#using charcoal sticks to draw

[taniaindependentartist]

Art in Movement: Between Experimentation and Creation with Unique Materials

[ningadudexx]

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Happy halloween... have some ominous monkeys ! ( * _ * )_/ 🎃🐒

[smiling-stel]

The fish where I lost my whimsy

[britneyshakespeare]

I love drawing in charcoal because when you're in the beginning of a work, instead of looking like something reasonable it's perfectly acceptable and natural for them to look like this

[pyrrhiccomedy]

I am genuinely so proud of my wife for becoming a crafts person over the last few years.

Like, I was always a crafts person. I was an arts and crafts kid. My parents sent me to classes or summer camps or after-school clubs pretty much continuously from when I was about 5 years old, and over the years I did metalsmithing, stained glass, polymer clay sculpting, loom weaving, oil painting, charcoal drawing, clothes-making & tailoring, carpentry, woodcarving, macrame, miniatures, beading, jewelry-making, basket weaving, leatherworking, paper-making, bookbinding, papier mache, decoupage, sand sculpting, and probably more that I'm forgetting. There was never a day in my life while I was growing up when my entire bedroom floor wasn't taken up by 2-5 different ongoing art projects. As an adult, it's given me the firm confidence that I can walk up to pretty much any crafting skill, and get the hang of it, and enjoy doing it.

My wife never had that. She wrote, but that was really her only artistic outlet. Art & craftsmanship were just not any of her business. She always expressed admiration for my gumption when it came to making things with my hands, usually with a "bigger idiots than me have done it" attitude, but she was certain she'd be bad at it if she tried it, and that she wouldn't have fun. As evidence, she would offer every time in her life when she had attempted to learn a craft, and didn't have fun, and all the Arts And Crafts kids picked it up a lot faster than her.

Which like - yeah! Learning how to do a new craft is a skill all on its own! Fine motor control is a skill developed over time! So is spatial reasoning, and materials intuition! She wasn't just 'trying to learn wreath-making,' or whatever, she was trying to learn how to learn how to make something with her hands AND wreath-making, at the same time, so of course it would take her longer than the kids who already had the first part, and of course it would be more frustrating for her. I knew she wasn't uniquely bad at crafts: she just didn't know how to approach picking them up, because she was never encouraged to learn.

And then the pandemic hit.

And while we were all trapped inside and going insane in new and exciting ways to all of us, she tentatively decided to pick up embroidery. She probably wouldn't stick with it, she explained: she'd probably be bad at it. It probably wouldn't be fun. But she thought embroidery was pretty, and literally what else did she have going on?

And then she did stick with it. For over a year. And she got pretty good at it! She embellished a baseball hat for her sister with cactuses and wildflowers from where they grew up which came out adorable. She made an embroidered portrait of one of our friends' cat that they still have displayed in their entryway. And she discovered - and remarked on it often, with mild surprise - that she was having fun. She'd say a lot of stuff like "this stitch was so frustrating at first, but now that I get it I really like doing it," or "I kept getting this tangled but I've figured it out now. I just needed to relax."

Then she took up pottery. We did that as a couple for about a year, too. Now she's a knitter.

And it's just been so great, to see her eyes light up when she sees a sweater she likes, and hear her say, "I could make that!" She's slowly let go of the perfectionism that I think holds a lot of people back from doing crafts: that dismay when you make a mistake which leads to discarding a whole project, or starting something over. More and more she's taking on the veteran crafter attitude of "oops lol, whatever I'll just keep going." She's picking things up faster. She's taking pleasure in learning incremental steps. She's started to see crafting as something that relaxes and engages her, instead of as something inherently frustrating. I've gotten to watch her learn to find joy in making something with her hands. I always knew she was creative and artistic and capable of learning how to do anything. It's been so much fun to watch her start to take that on as part of how she sees herself.

We have this running joke about how she will prematurely declare herself to be in an era. Like, she'll go swimming twice and announce that she's now in her "swimming era," and then never go swimming again. Or she'll make one smoothie, buy a bunch of fruit, and declare that we are now in a "smoothie era," and then a week later we have to throw out a bunch of fruit that's gone bad.

The other day (while she was knitting, and I was sitting on the couch next to her doing crochet), she went, "I feel like I've gotten - like, I'm a bit crafty these days, I think. Like, I've done a couple of different crafts, and gotten pretty good at them. I think this is now, kind of, you know...something that I can say that I do."

I supplied that I would even go so far as to say that she was in her "crafting era."

Her eyes widened. "It's an era?"

I pointed out that it was something she'd been doing pretty much continuously for the last three and a half years. That feels like the start of an era to me.

"Yes," she decided. "It's an era. This is my crafts era. I'm a crafts person now."

She's planning to make me a sweater with a duck on it for fall.

[dunmeshistash]

Just looked through several chapters to find what tools the characters use to write with and I think they have pencils.

Chapter 40 was the best resource since Laios is writing notes the entire time. There's one particular closeup of the writing tip and it's thinner than the rest of the writing tool.

It can also be used to make rubbings.

This was the best panel I could find of the tool. It's from chapter 49. I think they might be charcoal sticks wrapped in cloth.

And they've been around for a long time because Thistle used one in his flashback.

Oh cool!!

It does look like charcoal sticks and I think that would make the most sense too!

The other possibility are graphite sticks but I don't think they would use those to write on walls? He's also not writing on paper he's using scrap wood or something, the way Kui draws it really reads more as a charcoal stick too

Also the marking on his nose is a smudge from the charcoal that's so cute

In the Blu-ray covers where they have their inventory displayed Laio's pencil shows up again along with maps, and Marcille has ink, quill and paper I imagine for most adventure's a charcoal stick would be more convenient than ink?

That made me want to try and figure out what Senshi uses to write in his diary and I think it's a pen? He got one tool in a mug and one in hand so maybe he has more than one writing/drawing tool? The mug might also just be a coffee wash with a brush for his drawing since some look shaded with that. Some of his drawings look like charcoal while others read more as ink to me... but I might just be reading too much into it and Kui just drew what she thought would look good.

[melk-maid]

warnings: everyone is aged up 21+, afab/gn reader, dead dove do not eat, lemurian rafayel (merman rafayel), yandere!rafayel, artist!reader, magical lemurian abilities, non con, double cocks, possessiveness, threats and attempts at drowning, rafayel is a weird freak!!!! ~ 6.6k synopsis: your mom told you tales as a child about wishes in a bottle that a sea god could make true. rafayel falls in love with you after watching you draw by the shore and intends on making all your dreams a reality.

note: this is a commission for my beloved @rafayelism!!!!! thank you SO MUCH for giving me the opportunity to write our little fishie!!! i had so so so much fun writing this giving me an open wc is very dangerous lmao but i love this fic sm my commissions are still open, mind the tags and enjoy~♡ dividers by @/cursed-carmine minors & ageless blogs dni - you will be blocked

It's so peaceful on the coast. Fingers coated in black charcoal swipe across the page with practised ease, there's no hesitation with each move; only instinct. You draw what you see by the ocean, how it makes you feel. There's no rhyme or reason to any of the drawings that decorate the pages, nor should there be. It's whatever you're feeling as you stare off into the horizon. You take in the sea shore with all your senses.

Seagulls fly overhead and cry out to their companions as the waves periodically crash into one another, lazily enveloping itself, barely lapping at the mound of rocks you sit atop. The smell of the water has become nostalgic since you started coming to the beach for inspiration. City life is great, but you need something new, you crave the feeling of freedom and peace.

When your page was full, you turned to the next. Drawing that which you wished for, something you would ask the God's if they were to listen, a life you desire if you could start over again. It's easy to lose yourself in the page, to darken and smudge and blend. No thoughts, no second guessing.

You realised the image was rather sad when you came to. It was created from loneliness. Humans need to be loved and desired. You really did reach into the depths of your heart to pull this out. The page is dark and brooding, it shows you a part of yourself you're not sure if you're ever willing to face. You begin to tear the page out of your sketchbook, along with the other drawings from today.

Your mom used to tell you about an old wives tale when you were a child; put your wishes on a piece of paper, stick it in a glass bottle and toss it into the sea. If you're lucky, the Sea God will find it and make all your wishes come true.

It's silly, you think, that a God would listen to a mortal's wishes. Nothing but a tall tale that's been passed down for centuries. You smile thinking about it, rolling up the papers from your sketchbook and slipping them neatly inside of an empty, glass bottle.

You hesitate — are you really going to do this?

What if it wasn't just a tale?

Before you change your mind, you seal the glass with a cork and stand on the rocks, reeling your arm back and tossing it hard into the ocean, throwing as far as you could to miss the rocks. Thankfully, it hits the water with an audible plop, but something immediately shimmers along the surface nearby.

It wasn't just the water under the sun, it was different, a distinct shine. Colours that aren't synonymous with the ocean, a purple hue that gleamed beneath the surface. You stand at the rocks watching the bottle float along the water's surface, bobbing up and down with the tide, waiting—hoping to see it again. It never reappears. Your bottle of wishes drifts further into the ocean.

Rather than dwelling on it, you mentally shrug it off and collect your conté and sketchbook to return home.

All the while, Rafayel watches you from the water with keen interest.

After narrowly avoiding the attempted assault with a glass bottle, his heart races as you lock eyes with him through the water. He didn't think he was close enough to the surface for you to see, especially not when he himself struggles to see you standing atop the rocks, not without ripples of the water and murky depths obstructing his view. Despite the hindrance, Rafayel could see how beautiful you were. Daring to surface just for a moment while you were lost in your book, he could see clearly how special you were, imprinting the sight into his mind before dipping back under.

For a moment, he wonders if you're looking at him, that you'd noticed him lingering by the shore. Your eyes are locked onto him but at the same time, they're really not. Unfocused and unsure, you furrow your brows and Rafayel lets out a short huff when you begin to collect your possessions.

It's good that you didn't see him…at the same time, he's a little disappointed you didn't come investigate. Crossing his arms over his torso, he pretends not to watch you leave, waiting for the moment you were out of sight to grab the bottle you threw at him.

There's paper inside the glass. Rafayel inspects the bottle under the water, twisting and turning it until eventually, it slips out of his grasp and floats back to the surface. It's been so long since he last saw a message in a bottle — not since he was a young Lumerian. He'd learnt his lesson that time, along with his guardians scolding; never open a message under the surface or else you'll lose the contents, and — most importantly — don't meddle with human affairs.

Rules are meant to be broken. Which is why Rafayel often lingers near the shore to watch people. This time, he finds himself strangely intrigued by you, especially in comparison to the other humans he's seen.

None have yet to see him without his permission, and it gave him the confidence to keep watching. Humans are strange and interesting, though there are some similarities to Lumerians that he finds comforting. Rafayel learnt their language, picked up on patterns, and knows a lot more about humans than others of his kind.

So it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise when he found himself infatuated with a human, especially one who broke the carefully curated mould that he'd set. No one ever approaches these rocks — in fact, they avoid this side of the shore the most. Lacking soft, dry sand, he realised quickly that humans steer clear of rocks and gravel that had washed up on the shore. You, however, purposely made your way over to them, sitting on the natural collection to scribble in a book for hours at a time.

All of it made him that much more curious to see what was in the bottle.

Rafayel guides the message into an alcove nearby, a quiet and secluded area that allows him to surface while remaining hidden. Pulling himself out from the water and laying his chest across a rock, his fish tail remains below the surface.

It takes a little strength to pull the cork out, but it proved to be a fruitless effort when the paper inside wouldn't slip out, nor could his webbed fingers fit to reach them. It's no problem — he's worked with glass before. A controlled burst of flames expelled from his index finger, directed at the neck of the bottle and with one firm snap the glass broke into two pieces.

He unfurls the paper, careful not to destroy your musings with his moist fingertips. The first page is hard to decipher; a lot of grey shades without much definition. Rafayel stares and stares, until it finally clicks in his head that he's holding it wrong. Turning the paper horizontally reveals a picture of the ocean spread across the horizon, a collection of rocks that you were sitting on fill the bottom of the page. It's pretty — he's always wanted to see what the ocean looked like on land.

The next page is covered in various drawings. Some are bigger than others and there doesn't seem to be a link between them. There are shells that you likely saw washed up on the shore, an eye and what he can only assume is a small, simplified fish in the corner of the page. Each piece varied in detail and interest, scribbles of inspiration that were quite endearing.

On the third and final page, the warmth that swirled within Rafayel's chest disappeared in an instant. Cold waves wash over him. This was another he couldn't recognise, though he understood how it made him feel. The page was covered in black, coating his thumbs as he held the drawing with delicate fingers. He furrows his brows, eyes glazing over the piece, analysing what he was seeing, what it could mean.

Why does it make him sad?

Rafayel's lip slowly begins to protrude and the inner corners of his brows deepens into the centre of his face. There's a boulder in his chest that hurts, almost suffocating him but he already knows, if he were to duck back under the water he would suffer with the same feeling. Something about the drawing makes him…melancholy.

The corners are covered in black, the centre clear with a small figure by itself. There's hardly any smudges or grey like the other pieces. It's intended to be dark. It's supposed to make him feel sad, isolated, and lonely.

Such a beautiful being shouldn't be sad. He wonders if it's because you're on land; only ever experiencing the surface once on his birthday, it was terribly boring and draining — he couldn't wait to return to the water, his home. Rafayel believes you suffer the same, that you would be much happier by his side, living in the pleasant waters with him. Lumeria has the accommodations to host you, he can help guide you there and ensure your safety and happiness.

His heart begins to swell at the thought. All those feelings of misery looking at your drawing suddenly disappear, washed away with the tide of his newfound love. He doesn't even know anything about you — not even your name — but that doesn't matter. Those are little facts he can learn about you once you're together, entangled in an adoring weave of loyalty, you'll never have to feel lonely again.

Rafayel watches the shore for your return. A couple of days was all it took to see you awkwardly stepping over the small, annoying stones that littered the path towards bigger rocks. It was instinctual the way he lightly gasped in excitement, swimming away as fast as he could towards the alcove that housed your offerings.

You had found peace and comfort sitting at the rocks sketching the other day, so you returned with the intention of finding it again. It was the closest you'd been to feeling happy in comparison to everywhere else in your life; there's always something going on, noise and chaos and technology. All you want is to get away just for a little while, to find yourself without the influence of the city around you.

Already, as you climb the rocks, you can't help but smile. It's exciting to see the beauty in nature, to be one with it. No technology, no people. Just…You, the bright blue sky, the lapping waves and your thoughts.

Except you hear singing just before you settle down on the rocks. It's distant but you recognise that it's not from the city. The sound isn't coming from the beach, either. Rocks are all you can see, there must be a way around if someone is singing. Ever curious, you press on, following the sweet harmony.

As you draw closer to the source, you begin to feel strange. As though you weren't in control of your own body, instead, watching yourself from an outside perspective. No control of where you move or when you catch yourself on the slipping rocks. The waves crash below, a ferocious roar that makes you realise just how dangerous of a fall it would've been. Despite the lump in your throat and painful sting of your scraped knee, you continue forward.

The angelic sounds pull you into an alcove, dark and slimy, the singing is undoubtedly coming from within. When you almost slip is when you finally pull out your phone and use the flashlight setting to illuminate your path. It stinks something awful and rotted, likely from many years of natural erosion. Surprisingly, it doesn't deter you one bit, though you are forced to breathe through your mouth to cope.

It's terrifying even with your small light. Only now are you wondering if this was a bad idea, though as soon as those thoughts begin to form, something within you works hard to tear them down. Your legs move by themselves, following the invisible line of music notes that bounce off of the walls of the cave. Finally inside the belly of the alcove, you find the source of the singing.

And he takes your breath away.

A man floats in the water — no, not just a man, he's something more. His eyes are bright despite the deep, brooding purple that stares up at you. Patches of fish scales adorn his neck, iridescently shifting beneath your flashlight, shimmers of purple and pink and blue blend together beautifully. Fins travel down the back of his neck along his spine, trim and elegant, they too shift colour under your light. Despite a human's smile, his teeth are sharp, a sight that has you reeling backward.

"Finally, you're here cutie." The creature said. "But can you stop pointing that thing at me? It's making it hard to see."

Scaly hands reach out from below the water, covered in patches of scales but this time, they were royal blue in colour. You could just make out the light webbing between his fingers, another sign that he is definitely not a human.

"Shit, sorry," You stutter and lower your phone, "I can't see in here."

"No problem, I can help with that."

There's a snap of fingers, sharp against the walls before puffs of fire erupted throughout. Torches are lit throughout the cave, illuminating the area in a dim, orange glow. Now you can see everything.

"Better?" He asks, wearing a proud smirk while he watches you look around in awe. "I'm Rafayel, I've seen you around here a few times. Why?"

You blink at Rafayel. It feels like your mind is in a haze, making it hard to process what he's saying — at least, not fast enough for him. The creature swims towards the edge of the water where you stand,

"Are you going to answer me?" He hums before reaching out to rest his forearms against the ledge. "It might not look like it, but I'm pretty busy, you know? You should feel lucky I'm letting you see and speak to me." Rafayel rests his cheek on his arm, tapping a rock with his index finger to playfully spook a tiny, minuscule crab. "Plus, I really don't like being ignored…"

Words are lost in your throat as you stare down at the creature before you. You know of wanderers and other dangerous creatures but never have you encountered one before, though you aren't confident Rafayel is a wanderer of any kind. His ability to light the cave indicates an evol, but the inhuman scales that decorate pale skin tell you something more.

He stares up at you from the edge, curious but visibly growing impatient by your silence. "I…I heard something." You start and dare to bend your knees towards your chest, trying to be as close to eye level with Rafayel as you can. "I heard singing. It was beautiful."

At the compliment, Rafayel's eyes light up and a wide smile forms on his face. He pushes himself away, floating back in the water with ease. "You liked my singing?" A nod is all you offer in response, still leaning against bent knees. Rafayel hums, fingers dancing along the surface of the water, watching the ripples he creates. "I don't offer my vocal performances for free."

"Oh, uh, I can give you money?"

Rafayel snorts and while it is playful, there's a bite to it. You pout as he says, "Fishies like me don't need your money."

The way he tilts his head soothes the sting of his rejection, purple hair dry despite the water, soft bangs fall across his forehead and soften his features. You swallow and stand, crossing and uncrossing your arms out of nervousness under his gaze.

"I don't know what else I can give you."

He pretends to think about his answer, though in actuality, he'd made his decision a couple of days ago when he last saw you. Instead of being straightforward with his desires, Rafayel decides to ease you into his presence first. It can't hurt to try and better his odds at you agreeing to be his.

"You come here to draw, don't you? Do you have your book with you?" Even though he'd mentioned seeing you on the shore before, his mention of your sketchbook still catches you by surprise. "You can draw me. I'll consider it payment."

The suggestion leaves you speechless, something that Rafayel has come to loathe. Before he can groan and ask for more of you, you make sure to nod and pull your bag off of your back. You did intend to come and sketch anyway, such an opportunity to draw a beautiful creature feels unreal.

No one's going to believe it.

Rafayel finds patience watching you find somewhere to sit and open your book. You grimace as you sit on the slimy, wet rocks, quickly growing accustomed to the feeling. For comfort and making the most of being so close to the water, you take off your shoes to let your feet sink into the water, sighing through your nose at the pleasant sensation.

Royal eyes watch your every move. He'd sunk himself down into the water while waiting, submerging himself up to his nose and blowing little bubbles of air onto the surface. With your medium and sketchbook at the ready, you finally look at Rafayel. Oh, how he missed your attention.

It was his idea for you to draw him, but Rafayel isn't a very good model as you work. He dips into the water and moves position regularly, turning his head every which way and seemingly making sure you can't accurately portray him in your book. While life studies isn't your specialty, you've had your fair share of shifty muses, but never one like this.

When you finally fall into a pattern and fill in the blank spaces of the pose you'd chosen for him, Rafayel finds himself even more bored than before. Sure he enjoyed watching you before, but he hadn't experienced the pleasure of you, the joys that your attention on him brings. The way you look at him with gleaming eyes and a little fear fuels his desires. You'll soften up to him eventually. Having your eyes on him was enough, to have you focused on him alone, rather than sharing your attention with a book.

He will have to teach you how to sufficiently spread out your attention while you're his. Of course he doesn't expect you to dote on him at all times — only when he's feeling needy. Now, is one of those times you'll come to learn of.

All your senses had turned off as you sketch, all but your sight and touch. Glancing back and forth between the creature before you and your book, you sketch delicate lines with grey conté, ensuring the soft lines of Rafayel's features are accurate. He's delicate in a way that's so beautiful and alluring, feminine mixed with a hint of masculine that makes him almost ethereal. With his hair sufficiently damp and a pout on his lips, Rafayel looks even more angelic.

Sadly, you're dragged out of the zone as water splashes your way, narrowly hitting your drawing. You pull the book to your chest and look down at Rafayel in the water, offended and barely catching a glimpse of a large, fish-like appendage that disappears beneath the water's darkness. The creature before you laughs.

"Are you finished yet? I'm getting bored of waiting."

You look down at the drawing, grateful that none of the water Rafayel had splashed at you ruined your work. "No, I'm not that fast."

To appease his boredom, you turn the book around to show him your work, despite the anxiety that thumps in your veins. His eyes widen, swimming closer to get a better look. You watch them twitch as he takes in all the details.

"I want to get your…" you gesture to his neck where iridescent scales glisten against the torches. "…Uh, scales, right; they're very pretty."

Eyes that were once glued to the paper dart onto your face, entirely unreadable. Big, dark, they hardly sparkle. You can't look at him for too long, worried you'd made a mistake and insulted him by accident.

It was quite the opposite, actually.

Complimenting a Lumerian's scales is considered to be the utmost compliment. It doesn't really matter whether or not you know this and your comment was purposeful, because Rafayel's heart was already beating painfully in his chest. His cheeks grow hot despite the cool waters regulating his temperature, a sensation he can't recall ever experiencing before. It doesn't hurt, though it definitely doesn't feel right — what are you doing to him?

Rafayel finally looks away when the tips of his ears begin to heat up the same as his face, noticing the fresh and gross scrape on your knee. "What happened?"

"Oh, that, I slipped on some rocks when I was coming here." You respond after following his eyeline.

It's hard not to jump when his hand touches your bare leg. Skin on skin, although his isn't like yours. Slimy and cold, much like the rocks you sit on, with a sense of heat that gradually increases the longer he holds onto you. His grip is gentle and cautious, as though he isn't sure what to make of you either.

"Can I help?"

You blink. There's no response and Rafayel takes the opportunity anyway. His fingers tighten around your calf, your foot brushing against his chest under the water as he pulls himself closer. Rafayel's lips are surprisingly soft on your knee. Planted directly on the open wound, you watch him kiss your knee, feeling like a child again; when your mom would kiss your bumps and scrapes to make them better, except this time, your wounds were actually healed.

Rafayel looks up at you, sweet and innocent, still holding onto you as you witness your knee scrape disappear instantly. A swipe of your hand confirms it wasn't an illusion but real — your knee was healed with a kiss.

"Join me."

"What?" You sputter. There wasn't a cat holding your tongue hostage this time.

His grip on your leg tightens, dull nails beginning to dig into your flesh painfully. "Be mine. Live with me in Lemuria. You'll never be lonely again, I promise — not if I can help it."

You hardly stutter out a response, uncomfortable with such a suggestion with a wash of bad energy that swallows you whole. Almost throwing the sketchbook off of your lap, you started to move with the intention of leaving. This was a bad idea and you should've known.

Before you can even think of getting very far, you're dragged along the rock by your leg, down into the depths of the water. Your head hit the stone hard on your way, enough to knock you out and stop you from trying to wiggle out of the Lemurian's grasp.

It's not long after do you regain consciousness, floating in the dark abyss of the ocean, Rafayel's hands around your waist to keep you close with his lips on yours. Instinctively, you panic and struggle in his grasp, pushing and opening your mouth to scream, only to receive lungfuls of saltwater. Your head throbs, bones aching as you thrash. Rafayel had let you go quite easily, though his hands linger near you to ensure you don't go far.

You're choking. Everything is a haze. Rafayel is the only thing you can see in the vast landscape, a beacon of safety that you shouldn't trust. He dragged you down here, he is the danger you face. It's hard to deny the lack of air in your lungs, though. Swimming is impossible but your legs kick haphazardly, hands gripping your throat as though the squeeze would help you breathe.

Rafayel leans into you, grabbing each side of your face and planting his lips on yours. He's a madman, a disgusting beast whose trap you'd fallen into. You can't believe you fell for his spell. Lips part and so do yours, eagerly swallowing the air that's pumped into you. One of his hands had moved to your ribs — though you hardly noticed — and suddenly, your lungs didn't feel so heavy with saltwater.

When you part, he remains close, holding onto you with hearts in his eyes. Your feet brush against something scaly and strange; expecting another pair of legs considering his human torso, you shouldn't be surprised at the sight of a large fish tail. Tiny bubbles form from his lips and yours, excess oxygen floating up to the surface. Those big, beautiful, royal eyes look down at your lips and then turn away, shy and lovestruck.

You take the second chance and push Rafayel away, intending to swim to the surface and figure out how to survive. Fingers brush your own as he reaches out for you but you pull back quickly, as though burnt by flames. You're not a swimmer by any means, so it doesn't come as a shock when you quickly find yourself lost. Rafayel hadn't moved since you pushed him away to make a break for it, close enough that he could almost reach out to you. He lingers, watching you try to escape, purple iridescent tail bent as though he were lounging on a sofa. Crossing his arms, Rafayel watches and waits for you to tire yourself out.

Which way is up and which is down? You try to swim towards the surface but all you see is darkness, a group of small fish passing by cause a stir in you, flinching in panic. Your lungs burn despite the oxygen you hold.

You're losing your cool again. Without realising it, you were releasing the air in your lungs, small bubbles quickly grow in size as you panic and cry out. Rafayel was on you almost instantly, swimming easily in the water to wrap his arms around you from behind.

"Relax." He purrs in your ear, the sound clear as day compared to your struggling gargles. "You're going to drown if you keep swimming away."

The rational part of your mind fails to see this as a negative. Trapped underwater with a Lemurian, one who deceived you, death would be a mercy. On the other hand, your brain is willing to survive at any cost.

He kisses you again, expelling what was left in your lungs for something fresh.

Firm hands hold you at your waist, his tail moving the water behind you as he floats. Curled around you like a cat's tail; you have a feeling he wouldn't ever be a fan of such land creatures.

"I can take you to Lemura, but you have to stay with me."

Rafayel's hands find their way under your shirt at your waist, pressing his thumbs into the plump flesh of your tummy. Eyes locked onto you as though you were the only other entity to exist down here. Eyebrows upturned ever so slightly, wet eyes almost pleading for your cooperation. He looks down at your lips again, pulling you in to meet him for another kiss.

It was different this time.

When he kissed you before, it was with the intention of giving you air to survive. Now, it's not so direct. You can breathe when you're connected like this, but his tongue makes it difficult. Much like the rest of Rafayel, it's familiar yet different enough. He's reaching parts of your mouth that no one has ever explored before, wrapping his tongue around your own and moaning as he pulls your body close. Despite being able to breathe underwater, he pulls back breathless and flush.

"You're so perfect." Rafayel whispers, yearning in his voice as he leans in for another kiss. Much shorter this time, your grimace goes ignored. "I want to savour this moment. To savour you being mine."

Your stomach churns, fingers itching to break free; it's no use, you need him to survive.

Even under water, Rafayel's hair still looks so soft and delicate, scales almost glowing in the dark abyss that surrounds you both. You can't help but sputter when his tail brushes between your legs, forcing them open with his size. A flurry of bubbles create a barrier between you, this time Rafayel is reluctant to let you out of his grasp. His arms are tight around your waist, wrapping around you to keep you flush, but you manage to draw your leg between your bodies and kick him away.

Of course, he doesn't go very far and your body fails you when you try to swim away.

Tired. You had worn yourself out with the panic and thoughtless swimming. It hurts to move your arms despite the adrenaline that courses through you. Your lungs are on fire, empty of air again and you almost fill them with water once again. Maybe drowning would be the best option, though Rafayel doesn't give you a choice.

His arms wrap around you again, pulling you in a sharp motion, your back hitting his chest like a wall. You watch as his fail flits between your legs, large and imposing, it sparkles and shines like a beautiful painting right before your eyes. In different circumstances, you'd be amazed by such a (literally) breathtaking sight.

"I thought you would've figured it out by now; there's no need to fight me. Just embrace your new life." Your chest aches, lurching with fear. You can't help but hold onto Rafayel's arm around your waist, clinging onto him as you grow dizzy and weak. "I have to admit, your fighting spirit does excite me…"

Rafayel moves you ever so slightly in his arms, relaxing his grip and giving you an opening to escape, but you don't bother taking it. Not when you can hardly move without restriction. You feel his scales along your back, cold, he pushes himself into you, moving what you imagine would be his hips if he had any. Something warm and slimy crawls along your lower back, up beneath your shirt and you grip Rafayel's arm with your nails.

"Don't worry~" He coo's in your ear, pulling you by the chin to look at him over your shoulder. A kiss of oxygen and his tongue lapping over yours, his tail rutting into you as he widens your legs like he had once before. "You'll love me soon enough. I can win over your affections."

That wasn't what you were worried about, but you held your breath and your tongue.

His breath lingers in your ear, as though he were breathing on land. Inhaling with a shiver, whatever warm appendage rolls over your back is beginning to leak, a hot substance that coagulates in the water. You can take a wild guess at what's about to happen, especially when his hand reached down between your legs.

You thrash and fight again. A second wind of energy tears through you, fueled by the disgust over what Rafayel is about to try and do. It's no use though, because his grip on you is tighter than before — he means it this time. Bubbles spill from your nose and lips as you murmur, wiggling carelessly against his strong hold, locked in his arms and tail. He coo's at you again, shushing you from wasting more of your air; he wouldn't ever be upset about kissing you, however.

Warm fingers pull your underwear to the side, allowing for his cock to enter you. It's nothing you've ever experienced before and it shocks you into silence. Smooth as silk there's hardly a ridge or lump as he slides right in, although, your eyes sting with tears that never form as he stretches your walls with a burning pain. It's difficult not to gasp and swallow mouthfuls of water, your mind racing with fear when something else curls against the shape of you, burrowing amongst your folds and brushing against your clit. It wasn't his hand — it felt all too similar to his cock against your back. Undeniably full of him, you realise he had more than the one appendage to use on you.

You whimper when he starts moving, a sound captured within shiny bubbles that float away quickly. Rafayel's grasp is tight on you, secure, loving. It's just a shame you feel anything but love as you're held captive and fucked against your will. You haven't been held like this in so long that you almost wish you could accept the situation, but your perspective was much clearer than the fantasy he wants you to fall into.

Rafayel moans in your ear as he thrusts in and out of you, nose brushing against your neck, lips leaving featherlight kisses along your shoulder. You claw at his arm to no avail; there's no more energy to use. No chance to escape. Now, the battle is with your mind to remind you how dire your situation actually is. His noises shoot straight to your clit, a pleasure that makes you nauseous to think about enjoying. You don't belong here. You were tricked and forced into this, there's no way your body can be gaining pleasure from this.

But fuck, the sensation of his other cock sliding back and forth between your pussy lips and nudging your sensitive clit is undeniably hot. It's hard to close your legs around his tail and instead, you bend your knees around him and tighten your grasp around his cocks. Rafayel whines breathless, his hips still as he shudders at your squeeze. Instinctually, you lean back into him, almost melting into his touch.

"I can't let you go." He huffs. Breathing laboured with each thrust inside of you, his arms tighten around your waist, one hand moving to cup your breast. Squeezing and massaging, you follow and grab his wrist to pull him off, but his cock hits you in a spot that has your eyes rolling. "I can't let this be a dream or a memory. I'll die without you. I need you to stay."

He begs and pleads, as though you're about to slip from his grasp. All of it tugs on your heartstrings — and makes you cum around him. You're dizzy and faint at the combination of burning lungs and sparks of pleasure. Rafayel feels you convulse around him, solidifying his need for you; confirming, you want him just as much. When he pulls out, you feel weightless and empty. The darkness surrounding you both only seems to grow as it consumes Rafayel, allowing yourself to float as he turns you around himself. You can hardly feel his hands grabbing yours, fingers threading with his — at least, as much as possible with his inhuman webbing. Rafayel kisses you, parting your lips and you greedily eat up all the air he offers.

Your chest is heavy with guilt and regret. Rafayel was reeling with delight as your arms wrap around his neck, threading through his short locks, smiling against your lips when you gasp into him as his cock slips inside. Finally, you have come to accept your fate.

To accept Rafayel.

It's shameful the way you grasp onto him, finally meeting his own tongue with hunger. You'd lost yourself in the orgasm that was forced upon you. Nothing felt real anymore — this could be a dream as long as you keep your eyes closed. A small part of your mind is persistent in reminding you this is dangerous, yet you continue to suck all the air from Rafayel's lungs.

You need to break away. He wants you to submit yourself to him. He said it himself; you should be his.

With your mouths connected and losing oxygen in your lungs no longer a fear, you allow a few moans of pleasure to slip your occupied tongue. Rafayel thrusts inside of you harder, his hands gripping you tightly, pulling you impossibly closer. Hearing— feeling you let yourself go fuels him further, reaffirms just why he chose you to be his lover for all eternity.

He used his lower cock to fuck you in this position; straddling his tail, facing one another so you don't have to worry about air. Your lips are addictive, the sweet taste of your tongue has him feeling like he's floating on the surface of the water. When you rock your hips to match his pace, Rafayel has to break away from your lips to chase his release.

Nails dig into your flesh painfully and you're quick to be pulled out of the dream-like fantasy you'd found yourself in. His cocks feel amazing brushing against your clit and reaching parts of your insides you didn't know existed, but seeing the surface above reminds you that you don't belong here.

"I need you. I want you. I can't… can't stand…" Rafayel babbles between kisses peppered along your cheek and neck, entirely unaware of your desperate fixation on the light above. "F-fu…Please, don't be a dream."

You bare your teeth as his fingers press into you, squeezing you in his arms until it feels like your bones are going to break. Whimpering and whining, he thrusts erratically while burying his head into your neck; he's close but you can't think about that when he's tilting you both backwards. The only reason you realise you're moving is because the surface has fallen behind you, entirely obstructed from view and you're once again met with never ending darkness.

When Rafayel cums, he bites the crook of your neck — hard.

Instinctually, you cry out in a flurry of bubbles, pulling on his hair until he draws back. You hardly acknowledge the strange cum inside of you or the way it floats thick in the water, like a string following you behind as you try again to swim away. Now that you know which direction the surface is, you are determined to get there.

Rafayel, love drunk and hazy, lets you go without a fight, maintaining his erections after you pull his hair so hard. You're so beautiful and feisty, he could go on and on.

Waves lap over each other, highlighted by the sun against the surface. Like a beam of light, you try desperately to reach out, to move in and save yourself. It dims, though, and fast. Your body is giving out, the sun darkening as your lungs are fit to burst once again. Tired, everything about you is tired. You can feel yourself floating like before, death is coming again and just when you're sure you don't want to be saved this time, you open your mouth to speak.

"Rafayel…"

It's distorted to your own ears, the light of the surface has gone and your mind is beginning to drift. The throb of your body melts away, as though you were laid on a bed of clouds. Peace.

"Promise me," Rafayel calls to you but you don't feel his presence. "Promise me you will stay. I won't let you drown if you devote yourself to me, and I to you. I'll save you, if you'd have me."

There's a brush of something on your lips, faint and distant. You can't help but lean into it. You will tell yourself it was instinctual, that you didn't want Rafayel. All those times you tried to swim away, fought in his arms, tried to drown. And yet, when he gave you what you wanted, you didn't reject his help.

"Neither of us will be lonely again." He swears after kissing the air back into your lungs. 

[cece693]

Hey!! I wanted to make a request for Percy x (male reader) son of Apollo

The reader is mainly good at writing and drawing, and enjoys using Percy as his muse for his works.

Thank you, take all the time you need 🙇

Shades of Green and Gold

pairing: percy jackson x maler reader tags: you are kinda a stalker, returned feelings, first kiss, percy is too handsome for the reader, you can legit write sonnets about percy, cute but kinda creepy

You’re reasonably sure that no one else in Camp Half-Blood spends as much time admiring Percy Jackson’s hair as you do. You won’t deny it, because who could blame you? There’s something about the way he grins, the way his sea-green eyes light up when he’s on the verge of a clever remark, or the way he ruffles his hair after a long day of training. It’s enthralling. You’re an artist—writing, sketching, painting—son of Apollo, heir to creativity and light. And Percy Jackson is your favorite muse.

Every morning, you wake early to catch the exact moment the sun spills over the lake, painting the surface with soft pinks and gold. You slip out of the Apollo Cabin carefully, trying not to wake your rowdy half-siblings. You carry a small sketchbook and pencil in your hand, charcoal in the other. The crisp morning air still bites, but there’s something comforting about that quiet, in-between time.

You settle on a flat rock near the canoe lake. From here, you can watch the water, the line of cabins, and if you’re lucky—Percy Jackson heading off to breakfast or morning training. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve drawn him: in graphite, in watercolor, with ink. Half-finished poems about his eyes litter your journal.

Today is no different. As soon as you spot Percy, you can’t help but smile. He’s dragging a sword behind him, hair sticking out in all directions, still yawning. He’s adorable. You press your pencil to the page and start outlining his silhouette. The curve of his shoulders, the lines of his arms…You’re so focused that you barely notice when he turns and catches your gaze.

Percy raises his eyebrows in obvious curiosity. You flush, snapping your sketchbook shut, but it’s too late—he’s already jogging over. “Morning,” he says, grin slowly turning more playful. “Am I interrupting?”

You swallow and manage a small laugh, hugging the sketchbook to your chest. “Not at all. Just…practicing.”

He nods towards your pencil. “I see. Gonna show me sometime?”

Your heart beats louder than a battle drum. “Maybe…eventually.”

Percy’s grin grows. “I’ll hold you to that. See you at breakfast?”

You nod, and he jogs off, leaving you with that dopey, starstruck feeling you’ve never quite gotten used to. By the time you arrive at the Arena for combat practice, the midday sun is high and fierce—Apollo’s domain. You tie your golden camp shirt around your waist (much to your instructor’s dismay), opting for a lighter white tank top. Sweating profusely while you train with a bow is not your ideal way to spend an afternoon, but your father’s gift—unerring aim—doesn’t sharpen itself.

Chiron pairs you with Percy for a quick sparring session. It’s supposedly to “expand your skill set,” but you wonder if it’s the universe giving you more material for your sketches. You try to steady your heart as he flashes you another signature grin.

He wields his trusty sword, Riptide. You draw your bow, focusing on the center of the target behind him, but your eyes can’t help drifting to the lean lines of his arms. You almost feel guilty. Almost.

“All set?” Percy calls, pushing his dark hair out of his face.

“I’m ready,” you answer, stepping into position.

The session starts strong. You manage to keep your arrows close to the mark, even as Percy deflects them with impressive skill and a flurry of water from a nearby barrel. You can sense he’s showing off a bit—it’s Percy, after all. You grin. His confidence is infectious, and soon the two of you are exchanging friendly banter.

When you pause to catch your breath, Percy flicks water droplets from his blade in your direction. You splutter, trying not to laugh. He shrugs with an impish twinkle in his eye.

“Heard you’re a good artist,” he says casually, striding forward until you can see the slightest hint of sweat at his temples. “Piper told me your last painting of the Apollo Cabin was amazing.”

Your cheeks heat. “It’s nothing big.”

“From what I hear, it’s a big deal,” Percy insists, stepping closer. The space between you is suddenly charged. “Will you show me your work someday? I mean it this time.”

“Sure.” You feel the sun warm you from above, the presence of your divine father giving you a little nudge of courage. “I’d like that.”

That evening, the sky burns a vivid orange as the sun descends behind the strawberry fields. You find yourself on the porch of the Big House, perched on a bench, scribbling in your notebook. You wanted to capture the memory of Percy deflecting your arrows, to freeze the moment onto the page with just the right words.

“Still practicing?” Percy’s voice comes from behind you, startling you so badly you almost drop your pencil.

“Percy! I—”

He doesn’t wait for you to form a coherent sentence; he slides onto the bench next to you. The fading sunlight catches the green in his eyes, setting them aglow. His presence is warm and all-consuming, even though the day is cooling down.

“Sorry to sneak up on you,” he says. “Thought you might be here.”

You let out a small laugh. “It’s fine. You just startled me.”

He nods toward your notebook. “May I?”

You hesitate. The words in that notebook are deeply personal. Poems about his eyes, the curve of his smile, your fleeting impressions of each encounter. But there’s something in Percy’s earnest expression that calls you to trust him. With trembling fingers, you pass the notebook over.

He flips through carefully, eyes scanning the lines of your writing. He stops occasionally, lips moving with the words, eyebrows quirking up at certain phrases. You sense your entire being is in that notebook, and he’s reading you like a story. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

When Percy finally looks up, his eyes are strangely bright. “You wrote these…about me?”

You pull your gaze away. “I guess you could say you inspire me.”

He’s silent for a moment. You dare to look up and see a smile, soft and genuine, tugging at his lips. “It’s good. Like…really good. I had no idea I could be someone’s muse.”

You exhale a nervous laugh. “I, uh…I can show you the drawings, too, if you want.”

Percy nods, looking more interested than ever. “Definitely.”

You lead Percy to the Apollo Cabin and slip inside. Your siblings are out—probably at the campfire or racing chariots—leaving the bunks and scattered musical instruments in a hush. You rummage beneath your bunk, pulling out a battered portfolio.

It’s stuffed with sketches—some finished, some half-done. A watercolor of Percy standing by the lake. A charcoal piece of him gripping Riptide. A gentle pencil sketch focusing on just his face…his eyes, to be precise. You lay them out across your bunk. Percy stands behind you, so close you can practically feel the warmth radiating off him. You swallow, heart pounding, as he takes in each piece.

“They’re amazing,” he breathes, leaning down to pick one up. “I never realized—this is how you see me?”

You can’t quite meet his eyes. “There’s something about you, Percy,” you admit. “Your energy, your aura. You’re like the sea itself—constantly shifting, alive with motion. It inspires me. Helps me write, helps me draw. I never wanted to freak you out, so I kept it mostly to myself.”

Percy gently returns the piece of artwork to your bunk, then turns you around by the shoulder so you’re facing him. His hand lingers, thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt.

“I’m not freaked out,” he says. “I’m flattered, honestly.” He chuckles, eyes scanning your face as though he’s searching for any hint of uncertainty. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me.”

You feel a burst of warmth in your chest. “Really?”

“Really.” Percy exhales a soft laugh, letting his hand drop to your wrist. “I like it. And I’d like to see more—whatever you make. If that’s okay.”

You search his expression, uncertain if you’re reading the situation correctly. The glimmer in his sea-green eyes suggests you might be. Mustering your courage, you nod slowly. “You can see everything,” you say, voice hushed in the quiet cabin. “I—I’d really like that.”

His smile widens. “Thank you.”

You swallow, that same unstoppable grin blossoming across your own face. The tension thickens, but it’s a gentle tension, a comforting one. He leans forward, and you feel his forehead against yours, that sweet, electric moment of closeness you’ve been imagining for weeks.

Finally, your lips brush softly, uncertain at first. Then Percy returns the kiss, delicate yet full of promise. It’s the kind of quiet moment that you know you’ll replay over and over in your sketches, in your poems, in your daydreams. When you finally pull away, you can’t help but laugh in disbelief. Percy gives a contented sigh, resting his forehead against yours again.

“Would it kill the mood if I told you I knew about this?"

[joonipertree]

To show someone that you care, is a gift itself. | Sugar Daddy Bakugo Series

Where you show Katsuki what a gift can be.

Tags: Artist!reader, very self indulgent, like guys....please buy me watercolour paper instead of Versace. Watercolour paper is stupid expensive. Im also not skilled enough to actually make the gift so--

Pt 1 Pt 3

Katsuki's birthday had been looming when the two of you started going out, like a weighted shadow. You had spent a very long stressing about what to get him with a budget that wasn't even worth a fraction of what he would buy you.

But, like gift giving was Katsuki's, it was your love language as well. And you'd gotten good at getting heart felt things for people. Admittedly, it took a lot of brainstorming and notes upon notes of what to get.

You'd always go overboard to please the people you cared about, afraid that they'll leave if you didn't cross the limits and bend over backwards for them.

Katsuki had always taken care of you, never asked for anything and your love was returned albeit in a quieter and tsundere manner. So the urge to go above and beyond didn't fester for long, knowing that your bare presence made him warmer.

Your gift idea came when he was on the ring, swift on his feet and solid in the rigidness of his body. You'd brought your sketchbook and while you wanted to keep your eyes on your boyfriend, your hands became busy with large curves and sharp flicks of your pencil that brought dark edges .

You'd made at least 20 quick gestures drawings that were more crude representations of movement for you. But with those and the feelings you trapped in your heart, you made thumbnails and chose one to draw large scale.

One where Katsuki's face was partially blocked by his arm and he gave a blow. His elbows were jagged, muscles taut and rippling. And his eyes sharp and cat like.

The charcoal pencils and sticks used to create tapered lines to create hard surfaces was 340 yen. The watercolour pallete used had messy paint splattered everywhere and its lid broken, having been with you for a good while. The coat over the charcoal was 50 yen hair spray that worked just as well as professional sprays.

It didn't cost a lot but your hands were full of care and by the end of it, you hoped that it'd be something Katsuki would at least like. The man could have the world but all you had was you.

You didn't realize that you were more than enough

Katsuki to lost his voice when you handed it to him at midnight, eyes wide as he stared at him but not him. The layers on layers of paint held emotions that he could only describe as love, meticulously hand picked and felt in strokes. He'd seen HD pictures of his fights, seen videos of them where his sweat and pores were as clear as day. The most he'd thought of them were how his form could improve or how cool he looked.

But what you made, it twisted something in his chest and stung his eyes and filled him to the brim with love so warm and overwhelming that his body wasn't big enough to hold it.

You two had been dating for 4 months, Katsuki had spent that time falling in love with you in ways he didn't think possible. He'd fall with every giggle and kiss and ramble and your face when you were concentrating. He'd never said 'I love you', hoping his actions showed it enough, still too scared to speak it in case it was met with hesitance or silence.

But Katsuki had gently put down the canvas, something you that you'd built, stretched and primed yourself. And while you made eye contact with the walls and ceiling, you explained how the only thing you could come up with was the painting, that you wanted to capture the emotions you felt when you saw him fight. That it wasn't much but---

Katsuki had engulfed you in a hug, hand on the back of your head to press it against him and an arm around your waist. He squeezed you, tried to express all that he was feeling with one hug alone. You felt it, held him tightly and carded your fingers through his hair. With his shoulders shaking, you had an inkling that he had been crying. When he spoke, with a wobbly voice, you were sure that he was.

"I love you." He'd muttered out for the first time.

"I love you more." You whispered back and Katsuki had firmly denied it, that no one could love a person as much as he loved you.

Getting a gift for you became hard after that, because Katsuki sucked at making shit.

[writing-mlm]

Hiii, can we please have more college!damian x male reader? Like a scenario where damian loves to draw reader but reader doesn't know this? Maybe friends to lovers? Idk your pick. The artist and his muse type of thing. Also, i LIVE for soft damian on this blog ong.

Forever my Muse

Summary: Damian has his finals coming up and he wants you to join-- at least that's his excuse to get you into the art venue. An artist needs their muse and for some reason, most of Damian's drawings include you in, naturally, he could fill museums with drawings of you. Pairing: Damian Wayne x Male reader WC: 5.8k

Dust-covered fingers were always something you had associated with Damian. Graphite, charcoal, pastels— anything he used to draw or even paint would inevitably stain his hands. It wasn’t intentional, and neither were the fingerprints he left on your stuff, or the paint you could never remove from your favorite sweater, but that didn’t stop him from apologizing. From buying you cleaning products and a new sweater; never mind it has never been worn in the year you’ve had it, Damian felt terribly sorry whenever he felt he’d stained something of yours. 

But never sorry enough to show you his drawings. 

You’d ask, you’d beg, but he would never give in. He’d show you when he was done, sure. You’d see the finished still-life drawings of whatever object had been in the line of sight, the paintings he’d done of his pets whenever he missed them, and the random sketches he did to loosen his wrist. But, damn, sometimes you wanted to see an unfinished drawing that wasn’t a warm-up. 

Even now, as the two of you are on the campus bus heading towards the music hall, he’s drawing. Sitting across from you on the bus, Damian easily adjusts himself to the movements of the bus as it jerks to a stop. He’s nice like that, you’ve never caught him off guard, he’s never fallen or stumbled in the time you’ve known him. 

Studying him, you wonder if he’s naturally so agile. You’ve seen him in your dorm's gym, during all-nighters you can sometimes see him running around campus, and once you had caught him doing one of those athletic challenges for some guy's video. He won. Of course. 

The bus comes to a complete stop and you look away, double-checking that it wasn’t your stop. It wasn’t. You knew that. But still. The need to check was far too great and you slipped back into a conversation with Damian. Only this time, you’re looking down at your phone to double-check the event and his eyes switch from staring at his sketch to staring at you. 

His eyes flicker between you and his drawing, erasing and adding lines where needed. He catches your eyes traveling up and he looks back down, working from memory as you start up a new conversation. 

Eventually, the bus reaches your stop and he carefully closes his book; he always worries he’d smudge his art, while he follows you out of the bus. 

It’s the end of the semester, ergo, it’s finals week. And for one of your music finals, everyone was to prepare a song and perform it. Truthfully, Damian doesn’t understand why you’d picked him to accompany you. He knows he’s not the best comfort, his demeanor often being the reason people don’t stick around too long. 

But, you reassured him. Telling him that his presence was more than enough for you. Knowing that he was somewhere in the crowd calms you down more than you ever cared to admit. 

The walk to the music hall isn’t short, but you can see the large building in the distance. The size is daunting on you as you see the crowd forming at the entrance. People aren’t allowed inside yet, but performers and their guests can head inside before anyone else. 

“I’m nervous,” You admit, wiping your hands on your shirt. “What if I fail?” You mutter, your eyes desperately searching to find solace in his green eyes. 

“You’ll do as you’ve always done,” He nods, looking ahead as you approach the building. “Exceptionally.” His sketchbook bumps against your folder of sheet music and you sigh through your nose, trying to calm down. 

“I’m so gonna choke,” Seeing your reflection in the glass, you feel as if you’d forgotten everything you learned. Every lesson, every mistake you fixed and learned from, the late-night practice performances with your friends. The song you’d composed nearly slips from your mind as you see yourself, walking in that suit and tie you’d worn several years ago. All of it left your mind and you felt like a beginner again. What even was a solfège?

“I'm trained in CPR.” He opens the door for you and gently encourages you inside, his fingers grazing your back. “You weren’t nearly as nervous for your accounting finals.” He notes, falling back into step with you. 

That’s another thing. Maybe that’s why you were so stressed. Double majoring was hellish. Twice the finals, quadruple the headaches. 

“Those were tests,” You scowl, showing the security your campus ID. “I’m going to be performing a live concert in front of nearly a thousand people. I cannot fuck this up, Damian. This is going to be posted for everyone to watch, too,” You ramble on. 

“Which you’ve done before, no?” He presses the elevator button and your heart hammers. You swear you’re going to pass out. He notices, of course, he does, and digs in his bag to find the fidget cube he keeps in there. 

“I have— thank you,” Taking the cube, he nods. “It’s just… I don’t know. Tests suck.” Rolling your thumb along the metal ball on one side of the cube, you stare at the numbers as they slowly tick down to the first floor. 

“That’s true,” He steps inside the elevator and you follow suit. “But you’ve made it thus far, you can go further.” He squeezes your shoulder as the doors close. There’s a silence in the elevator as it goes up to the second floor where you see your teacher waiting at the door to the waiting room, talking to a pair of students. 

“I can,” You affirm, dipping your head down as you smile. 

“You will.” 

—

You’re fifth in line to perform, watching a singer, dancer, another other pianist, and an opera singer go on before you go on did absolutely jack shit to help you. As you’re announced, you step onto the stage and try your best not to accept that there were thousands of eyes on you. Instead, you smile and wave as you walk across that large stage. Desperately looking for Damian in the sea of people. 

He’s in the front, right in front of where you could see when you glance up from the piano, you find out as you’re standing next to the piano seat. 

Damian’s eyes don’t leave yours, making eye contact with you as you fiddle with the buttons of your coat. He motions for you to stop and then does a breathe in breathe out motion with the same hand. Nodding, you blink away from him and hold your hands behind your back. Focusing on your breathing, you listen to the teacher as you’re done being introduced. 

The applause settles as you bow in, take a seat, and flip the page where your music sheet is. Slowly, you start. As a general music major, you weren’t restricted to just playing the piano. As emphasized by the microphone taped to your cheek. 

You aren’t the strongest singer by any means, you’re good for singing in the shower or on drives but you doubt you’d actually make a career off of your voice. What you hope will carry you is the piano, as you press each key your eyes flicker to Damian. He’s attentive, a smile on his face as you perform. 

Testing the waters, you glance at the people around him and they seem… pleased. Happy. Moved, even. You grin and return to staring at the sheet music. All of the notes flood back to you as you reach the last bit of the song, your eyes closing as your voice reaches a peak, holding a note. Then it’s just the piano, your voice echoing in everyone’s mind as the notes get slower and slower until you end it. 

Applause fills the hall and you stand up, taking a bow. Standing there, even if only for a moment, you can’t imagine why you’d been so nervous.

Collecting your sheet music, you exit the stage and hand the mic to the stage tech before leaving. 

When you’re nearing the exit, you spot Damian holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“When did you have the time to get these?” You laugh as he hands them to you. His eyes merely twinkle, refusing to give up one of his many secrets. “Thank you, they’re dope.” 

“You did it,” Damian reminds you as the two of you exit the building. 

“I did! Ugh!” Grabbing his shoulder with your free hand, you give him a little shake. “Thank you so much, you’re honestly the best. Was it good?” Falling into step with him, Damian doesn’t bother to fix his shirt. It’s hardly even moved, but you know he was detail-oriented in stuff like that. Hell, he hates it when he messes with his clothes. 

“It was mesmerizing.” He promises. “I do believe the woman behind me was crying.” Grinning, you stand at the bus stop, suddenly buzzing with excitement. Wanting to do it again, you start to imagine creating your own side business. Wedding musician, you can see it now. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” He avoids looking at you as he’s speaking. A rare occurrence on his part. But he does his best to look at you after building the courage. “I have an art showing next week. I understand the notice is short and you’re—“

“Send me the details.” You grin. His shoulders drop and he nods, clearly more relaxed. “I hope the attire is fancy. I got this fancy turtleneck I’ve been wanting to wear and slacks from my high school graduation just waiting to be worn!” 

—

With all of your finals out of the way, you finally had time to start removing the items from your dorm. One by one you removed posters and trinkets scattered across your end of the room. Pack your clothes into boxes, and save for enough outfits to get you through your two weeks left on campus. 

Damian was held up from finishing his art showing, unable to see you in person but he was more than happy with a Facetime call. With both your laptops placed in a space away from disturbing you, the two of you worked on your tasks. 

“I do need to be at the showing two hours early,” He tells you as you’re dragging the anti-suicide chairs to the closet, trying to see the top shelf. “But I’ll have arrangements to bring you to the venue.” 

“And my outfit is okay?” You ask, the chair wobbling as you stand on it. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. But hey, you’re not the one who installed a closet tall enough that only Shaq could see the top. “Because I can always swap out the turtle neck for a green button down— the silk one that Maddison made,” Always gave a fashion designer friend. She had used you as a model for of her projects a couple of months ago and with your measurements being unique to you, let you have it after she’d gotten her grade. 

“The button-down would be better suited,” He nods, leaning close to his painting before adding a tiny stroke. “The turtleneck is a little… on the nose.” Leaning back, he checks his reference picture before frowning. It goes away quickly as he picks up a bit of white and dabs it onto a dry brush. 

“I was afraid it was,” You laugh, grabbing a first aid kit from the shelf. Listening to him lightly brush the paint over the canvas, you toss the kit onto the bed and grab what little items are scattered up there. “Holy shit! Do you remember when that frat dude lost his frat ring?” 

“Unfortunately,” Damian glances at his screen, watching as you haphazardly get down from the chair. Nearly tripping, he wonders how you've made it this far in life without breaking a bone. 

“I think I did take it! Look!” Showing the screen, Damian looks almost impressed as you hold up a fraternity ring. It’s a shiny gold, likely fake but engraved with the initials of the Frat house. The two of you remember the guy had been going around to every single campus building with a missing ring poster. 

“What a thief,” He chides, setting his brush down and taking a physical step back from the painting. Harsh glares scan over brush strokes, ripping apart his painting bit by bit before he nods to himself. His glare morphs into a soft sort of gaze and he signs the back of it. 

“Is that your final painting for the semester?” You ask, the ring forgotten about as it’s tossed in a box of trinkets and you’ve moved on to ordering food. Probably Panda Express. Or maybe Chipotle…. really it’s whatever is closer and cheaper. 

“Hopefully,” He sighs through his nose, his paint box clicking shut. “I’ve been drawing and painting these past couple of days. My canvases take up an entire section of the art studio. I’m sure my professor cannot wait for them to dry and get glossed. Which I should probably start doing.” 

“How does that taste?” Setting your phone down, Damian’s face goes sour as he looks at you. “Personally, I think the gloss would taste tarty.” You add. “Or maybe like the frosting for Toaster Strudel.” Picking your phone back up, you continue your order. 

“Neither is correct.” He blinks. “It’s a toxin and filled with chemicals, it most likely tastes as good as acetone does, Hab—“ He pauses, and you look at him wondering what the issue is. “Habits of tasting chemicals shouldn’t be one you pick up.” He finishes his sentence with a bit of force. 

“I just love chemicals. Violin resin is my favorite.” Making a chomping noise Damian huffs. As you’re finishing up your order, you look at him. He’s halfway across campus and judging by the rack of canvases he wheeled over, he won’t be back until well into the night. Eh, it doesn’t hurt to ask. “I’m ordering some food, do you want something?” 

“No, thank you, though.” He shakes his head. “I have food from the court in case I get hungry.” He quickly adds. Humming, you place the order and scan over your room. The only things that need to get packed are things you’re still using. Now it’s just a matter of organizing the boxes and bins so you can still move around your room. 

“After the glossing, what’re you doing?”

“I have to write short summaries for each painting. No less than one hundred words,” He explains as he’s putting on a pair of latex gloves. 

“So, a breeze?” He laughs and nods. 

“I’m afraid I’ll go over the word limit,” He admits, sparing you a glance as you’re lugging a box to a corner of your room. “My paintings harbor a lot of my emotions and they’re far from short.”

“Real as fuck.”

— 

On the day of his art exhibition, you spend extra time in the bathroom. Making sure your hair is neat, and presentable, fixing your outfit, making sure you don’t stink. Anything and everything you could check over, you did. 

This nervous feeling was different from your pre-show nerves. Especially since you don’t even know why you’re nervous. Probably because you’d never actually gotten to see his paintings, at least the ones he was showing. He’d been ultra allusive about those, citing the exhibition would be the best place to view them. But even he was nervous and that’s a lot considering he’s Damian fucking Wayne. 

He texted you two minutes ago saying that the car was going to arrive within the next ten minutes and you rushed out to the front of the dorms. No need to lock the door behind you, since your roommate was busy sleeping and would stay in there until you came back. Plucking at your shirt, you watch a sleek black car pull up in front of you, and Damian texts you that the car is there. 

The ride is long, far too long for your liking anyway. But considering it’s in the middle of the city, it’s not unwarranted. 

The art… museum? What should you call it? The space where the exhibition was being held was a well-known art gallery— that’s the word! The gallery was well respected, talked about within art circles, and incredibly high-brow. Thank fuck you didn’t go with that turtleneck. 

There’s a woman in front of the gallery, greeting everyone who enters. She sees you and there’s a flash of recognition across her face. 

“It’s great to finally meet Damian’s muse,” She smiles as she shakes your hand. 

“His what?” You ask but Damian pulls you inside. 

“How was the ride?” He asks, his eyes darting between his professor and you. 

“Good but what did she mean?” You ask, looking around to see the other people around. Like your performance, it was open to the public and with Bruce Wayne’s son being in attendance, many people had showed up. Including his family. “Bruce Wayne is here?” Your head whips to Damian as you spot him in the crowd. 

“He is my father…” He trails. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Fuck no!” You gasp. “The knowledge of his wealth is burying me as we speak— but this is about you,” Turning to him, you smile. “Where’s your paintings? Those don’t look like your style,” Eyes flicker across the paintings and you can’t see Damian’s strokes, his colors or his lighting in any of them. A sort of pride swells within him, knowing that you’ve looked— studied his art enough to know that the ones around you weren’t his. 

“It has its own section,” He tells you, guiding you through groups of people and halls. “It’s going to be revealed in around half an hour. My professor insisted,” He stops at a section of the gallery covered by a curtain and two security guards. You never knew it was that serious, but damn. 

“Mr Fancy. Why don’t you catch up with your family? I’ll look around?” In truth, you were going to the nearest bathroom and making sure you didn't look stupid. 

“I’m more than certain they’d be more pleased if you accompanied me.” He shakes his head as you raise your eyebrows. “If that’s something you’d be comfortable with, of course.” 

“Sure,” Once more, he guides you past people until he spots his father and brother talking in a corner. 

“Father, Richard.” He calls as the two of you approach. “This is (Y/n).” Richard’s lips twitch as he fights back a smile, the smile only furthered curbed by his brother's glare. 

“Hello,” Waving at the two men, they reach to shake your hand instead. Bruce has a firm grip, probably tighter than it really needed to be but Richard is more than welcoming. He’s more than excited to meet you, although you can’t imagine why. 

“My other siblings are still in Gotham,” Damian explains, physically taking Dick’s hand from yours with a pointed look. “Although I’m surprised you didn’t bring Cassandra, father.”

“She’s here,” He shakes his head, glancing around for the mop of black hair. “In the bathroom, probably.” 

“Is that her?” You ask, looking at the woman in the corner. She’s standing there, downing a glass of champagne before returning to a conversation with a man. She looks like how Damian had described her, although he downplayed how intimidating she seemed. 

“Oh boy,” Dick huffs. “Let me go help her,” Excusing himself, you’re left with Damian and his father. The two of them talking with their eyes. 

“So, Damian’s told me you’re a double major,” Bruce breaks the silence and their weird eye conversation. He talks about you? Glancing at Damian, he’s making a point to look anywhere but you. That’s sorta cute— totally not in a romantic way, totally. 

“I am,” You nod, wishing a man with drinks would walk past you. “Accounting and a performing arts major.” He hums and there’s another beat of awkward silence. 

“From what he tells me, you’re excelling at both. That’s incredibly hard. Do you have any job prospects lined up for when you graduate?” He asks and you shake your head. 

“Not yet,” You admit, picking at your hands. “Since I'm not sure where I’d like to settle after I graduate it’s difficult finding places.” Bruce nods, quickly making sure Dick and Cassandra are okay. 

“Well, if your grades continue to stay or improve, Wayne Enterprises is always looking for accountants, especially one so esteemed.” He smiles at you, that sort of small smile that makes you feel more relaxed in his presence. A fatherly smile. 

“Yeah, praise from Damian is a lot.” Dick grins, leaning his weight on his younger brother. Cassandra agrees, leaning against the wall Bruce was standing in front of. “And he talks about you a ton!” 

“That’s enough.” Damian huffs, pushing himself away from Dick who frowns. “Let’s look at some of the artwork,” 

“You talk to your family about me?” You grin as he’s hauling you away from his family. He looks at you, clearly licking the inside of his mouth before he blinks and gives one strong nod. 

“Of course I do, it would be a shame to hide someone so talented.” He explains and then looks forward, his eyes swimming across the faces around him. “I do believe in your talents and my father is someone who can help them flourish; it would seem awfully cruel if I didn’t at least try.” You go to speak; to thank him but his attention is pulled away by the director of the show. 

“It’s time!” She gleams, ushering the two of you after her. 

There are already people gathered in front of his top secret exhibit, cameras and people wearing PRESS lanyards like the front and sides. Much like a moth drawn to a flame, they find Damian walking and try to hound him, only to be stopped by his family. They’re far more intimidating now but Damian pulls your attention from them and towards him. 

The two of you are in front of the whole crowd, the two guards holding one piece of the curtain and waiting for a cue to open them. 

“We welcome everyone to Damian Wayne’s very first art show,” The director says, her hand ghosting over his shoulder. He takes that as a sign to step forward, barely leaving your side as he explains his art. 

“Through My Eyes is a collection of various pieces I’ve created over the course of two years,” He explains. “The music that accompanies the art are pieces composed by my muse.” His eyes find yours as the curtains are pulled aside and for the first time, you notice the way he looks at you. The way his eyes never seem to want to leave yours, how he takes you in the same way he takes in the art around him. 

Then you hear it. More specifically you hear yourself. 

You hear the piece you’d played during your final, hearing your voice fill the spaces where people aren’t talking. Each key, and each note floods your ears as you turn to see his art. 

It’s you.

All of it. Each painting, each frame has something of you in it. 

“Holy shit.” You breathe, moving to the closest one. It’s a painting of you, wearing clothes you’d only seen in shows like Merlin, holding onto a statue of an angel. It’s almost impossible to not know where the inspiration had come from. After convincing Damian to go exploring with you and some friends, you’d come across a newly abandoned church with a large angel statue. On a dare, you pretended to dance with it. 

Sure, you’d seen the picture before but it was nothing compared to the painting. It looked amazing, you had never looked better. Your features were captured in the best way possible, you’d been posed in a way that made it seem as if you were guiding the angel in a dance. 

The description catches your eye next. 

One Last Dance wasn’t the first drawing of Muse, but it was the first drawing of him that I truly loved. He’d resparked a passion for painting for me. The painting had been on my mind for two weeks before I finally started to work on it, having it become my only focus for the two days that I worked on it became the norm for the next two years of my life. 

Muse doesn’t personally care for the Renaissance era, but it seemed fitting for such a painting. The feeling of dressing Muse in modern clothes didn’t ruin the drawing but it didn’t make sense, in my head their dance is accompanied by the sounds of the wings and their feet gliding across the floor. Just outside is probably a mob, unbelievable of a true angel. Muse would probably say that he was dancing to the sounds of Sleep Token and outside was a bunch of ‘angel fuckers’, but who knows. 

D.W

The next painting was smaller than the first, but it’s a close-up of your face. Your eyes are wide and you’re desperately pulling at your eyelids as a light twinkles inside of it. 

Blinding Gaze came about when Muse had gone to the eye doctor, fearing he was going blind. Turns out he was just extremely stressed to the point of temporary blindness. When we spoke about it, he joked that he was developing powers from that time he drank a sports drink mixed with a crushed-up Tylenol and he could shoot lasers from his eyes. While Blinding Gaze doesn’t follow his original plan of lasers, I imagine developing eye lights could be frightening. 

Blinding Gaze isn’t body horror, although I had intended it to be but I couldn’t bring myself to put Muse into that position. Even if it was completely fake. I did eventually remake the painting how I truly envisioned it, but I still prefer my Muse to the remake. 

Drifting to the next painting, you see yourself, dressed in your favorite smudged hoodie, dancing amongst the crowd. The people are drowned out in the colors of the background, nearly blending in meanwhile you’re ever so present. The light shone down on you in a way that made you seem like the main character in some movie, all eyes meant to be on you. 

A Night To Remember was undoubtedly one of the best moments of college thus far. Muse had been invited to a friend's party and insisted I come instead of remaining in the art room, drowning myself in oils and pastels. Although I’ve put his words in a more friendly manner. I hadn’t wanted to go, the noises and being pressed against unfamiliar faces was hardly something I ever enjoyed. But for Muse, I’d do anything he’d asked of me. 

Glued to him for the night, I found myself unreasonably drawn to him. I do not remember the song, in truth, I don’t remember much from that night aside from him. The way he danced, how he looked at me. How he looked in the room. I resented not bringing my sketchbook, but I would’ve been more out of place than I originally had been. 

Smoothening your shirt, you take a nervous glance around you. You’re unsure about how you feel, it’s a lot. You’ve never truly thought about Damian in such a light before, at least not to your knowledge. Sure, you’ve written compositions about him and sure, if you read between the lines in some songs they’re definitely about him. You and Him. 

Perhaps, without realizing it, you had made him your muse just as he had made you his. 

“I want you to see this one,” Damian says as he walks up behind you, finally free of people asking him questions. The music loops as he does and you count that there’s five songs on the set playlist. Each and every song was one you had created. Your song from the previous week plays again as you stare at him, smiling. 

“I’m your muse?” You softly ask, unable to remove yourself from the spot until you have gotten your words out. Damian dips his head down for a moment and wipes his nose. “You’re nervous,” The small tease makes his eyes roll and he clears his throat, the red settling from his tanned ears. 

“I want you to see this one,” He repeats and grabs your hand, gently guiding you past the people surrounding the room. They look at the two of you, watching as you walk up to a large painting in the center of the room. Clearly a last-minute addition but it seemed to be the focus. 

“Woah,” Is all you can say when you see the painting of you during your final. It’s painted in the same style as your favorite art era. The romantic era where colors were soft, even if they were dark. The painting itself had you in the center, a sea of people at the bottom and there are several ghostly figures of yourself, dancing across the stage leaving streaks of yourself at the top. The floor of the stage was covered in candles. 

“How long did this take you?” You ask, eyes darting between details and finding new ones each time you look. 

“Two days,” He shrugs. Slowly, you look at him and he looks back at you, confused. “I couldn’t sleep until I finished the painting. The way you looked during your final.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “It’s truly beautiful— you’re truly beautiful,” He adds, looking at you. 

“When you paint me like that I definitely am,” You laugh, looking back at the painting. 

“I only painted you through my lens. Perhaps your eyes aren’t as good as you think they are because the paintings truly do not live up to their references. You’re captivating and the way you’ve consumed my thoughts is honestly intoxicating.” His eyes twinkle as you look at each other. You don’t know what to say, honestly. You can stroke your ego a little, you could crack a joke, or you could bear yourself completely to him. But definitely not in a room filled with people. 

“Ah,” Dick breaks the silence. “You know he used to be a junior poet?” Grumbling, Damian looks over at Richard as he’s staring at the painting, sipping sparkling champagne from a flute glass while holding a cracker with cheese and jelly. Gross. Probably, you’ve never had it before. 

“I do believe I asked for a moment alone,” Damian gives a half-snarky grin and Dick shrugs. 

“A whole lotta people here, doubt you’d be alone.” With a sweeping motion, he gestures to the crowd around you. It’s not elbow-to-elbow crowded but you can hear at least seven conversations happening around you. 

“I suppose you’re correct,” He nods, following his brother's line of thinking. “Fresh air?” He asks you and you nod. 

There’s a park in front of the exhibit and it’s mostly empty, save for two kids and their parents but they’re clearly about to leave. Damian heads towards the benches but you pull him to the swings. There are three but one of them is tossed over the bar and you don’t feel like fixing it. 

Sitting with your back to the exhibit, you look over the trees and the playground. The sandpit with someone’s lost doll sitting down, a bucket behind it. 

“What did you think?” He spoke up after a minute had passed. The entire time he watched as you gently rocked back and forth on the swings, tempting yourself to actually swing. 

“You’re amazingly talented,” You hum, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Although, I already knew that. You’re like Michelangelo with everything you pick up.” Glancing at him, you smile when you see his hands. “You still haven’t cleaned the charcoal from your nails.” 

“No,” He blinks, his eyes staying closed for a beat longer than a blink. “Not of my skill level, (Y/n). Of the drawings. That you’re Muse.” He looks down at his fingertips and starts to pick at the bits of charcoal. “That you’re my muse.”

Softly you sigh before looking back to the trees. 

“What is there to think about? You’re my muse, I'm yours.” 

“You’ve written songs about me?” He asks and you sheepishly nod, refusing to look at him. “Which? If you don’t mind me asking,”

“Birds of a feather, I wanna be yours, and Golden hour. There’s more but they’re too embarrassing to admit,” Hearing him take a deep breath, you pick at your fingernails and slowly stop swinging.

“What now?” You ask, finally looking at him. He shrugs and starts to slowly swing. He thinks for a moment before he checks his phone. 

“When are you free? I can make reservations to—“

“Applebees or Red Lobster,” You cut him off and he looks at you, confused. “Applebees is once every so often, birthdays or celebrations. But Red Lobster? That’s graduation or date.” 

“You could’ve gone for a five-star restaurant, you know that, right?” He laughs and you shrug. 

“I heard they’re pretty shit. And I want to fuck up a seafood boil. Oh wait,” Blinking, you try to remember the Red Lobster menu. “Never mind, I don’t think they have vegetarian options. We could do Olive Garden or whatever vegetarian places you like. I’m not picky,” 

“And I am?” He teases and you roll your eyes. “Friday, at five. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to Olive Garden. And then to the movies to watch that new horror movie you’ve been wanting to watch.”

“That sounds perfect,” You nod and nudge your swing into his. 

“Can I admit something?” He slowly asks. “Forgive me if I’m being too forward but…” Watching as he licks his lip, you stop swinging. “May I kiss you?” 

“Yes.” You nod. Trying not to seem too eager, the both of you stand up and you watch as he raises his hands to cup your face. His fingers are warm, gliding across your skin as you hook one arm around his waist while the other holds his shoulder. “Do you want to lead?” You whisper as he looks at you, unmoving. His eyes dart down to your lips and he nods before closing the distance. 

His hands drag a little down your face, his pinky curving under your jaw before moving up into your hair. Slowly the kiss breaks and he dips back down for one quick kiss. 

“He’s been waiting months to do that,” Dick announces and Damian groans. You snicker and look behind Damian. Dick isn’t even looking, looking off into the distance before he’s sure that you’re done kissing before looking at the two of you. 

“Must he ruin everything?” He whispers to you before facing his brother. “I understand you have no concept of privacy, but this warrants that.” Dick frowns at the rudeness before he shrugs and points his thumb towards the venue. 

“They’re asking for you, thought I should come and get you before they spot you.” He explains through a sigh. “Would hate for our little demon’s kiss to end up on the front page. But, yeah,” He sighs and looks over at you. He stares at your face for a moment before he chuckles. 

“Take him to the bathroom, you got dust on his face.”

“It’s charcoal.”

[spectralgecko]

Dead lander Hoaxe AU

Post the first out of... idk. Two at least, probably more. I'm 99% sure this has been done before by somebody but I haven't really seen it over here, so I have no idea, lol. At any rate the details are probably different XD

Basic premise? What if Hoaxe just... never left the Dead Lands? What if he never got cornered by dead landers, or crushed by the crystal, and continued to grow up and eventually matured in the Dead Lands, and was in the process hardened into a skilled survivalist?

Does this have plot consequences? Yes. Many. I have tried to patch things up into a more or less interesting alternative, but also. Many holes. Does it actually work just by the canonical laws of the game? I... don't really know, but probably not? This post will mostly be about Hoaxe rather than the plot. Anywho:

The wet cat himself:

(Granted, in this AU he is significantly less of a wet cat, but shhhh.)

Some basics about Hoaxe:

The fire magic - he does still have his fire magic, he just got it differently. He didn't get squashed by a crystal, but he's been around them a whole lot and has by consequence picked up (much more stable) fire magic from it. He also practices using it a lot more, and becomes quite skilled with it. He mostly uses it for cooking, though - larger, flashy fires can draw a lot of... unwanted attention.

I think the devs mentioned somewhere that Bugnish needs to be taught, so Hoaxe never really learns it. He doesn't talk much, and on the rare occasions he needs to communicate, he does so in gestures and non-verbal vocalizations. He takes notes in a logographic format. He does pick up a few words from the Roaches, some in Bugnish, some in Roach language (when he eventually finds the Roach village).

He does take notes, as mentioned above - usually charcoal on either dead lander shell, rock, or any other available writing surface. Usually, it's notes about the dead landers themselves, other local flora and fauna, and mapping out the area. Hazards, good food sources, safe places, dangerous places, hot spots for different dead landers, all that.

As far as the Roaches are concerned, Hoaxe is this... local, very occasional drifter. He drops by sometimes with interesting finds or notes and trades with them and rests while he's there. Over time, he becomes a local guard of sorts, helping keep dead landers away from the village and even sorta assisting with guarding the sapling, insofar as it needs it.

The Roaches have noticed that despite the residual crystal magic around him, he doesn't seem to react to the sapling vault. Some of them have wondered if its magic has faded, or if Hoaxe just isn't bothered.

Hoaxe accrues a few different weapons for taking care of himself, most of them ranged. He has a sling - think shepherds sling - which he uses to send rocks flying at mach-screw-you-in-particular straight into dead landers' faces. A similar premise applies to his blowgun and darts, and assorted sharpened sticks paired with a notched branch - a makeshift atlatl.

Hoaxe has an iron stomach in so many respects. He has also figured out how to cook most things into a semi-edible format, including dead landers, but the Roaches wouldn't recommend partaking of his diet unless you're desperate.

Hoaxe does not know his name, nor does anyone else. The Roaches just call him the drifter or some other such moniker. Hoaxe doesn't really care enough to puzzle over the notion.

At some point, probably post-game, Hoaxe registers that there is in fact land outside of the dead lands, and he could just... leave. He hesitates, though - he knows the dead lands inside and out, this is familiar danger. Everywhere else is strange new territory. In the events of the post-game proxy, he goes back with Team Snakemouth and co. to explore a bit, before eventually returning to help the Roaches with what he may.

Hoaxe is a strange inversion of a persistence hunter - he's more like persistence prey with an uno reverse card. He knows how scarce food is, and he knows he can outpace the dead landers, so he'll kite them around until they exhaust themselves chasing him, then strike. That said, he prefers to strike at range from the shadows where he can - ambush tactics are much safer and have a significantly higher chance of a one-hit kill.

While this is a strange mix of redemption and hypothetical alternative, in character Hoaxe is still not... the nicest. While he's a cunning strategist and capable survivor, he's a little uh. rough. around the edges. Quick to anger and frustration, kinda selfish unless you give him a reason not to be, and generally leaning anti-social. He's very quid pro quo when it comes to cooperation - he needs a reason to help you. He'll be civil if you're civil, but won't be much past that unless you plan on repaying the effort. On the bright side, he's honest at least, and true to his words. Promises are important to him (he and Astotheles get along in this regard, much contrary to canon).

Hoaxe prefers to operate alone. It's what he's learned, and trying to collaborate with a team is a hassle in his view. Stay out of his way, he'll stay out of yours.

He's not exactly keen on sharing resources unless he doesn't need them himself. Again, quid pro quo - if you give him something valuable in return he's down to barter, but his definition of "valuable" is directly correlated to survival and practicality. Unlike the original Hoaxe, currency and treasure and trinkets have little value to him. He deals in food, weapons, shelter, tools, and other such practicalities. Information, even. He's a fair trader, once you figure out his system of value assignment.

I uh. have missed a lot of things, most certainly. If you have questions, curiosities, or comments, fire away! The ask box is open and I am happy to ramble.

[redheadspark]

i would like for the june prompt to request benedict bridgerton with dialogue #1 and prompt #7

A/N - This is cute for Benedict! Thanks for requesting this, anon!

Regret

Summary - Benedict always spoke from the heart, unless it was about his childhood crush

Warnings - Fluff :)

It started in your childhood.

Your family moved into the estate next to the Bridgerton home, being instantly welcomed by Violet Bridgerton and her plentiful children.  It amazed you to see 8 children at your doorstep, Violet at the helm of course, and making sure her children were all well-mannered in their introductions.  It was a contrast to your family, you being the only child and rather shy when it came to meeting new people, mostly your parent’s friends and associates.  

However, each one of the Bridgerton children was pleased to meet you: Serious and yet kind Anthony, boisterous and playful Benedict, sweet-natured Colin, friendly Daphne, intelligent Eloise, timid Francesca, and playful Gregory and Hyancith.  You were envious of them and how they were great siblings together, but they “adopted” you into their world so to speak.  You were invited over to play with them several times, thanks to the growing friendship of your parents and the Bridgerton Matriarch.  

One Bridgerton latched onto you rather quickly: Benedict.

Whether was his playful nature or his boyish charm, you fell for it all the same when you two would chase each other and read side by side in his parlor.  Although you were more of a reader than he was, he never minded reading with you since you were telling him all the good parts in the books that he would like.

“I thought there were pirates in this book!” 

“There is, you must wait for the good part, Benedict!  Or would you rather read it yourself?”

“No, I prefer your reading it to me!  You know the bigger words than me,”

Of course, your parents were trying to raise you into a proper young lady, and yet you would return home from a playdate at the Bridgerton home with mud on your dress and your hair askew.  It wasn’t Violet’s fault, you were the one who would sneak off to run around with Benedict or learn how to draw with him too.  He becomes your favorite Bridgerton as time goes on from childhood to pre-adolescent. 

You both would still read together, though it was mostly you reading out loud to him as he would rest his head in your lap. He loved hearing your voice, vent using different voices for the characters in the book and knowing how to make the action scenes exciting.  It was one of your favorite times of the day with him, the pair of you almost tucked up with one another in the parlor.  You love this company, his light heartiness when you were stressed and his eye for creativity when he would talk about his art.  

When he started drawing with charcoal, you saw a new shift in him, a new spark.  He would be hunched over his pad and charcoal stick, etching out nature or something more abstract.  You would watch in fascination while he would bring art to life, thinking of him as a genius as his fingers would be strain black and his smile to widen even more.  Sure, you would say every single piece of art he drew was amazing and mind-blowing, but it was true. You saw the passion in him and in how he drew the curves, 

It was Eloise who first planted the seed inside of Benedict as you left for your home for the day.  She leaned over to whisper to Benedict, “I sense you have a crush on our neighbor,”

Benedict was flushed, whipping his head over to his younger sister who smirked at him as he huffed, “What makes you say that?  I simply enjoy her company!”

“Yet you would let her read to you for hours on end when you wouldn't let me do the same for more than 5 minutes,” Eloise replied smoothly and with no hesitation, Benedict was quiet for a moment as she raised a brow at him, “I wouldn’t dwell on it too much since it would only bring you a headache,”

Benedict thought back on that conversation every once in a while, thinking back to those smaller moments when he would be next to you.  You were a breath of fresh air for him, someone who made him laugh constantly and would take on one of his rants and quirks.  It made him feel special to be with you for hours on, on how you would choose to be with him over any of the other Bridgerton Siblings.  

But as times passed and you both became teenagers, feelings started to shift on both sides.  You were finding him attractive, his dark brown hair and bright eyes, the way he laughed and joked daily, it was all becoming a crush that you could no longer ignore.  Even with the impending notion that you were going to come out and go to balls in hopes of finding yourself a suitor, later on, a husband, Benedict never left your mind.

It was just was same with the second eldest Bridgerton.  He watched you blossom from a young girl with gangly knees and smudged cheeks into a beautiful young lady...  Even as the pair of you still read together or did art together side by side, it was a shifting change of tides for Benedict to see you as more than a friend.  He too knew the life of young women coming out and making their singles known in upcoming balls and throughout the season, and the thought of some random stranger of a man taking you away from him sickened him. 

He wanted you to be on his arm, to call him your husband, to choose him every day, and beyond that.  To him, it was more than friendship and comradery, it was love.  He was deeply in love with you and he couldn’t picture his life without you.  Then he was petrified, not knowing what to tell you or how to tell you. 

But leave it to his older brother Anthony, who was good friends with you, to tell him exactly what he needed to hear:

“You will regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t tell the girl of your dreams how you feel,”

So during the ball, the third ball you’ve been to with your dance card filled to the brim with suitors and hopefuls, Benedict saw you into the crowd.  You were dancing with another bachelor, though the look of your face was proper yet uninterested.  Benedict felt his stomach drop to the ground from the view of you in your gown, your hair in its curls, and how you looked more radiant than the rest of the ladies in the ballroom.  To him, you were still the little girl who laughed and played with him, who encouraged him to grow in his art and told him to never give up on his passion.  

You were the little girl who stole his heart.

Finally, as the song was ending and the couple bowed to one another, Benedict made his move.  He weaved through the crowd and kept his eyesight on you, seeing you look a bit grimaced as the bachelor was still lingering and attempting some small talk on you.  Now he was moving a bit quicker, Benedict thinking that he had a small window to do what he wanted to do.  He finally made it to you, giving you a slight bow and seeing the suspicious look on your face as he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Apologies for interrupting, but I was told to accompany Ms. L/N to her parents for a serious discussion that cannot wait,” He explained, both yourself and the bachelor looking at each other in confusion.  But Benedict held out his arm for you to take, giving you a look to follow his lead.  You knew him well enough to take his arm and apologize to the potential suitor, yourself and Benedict walking away and moving out of the main crowd.  Benedict would see Anthony out of the corner of his eyes, a massive grin on his face as he was talking to his mother and your hand clutched his arm with uncertainty.

“Follow my lead,” He whispered to you, not wishing to cause a scene with the look you were giving him.  You nodded, remaining composed while he finally led the pair of you out to one of the main hallways that led to the garden.

Once you two were out of earshot and out of sight, you whirled around and glared at him, “What has gotten into you?”

“I have something I wish to say to you before it is too late,” He said to you, making you freeze from what he said and now look at him in confusion.  Benedict could only remember what his brother told you, how to tell you how he felt about you.  Seeing you there in front of him, looking beyond beautiful and radiant for him to only see for a few small moments.  He finally felt his heart settle in, and he opened his mouth.

“You have been a big part of my life, ever since we met as children.  You see me past my jokes and banter, you see me wishing to be myself and you accept it wholeheartedly.  I cannot deny how I feel as though I can fly every time you’re in the room, when you smile at me, simply looking at me.”  He explained, his lands slipping into your own as you were listening and watching him with undivided attention with your own heart beating fast and erratically.

“But seeing you tonight being pursued by others, others who do not know the real you and how authentic you are.  They see only one side of you when I have seen them all: when you nearly broke your wrist climbing after me as I went up a tree, when I taught you how to paint and sketch, and even when we first met so long ago.  We can’t go on like this.  Like friends is all we are.” He explained once again, his heart pouring out to you and perhaps he was lost in his own words.  Not realizing that you were grinning from ear to ear, that you were scooting a bit closer to him, that you were thinking the same thing too.

“It’s brash for me to tell you this since you probably have others who have already caught your affection and attention, and it must be worse since we have known each other for far too long to cause questions, but I am willing to take on any—“

You silenced him with a passionate kiss.

Benedict’s mind swept away as you were pressing against him and left your lips along his, his own passion for art was now dimmed and replaced with something ten times brighter.  At first, he thought that he was demeaning and this was something he made up within his own mind, but then again a dream would not feel this real.  Smelling the perfume that was on your skin your mother inside on your wearing, feeling the cooling touch of your dress against his fingertips that seemed so soft like a cloud, and the touch of your lips that would be his new favorite taste that he will never forget in his lifetime.

Yet it also seemed short-lived, you were about to pull away and Benedict inwardly feared that to happen.  So he tucked his fingers under your chin to keep you there, kissing you back softly and making you almost whimper from the kiss itself.  Benedict felt you smile, making him smile back as you pulled away to peer up at him.  He saw the shift in your eyes, how bright they were compared to before, and how they now almost glittered in candlelight.

“It took you long enough to do something, Mr. Bridgerton,” You teased, Benedict’s eyes going wide as you gigged and went on, “I thought I would be a spinster by the time you shared your feelings for me, and I would have said the same about you,”

“You….you had…now hold on!” Benedict questioned as you crossed your arms in front of yourself with slight annoyance, “You too had feelings for me?”

“Of course, I always had feelings for you!” You explained, seeing him cock his head in confusion while you gestured to yourself, “I would have thought you asked sooner to court me!”

“Oh,” He replied, you grinning back at him as he smiled liked a fool hopelessly in love, “Well…and I mean this with the utmost respect…why did you not voice your feelings for me before,”

You sighed, looking down rather sheepishly, “First, I was told it was unlady like.  And…I did not know if you mirror those affections as I did,”

Benedict saw the flushness of your cheeks, the inner conflict that you had to say how you felt.  He then realized that you both were tip-toeing around one another, willing to stay friends with one another, and having the ultimate fear of being rejected or seen as foolish.

So Benedict tucked his fingers under your chin again to coax you in for another kiss.  You took it willingly, leaning into him as the small light of the candles gave an ever-loving glow over the pair of you.  Almost a shield from the rest of the ball that seemed to have melted away as you kissed.  Feeling nothing but bliss floating between you two as you both were finally living out the dreams.

Neither of you noticed both Eloise and Anthony watching while they were hiding around the corner, both with massive grins on their faces.

The End

June Prompt Session

[youryanderedaddy]

tw: female reader, captivity, possessive behavior, non - consensual touching, hinted past stalking, hinted non - con, i keep making fairy tale references kfjhks My ko - fi <3

You actually feel calm now, almost at peace - although you can never be truly peaceful in the forest, you guess this is as close as it can get. You flip through the pages of the book, scanning the fireplace with the corner of your eye. It needs more wood, but it still keeps the cottage nice and warm. You tug at your big fluffy sweater - and think about just how domestic, how cozy this scene would be if you couldn't hear his footsteps creeping up behind you. You clear your throat and clutch the book closer to your stomach, trying to ignore him - hoping he'll go away if you pay him no mind. And just like the last few times, he sticks around like mud.

"Are you reading those fairytales again?" Raven calls out mockingly, the click of his tongue teasing your ear. He grasps your shoulders lightly, trying to take a peek at your book from behind the chair. You try to close it, but his hands quickly find your wrists, holding them in place. Now hyper - aware of his chest pressing against your back, you give in and let him look as his body heat spreads to your neck. "Such a pretty illustration, isn't it?" He hums to himself, a fox - like grin ruining his delicate features. When you don't respond, he just keeps going. "The knight kills the monster and rescues the princess." He reads the caption under the drawing, playing curious. "They live happily ever after." He flips the page. "The end." He mouths, averting his gaze.

You clench your fists and try to count to ten before you say something you will regret. You don't know why or how, but just one look at his face is enough to set you off nowadays. And anger is a losing battle - anger has you laying across his knees with your panties in your mouth, muffling your pained cries he likes to pretend are moans as he paints your butt red. So you shut up and bide your time.

"How sweet." The man chuckles with malice, quickly turning towards you just like a snake would curl around an unsuspecting little mouse. "I guess life really imitates art. Just like you and me." He observes with a self-satisfied smirk, reaching to light his cigarette. You hate when he smokes inside the house - the nicotine fume sticks to the walls for hours and you start choking and coughing, but he shows little concern for your heath; not that it's a huge surpirse to you.

"What do you mean?" You raise one eyebrow, hoping to at least take your mind off the nasty, overwhelming smell. If he sees your unease, he doesn't mention it, choosing to inhale even deeper, with his full chest. "You're the pretty damsel in distress." Raven explains calmly, charcoal eyes sinking into your vision like claws. It makes you feel naked, vulnerable - dissected to your very molecule. "And I am your knight." He lets his sharp teeth reflect in the dim light. "I saved you from those pesky insects who kept sulling you." You cringe at the way his tongue piercing drags against his canines. Track - track. "Aren't you glad I removed those obstactles for ya?" He gives you a crooked, sarcastic smile. "I think your hero deserves a little reward for all the trouble he went through just for you."

You blink away the tears as you are forced to remember it all in one breath. The police sirens - the investigation. The blood on your family's threshold. The used condoms hanging on your door for all neighbours to see, and the thousand messages calling you ugly names for months on end.

"You're no hero." You mumble under your breath, digging your nails deep into your palms - desperate to keep your tongue behind your teeth. But he hears you - he always does, and he just nods in agreement, coming close. Coming to take you.

Raven stands before you, hovering over you with one hand on the ashtray and the other tilting your chin up so you'd have no choice but to look at him and him alone. "Perhaps you're right." He admits, taking a puff off his long cigarette and blowing it in your face right after - simply in love with the way your eyes narrow in frustrated defiance as you wave away the thick smoke. "Perhaps I am not the hero, but the monster. The dragon." He laughs to himself, stubbing out the burning fag. You don't know what it is that he finds so funny, but you wish you knew so you could laugh along instead of crying.

He cages you in against the sofa, causing you to press even harder against the soft backrest. The message is clear - you'd let the house consume you before you let him as much as kiss you.

"It fits the story nicely, don't you think?" The man remarks, playing with a strand of your hair gleefuly just like a child would. You assume he derives some sick pleasure from touching you so casually - from caressing you, petting you, holding you. It's not even sexual, but it always shakes you to your core, and maybe for him that's the best part - where you can't go anywhere, but in his arms.

"Huh?" You break from your thoughts, growing confused. "Your analogy." He explains while still all over you. "It makes sense. I fought for you, and I won you fair and square." His eyes light up with the ferocity of a hunter. "I wanted you so I took you like the greedy bastard I am. I have no regrets - and if that makes me a villain, then so be it. I will burn the world down if it means you'd be all mine." His fist wraps around your loose locks, almost gentle, but not quite. There is something unnatural in his smile - you can't help, but imagine blood dripping from his chin. "But there is something your magic tales get wrong." Raven whispers diabolically, snapping his fingers. Everything goes dark - and his coat slips down on the floor.

"W-what?" You ask, shaking like a leaf - both afraid and deadly curious. You try to sharpen your senses, but you remain blind to his shadow - and the way it moves right between your legs, positioning them around his hips. You feel his manhood prod at your pubic bone, and you heart sinks to your stomach. "The ending." Your captor mutters, pushing you on your back, and you curse the electronic chair when it goes all the way down with little fight. "The moment when the cards are on the table..." He all but tears off the first button of your shirt. "And the princess is all alone with the monster. Face to face - with nowhere to go."

His tongue is hot on your neck - you try to push him off, but he pins down your wrists with feral force, growling like a wild beast. "And this time no one is coming to save her."

[theslumberinggod]

The Wanderer's Tagalong Part 1: Couldn't

A series of connected drabbles revolving around The Wanderer grappling with his feelings for an unexpected companion who can't even speak the same language as him.

Pairing: The Wanderer (Scaramouche) X Reader

•~°~•

Rain crashed down on the roof of the abandoned barn. It slipped through the cracks and rotting gaps, down onto old floors, seeling through stones and deteriorating wood into the earth. 

A cold chill crept in with the icy rain, a long with the occasional gusts of wind slipping through the thin walls of the measly shelter barely keeping The Wanderer and his companion dry. 

He tilted his hat, cracking a violet eye open to glance at you. You had pulled your cloak around you, bringing up your knees. Your brows were furrowed, an intense gaze in your eye as you used your body to shield the paper you so intently scribbling on. 

You liked to draw. A lot. It was the one thing The Wanderer knew for sure about you other than your name. You did not speak the common tongue, nor did you seem particularly familiar with anything or anyone here. He could only guess where you came from---a Descender or Outlander. 

You didn't seem to possess any unique or special talents of any arcane kind, unlike Lumine. You were as far as the Wanderer could tell, a squishy human with enormous amounts of audacity, stupidity, grit, and smiled way too much. 

“Wanderer,” Your voice broke the loud yet quiet atmosphere. It had a soft, thickly accented quality to it. The word---name, Wanderer rolled awkwardly yet fondly off your tongue. With a light huff, he snapped his gaze towards you. 

“What?” He asked. 

You smiled, scooting closer much to Wanderer’s chagrin. His body stiffened, tapping his fingers along his arms. You lifted the sketchbook you had been so vigilantly protecting from the rain. Smudged charcoal and thick lines had been expertly dragged across the paper. 

The art was unusual, formed in a way Wanderer had never seen before. It was both incredibly life like yet unrealistic, charming in a way. 

He then narrowed his eyes, “Did you draw me?”

“Wanderer!” You happily repeated, proudly. You had drawn him, leaning against the wall, arms folded with his hat pulled down over his eyes. It both looked like him and not like him at all. What made him really pause was the small, barely noticeable smile you had so painstakingly etched into his features. 

Wanderer huffed out, unsure whether to be flattered or disturbed, either way the attention triggered that deep rooted crack in his soul. He turned his eyes away and shut them, leaning his hat down in dismissal. You didn't seem particularly satisfied with his grumpy, smile falling from your face. 

He watched from the corner of your eye as you twisted your lips, trying to hide a frown behind a think face as you clutched your charcoal stick and stared down at the paper. 

A feeling he wasn't entirely accustomed with---the ugly, twisting feeling of compunction wriggled round in his chest. It was sharp, fleeting, but potent enough to make Wanderer regret dismissing you. 

He wrestled with himself silently, still. He did not know you, therefore he should not care. There was no room in him to care, it was too dangerous. 

Why should he care for a stranger he found lost, bewildered, terrified, hurt and alone on the road?

That was how he found you. Deep into the night on his long travel back to Sumeru. It was unusually warm that night. The stars were out and glinting, false and beautiful all the same. 

You came crashing down a hill to his left, stumbling and tripping over your own bare feet. Your face was smeared in blood, oddly simple clothing ripped at the hems, covered in scratches with a long gash in your arm. You held a rusted knife too big for your fragile hands, eyes wide in utter horror, terror.

Why did you rush to him, when abyssal monsters pour over the hill? Maybe it was just because Wanderer looked human. He could never, ever forget the look on your face when he used his Anemo on the monsters, flicking the parasites away like the dust they were. It wasn't fear, it was awe. 

You repeated some phrase over and over, maybe a thanks he was guessing. He really did assume you'd go back from whatever camp or town you were from, but you followed him wearily, cautiously. 

The Wanderer couldn't help it. You were so clearly lost, tossed aside by fate or abandoned. You were far too clingy to just be lost. 

He could not care. Yet he didnt just leave you there. He could not care, but it seemed trying to scrub some of the dirt off his hands meant to act like he did. 

He opened his eyes again, glancing at you. You were hunched over your book again, scrawling something. Less intensity, and enthusiasm. Dammit. 

With annoyance he reached out, sharply poking you in the shoulder. You jumped, jerking your head up, asking something in your foreign tongue. 

“I want to see it again,” The Wanderer pointed at your book. Brief confusion flashed over your face and you held it up, showing the half-finished sketch on the page. He could make out a start of a person. You didn't hand him the book, looking at him with curiosity. 

Wanderer huffed. The language barrier did get annoying, and really troublesome at times. Sometimes it was a blessing, he could avoid small talk---but trying to communicate with you, especially in complicated situations was a nightmare.

He made a grabbing motion, feeling childish doing so. Realization dawned on your features and you handed him the book and pencil. He didn't correct you in assuming he wanted the pencil and just carefully thumbed the sides of the pages to the one you drew of him. 

“This is so stupid,” He huffed out, “But it's good. I don't smile though.”

You didn't understand him. Both good and bad, he was spared of trying to grapple with complimenting someone but unable to properly apologize for hurting your feelings. Yet, patiently, you waited and watched, bandaged hands folded in your lap. 

He spun his pencil. “So stupid.”

He quickly scrawled a heart at the corner of the page, making deliberate eye contact with you. He could not bring himself to smile nor did he want to, he only wanted to rid of the sour feeling you no doubt felt at his dismissal of something you put so much effort into. 

You were smiling again when you saw the heart. You said something, a phrase he heard a lot. Some version of ‘Thank You’ he thinks. 

The Wanderer graced your clingy self with all he expected or would give you, and folded his arms and looked away, closing his eyes shut to embrace the idle mediation while waiting for the storm to pass. 

You kept scrawling in your little book, happily. 

Soon enough it became too dark to see, and you with a frown tucked your pencil and book away in your little satchel, leaning back on the wall. Your breathing steadied as you fell asleep, curled up and wrapped tight in your cloak. 

The Wanderer did not sleep, he did not need to. At some point he opened his eyes again to see you fast asleep. 

He did not know why you continued to follow him around, and trust him so freely. He realized he gave you no reason to distrust him. 

The Wanderer could've left you behind some towns ago, but he didn't. He couldn't just leave you. 

You'd shown your thanks in the form of art, so tastefully and even lovingly drawn. Language barrier or not, so far you hadn't given him a reason to distrust you either. You didn't leave yet. 

The storm raged on, rain pouring down with the occasional stroke of lightning. He looked up, catching glimpses of the fractals of light in the black sky. 

No, no, he couldn't just leave you. 

You didn't deserve it, and what was the point of perpetuating such needless cruelty? 

Perhaps, he did care.

Just a little. 

[gloomwitchwrites]

Ink & Needle // Chapter Eight

Tattoo Artist Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: tattoo shop au, unprotected piv, mutual masturbation, PTSD, suggestive themes, language, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 5.3k

Simon's pleasure turns to worry. Amelia wants to know Simon's intentions with you. Soap makes an unexpected call.

Chapter Seven // Chapter Nine

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Happiness is subjective.

What makes someone happy? Is it the amount of money they have? Is it the first sip of freshly made tea? Is it the sound of summer rain or the smooth pages of a freshly bought book?

It could be all of those things. And it could be none of them.

Simon knows what makes him happy.

Cracking open a fresh bottle of ink for the first time. The sharpening of the end of a charcoal stick to use in his sketchbook. Johnny’s terrible fucking jokes that Simon pretends to hate but silently loves. And…you.

Simon has you. You are his, and no one can take that away from him. It’s warm under the sheets. Perfect. And that’s because you’re here, with him, just as you’re supposed to be.

Which is strange since Simon hasn’t seen you in three days. And somehow, you’re snuggled up next to him, snoozing beneath the covers. He doesn’t recall you coming over last night, but maybe he had one too many drinks. Maybe it slipped his mind and he was half-awake when you finally arrived back into his arms.

Simon shifts, the bedding moving around him as he turns his face to the left, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent of you seeps into his nostrils, flooding his lungs and senses with peaceful contentment.

This is home. This is where he should be, and where you ought to stay.

Simon sighs heavily, a smile forming on his lips as you respond to him, snuggling into his side. To make room, Simon lifts the arm nearest you, stretching the ache out before slipping it between you and the bed. He drapes it over your shoulders, pulling you even closer to him. Your answer is to rest your leg over his, and for your hand to fall softly against his bare chest. Simon immediately grabs it, bringing your knuckles up to his lips.

He kisses each bone gently before returning your palm to its previous position. You hum softly, the sound pleasing, blood rushing to his groin with his need for you.

This is all Simon wants. This is all he needs. You are in his bed. You are his woman.

Finally. Fucking finally.

Happiness. Simon requires nothing else.

Your fingers draw slow circles over his chest. They trace his tattoos there, following the lines and dips in a lazy, unhurried fashion that lull Simon back into the state between wakefulness and sleep. Simon’s eyelids flutter, then close, reveling in your touch.

Soothed and pliant, your hand travels lower to his stomach. There it pauses to draw little circles, moving back up to his chest and then down again, moving lower to his pelvis, to his—

Simon groans as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. “What are you up to, love?”

Your reply is a muffled giggle, and to stroke him once, twice, three times. Simon’s fingers dig into your skin, pushing for an answer with a possessive grip to your waist. You turn your face into him, lips finding his flesh, brushing against skin as you continue to work him with your hand.

Simon’s eyelids open slightly, and he watches you through his pale lashes. There is a soft, mischievous smile on your lips and your hair is a tousled mess that he wants to run his fingers through. You’re so beautiful like this. And all fucking his.

“I’m pleasing my man,” you murmur, thumb brushing over the head.

There might be sheets covering up the sight of you palming him, but Simon doesn’t need to see to understand your touch. While you’re not working quickly, there is purpose to each stroke, and it’s becoming harder and harder for Simon to ignore the growing pleasure in the base of his spine.

My man is what you said. Simon belongs to you as much as you belong to him. A deep, primal part of Simon flares with pride. He needs to claim you, to fucking ruin you until all you know is his name.

Simon shifts his arm from across your shoulders to over your hips. His hand slides across the curve of your ass, dips between your slightly spread legs to tease the entrance of your pussy with the tip of his fingers. Your little inhale is sweet. Sugar-laced. And Simon lets it rot his teeth.

He fingers slide upward, circle your clit in little circles until your strokes faulter and your hips buck against him. Simon adjusts his hand position so he can fuck you with his fingers as he toys with your clit.

Together. The two of you are together. Your hand continues to palm him, pulling blooms of cum from the slit. While you’re pleasing him, Simon is more attuned to your body surrendering to him, allowing his fingers inside, stretching and prepping that pussy for his cock.

Simon is going to take you. And he is going to fucking enjoy it.

Your body shivers, and you bite down on your bottom lip, stifling the little moan that threatens to leave your mouth. That small sound is delicious even though he’d rather hear you scream for him.

The muscles in Simon’s arms and legs are coiled tight, ready to push you onto your back and spread you wide. He’s going to make a goddamn mess of you.

But it is not Simon that makes the first move. It is not Simon that takes the initiative.

You sit up completely, swinging one leg over his waist to straddle him. You settle yourself in his lap, his cock resting against the inside of your thigh with silent impatience. Instinct has Simon reaching for your hips and thighs, intent on gripping and massaging the skin there.

Yet he does not have the chance.

You are lifting your legs up, bending the knees, resting your feet flat on the bed. Confused at first, Simon’s hands fall away, hovering near your shins. But that confusion quickly disappears when you open for him fully, revealing yourself entirely to his gaze.

Simon licks his lips wanting to taste every bit of your pussy. That stickiness needs to be on his lips and chin. His mouth deserves to worship you, and for you to receive such prayer. You open like a blooming flower, your head tilted slightly to the side as you watch him.

Your gaze is all primal need and wanton lust. It fuels his own desire, charges it to a blistering height. With one hand on your knee, Simon reaches between your spread thighs. You whimper as his fingers run over your slickness. It collects and drips off the tips of Simon’s fingers. Greedily, Simon brings his drenched fingers to his lips, sucking them clean one by one.

“Gonna give me what I want?” murmurs Simon, resting his freshly cleaned fingers on his chest.

“Asking me to sit on your face?” you tease, flexing your hips slightly.

Simon grins. “Breakfast in bed? You’re too sweet to me.” His hand on your knee slides up, grips the thigh, pulls.

You tumble into his arms and Simon snakes his arms around your waist to keep you from escaping. Laughing, you lightly beat on his chest. But you are caught, unable to break free from Simon’s ironclad strength. You submit to him, and Simon flares with pride. Everything he needs is right here.

With your forearms on his chest, you lean forward and present your mouth. Simon eagerly takes your lips, not caring that both of you need to brush your teeth. You smile against his mouth and then draw back a bit. You look just as you did before while curled up next to him, all gentle mischievousness.

With palms flat against his chest, you push back into a seated position. You reach down between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock, flexing your hips upward. With just the slightest shift of your hips, the head of Simon’s cock presses to your entrance.

Simon’s hands immediately dart out to grab hold of those hips. In moments, you’re sinking down on him, parting, opening up and welcoming him inside. You’re tight and wet and goddamn perfect as more of him disappears.

The muscles in Simon’s jaw clench, and his left hand leaves your hip to run through his hair. To—

Run through his hair? His…hair.

No mask. No balaclava. You’ve never seen him without it. You haven’t—

“Fuck,” Simons groans loudly as you push down on his chest to flex your hips up and back down on him. You lift, roll, go back down. Again. Again. And again, until you’ve taken every fucking inch of him.

Forget the fucking mask. He’ll deal with it later. Right now, you’re his priority.

Your hands on his chest slide upward and stop at the base of Simon’s throat. You’re not choking him, just pressing on his collarbone, using Simon as an anchor while you fuck yourself on his cock.

Even if you were choking him, Simon could give a shit. Break his goddamn collarbone. Choke him out. He’d love to see you try. You wouldn’t have the strength to do it, but watching you like this above him, riding him and using him for your pleasure is its own sick fantasy.

Simon could get used to this. If this is how you want to start the day, he’ll take it.

“Say my name,” growls Simon, his fingers digging into your flesh. “Say it.”

His dick is glossy, disappearing and reappearing with every bounce and roll of your hips. There is no condom, and that too his strange, like the missing balaclava and the fact that you are in his bed this morning.

Your head falls back, exposing your neck. “Ghost,” you moan, and Simon freezes.

Ghost. Ghost.

You called him Ghost at Riot Room. You called him Ghost when his cock was buried deep inside you. You called him Ghost when your orgasm sent you shaking in his lap, squeezing him until his own end came.

But you don’t call him Ghost now. You call him Simon. He told you to call him that now, and you have ever since.

Your nails dig into his skin. Cutting. Stinging.

“Ghost,” you whimper. This time, there is pain in the way you say his name.

Something is wrong.

Your nails drag away from his throat and to his chest, leaving behind jagged lines of red. Heat flares, but he’s not focused on it. Simon keeps one hand on your hip and pushes himself up to a more seated position. He longer cares or is interested in you fucking yourself on him.

He says your name, one hand reaching for you. There is no pleasure on your face. No joy. There are tears and your eyes are wide open, bloodshot.

The one hand he has touching you sinks into your skin, the flesh melting underneath it like sludge. Simon blinks, not understanding. Why are you melting? Why are you fucking melting?

Simon says your name again, sitting up completely, his arm going to your back to support your rapidly dissolving weight. Because that is what happens. Like ice cream in the sun, your skin disintegrates, and Simon cannot hold on to you.

You slip through his fingers.

“No,” whispers Simon. Then, louder, “No!”

Simon continues to call out to you, almost screaming, his voice laced with agony. It drips from him, but you are unresponsive. Sinking, sinking into murk.

It is growing dark and Simon shoves himself forward in an attempt to salvage the last remaining vestiges of you.

But you are not there. He does not cradle you in his arms. Simon cradles a sniper rifle. All black and shiny. Polished.

There is no bedroom and no warm bed. It is cold, and his breath becomes steam in the air. Simon knows this place. It’s Chicago. And in Chicago, Simon kneeled on the top of a building with this very weapon in hand. At the end of the barrel, in Simon’s sight, is where Hassan and Johnny should be.

But the building is blocked, obscured by a massive figure crouching on the ledge like a stone gargoyle. Simon stares at a skull face. A reaper. Grinning.

It’s teeth and bone face are white and shiny, but between those pearly incisors are flecks of red. Dried blood.

Death grins at Simon.

Mocks him.

The reaper reaches out with one boney hand, gripping the end of the barrel. It opens its mouth, flashing its teeth, then bites down on the firing end. It gnaws on the metal. Chewing, chewing like its teeth are steel.

Johnny is across the street being tossed around by Hassan.

This reaper needs to fucking move. Simon needs to take the shot.

You can’t save Johnny.

But Simon did. He knows he did. This is the past. It’s already happened.

You can’t save him. You can’t save Gaz. You can’t save Price.

Bloody salvia drips around the reaper’s teeth, running down the length of the barrel.

You can’t save them. Just like you couldn’t save your brother. Just like you couldn’t save your mother.

Simon’s finger tightens on the trigger.

“Lt. The window,” crackles Johnny’s voice over the comm channel.

The reaper chomp chomp chomps. Grins.

“The window!”

Dead brother. Dead mother. Dead friends.

Simon pulls back on the trigger.

The shot is an explosion. The back of the reaper’s head blows outward only to become a raging inferno. Flames lick upward, so high it seems impossible. Everything around Simon burns. His back and arms ache, throb, the old wounds opening up to remember just how he got them.

Before the towering inferno is a dark figure. It’s just a man’s back at first. An outline. A silhouette. But he turns, keeps turning, and Simon sees the figure for who it is.

It’s him. It’s fucking him.

The handle of Simon’s favorite knife sticks out of the man’s chest. The man grins, and blood stains his teeth. He wobbles, stumbles, moving closer to the precipice.

This man does not deserve a name. Simon will not speak it, not even silently.

Time pauses in suspense as the man falls backward into the flames. Simon’s back and arms are screaming their own song of sorrow as the nerves in his skin singe. This is the moment. This is the hour. This memory is a brand. A tattoo.

A fucking swamp.

Simon smells charred skin, but he’s not sure if it’s his own or his fallen enemy. The flames rage, widen. Over the crackling of the fire, he hears a gunshot. Then another. Then, another. The sound warps, lengthens, and the flames become smooth like Simon is seeing them through a fogged mirror.

The shot comes again but it’s—it’s not that.

The sound repeats and Simon frowns.

It’s…a dog?

Simon blinks. The flames recede as if suctioned through a small hole. Simon blinks again.

He is staring at a wall. A familiar wall. It’s Simon’s bedroom. He’s in his flat above the tattoo parlor. He is in his bedroom. He is in his bed.

Simon tells himself this. Repeats it.

His cheeks sting and his eyes ache.

A sweeping wave of anxiety rushes up Simon’s back and into his chest, tightening his throat. The sound that escapes Simon is cracked, a choked sob. He leans his elbows on his knees and places his hands over his face.

Breathing. Hyperventilating. Wanting to scream. Needing to rage.

Bravo’s wet nose presses against the underside of Simon’s bicep. Simon does not respond. He does not react. Bravo whines, and forces his way in, sliding his large head under Simon’s arm to rest against his chest.

These episodes are always the worst, the ones that creep up when Simon least expects it. But that isn’t the only thing bothering him. Simon hasn’t relived the moment his entire career ended for almost a year. That memory doesn’t—shouldn’t—bother him anymore. Yet, something triggered it.

He doesn’t want to admit it to himself. He doesn’t want to entertain the idea of why. It’s no coincidence that it started with you and ended with him. That man is dead. Fucking gone. And yet Simon thought he saw him on Monday morning. Just loitering across the street from where you and Simon were enjoying breakfast.

At the time, Simon dismissed it, believing his mind was playing some cruel joke.

Simon’s fingers drag over his scalp and then down his face. Sighing, he finally gives in, falls back against the bed.

Bravo snuggles in close and Simon drapes his arm over the dog’s back. “I’m ace, Bravo. Give me a minute.”

Simon blocks out everything, focusing on steadying his breathing. He doesn’t move again until his hands stop shaking.

Groaning, Simon sits up again, and Bravo leaps off the bed, heading for the open bedroom door. While he aches as he always does, some of the usual pain is numb, like his body is more concerned about his psyche than his physical ailments.

Pushing through the soreness, Simon starts his morning as he always does, moving through his routine as a way to steady his mind. It works…enough. Some of that lingering anxiousness burrows down into his bones. He’ll likely be on edge all fucking day.

It’s Thursday, and Simon hasn’t seen you since Monday morning.

He’s been busy, but he also doesn’t have your damn phone number. If he were still SAS, he’d have your number before you’ve even given it to him. Simon is trying to be better than that. Some things are just habit like when he broke into Riot Room the next morning after you ran from him. Simon was ready to hunt you down and drag you to his bed.

While a piece of him would fucking bark at the opportunity to chase you down, Simon knows better. He needs to do all of this differently. He needs to be careful. To not scare you away or be too overbearing.

In the kitchen, Simon frowns down at his dining table. It’s covered in torn out pages from his sketchbook. After work, he stays up late creating design after design, not particularly liking any of them. He wants them to be perfect for you, but none of them stand out to him, and your approval is the only thing he’s after.

Turning his back on them, Simon glances at his phone, checking the time. It’s still plenty early before he needs to officially open the shop. There is still time for him to go see you.

Simon taps his knuckles against the wood before making a decision.

Fuck it. He’s going.

“Bravo! Get your leash!” calls Simon over his shoulder. Bravo’s nails clack gently against the floor as he retrieves his leash, bringing it to Simon moments later.

The autumn air is cool but not overly so, and the walk to Amelia’s is brief. Amelia is a nice woman, and since going to the pub every Sunday for almost two years, he’s grown to trust her. He’s fixed a few things for her around her house in exchange for vegetables from her garden.

When Simon strides up to Amelia’s front door, he intends to knock, but pauses just before doing so.

It’s early. What the fuck is he doing? Why would you want to see him at this hour?

Bravo whines softly and places a paw against Simon’s thigh. The German Shepard tips his head to the side in question.

“Fucking hell. Fine.” Simon pounds on the door, dropping his hand into his pocket as he waits for an answer.

There is silence, and it only stretches, the seconds ticking by.

Frowning, Simon knocks again. After waiting a full minute, worry slithers into the pit of his stomach.

Why is no one answering the damn door?

Not questioning his next actions, Simon tries the handle. It turns easily, giving way to him.

The door is unlocked.

The door is unlocked and no one is answering.

Simon stares into the silent house. His body and mind slide into that military training, transitioning into Ghost fluidly. He sinks down to one knee and unlatches the leash from Bravo’s collar. Bravo senses this change, his own training kicking in.

In a near silent whisper, Simon gives Bravo your name, tells him to find you, and Bravo does just that. His nose goes to the ground immediately, sniffing everything, moving in erratic patterns until finally backtracking to the stairs.

Simon nods, and Bravo ascends with Simon on his heels.

At a shut bedroom door, Bravo sits, staring at Simon. There is a tingling in the tips of Simon’s fingers and a thudding beat in his chest. Slowly, Simon rests his gloved hand on the doorknob. Turning it silently, he opens the door, anticipation coiling like a snake ready to strike.

The first thing Simon notices is how much this space smells like you. The scent of you rushes into his lungs, and the memory of the dream flares, threatening to pull at his resolve. The next thing he notices is the made bed and how there is no one in the room.

On quiet feet, Simon enters, his boots leaving impressions in the carpet.

No signs of a struggle. Nothing tipped over or seemingly out of place. There is not a thing in this room that should have him worrying like he is. This is ridiculous. Absurd.

It was just a dream. Just an episode. She is fine.

Simon walks around the side of the bed. Draped over the back of a chair is the sweater you wore on Monday. Delicately, Simon slips his hand underneath the fabric and lifts it off the chair, bringing the sweater closer to him.

He gives in to indulgence, pressing the soft fabric against the bottom half of his balaclava. He inhales deeply, shudders, everything in him roaring to life, wanting to seek you out yet equally angry that it’s a garment and not the real thing.

This has your scent on it, unlike the torn piece of clothing he still keeps in his dresser drawer. But Simon isn’t going to take your sweater. He doesn’t need to because you’re already here, back in his life, and wanting him. Knowing that is enough, but it doesn’t explain why the front door is unlocked and that no one answered when he knocked.

Simon returns the sweater to its original spot and starts to turn back toward the door. A muffled pounding sound draws his attention to the nearby window. Frowning, Simon walks up to it, looking out into the backyard.

There, kneeling next to a raised flowerbed, is Amelia.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon.

He storms out of the room, taking the narrow stairs two at a time, Bravo racing after him. Simon passes through the sitting room and kitchen toward the backdoor. He’s not quiet about his arrival.

The door nearly flies off its hinges as Simon bursts through it. He stands on the top step of the stairs, hands on his hips as Amelia glances up from her work.

“Simon,” she says, a little surprised yet with a pleasantness to her tone that says she’s happy to see him.

“Your front door is unlocked,” he growls.

Amelia waves him off like it’s not a big deal. “Forgot to lock up after the girls left. It’s only been a few minutes.”

A few minutes. Simon missed you by a few bloody minutes?

Simon bites back all the questions he wants to ask. He wants to know where you are and for how long. He needs specifics.

“An unlocked door invites danger,” says Simon through clenched teeth.

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” replies Amelia, placing one hand on the edge of the raised garden bed. She pushes herself up to her feet before Simon can get to her and assist. “You know all about danger. Don’t you?”

Amelia knows about Simon’s time in the military but she doesn’t know specifics. Simon knows plenty about her though. Not because he looked up information but because of all the times at Dancing Faun when she’d talk his ear off. Amelia married rich, popped out a bunch of kids, and then divorced rich.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “I came to see—”

“I know who you came to see,” interrupts Amelia. “She’s not here at the moment. Left just this morning with Evie. Off to Cambridge for a few days.” Amelia brushes past Simon as she removes her garden gloves. “Come inside and have some tea while you’re here.”

Bravo sits patiently at the top of the stairs, tail wagging. Amelia pats the German Shepard’s head politely before heading inside. Bravo doesn’t even wait for Simon. He follows Amelia into the house.

Grumbling, Simon heads up the stairs and into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. He locks it in case Amelia forgets.

Amelia fills the kettle with water and places it on the stove, turning on the heat. Simon doesn’t sit down. He stands awkwardly next to the table.

She notices and nods at a chair. “Sit.” Simon doesn’t. She arches a single eyebrow, and something in Simon obeys without question. Maybe it’s the motherly stare of disapproval, but he complies.

The chair is far too small for his large frame. Simon has to adjust, spreading his legs enough to not feel cramped.

“Why are they in Cambridge?” The question slips out by accident.

Amelia grabs two mugs from a cabinet and shrugs. “If you don’t know, then it isn’t my place to tell you.”

“Amelia—”

“What are your intentions?” Amelia turns around and faces Simon fully.

Simon blinks, completely surprised by her question. “What?” he asks softly.

“I care about Evelyn. And I care about everyone that she cares about. Including the young woman who you’re…entangled with.” Simon understands Amelia’s meaning without her having to spell it out. “I want to know what your intentions are with her.”

Under the table, one of his hands forms a fist.

His intention is to make you his. For you to be his woman. But Simon can’t say that. Amelia is talking about dating. She is talking about marriage and kids and what the future looks like with you.

And in that moment, Simon realizes that he hasn’t thought about any of those things, at least, not in specifics. He’s imagined waking up to you in his bed every morning. He’s thought about what it would be like to have you to come home to at the end of the day.

But for three long years, the only thing Simon has truly thought about, is how to get you back. Now you’re within reach and Simon hasn’t taken a fucking second to even comprehend where or how this will play out.

Has he completely fucked this up? Has he gone about this wrong?

“Your silence is worrying me, Simon.”

Fuck. Was he silent this whole time?

Simon clears his throat. “We’ve only seen each other twice.” It’s a throwaway answer, and Amelia knows it.

She frowns with disappointment. “It’s not my place to tell you why she’s here. That’s for her to tell you when she’s ready.” Amelia sighs. “And I won’t have you mucking her around only to leave her in the mud after you’re done. I won’t have it.”

Tossing you to the side is not an option. Not having you beside him is not an option. Simon will have you. There is no compromise.

The kettle shrieks and, without looking, Amelia grabs the handle and moves it off the stove. “Are we in an understanding, Simon Riley?”

Amelia uses his full name. She only ever calls him Simon.

“We’re clear,” he replies.

Amelia nods. “How do you like your tea?”

“All done.” Simon turns off the gun and sets it down on the metal rolling tray. He takes a wipe to the freshly done tattoo. “Want a photo before I seal it up?” Simon tosses the wipe into the trash can and glances at the man sitting in the chair.

He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Simon nods and applies the adhesive bandage over the new ink. It’s perfect work, full of color and intricate lines. He rolls back in his chair, removing his gloves and tossing those in the trash as well. The man in the chair, Leo, adjusts in the seat, sitting up.

At the sink, Simon scrubs his hands. Once done, he grabs a few papers about tattoo aftercare while Leo fishes around in his pockets. When Simon presents the packet, Leo hands Simon his credit card.

With the transaction done, Leo exits, and Simon quickly closes up shop, turning the deadbolts and activating the security system. Bravo still snoozes on the couch, completely oblivious to everything happening around him.

Simon grabs the bottle of sanitizer and sprays down the tattoo chair. In his pocket, his phone buzzes. Simon ignores it, continuing to wipe down the chair. The phone cuts off and starts up a few seconds after it ceases.

Again, Simon ignores it.

Again, the phone rings.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon, tossing the paper towel into the trash and fishing out his phone.

MacTavish the screen reads. A brief flare of panic rises in Simon’s chest.

He answers the call, bringing the phone up to his ear. “Johnny?”

“LT!” Simon pulls the phone away from his head, grimacing from Soap’s piercingly happy tone.

“Stop fucking shouting,” snaps Simon. He swallows and cracks his neck. “And I’m not a lieutenant anymore.”

On the other end of the line, Soap makes a dismissive noise like he doesn’t quite care. “You get my package?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Simon smirks behind the balaclava. “I use the mug every morning.”

Johnny barks a laugh. “Oh aye, Lt. Bet you do.” There’s a rustling on the other end. “You up for a visit?”

“A visit?” asks Simon hesitantly.

“Yeah. Need your advice on something. Captain and Gaz are coming too.”

Simon returns the spray bottle to its designated spot. “Why are you calling me instead of Price?”

“Because if Price called, you’d say no.”

Simon pauses near his desk, and glances at the screen of his laptop. “Can I ask what kind of visit?”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Best not to say over the phone. And we haven’t seen you in months. Plus, Ma keeps asking if you’re coming for Christmas.”

Simon grins. “Is she coming, too? Bringing the whole family with you, Johnny?”

“Oi. Fuck off,” he laughs. “Expect us on Saturday.”

The three of them visiting him sits heavy in his stomach. They’ve all come individually, and a few times in a pair, but never all three. It’s only happened twice before. The first time was directly after Simon’s forced retirement. The second time was when the tattoo parlor first opened and they came to support him. Since then, Price, Gaz, and Soap have all come by on their own for one reason or another.

But not together.

That same anxiety from earlier in the day rears up yet again. Whatever needs to be talked about, whatever the three of them need to say to him in person and not over the phone, worries Simon. It digs its claws in.

Another thought nags at him as well, and Simon cannot let it go. He’s not with SAS anymore, and if he was, he’d do this himself. Johnny would help him, would do this for him if Simon only asks.

Simon exhales slowly. “Johnny, I need a favor.”

Soap’s response is immediate. “Anything, Lt.”

“You remember that woman I chased after? The one at Riot Room.”

Soap is quiet a long moment before he answers. “Aye. I remember.”

He’s not proud of what he’s about to do, but fuck it. “Can you find out what you can about her?” Simon rattles off all the information he has and Soap remains silent the entire time.

“I’ll find out what I can and get back to you,” he says after Simon stops talking.

No. Simon is not proud of asking this of him, but Simon is desperate. He needs to know everything about you. It’s habit, and while a small part of him tells him it’s wrong, Simon pushes it down, smothering the objection.

“Saturday then.”

“Saturday.”

[frost-queen]

Creatures on paper(Reader & Bridgerton siblings)

Requested by: anon, Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco@subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @melsunshine, @panhoeofmanyfandoms, @venomsvl, @the-uncoordinated-house-cat, @rosecentury,  @imagines-by-her,  @evilcr0ne,@vviolynn

Loud elephant stomps on the stairs rushed down. You opened the door from your room, brushing your hand against your cheek. A tingle that needed to be silenced. Upstairs you fell behind your sister Francesca. – “Stop running!” – she called out to Hyacinth and Gregory who had ran down the stairs in a thunderous way. They both giggled jumping down the few last steps.

Francesca shook her head with a sigh, going down elegantly. You went after her, not sure she had noticed you coming after her. Downstairs you followed Francesca towards the breakfast table. Entering the room you were greeted with the hustle of your family.

Eloise having stolen bread, picking at it and stuffing it in her mouth while she went round the table. Anthony was chattering with Benedict as he pulled his chair back. Hyacinth and Gregory ran around the table laughing.

They nearly knocked over Colin who wanted to sit down. – “Children.” – Violet sighed out in an attempt to slow them down. You seized your chance, jumping to the front before Hyacinth could knock you over. Pulling your chair back at the same time as Colin did across from you. He looked at you, sniffling a laugh. – “What?” – you spoke setting the chair down on the carpet.

“Been drawing all night?” – he asked. – “How do you know?” – you questioned almost sitting down. Colin brushed his finger against his cheek to indicate something on yours. You wiped your cheek confused. Looking down at your fingers you saw the charcoal on your tips.

Continue to wipe your cheeks, you seemed to be spreading it more than removing it. – “Hyacinth! Gregory sit down!” – Violet called out frustrated. Your siblings stopped, gulped and rushed to their seats.

You looked at Colin with the indication if it was off. He shook his head, chuckling. Turning your head you made Francesca look back at you. She took her napkin, wiping your face clean. – “Is it finished?” – Colin asked. You shook your head as Francesca had to pause briefly from your motion. – “You must tell me when it is done.” – he went on.

“Why?” – you mumbled scrunching your nose as your sister cleaned your face. – “Cause I want to see what you are working on.” – he answered. Francesca nodded as she lowered her napkin. Her napkin now stained with black charcoal stains. You grabbed for your knife as Francesca took your wrist before you could pick it up.

“What?” – you asked confused. – “Honestly Y/n.” – she replied turning your hand so you could see the charcoal marks on your fingers. You smiled sheepishly. – “Why not use pencils?” – Benedict contributed having looked your way briefly.

“I like drawing in charcoal. Makes it raw.” – you answered him as Francesca cleaned your hand. When she was done, you showed her both your hands. She smiled when you funnily held your hands beside your head, sticking your tongue out. She brushed her napkin down on you, making you flutter your eyes surprised.

You then showed yourself to Colin. – “Much better.” – he complimented with a mouth half stuffed. You dived into breakfast, feeling famished. – “What are you working on sister?” – Benedict asked sitting sideways from you on the other side. – “Something new.” – you answered vaguely.

Benedict sighed soft at your mysteriousness. – “Is it a landscape?” – he asked. – “No.” – you answered reaching over the table for some bread. – “A portrait?”  - Anthony pitched in, joining the talk. You simply shrugged your shoulders. – “Come on dear sister, you must tell us something.” – he contradicted.

“Why?” – you spoke back. – “Because we are interested in your work.” – Francesca said nudging you. – “It’s not that special.” – you answered them before munching on some bread. The subject died out as another subject was brought up. You kept silent, enjoying your meal.

After breakfast you followed your siblings into the Parlor. Colin seated himself behind the piano. Filling the room with soft tunes. Eloise sat in the sofa with a book. Anthony and Gregory were playing chess. Hyacinth sat in the small armchair.

Benedict sitting beside Eloise, falling half asleep. Francesca sipping some tea as mama knitted. You had pulled out a notebook and pencil. Your pencil scratching hard against the paper. Your rapid movement made Hyacinth lift her head up to you.

She observed you for a moment, arm resting on the arm of the armchair. – “What are you drawing?” – she asked with a giddy smile from seeing the happiness on your face. You didn’t hear at first, making her repeat her question. – “Hmm? Oh nothing.” – you answered her, not removing your eyes from your sketch. – “You are clearly drawing. Can I see?” – she asked curious.

“No, sister.” – you told her. Hyacinth sighed loud. – “You never let me see.” – she spoke turning away from you. Eloise lowered her book, interested in the conversation as well. – “True Y/n. You never do.” – she pitched in. – “Let’s just say it’s not your style.” – you told her making your brothers look your way.

Francesca had putted her cup down, taking advantage of your occupation to sneak up on you from behind. – “We just love to see your drawings.” – Colin spoke from the piano. – “Benedict always shows us his.” – Hyacinth called out.

Francesca came standing behind you, her eyes widening. – “Dear God Y/n!” – she cried out, covering up her mouth. Her voice startled you, making you turn around sharply, your sketchbook slipping down your dress to the ground. – “Fran!” – you called out annoyed. Your sketchbook was open as Hyacinth dived for it. She picked it up from the ground, staring in horror at it.

“What the hell is this Y/n?” – she asked making the others curious. – “What is it?” – Benedict asked. – “Hyacinth give it back!” – you ordered trying to take it from her. – “She draws monsters.” – Hyacinth called out showing your brothers the pages. Colin missed a tune, letting a sharp tone play. Gregory and Anthony stared at your sketches with an open mouth.

Benedict gulped at your drawings. Full of monsters and scary stuff it was. Francesca slapped your arm. – “Why do you draw such horrid things?” – she asked loud. – “Au.” – you had said in response, rubbing your arm. Gregory narrowed his eyes at your sketches. – “I like it.” – he outed making Anthony stare in disbelieve at him. – “What, it’s great.” – he added.

You laughed at your brother’s silly remark. Benedict neared as he took the sketchbook from Hyacinth. – “It is a good technique.” – he spoke. Eloise plucked the book from him. – “Can I rip out a few for my personal collection?” – she asked looking through your sketches with a gleam in her eyes. – “Sure.” – you told her.

Eloise grinned, carefully ripping a page out. – “I’m taking this.” – she presented, shutting the book and holding it to you. – “Can I have one too?” – Gregory asked. – “Why not.” – you showed him the book as he searched for one to take out. – “You are such a weird one.” – Francesca whispered to you, making you laugh loud.

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