out of hotels, which gets old,” a sly smile creeps across his face, “It is a little easier on the dating front, though. Living in hotels, that is.”

“Why’s that?” 

“Sex is just better in a bed. A little more room to work with than the bathroom of a club or the backseat of a car, you know? Plus, then they don’t feel like they have to leave right away.” 

“That’s probably why I prefer those places. Don’t have to stick around afterwards.” 

He grins at you, “Is that right?”

Something sparks at the middle of you when you look over at him and shrug, then he licks his lips and nods, looking ahead. 

“So you’re dating people?”

“I don’t think dating is the right term,” you frown, “More just, um… casual sex, I guess.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Since when?” 

“Does it matter?” you tuck your hair behind your ear and look down. 

“No, not at all,” he nudges you, so you look at him and see the good will on his face. “I just… Well, I’ll really kick myself if I could have been begging you to sleep with me this whole time.”

Your mouth is all of a sudden very dry. You blush and chuckle, then shake your head, “I’m looking for no-strings-attached situations.” 

“I am all about no-strings-attached,” he touches his fingertips to his chest and grins, peaking his bloodshot eyes over the rim of his sunglasses. 

“Mmm, no, see, we have strings,” you sigh, then count each of the following points on your hands, “I don’t fuck clients. Or friends. Or celebrities going through very public divorces.” 

Or people I have a big, giant, throbbing crush on.

“My heart,” he clutches the front of his shirt theatrically. 

You giggle at his reaction. The conversation dies momentarily, and the sounds of the city fill the cool air between you. You feel compelled to elaborate, “I’m not ready. With the dead husband and all that. I don’t want a pity fuck, or a goddamn significant other. I just want to get off, then I want it to be over. No strings.” 

He nods, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his pants, “No judgment here, m’dear.”