#// I’m going to attempt to finish painting this but wanted to share the sketch

[emmabaginskyartwhimsy]

Dear creative humans,

Do you keep having fun and interesting ideas only to shove them aside? Are you stuck in the all-too-familiar trap of “maybe one day…”

NO MORE! I’m tired of doing that and this is how I’m going to do it.

The Project

An idea for a Silly Goose Themed Tarot deck popped into my head last week, and I was like, oh absolutely. Then I started sketching, and I knew it was over for me. I needed this thing to exist.

The only issue is I’ve never attempted a project this big. A tarot deck has 78 cards in it. That’s s e v e n t y - e i g h t individual drawings AND a booklet that describes each card. This would be a serious undertaking.

The first step in starting a project is figuring out: why?

The “why” is the most important step. People seem to forget that these creative projects are a lot of hard work. If you don’t have a satisfying enough “why”, your brain will throw every excuse at you as to why you should logically give up. A silly little defense mechanism our organic vessels came up with to protect us from anything painful. Even when it’s good for us.

The problem is that growth is painful. So if you ever want to grow, you’re gonna have to get used to being uncomfortable.

Your “why” should be (mostly) internally motivated. Remember, the only thing you can control is yourself. If the reason for your creative pursuit is external validation (e.i, Internet likes & money), you are giving away your power to forces you have no control over. So inevitably, when you only get a handful of likes, you are much more likely to give up and think “what’s the point?”

The point is creating something that never existed before! There are things in your soul that will never be made unless you take the leap.

Reasons why I am undertaking this project:

#1: This is a fun concept that needs to exist

I love tarot and think it is a helpful tool. Making my own deck will help me connect with the cards, especially because I have to research the card meanings.

I really want to hold the finished deck

Improve my digital painting skills

Starting and finishing a project like this will allow me to build skills that I need for future BIGGER projects.

I will have a cool product to sell at Art Fairs!

My mind, body, and soul are all on board 👍

“I am not afraid of a little hard work” (if you know, you know)*

Not only am I going to be making a tarot deck, I am also committing to documenting the process on social media. This adds another layer of difficulty.

Reason why I am posting on social media:

#1: Recording the process and writing everything down will help me process my thoughts. Which will hopefully make condensing my thoughts into the booklet easier.

Sharing my interest with others! I might get people interested in tarot & teach people a little bit about tarot cards.

Internet footprint: If my legacy in life is being the “Silly Goose Lady,” that's a win.

Documenting growth. A good way to visualize progress.

Grow an audience that vibes with me

People might like it and want to purchase it when it’s finished

Inspire others to make their own creative projects

Okay so, now what? Wanting to do something and actually doing something are two entirely different beasts. The only thing standing between me and my goal is me.

How to control chaos incarnate?

The chaos goblin inside me hates the idea of structure. Nobody can tell me what to do, especially me.

“What if all this planning stifles my creative energy?” Cries the goblin.

This is where self-awareness comes in handy. The goblin loves exploration, which is both a good and a bad thing. If you let the goblin take the lead, you’ll never know quite where you’ll end up. My goblin is easily distracted and, more often than not, has led me to a bunch of dead ends.

Creating structure is not something you should fear as an artist. Instead of ridgid unforgiving chains, think of the planning process like bumpers in a bowling lane. A good plan will contain the goblin to the task at hand while still having fun in the process.

Making a good plan in 5 Steps

Making a good plan is all about thinking ahead and making most of the decisions now so you don’t get decision fatigue later. Otherwise, things get messy and overwhelming pretty quickly.

1. Set a time frame

If you want to reach the finish line, you need to set a pace. Be realistic. Life comes with many responsibilities. How much time is this project going to take you?

I’m measuring this project by cards per week. I did the math on how long it would take me to finish 78 cards.

1 card/week = 78 weeks → October 2025 [1.5 years]

2 cards/week = 39 weeks → January 2025 [9 Months]

3 cards/week = 26 weeks → October 2024 [6 Months]

4 cards/week = 20 weeks → September 2024 [5 Months]

In the grand scheme of life, whether you achieve something in 5 months or 1.5 years doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you got it done. Aim for a pace that is sustainable for you. Burn out is a very real struggle. Life is all about balance.

As I continue the project, I will be able to readjust my expectations accordingly. I imagine that the rate of production will fluctuate but I’m aiming to complete 3 cards per week.

2. Set project constraints/parameters

Put down that pitchfork, Chaos Goblin, and let me explain.

Limiting yourself is actually good for creativity.

I need each illustration to feel like they are a part of the same world. I’m achieving that goal by limiting things like color palette, subject, and art style.

By choosing to keep the same parameters for each of the 78 illustrations, I am freeing myself from the overwhelming task of making a bunch of decisions over and over again. That’s when a project really gets messy and overwhelming.

When in doubt, simplify.

For my project, each tarot card has a well established meaning that acts like a prompt. The Fool card, for example, is about new beginnings and taking the first step. The creative goblin gets to “silly goose-ify” this prompt without having to deal with the infinite well of choices.

3. Make a process that makes sense for you

How are you actually doing the thing? This is where the consistency really comes to play. A bad system will feel redundant and full of friction. If you hate doing a part of your project, you’re more likely to never pick it up again.

This is why I decided to draw each card digitally. This solves a lot of efficiency issues and will save me a lot of time. Imagine having to drag a tripod and camera around with me anytime I wanted to draw. The logistics of that sounds like my absolute nightmare. I only have one camera battery that lasts for about 30 - 45 mins for filming videos. Then, when I’m done, I have to scan every drawing into the computer anyway. No thank you.

Instead, I have an editing-software that screen records me while I’m drawing on my laptop/tablet. Now that’s easy 👍

4. Make a schedule

If you want this goal to come into reality, you need to put time into it. How much time is up to you, everyone's life situation is different. Remember, small consistent blocks of time are all you need to make significant progress.

I am currently a stay at home parent to a very young child. This comes with its own set of advantages and drawbacks. I spend most days looking after my son but I’ve carved out a strategy that works well for my situation.

I broke down the different tasks of my projects and assigned them to each day of the work week. This way I know exactly what I should be working on each day.

My work day bounces from nap to nap but most of my free time is at night after the baby goes to sleep around 6:30pm.

5. Set Boundaries & Priorities

Now here’s where I fight back a little on “hustle culture.” Life is meant to be lived, not toiled away. Make sure you take time for yourself. Time spent taking care of your mind, body, and soul is not wasted. The well of creativity needs replenishing, so breaks are actually a very efficient use of your time.

And FOR PETE’S SAKE, GO TO BED. The work will wait for you. Your brain needs to sleep in order to process all the information it took in today. “Sleep on it” is indeed a real thing. You might wake up with a new idea on how to fix whatever ailed you yesterday.

For me, my family takes priority. My husband works during the week, so I try to keep the weekends open for fun family outings or cozy days inside.

Our children will only be young once. I am making it a point to enjoy the time we spend together instead of stressing about a “lack of free time.” For me, my children will always be my greatest work. On the hard days, I remind myself that there will be a time where I don’t have small hands clinging to me as I try to put the dishes away. They will be off on their own adventures and I will miss those small hands very dearly.

Some closing thoughts

Remember that your plan should be flexible. Just because you mess up doesn’t mean you need to give up entirely. Take a second to go back over the plan and change the things that aren’t working. Failure is only a temporary learning state. It is not something you need to carry with you.

So go forth and create some things we’re never seen before.

The only thing left to do is take the leap.

Good luck, I’m rooting for you.

Emma

*Guess that kid’s TV show. Of course it’s Bluey lol.

[mawluzk]

sharing an inn room cuz you’re both broke af 😳

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Bound Blood (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 4

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T+ for language, nudity (but, like, for art), and violence Warnings: Unhealthy dynamics, including violence between the shipped pair, leaning heavily into the "enemies" part of "enemies to friends to lovers" Summary: Local vampire discusses art, depictions of certain anatomy, and enjoys the company of her feral soulmate for 4.5 minutes. Then it goes to shit (as things tend to do). 0-60 Real goddamn quick. Previous Chapters: 1: Sharing Is (Not) Caring; 2: Bloodbath, Baby!, 3: Haunt Me Dearly

4: Portraits For Ghosts

“Am I really supposed to just… stay here? Did she honestly think that I, of all people, would behave? The universe gave me two good hands, and by God, I intend to make that someone else’s problem,” you mutter to yourself as you get dressed. It’s not that you necessarily had anything in mind, rather that you hated the idea of waiting around for who knows how long for Cassandra to return. Especially considering what she had done prior to leaving. Sure, you had laughed, but that hadn’t meant much in the end. At this point, you hadn’t even been out of the dungeon for a full day yet, and the memories of what happened there were fresh in your mind. Nightmares, too, even if you had pushed them aside to deal with Cassandra’s. Why did I bother? You wonder, frowning. There was hardly any point to comforting a monster, no matter the way they trembled.

Or at least that’s the lie you sold yourself.

Soon enough, a knock at the door brings you out of your head. Daphne, maybe, you think, remembering the maiden from yesterday. When you open the door, however, you’re met with an unfamiliar woman. She’s a few years your senior, at the very least, and appears surprised to see you. In her hands is a very enticing tray of food.

“Lady Cassandra wanted me to bring this to you. I am… I am glad to see you are feeling better already,” she says, voice shaking. What was with these maidens and assuming you were anything like your soulmate? Though that last part did catch your interest. Something told you that she wasn’t at all referring to your time in the dungeon. If you had learned anything from Daphne, it was that the best way to get information was to be indirect. So you graciously accepted the food, before speaking, dodging your way around your ignorance.

“Yes, it’s amazing what a bit of meditating can do for the soul- and body, that is,” you start, watching closely for any veiled reactions. Even within the first few words you can tell that this stranger wasn’t expecting you to be pleasant. “Out of curiosity, what did my Lady say about my condition? There are, uh, a few details that I hope she did not share. I’m sure you understand.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, the maiden is nodding, appearing eager to satisfy you. Maybe a hint of fear can be useful, after all.

“No worries, Lady Cassandra did well to respect your privacy, and we would not dare question her further. She simply explained, to her family, that you were dealing with a migraine. I only heard this because I was helping serve breakfast,” she explained, smiling softly. You’re quick to nod, mimicking her expression for maximum empathy. “Do you require anything else? I am here to serve, you must only ask.” Ah, perfect. Would she have offered this even if you hadn’t attempted to be charming? Probably, but your politeness certainly didn't hurt.

“Well, there is one thing… as long as it’s no trouble.”

---------------------------

It had been a risk, asking the servant to take you to a room you weren’t sure existed, but one that had paid off brilliantly. Even if said room was nothing like you had anticipated. Who would have thought that Cassandra, you think, would be an artist? What’s far less surprising is the fact that the studio (or ‘study’, as you had called it) is a disorganized disaster. Discarded papers lie scattered around an overflowing trash can, a cabinet with an attached tool rack is missing pieces, and in one corner there are literally random shards of broken glass lying about. What is this, performance art? Part of you feels tempted to clean up the mess, if only to occupy your time. Instead, you decide to examine some of the pieces within the room. Maybe somehow they’d tell you something noteworthy about your soulmate.

First, you move to your left, where a workbench houses strange sculptures. For the most part they’re abstract, jagged edges contrasting with gentle curves, but there is one you think you understand. It’s very clearly a bust… of someone’s ‘bust’. Guess that solves the age old question of ‘boobs or ass’, you think, stifling a giggle. Moving on, you shift your attention to the exposed section of the cabinet. One row is dedicated to small vials, each labeled with a concerning ‘blood’, despite the fact that it’s clearly not refrigerated. Still, you have heard of artists painting with blood before, but you seem to recall them mixing it with something else. Perhaps Cassandra had done the same? Though you did wonder if she had any difficulty resisting the urge to drink the blood, at least prior to mixing it.

Shrugging, you continue to the other side of the studio, squatting to get a closer look at the broken glass. As expected, there’s no discernable pattern or purpose. Huh, you think, wonder why she doesn’t clean up. Maybe she’s waiting for a servant to do it? Guessing her reasoning was rather difficult, especially considering your lack of context, such as how long the mess had been here. Deciding that this was a pointless distraction, you move on to the only other thing of note in the room: An easel, in the center, with a canvas nearly as tall as yourself. So far, there’s little on it other than pencil lines, a sketch marking where to paint certain details. Only the (start of) the background has been colored. Understandably, it’s hard to make out what exactly the finished project would end up representing. Based on what you know of Cassandra and her family, however, you infer that this- with four figures, one larger than the others, protective- is a painting of the castle residents.

“Family means something to you, hmm?... I hope that mine does not miss me much, for I will never see them again,” you say to yourself, instinctively reaching out towards the art. Before you can touch it, or think better of it, the door to the studio is flying open. In storms Cassandra, fists clenched at her sides. As soon as she sees you, she’s rushing forward, pulling you away from the easel. “Hello, darling. Glad to see me feeling better, yes?” You teased, smiling wide at her. Feeling a bit emboldened by your earlier success, you go a step further, leaning in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I swear to fuck, if you touched any of my stuff-” Cassandra starts to say, intentionally ignoring the kiss, even though her cheeks get flush at the contact.

“Nope, not a single thing. Not even the broken glass. Nice touch, by the way, makes the whole space feel a helluva lot cozier,” you interject. For a few moments she holds you by your shirt collar, staring you in the eyes as if determining whether or not to believe you. Somehow, some way, she declares you innocent, releasing you with an irritated sigh. After pretending to dust yourself off, you return your attention to the central canvas. “Do you do a lot of art of your family? I passed by several pieces on my way here, though they were certainly in a different style.” Another pause, with Cassandra waiting for you to spring a verbal trap.

“Some of those are mother’s work,” she answers, tentatively, eying you closely. When you merely nod in reply, expecting her to elaborate, she starts to relax, little by little. “I doubt you passed any of mine. Mother tends to keep those closer to her quarters, or near the main entrance.” Interesting, you think, why hasn’t she addressed my original question?

“It sounds like she’s very proud of you,” you muse, still facing away from your soulmate. There’s a slight shakiness to your voice, as your mind starts to dwell on memories of your own family. Perhaps noticing this, Cassandra takes a few steps closer, one hand hovering over your shoulder, not quite sure if you needed (or perhaps deserved) any comfort. In this moment, you feel far more vulnerable than you had the day before. Taking a deep breath, you try to center yourself, before perfectly ruining whatever trust you had just established with Cassandra. “Something tells me she doesn’t know about the titty sculpture though, right? Can’t quite imagine that one being displayed where everyone can see it.”

To your immense surprise, Cassandra gives you a blank stare.

“You… you really don’t know anything about my mother, do you?” She says, after several awkward seconds. It feels strange to think that she had been furious, merely a handful of minutes ago. “If you actually behave for a while, I can show you some of her favorite pieces around the castle. Then maybe you’ll understand.” Intrigued, you debate how exactly to respond. On one hand, you did want to see the art, but on the other hand… misbehaving was your goal of the day.

“Sounds like a nice date to me. Why not start the tour right now?” You suggest, hoping to meet your ‘politeness quota’ earlier rather than later. Still, it is in your very nature to be chaotic, and you find yourself giving Cassandra an affectionate shoulder touch. It’s not at all genuine, but the two of you blush nonetheless. How could you not, when your blood was bound together, hearts made to race in sync?

“Don’t get friendly with me,” Cassandra stammers, unadjusted to the way her pulse pounded. “This isn’t a date. We’re just- it doesn’t matter, actually. As long as it means getting you out of my studio, I don’t care.” With that said, she takes your hand in her own, pulling you towards the exit. If she has any feelings about the soft touch, she hides them well… unlike yourself. Cheeks flushed, you’re half tempted to yank yourself out of her grip, hating the way your heart skips a few beats. Would I still feel this way if I didn’t know we were soulmates? You wonder, biting your lower lip to prevent any unwanted comments from slipping out. Soon enough you’d have art aplenty to distract yourself with. Hopefully.

---------------------------

“My God, you were not kidding. I don’t- I can’t even think of anything clever to say,” you chime, staring dumbfounded at the several statuettes of naked women. They seemed to fulfill some other purpose, one you couldn’t parse at the moment, but you could hardly think about the details right now. “I mean, good for your mother, for sticking to a theme, I suppose,” you continue, tripping over your own tongue, uncharacteristically quiet. Clearly amused by your flustered display, Cassandra lets out a hearty laugh.

“Good to know some things can shut you up. I’ll have to keep this in mind for next time you bother me,” she teases, light-heartedly. Her words only fluster you more, though they quickly give you room to counter, much to your joy.

“Is that so? Planning on carrying around a busty bust for the rest of your life, or thinking of going the more au naturel route?” You asked, briefly sticking your tongue out at Cassandra. It takes her a moment to understand what you’re getting at, but as soon as she does she’s smacking your arm with an offended huff. Despite her irritation, the blow is relatively soft, and you swear you can see her fighting to hide a smile. “Starting to go soft on me, are you? I hardly even felt that one.”

“So you’d prefer I hit you harder? And to think you called me kinky,” Cassandra fires back, without a hint of hesitation. Now both of you are laughing, softly, like old friends sharing fond memories. It’s… weirdly nice. A warmth fills your chest, even as you try to remind yourself that you shouldn’t be happy right now. Damn it, you think, suddenly frowning, hands clenching. We shouldn’t be having fun banter, back and forth like a real couple. Not when I’ve still got wounds from her hands on my skin. Instinctively you reach up to your face, thumb running over the marks Cassandra’s nails had left behind. The touch stings, bad, no matter how gentle you try to be. Noticing your shift in expression, your soulmate inches closer. “If your wounds are bothering you, I can have one of the servants get more ointment or whatever it is we have around. I don’t want you to-... There’s no reason for you to suffer more than you need to, besides, I don’t want you complaining all day.” Of course she couldn’t bring herself to imply that she cared. Of course. It wasn’t like the two of you were actually capable of being soft for each other, obviously. All of your confusion melts down, boiled by the warmth in your chest, turning to a familiar, albeit painful, rage.

“Right, right! Because you care so fucking much, yeah? What the fuck am I doing? Why am I-” you jab a finger towards her chest, accusatory- “talking to you? Why am I pretending you're not the one who did this to me? You’re the fucking reason my face hurts, my shoulder hurts, my brain-... I can’t stop thinking about everything that happened down there. I can’t get those goddamn images out of my head, every time I close my eyes, every time I look at you. I…” You trail off, chest heaving a little, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Cassandra’s standing tall, unflinching, but there’s a noticeable regret in her expression.

“What. Are. You… going to do about it?” She asks, through clenched teeth, fighting back the full force of her emotions. You can’t tell what exactly she’s feeling, but you know that you want her to show you. Every part of you is itching for a fist fight, regardless of how stupid you know the idea is.

“Depends, dickwad, on whether or not these statuettes are properly secured,” you snap, already moving, fully abandoning all impulse control. By the time your hand grips the first sculpture, Cassandra has put you in a headlock, forcefully tugging you backwards. Panic sets in, making you try to jam your elbows into her stomach. Before long both of you are tumbling to the floor, bodies already aching, limbs flailing wildly in an attempt to hit a target, any target. In the end the air is knocked from your lungs as your head smacks against the ground. “Shit, shit, shit,” you grumble, coughing, finally processing just how much of a dumbass you were. It’s clear that at least one of the previous day’s wounds has reopened, and you feel something wet and sticky on your shirt.

“Finished, asshole?” Cassandra wheezes, sounding dazed, roughly pulling you up by your shirt collar. You nod, refusing to meet her gaze. Then she’s sighing in relief, letting you lean on her for support, holding you surprisingly close, considering the circumstances. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Again…”

[losolvidad0s]

Culebra, A. Reyes

Summary: When you learn of EZ’s DEA deal, your relationship with Angel is put on the line. 

warnings: swearing, a n g s t 😩 

word count: 1.7K

a/n: hi everyone! I am slowing jumping back into the writing groove so here is an angsty Angel Reyes fic that made my heart crack right down the middle, wahhh. Love my emo baby Angel. Enjoy! Thank you for +350 followers!

taglist: @cind-in-real-life  @kchavez666  @dearsamcrobae  @courtrae89 @cocotheclown  @brattyfics  @gemini0410  @angelreyesgirl  @jasmine10128  @briana-mishell24   @starrynite7114 @est1887  @joannasteez​  @amorestevens​  @bidenbussy​  @empireroyals​ (please let me know if you would like to be added or removed!)

(gif belongs to @haydenpanettieres ✨)

“Please, EZ, tell me this is some kind of sick joke.”

EZ looks at you with soft eyes, a defeated expression painted over his face as he remains stoic. If there was a chance this was a prank then you’d just wait til the boyish grin forms on his lips but that never comes. He brings his hands to hold the front of his kutte, a defense mechanism of his. 

A heaviness settles in your chest and the pit of your stomach as his words begin to replay in your mind. He tries to give you an apologetic look as you process everything. After a few moments, the worry turns into frustration then quickly to anger.

“I made a deal with the Drug Enforcement Administration that got my sentence reduced to half by becoming a part of the Mayans MC to get Intel on the Galindo Cartel.”

Your hands push against EZ’s chest, which he wasn’t expecting, causing him to stumble back. The shoves keep coming the angrier you get. “Y/N, stop.” He tries to get ahold on your wrist to stop you but the adrenaline fuels you to be quicker than him for a brief moment.

Eventually, he is able to grasp and hold your wrist steady between the two of you and as you try to break free, you cry out. “How could you? How could you do that to him? Why, EZ?!” The break in your voice when you scream his name makes him let go and step back. Your face now wet with tears, voice well on its way to becoming hoarse. 

“I had to, it was the only way. If I didn’t then..”

You scoff, “Then what? You’d have to finish your sentence? You choose to hurt your brother rather than finishing YOUR sentence that you got YOURSELF into? How selfish of you. You disgust me!” Your shoulder harshly collides with his as you walk off.

When EZ had asked to grab dinner, you didn’t expect it to end this way. After getting a bite to eat at a favorite food truck, he took a different route back to Angel’s apartment, saying he needed a friend. You thought it could be him needing to talk about how things have been hectic in the MC. Being a prospect and all.

“Y/N.” He calls out to you as you walk away from him in the darkness, you don’t go very far though. You feel defeated knowing all of this is only going to end one way, Angel’s heart being broken. You slowly turn back, “He’s gonna hate me.” Your voice barely above a whisper.  

This relationship with Angel has been a rocky one. It’s been on and off for the past year but when EZ was released from prison and began prospecting for the MC it somehow helped Angel to establish a foundation with you, opening his eyes in some way. He saw how loyal you were to him and that you were the only constant. But with this, that could jeopardize it all.

EZ watches you as a million thoughts run through your mind. He can see that you’ve been holding your breath for sometime now, “You can’t tell him.” You couldn’t believe you were saying it. Whose side are you on anyways? Would this be considered fraternizing with the enemy by asking him to keep quiet? 

His brows crease as he steps forward, “Whaddaya mean, Y/N? I have to, eventually. The DEA, they need intel and I don’t know how much longer I can keep this under the radar without risking someone getting caught under the bus. Me or them.”

“EZ, this will break him beyond repair. I can’t lose him to this. I worked very hard to get him to want me the way he does now. And the second he realizes I knew, I’m dirt to him. I can’t have that. So no, don’t tell him. You can figure out a way to keep this under water while still holding up your end of the bargain.” You plead to him, having moved closer. He searches your eyes and gently nods. A small smile appears on your lips as a rugged breath breaks through. EZ wraps his arms around you as you cry.

For a while, you thought this could all work out. It was going so well that you almost forgot about all of it. Then came the night where Angel mentioned something unexpected came up with the MC and that he’d be off the radar til the next day. It didn’t come off as worrisome with you as you’ve gotten used to these kinds of things. But then came the following morning. 

You were making your way to Angel’s apartment, surprising him with breakfast. As you go to knock the door opens and a visibly angry Angel is standing there, a pile of your clothes bundled in his arms. “Angel?”

“Ah. perfect timing, here.” He drops it at your feet with force and disappears into the apartment. You stand through shocked for a moment before stumbling over the clothes to follow him. You call out his name as you set down the bag and two coffees.  

He appears once again, more clothes and your bathroom bag. He flies it towards you, you trying to catch it but failing to. You have no idea what’s going on. But he mumbles something under his breath. Culebra. As if the air in the room suddenly begins to run out, barely any left to breath it hits you all at once. Angel continues to drop things at your feet.

“Angel…” You begin but he stops in front of you, his towering figure making you peer up at him. He starts to move towards you, an instinct of yours to keep out of harm's way and in this instant harm seems to be Angel. “Baby, talk to me.”

He bites his bottom lip, letting out a low chuckle, “I got nothing to say to you. In fact, it’s almost like when you had nothing to say to me. Boy scout and pops, I could see that coming. But you? Keeping a secret like that from me. For 2 fucking weeks?”

The venom is dripping off his tongue with hurt gleaming in his eyes.

You attempt to reach out and touch him, you being a physical lover rather than a verbal kind, but he pushes it away, “I trusted you, I opened my life to you despite being sketched out to do but I fucking did but you! You’re the one who can’t even be honest with me. It was always ‘It’s Angel’s fault, you dig yourself in these holes, Angel. Be real with me, Angel.’ But look, my own fucking girlfriend.”

The heat is literally radiating off him. But what excuse do you have? You shared his frustrations when EZ first told you but you became selfish and decided to keep quiet about it. You wanted the good times to keep rolling and because of the selfishness, it’s all crashing. 

Angel steps away from you, “I wanted to tell you. I did!”

“But you fucking didn’t. You choose him over me, you did that knowing it meant Ezekiel over Angel! No hesitation.’ He screams at you, pointing his fingers.

A sob falls from your lips as you see him breaking like a tide taking away a sandcastle. It hurts more than you imagined it would. The outcome of telling him would’ve been immensely better than this one. Why did you think it could all go away and never come to light?

“That’s not true! Of course I thought about it.. I was upset that he would do something like that to you, I truly was but,” You nearly stutter trying to get your words out. 

There were many occasions that you’ve seen Angel mad. Countless arguments, disagreements, petty acts but never like this. “But what? Hm? What, Y/N?!” He strides back over to you, getting in your face as you flinch back on instinct. 

You’re quiet, averting your eyes from him. “But then I’d lose you. That’s what I was scared of.”

Angel tilts his head, “That doesn’t even make any sense, Y/N. You think I would be angry at you because of what my brother did? I’m pissed because you knew and decided not to tell me. You walked around acting like you didn’t know. I have every right to be mad! And besides that, how fucking selfish of you, thinking of you and not how it would hurt me.”

“I was scared because your brother betrayed you, because by EZ doing this it would remind you of the hurt you felt growing up. It would make you feel like you used to… which means you would lose yourself, I would lose you right in front me. And I want all of you, good and bad, but w-we had just gotten to a good place. We weren't arguing as much a-and I had been slowly leaving more and more things here.” You look down at the articles of clothes scattered at your feet. 

Angel inhales a deep breath and lets it out forcibly. He looks to you then scratches his eyebrow, not knowing how to carry on the conversation. As your emotional distress begins to be felt physically, Angel takes your hand and holds it against his cheek.

This is something you both began to do when neither of you could speak. When the words wouldn’t form, couldn’t explain how you felt, the touch of  hand could do it. As he holds it against his cheek, you cry more. This meant that Angel understood.

As he brings your hand back down, you leap up to wrap your arms around his neck. He does the same around your waist, breathing in your scent. He closes his eyes as he sinks into you.

You won’t ever know what this moment meant for Angel. Despite feeling completely wrecked to learn what EZ had done, along with you keeping it in the dark, Angel feels wanted for the first time in a long time. Though true you wanted to protect yourself, you wanted to protect him more. To him, that’s enough to look past the wrong you did. He knows in this moment, you are truly the one for him.

[tobesobri]

Bust | Part One: Chisel (7.8k)

“Disappointed?” She tilted her head, smirking at him. She had no right to think he liked her better than Rose. She, herself, liked Rose better too. So she was sure he had to be at least a little bit sad to see Rose missing.

He smiled and the second she saw those dimples she was reminded of his Instagram all over again.

“A little,” he nodded, pinching his thumb and index finger together in the air and she painfully agreed.

“Well, you get me all by myself tonight.” She didn’t realize how it sounded until it was too late. Until she was cringing at all the sexual insinuations she’d just made for absolutely no reason. She could have said something else that wasn’t laced in an innuendo. But no, of course not. She had to continue her embarrassing streak when it came to Harry.

Instead of being creeped out by her, however, and pulling a confused and slightly terrified face, he laughed. And, on God, his laugh was the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. This wasn’t the first time the sound of his laughter graced her eardrums, but it was the first time he was laughing because of something she said that wasn’t about crooked penises.

“Lucky me.”

In which Y/N is an annoyance in Harry’s sculpting class.

story masterlist | my masterlist

It’s not her forte. Her hands don’t know how to hold onto things. They tremble under pressure. They mess things up no matter how hard she tries.

Not that she had really tried very hard to begin with.

Sculpting was just not something she saw herself doing. Ever. Not with her lack of agility and poor attention to detail. But to appease her whining best friend… she’d do just about anything.

The class was held in a little art studio with large windows for ventilation and tall ceilings to display the mass amounts of student artwork on butcher block shelves. She never thought she’d be back in a classroom type setting after graduating college, but here she was.

Learning, what she proclaimed as, a useless skill.

The studio was smack dab in the middle of an inclined street. Little quaint buildings that sat on an angle because why not pour foundations on a hill and make her weekly walks to the studio a little sweatier than she would have preferred. Even if it was winter in their little beach village town. Sweat still happened. It just happened underneath a scarf and a hand-knitted beanie from the sewing shop next door.

She could not deny, however, that the late afternoon classes every Wednesday and Saturday brought her way more joy than she’d anticipated. She looked forward to meeting up with Rose at the bottom-of-the-hill cafe, sharing the daily special with her before making their way up to the studio. It was calm in the middle and end of her hectic weeks that she most definitely needed.

What she didn’t need, however, what she most certainly did not look forward to, what she could have done without, what took her joy and smashed it against a wall was him.

The instructor.

Harry ‘I have nice hands and a misleading smile’ Styles.

It had only been two weeks into their classes and he had already told her one of her bowls was garbage. That the way she sculpted a face was terrifying. That she couldn’t draw for shit and that made her attempts at sculpting even worse.

So by Saturday of their second week, she didn't care anymore. He was a jerk and she would be the best pain in his ass she knew how to be.

While everyone called him Harry, like he’d asked them to the very first day, she called him Mr. Styles. Just to see the way his eyes rolled back into his head and his nostrils flared. While everyone asked him insightful questions, like what glaze was best to use or what tool sculpted eyes most efficiently, she asked him if she could use the bathroom.

She got a fucking kick out of irritating him. Knowing he went home after their classes just as irritated as she’d been. With clenched fists and a pounding headache.

It helped that he was insanely too attractive to be teaching a bunch of millennials about sculpting in his free time.

“You should really leave him alone, he might kick us out, you know,” Rose said on their first third week walk up Justice Hill. There was no justice in walking uphill, and most fucking certainly not in the humidity-ridden beachside town. She found the street name personally offensive.

“Oh fuck him. If he kicks us out, he’ll have to refund us.” Y/N did not, even for a second, bother to lower her voice as they neared the studio, knowing any one of the other students could hear her if they were to walk by.

“Refund us what? We got the class for free, remember?”

Y/N racked her brain like she’d completely forgotten that little detail before shrugging it off. “Whatever. He won’t kick us out.”

“How do you know for sure?”

Before she could make some stupid remark about how Harry secretly liked her pestering him or about how much he seemed much too impressed by Rose’s progress to ever get rid of them, the devil himself turned the corner in front of them.

He came out from an alleyway that connected the street to a tiny parking lot. And while they were going uphill, he was coming down. He was hard to miss and so were they, but still he attempted to not see them.

“What a prick,” Y/N mumbled under her breath as they got closer to each other. And almost as if he could read her lips, he rolled his eyes so fucking hard she thought maybe they’d finally pop right out of his head this time.

“Shush,” Rose warned as the three of them finally met in the middle, at the door to the studio that was decorated with a bright yellow ‘Open’ sign, children’s drawings, hand-painted hours of operation, and one too many polaroids of past students and their sculpting creations.

They all stood and stared at each other for a moment before he opened the door first, holding it as, to Y/N’s surprise, he let them go in first. And while she was still in shock at the gesture, his body language said it all. Like he was forcing himself to be nice to the dynamic duo, to the bane of his existence. While she was too distracted by Harry and his clay-stained trousers and cable-knit sweater with a cartoon deer embroidered on it, Rose walked into the studio first. Giving Harry a polite smile that he returned almost… genuinely.

And right when Y/N made a move to follow, Harry stepped in front of her. She jolted back as he just about let the door slam her in the face.

Today was going to be fantastic.

*                                              *                                 *

“Right, so,” Harry began, clapping his dry hands together as he took a seat behind his messy table at the front of the studio. “I know some of you haven’t finished your heads yet, but our focus today will still be on the bodies. We’ll have a catch up on Saturday to make up for it.”

Y/N sought out her head on the wall where she’d placed it last week beside Rose’s, realizing for the first time just how ugly it really was. And to think she’d been trying to sculpt Harry’s annoying face. Even more annoying that no matter what she did, he was always a lot more handsome than her hunk of polymer clay.

“... because, like I mentioned, we have special guests today who will be modeling for you.” Harry stood again while two very thin and very conventionally perfect people came out in white robes. Y/N couldn’t help but gag.

“This is Hope and Jordan.” Harry motioned as he introduced them, not getting any further in his instructions before Y/N raised her hand in the back of the class.

Rose attempted to get her to put it down, too, because Harry was clearly in the middle of something, but it didn’t really work out so well. Y/N was a stubborn son of a bitch.

“Yeah?” He pointed at her, sighing while planting his hands on his hips. He knew nothing she had to ask was going to be at all beneficial to the group.

She cleared her throat and just from the smirk on her face, he braced for impact. “Are they going to be modeling nude?”

She made just about everyone blush, except for Harry. He hated how she never took anything seriously. That the art he’d spent years perfecting enough to teach meant nothing to her. It was all just a primary school joke in her eyes.

“Yes, actually,” he answered bluntly and then returned to what he was going to say before Y/N’s interruption. “So I want everyone to get a piece of paper and while they’re modeling, do a rough sketch of what you might want the body of your sculpture to look like. The importance is to get the proportions down so that when you use the clay, you’ll know how much you’ll need for each part. Just like we did for the heads.”

Harry walked around the class once the models were stripped and the sketching began. Rose started immediately, concentration on her face as she flipped between the female model and her piece of sketchbook paper.

All Y/N had was a scratch piece of grey-toned mixed media paper she’d found laying on their table. And absolutely no clue where to even begin.

She stared at Harry instead of the naked models, watching as he helped others around the room, pointing at their sketches and where they could improve. His other hand behind his back that gave her perfect access to stare at his rings. Remembering how he’d taken them off guide their first few sculpting lessons. Remembering how his hands had so gently but so fucking firmly caressed the mound of clay into the exact shapes he wanted like he knew exactly what to do with those things.

“See it’s going just as I expected back here.” When his voice was at her ear, she jumped out of her skin and out of her daydreams. Twisting her head around to him as he stood behind her, she found him staring over her shoulder at her blank piece of paper.

She narrowed her eyes at him once she’d fully processed what he said. “Sorry I’m trying to figure out the best way to scale up that dude’s micro-cock, proportionally, if you don’t mind.”

He just about choked on his own spit, and rightfully so. But when he glanced to her eyes instead of her disappointing blank canvas, with his eyebrows furrowed and his cute little nostrils flared just the way she liked them, it was clear his reaction wasn’t for the reasons she’d intended.

He was quiet. Lips pursed, mind completely empty apart from hearing her say cock over and over again. Echoing against his skull. Making a home for itself in his hippocampus for later purposes. When he was not in a class full of students with their eyes on him, watching him get hard at the fucking way she said cock.

“Leave you to it then,” he cleared his throat and continued on.

“He may not kick us out, but killing you is still an option,” Rose whispered once Harry was a safe distance away from them.

Y/N leaned back in her seat to watch him walk down the rest of their row. His hands behind his back again, eyes wandering over shoulders.

As long as he had those rings on while he choked her out, she was okay with that.

*                                              *                                 *

Everyone had moved on to their bodies. Gathering the clay they needed from the front and using their sketches as guidelines to build around the pre-made wire and aluminum foil armature. Most everyone had some sort of a form being attached to the heads of their sculptures by the time Y/N even got started.

Because she decided on using Harry as reference after all and he would just not stand still.

With the models gone, they were on their own, with help from Harry of course. He played several videos and gave various demonstrations to aide them. It wasn’t supposed to be perfect, but after she gave it her all for about ten minutes, she was ready to give up. Her body looked like a very lumpy, very deformed version of Shrek.

She took a break again, watching Rose sculpt for a while instead. She watched Harry sometimes too as he walked around the class again in gloves this time. Smoothing out features and picking up tools to aid in the process of forming collarbones and wrinkles.

The studio was in its typical state of disarray. Random cups of milky water on every table, pieces of clay smushed into the tile floor, tools and used gloves strewn about with no rhyme or reason. Harry thrived in that kind of environment while Y/N well… she hated it.

She wanted organization and cleanliness. Her nine-to-five called for that kind of thing. But she was slowly getting used to it. To letting go and embracing the mess while she was here. She wasn’t the one that had to clean it all up anyways.

The only time she wasn’t daydreaming was when Harry started up their aisle again, walking in front of their table this time however. He helped a couple others at the end of their row, watched some of them work before eventually landing right in front of Rose’s station.

He cocked his head to the side while he watched her struggle to form an even pair of breasts on her headless lady. And even though Y/N was trying her best to look busy, she just couldn’t help it.

Rose handed her work in progress over to him with a frustrated huff after he offered his assistance. And like… no way was Y/N missing out on Mr. Harry fucking Styles fingering some clay into the perfect set of boobs. No way.

Especially fucking not when he removed his gloves and used those fingers in their bare glory the way she wished he’d use them someplace else. She watched while he slapped some more clay on Rose’s poor flat-chested model and proceeded to smooth it out with his expert fingertips. She watched the clay melt under his touch, watching him dip into their shared cup of water to aid the process. She looked away long enough to admire the concentration on his face, the way he bit down on his lip and furrowed his brows the way she was used to. She watched again while he fixed all of Rose’s mistakes just by gliding his thumbs over the two perfect little lumps on her sculpture that sure as hell hadn’t started out so perfectly.

She had no idea why Harry sculpting a tiny set of breasts on what would eventually become a mermaid got her so hot and bothered but… it did. It did so fucking much, she was almost salivating like a dog by the end of it, thinking about what his hands could do with the real deal. But then he handed it back to Rose with a content smile on his face and burst Y/N’s little bubble.

“Might be better,” he said softly and Rose nodded in agreement. She hadn't noticed before, but when he stood to his full height it was clear he’d been leaning over on their table. Closer to the both of them than he’d ever really been before. And she knew he was tall, taller than Rose, who was five foot seven inches herself. And not just that but his shoulders were broad and his arms were a humble amount of muscular. Almost like he was a sculptor that kneaded clay a hundred hours a week. Maybe that was why she was a soaking wet mess.

He stretched his gloves back onto his hands and glanced Y/N’s direction. Eyes going straight from her disaster of an art piece to her flushed face and back.

“Don’t even know where to start to fix yours up,” he commented while moving slightly to his right until he stood directly in front of Y/N this time.

She looked at her abomination, wondering if it would be her worst idea to push more of his buttons or not. But, she went for it anyways. Her lack of impulse control would definitely come back to bite her in the ass one day.

“It’s the penis. Still haven’t gotten that down yet.”

He nodded, amused rather than his previous reaction to her antics. “Can see that, yeah. He’s got a bit of a crooked willy there.” Harry poked at it with his index finger and she became hyper aware of his closeness this time while he leaned over her tabletop again. Because his hands were right there, almost touching her own. And they were big, bigger than she realized. She could see him perfectly through the transparent gloves, his long fingers with clipped nails at the end that were well taken care of, considering.

She would need to soak herself in holy water for a while after this.

“Oh, is that not what the male anatomy looks like?” She teased, not fully realizing they were getting along for the first time and it was because of dicks. Because she’d put an oddly shaped protrusion on her figure before she’d even done much else with the blob of clay stuck to her form.

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head at her and standing up straight again. “Maybe if you paid attention when the models were out here, you’d know that.”

“Maybe if you hired someone who’s cock I could actually see from all the way back here without a fucking magnifying glass.” She was only slightly aware of how fully immersed she was in the debate over this penis.

But all he heard was cock again. She really needed to stop saying that. Because this time his mind was a little more imaginative while he stared at her lips and thought about the way she might say that on her knees in front of him.

He shook his head clear. She was an insufferable nuisance that he just barely tolerated on a good day. He didn't need her clogging up his brain with her cock talk too.

“Just fix it.” He mumbled.

She huffed when he left her to her own devices, not even bothering to offer his help, but she really shouldn’t expect any less. If he helped her, he would be doing it all for her. And that was hardly the point of taking a class to learn how to sculpt if the hot instructor was just going to do everything for you.

“Is there a reason why you’re arguing with him about penises?” Rose asked, hushing her voice around the apparently taboo word.

“It’s fun. And if I’m going to sit here in this stupid class with you I’m going to have some fun.” Y/N, on the other hand, was not hushed or subtle at all, as she ripped off the phallic piece of clay from her sculpture.

Rose cringed when she glanced past Y/N to find Harry looking right at her. He had been helping someone a few seats down and clearly not far enough away to have missed what Y/N said. All of his features drooped and he looked genuinely upset. Rose wished she could put a filter over Y/N’s mouth to save everyone from her insensitive outbursts. Especially Harry. He always tried so hard and for Y/N to brush everything off and boil it all down to a ‘stupid class’ even broke Rose’s heart a little. So she could only imagine how Harry felt.

After their typical hour and a half was up, once everyone at least had some semblance of a body minus the legs and arms, Harry called the class back to order.

“Alright, that’s time. You can put your armatures back on the shelves, carefully. As always, I’ll be around for a little while after. Have a great rest of your night, I’ll see you all on Saturday.” He finished his spiel, turning away to help clean up before a lightbulb went off in his head and his voice rang through the studio again, “Oh, and make sure you bring your sketches back with you!”

Everyone worked on cleaning up, including Harry. And while Y/N took both her and Rose’s sculptures over to their respective spots on the shelves, Rose walked up to the front of the class without any warning whatsoever.

She tapped Harry’s shoulder and watched while his smile faded just the tiniest bit after he turned to find her. That Rose’s poor face had to be associated with the thunderstorm that was Y/N.

“I just wanted to say sorry… about Y/N.” Both Rose and Harry glanced at the girl in question near the back of the studio, playing with their two sculpted bodies like they were barbie dolls. “I forced her to do this with me so she hasn’t really taken it seriously. But I’m really enjoying the class, you’re a fantastic instructor.”

His smile returned again and if he was being honest with himself, it really did make him feel better to hear her say that. He had some sort of a reasoning for Y/N’s horrible attitude and while he wished it was her apologizing and not Rose, he figured it was good enough.

“Thank you. You’re doing really well so far. I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah?”

She nodded, giving him one last polite smile before trotting back to Y/N and helping her clean up the last bits around their workstation.

“Please do not tell me you were flirting with him.” Y/N gagged, using a ball of clay to gather the little pieces spread across their table like a magnet.

“No, actually, I was apologizing to him for your behavior.”

Y/N snapped her head up, first at Rose and then Harry all the way across the room from them. “You what?”

“He’s just trying to teach and you’ve been a fucking knobhead.”

Y/N gasped in fake offense, which was actually slightly real offense. “Excuse me, he made fun of my bowl the first day, you seem to have forgotten about that.”

“A toddler could have made a better bowl than that, Y/N, and you know it.”

She frowned, grumpily averting her eyes to the table with her arms crossed over her chest like she really was a toddler.

“I’m just saying,” Rose started, a bit calmer this time, “stop pestering him.”

*                                              *                                 *

Y/N thought about everything Rose had said. About how much she wished she could take things seriously and not constantly get on people’s nerves all the time, but she simply did not know how to. Taking the piss out of things and making jokes was how she got through her days.

But she did agree. Harry didn’t deserve her behavior. Maybe he was a bit of a jerk to her to begin with, but insulting his class might’ve been crossing a line.

Because she didn’t actually think it was stupid. She quite enjoyed listening to him. She liked learning something new and following his instructions as he walked them through some of his techniques. She liked being connected to all the people in the little studio, even if only briefly. Complete strangers all shared that one little thing in common and it made her all fuzzy and warm inside each time she met up with Rose at the end of every Wednesday and Saturday.

Hiding behind a bit of humor, however, was a lot more comfortable than admitting she found pleasure in anything as corny as sculpting classes.

On Friday night, boredom got the best of her and she took a chance upon searching Harry’s name on Instagram while she took her weekly bath. It had been Rose’s idea, the bath, not stalking her attractive sculpting instructor online. That decision was completely her own. But the baths at the end of stressful weeks had a little influence from her best friend, as did most aspects of her life. Baths were a waste of time, in her opinion, and she preferred the efficiency of showering. But Rose had given her nice smelling soaps and weird fizzy things for bath time and well… she couldn’t let them go to waste.

So, amid her regularly scheduled, once-a-week bath, she scrolled shamelessly through Harry’s feed. Because he did, in fact, have an instagram. And she only knew it was him because every fourth post was a video and in said videos were his hands. And, fuck, they were just as nice on film as they were in person.

He didn’t post much of his face, which she thought was an actual crime, but there was a lot about him and his sculpting. She found out it had been his sister’s birthday recently, who, when she smiled, looked just like him. He’d also just finished a piece he seemed really proud of, a clay head and bust of a pit bull, to which he linked in the caption about a local shelter who rescued the breed specifically and needed donations. Her heart nearly fucking melted.

Harry wasn’t much of an open book, though, unless he let his art do most of the talking. He seemed to enjoy sculpting women the most, which is probably why he’d been so good at de-lumping the breasts on Rose’s mermaid. But all the female sculptures he made weren’t sexual at all. They had meaning behind them. Like every single clay face she clicked on throughout his photos had a story. Like he was uplifting rather than fetishizing.

And not every single one of them was skinny and had perfect features. She was shocked to see at least half of the creations she’d skimmed through were of larger women with imperfect breasts at times and asymmetrical faces. Not sticking to typical European beauty standards as she may have originally assumed he might.

It made glancing down at her very much imperfect body feel a little less like an attack. Because Harry spent his time putting all his love into his little sculptures with diverse body types that she almost felt ashamed for ever hating hers.

Once she was done clicking on just about every single post he’d ever made, she finally found a selfie. Well… not really a selfie. Someone else had clearly taken it of him candidly while he had been working. But there was an awfully cute smile on his face and very familiar dimples poking into his cheeks that make her heart warm up again.

He wasn’t a damn thing like she’d assumed he was from the beginning. She thought his art centered around the ideal, and that maybe he was a little condescending because of it. But his Instagram told a different story about his art. And she wanted to know so much more about him.

She was completely lost in her dreams about him that just the smidge of distraction led to accidentally liking a photo of his from two years prior.

She’d have to move countries. Change her name. Delete everything. Never look back. Y/N? A distant memory.

Before dropping her phone in the tub and really making a complete ass out of herself, she threw it, instead, onto her furry rug in the middle of the bathroom and sunk herself down into the water. Wondering if it would really be so bad if she just drowned a little bit.

Because she desperately wanted to. There was nothing she could do. Not even unliking the picture would help. He’d still see the notification. Still click onto her page and realize who in the fuck had just liked a two-year-old post of his that he, himself, had probably even forgotten about.

She wanted nothing more than to sink her head under the pink-tinted water and never come back up. Her mind would not stop with the visualizations of what his reaction might be. Things he might be thinking. Like is this that fucking bitch from my sculpting class? Or whether or not she might find herself blocked by morning.

God, just make it stop.

But suddenly her phone buzzed and her heart just about stopped beating. It had to be the notification that Harry blocked her. Was that even a thing? Did Instagram notify you if someone blocked you? And why was her phone on silent? Because her Instagram notifications and her text messages made very different sounds. If it was just a text, she’d consider ignoring it. She’d continue marinating in all her shame a little while longer. But it ate her alive not knowing what the buzzing was from.

So, carefully, she pulled herself upright and reached across the floor until she had her phone in her hand. Before she clicked the screen on, though, she closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath.

But when she opened her eyes and found out why her phone had buzzed, she let that breath out and settled her ass down again. It was Rose.

Hey, I can’t make it tomorrow for class. Felt like absolute shit at work today and had to go home because as it turns out I have the flu.

“Fuck,” Y/N mumbled to herself. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go alone because facing Harry after she just did what she did was one thing, but doing it all by herself was another. But a part of her did still want to go tomorrow. The part before her horrific accident when she was full on getting a love boner over Harry. She’d wanted to see him again so fucking bad.

Okay. I probably won’t go too then

Y/N physically frowned at the idea of waiting another five days to see Harry again. Her brain really needed to make its fucking mind up about him. Did she want to see him or not?

No! You have to go and tell me what I missed!

Y/N rolled her eyes, but felt relieved. Even after her embarrassing slip up, her desire to see Harry again still prevailed. And she hated it. How was she even supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow, both of them knowing damn well she’d been stalking his Instagram back to two fucking years ago?

*                                              *                                 *

It was beyond weird sitting in their usual cafe on Justice Hill alone, even without the whole Instagram fiasco of the previous night she was trying everything in her power to forget about.

However all the desperate attempts to bury that awful experience were fruitless when she glanced across the room over her latte and found a very familiar set of grumpy-looking eyes already staring at her. But once she did notice him, he immediately looked away, stepping up to the counter to order his own cup of coffee.

She nearly choked on her drink, having to set it down and wipe what had spilled onto her chin off with a napkin she’d already used to sop up another one of her messes.

Of the three weeks now they’d been going to classes and frequenting the cafe just before, she’d never seen Harry. It was like he didn’t have a life outside being an instructor. He just popped up in the studio and she always left before him so she had no idea what he did after class either.

But seeing him here was like seeing a fucking unicorn in real life.

She couldn’t help watching him either, even if she knew she shouldn't. But, in her defense, he was wearing beautiful wine-colored corduroy pants with a tight white t-shirt tucked into them and a beige coat thrown over his arm to match. And for shoes he had on his usual white vans that had gained a few more scuff marks since the last time she’d seen him. His fashion would look terrible on anyone besides him.

He glanced her way again, briefly, when he left the counter with his cup, fighting his legs from walking in her direction but not exactly winning that battle.

And to her surprise, he stood right in front of her, behind the chair where Rose usually sat.

And when she looked up at him, he completely forgot why he had come over. He had no fucking clue what he was doing there. But it was too late now for him to back away and pretend like it never happened.

“Your friend's not coming?” His voice shook, but she didn’t notice with the way he finally took his fucking eyes off of her and gave her a chance to breathe again. He glanced at his watch just to confirm that it was, in fact, only five minutes until class started and it seemed reasonable to assume Rose wasn’t meeting her before then.

She pulled herself together and pretended like his close presence wasn’t intimidating her in the slightest.

“Disappointed?” She tilted her head, smirking at him. She had no right to think he liked her better than Rose. She, herself, liked Rose better too. So she was sure he had to be at least a little bit sad to see Rose missing.

He smiled and the second she saw those dimples she was reminded of his Instagram all over again.

“A little,” he nodded, pinching his thumb and index finger together in the air and she painfully agreed.

“Well, you get me all by myself tonight.” She didn’t realize how it sounded until it was too late. Until she was cringing at all the sexual insinuations she’d just made for absolutely no reason. She could have said something else that wasn’t laced in an innuendo. But no, of course not. She had to continue her embarrassing streak when it came to Harry.

Instead of being creeped out by her, however, and pulling a confused and slightly terrified face, he laughed. And, on God, his laugh was the most amazing thing she��d ever heard. This wasn’t the first time the sound of his laughter graced her eardrums, but it was the first time he was laughing because of something she said that wasn’t about crooked penises.

“Lucky me.”

He left her so fucking speechless, that after he started backing away from her table, reminding her to not be late, she still ended up being late. Because she sat in her chair for what felt like a century repeating his two words over and over again in her head.

Lucky me.

She knew he was only teasing but the way he’d just gone along with her original joke and how his voice sounded when he said it, she could not believe it. She could also not believe how Harry had some kind of massive hold on her that she sat staring at a wall for ten minutes trying to figure out how to operate properly again just to get up out of her chair.

Lucky fucking me.

She could scream.

If she wasn’t in public.

There was an extra pep in her step as she took Justice Hill alone this time, partially because of how giddy Harry had made her and partially because she was late… right after he told her not to be. But how was she supposed to be on time after what he’d just done to her emotions. And to the throbbing mess between her legs, but that's another story entirely.

Everyone was all over the place when she’d finally arrived, though, so it made slipping in the back that much easier. Not that she got past Harry’s watchful eyes, though, but at least she wasn’t interrupting anything while the class readied their workstations for another full night of going ham on their sculptures.

Harry kept his eyes on her mostly the entire time she did the same at her empty little area, watching as she tucked her purse under the desk for safekeeping and threw a couple tools he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her use onto the table. When she wandered off to the wall of shelves to retrieve her absolutely horrifying work of art, he finally gave her some privacy again. But he couldn’t help the fact that he’d been worried sick when she didn’t show up on time after he’d just seen her at the cafe, thinking something horrible could have happened to her between there and here.

So making sure she was unscathed before he, too, got his area organized was essential.

She sat in her chair and stared at what she had made the past three weeks. They’d started with something simple on the first day, taking a pre-cut slice of clay and free-handing a bowl with a few tips from Harry thrown in here and there. Then they jumped straight in after he showed them a few clips of sculptors working, pausing to explain specific things about creating a head and face. They were given everything they needed to make sculpting a complete figurine of a human body as easy as possible.

And still, she managed to create a combination of Shrek and the abominable snowman.

She huffed, wondering if she asked nicely enough Harry would let her just start all over. But before she could even think to do so, he clapped his hands together and got everyone’s attention for today’s mini-tutorial.

He explained smoothing to them and how there were many different ways of doing it so that your end results weren't littered in fingerprints. He reminded them to use water to smooth out the initial shapes of the clay they wanted and if they were having a really hard time with too much warmth from their fingers to use the gloves.

He ventured a little into detail work of the bust, showing a short clip of another artist forming collar bones with just two tools and her fingers. He explained what tools those were and why they were the most efficient for details and went on some more about other detail tools that were good for different things.

And the entire time she was far too lost in his voice and how his eyes lit up passionately when he rambled to even think about the fact that she wasn’t taking a single note for Rose’s sake.

They’d done a few lessons on details for the face, but they had yet to really get that far, only having put on tentative eyelids, lips and a nose for their heads before he really dove deep into details in what she assumed would be a full class later on.

And when he finally took a break to ask for any questions, she was, of course, the first to raise her hand. He thought about ignoring it, knowing all too well that anytime Y/N raised her hand in the back of his classroom, she was up to no good. But he was too nice to do that to anyone, even her.

So he called on her by nodding his head and she cleared her throat while he grimaced, expecting the worst.

“So, um, for example if we were going to do bigger details like abs on a male figure, what would be the best tool for that?”

He could have sworn he was having a heart attack. He had to blink a few times just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. She was actually asking him a legitimate question, and a good one at that. He had to repeat what she said in his head first, just to make sure it was real, before he answered, completely unprepared.

“Um… well after you lay out the clay where you want on the body, you can use one of the knives to blend the edges,” he held up an example of one for her, “and then a large ball or oval tool like this,” he held up another, “to smooth everything out. You’d probably want a more blunt pointed end to shape them, though, after you blend the clay in.”

She nodded like she’d been fully absorbing every single word coming out of his mouth and then he watched as she dug around quietly in the tool kit on her desk, in search of the types of tools he’d mentioned.

He could not fucking believe it though. She finally showed a stitch of interest in learning about sculpting. And he had no idea why she decided to right now. Maybe it was because she was without her partner in crime, but either way he was stunned. Absolutely fucking marveled.

After a few more questions and some demonstrations, he let everyone go and continue working on their projects while he circled the room as he normally did. And he found himself glancing at her from time to time, all by herself in the back with a genuine look of concentration on her face as she attempted making her creature a little less loch ness monster and a little more human.

Eventually, after he figured she was giving it enough effort for him to step in and help if she needed, he headed her way. And just as she sensed him walking down her aisle, while she was busy shaving off clay, a piece of it went flying into the air, completely out of control.

He stopped in his tracks after almost being smacked in the face with a chunk of clay and bent over to pick it up before someone squished it into the bottom of their shoes. He leaned over the edge of the table in front of her again, setting the piece of clay down next to her gently while she bit her lips between her teeth and tried to hide her embarrassed red cheeks behind her hands.

“Sorry!” She squealed at him, further digging herself into a hole.

He shook his head, “S’alright. Not the first time that’s happened.”

She laughed at the thought of him actually getting hit in the money maker with a hunk of clay and it eased her worries a little.

“So how are those abs going then?” He asked.

She stared at her sculpture for a moment before she sighed and turned it around to face him. It wasn’t as bad as it had been before, but it was still pretty rough.

“Mind if I…?” He held his hands out and she, without a single hesitation, handed it over to him.

He immediately grabbed the shaving tool she’d been using, and since it still sat next to her where she’d put it down moments ago, his fingers brushed against her hand when he picked it up. Sending every one of her nerves in the general area on a field day to mess with her nether regions again. It’s just… his fucking hands were an art form in and of themselves. His knuckles prominent, stretching soft skin around the bone. His veins protruding every time he made a more delicate move that required precision. Even the ones on his arms underneath the ink when he was a bit more rough with her sculpture sent her over the moon, while he shaved off bits and pieces with firm pressure to define the shape of the body and somehow create a human-like figure from her mess.

Then he started smoothing down the surface with a little water on his fingers and she went batshit. His hands while dry were one thing, but sparkling, wet, slippery fingertips? Lord have mercy.

She watched him spread a chunk of extra clay onto what would be the figure’s chest to build it up a little more with the knowledge of their previous conversations about dicks and abs making it clear she was attempting to make a male figure. She couldn’t help but watch his muscles flex underneath his tight white t-shirt. From far away across the cafe it had caught her attention. And now right here, she was definitely not letting it go unnoticed. It wasn’t too tight that he looked ridiculous, but just the right amount to show off every curve of his biceps and triceps and whatever other -ceps he had hiding underneath the shirt. He was normally in oversized tops so she was taking full advantage while she still had the chance to.

When he handed it back to her, it was like he’d done some kind of magic spell to get it to look so good after what she’d given him to work with. He leaned forward a little more and pointed at the figure’s chest and she was only halfway paying attention to him when he spoke, mostly focusing on how close he was and every single time he accidentally brushed his skin against hers.

“So if you want to make the abs,” he paused to glance over and dig through her pile of tools until he found the one he was looking for. “Use this to kind of sketch out the shape like we did with the faces,” he took the ball tool and rolled it down the middle of the chest, making a short indent to separate where the pectorals might be, “then you can add on the dimension like I was saying earlier.”

She took over the tool when he flipped it around and gave it to her so she could try for herself. And he watched for a short while as she did what he said to do, sketching out tentative abs, but not really knowing exactly what they looked like to come to any sort of realistic end. Her figure started to look like a shirtless Johnny Bravo.

He just giggled and pointed his stupid finger back into her personal space, smoothing down her mistakes until they disappeared, “Have you never seen a six-pack that wasn’t on a cartoon character?”

She racked her brain, trying to say something funny, but once she looked into his eyes, nothing came to mind. “Of course I have. I just don’t know how to make them look realistic.” She couldn’t exactly remember the last time she’d been faced with a naked man’s chest, but she had seen them before.

“Well…” Harry sighed, resting his head on his hand and staring at her sculpture sideways, “he doesn’t have to have abs.”

And then she said it. Something worse than her earlier set of words back at the cafe. She had no clue what was going on with her tonight, but she needed an ass-kicking for it.

“Do you have abs?”

“Me?” His eyes flickered up to hers in shock and it was far too late for her to backtrack, she was here and she had to face what she’d done. Even while he looked at her like she was fucking insane.

“Uh, well. I mean…” She had no fucking clue what she meant. And even if she did, she sure as shit wasn’t telling him.

Then it clicked in his brain. “You’re not using me as reference, are you?”

After a solid three seconds of just staring at him, she laughed. “No, of course not.”

“Hope so after you gave him that wonky penis.”

She sighed once they were through it. Once he’d proved, yet again, that he didn’t make her embarrassing statements feel as bad as they really were. He kind of just... went along with it.

But then she made it even worse.

“So yours isn’t wonky and crooked, then?”

Jesus, fuck Y/N just shut up.

His smile never faded, however, and instead, he leaned close again and whispered, “Maybe one day you’ll be lucky enough to find out.”

[potassium-pilot]

Prompt 24: Illustrious

“Is it done, Alphinaud?” Dia pestered excitedly.

“No, it is not.”

She waited for approximately five seconds before asking again, “How about now?”

“Do you really want me to rush through this?”

“You’re the Artist Alphinaud, I am your assistant; what else can I do if not make sure you finish?”

“Will you ever let go of that?”

“Never.”

Alphinaud sighed defeatedly and continued his drawing. He was commissioned to create a current portrait of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn to hang in the Solar. To their relief, he had everyone’s figures wrote to memory and therefore, did not require them to pose. That in mind, Dia couldn’t help but be a shadow to the boy, watching his artistry at work. The Warrior of Light was many things; an artist, she was not. It seemed the act of using a paintbrush did not come with the same ease as using a sewing needle, or a cooking utensil.

In the middle stood what he believed looked like himself holding a carbuncle while Alisaie stood on his right side at roughly the same height with her rapier held out in front of her. Dia towered behind him carrying Tataru on her shoulders (at her behest) with Thancred on her left with his arms crossed, Y’shtola on her right with a cane being wielded, Urianger on Thancred’s left with a book in hand, G’raha between Alphinaud and Alisaie with a big grin on his face, and Krile in front of Y’shtola to the left of Alphinaud leaning up against him.

“All right, I’m not done, but what do you think so far, Dia?” She scrambled from the Solar door to the desk to look it over with enthusiasm. “Ahh, I love it so far! Why’d you make yourself so short though?”

“What do you mean?”

“Alphinaud, you’re not that small. You almost made yourself into a lalafell compared to me.”

“It feels accurate to me…after all, ‘tis no secret I’m of a smaller stature in comparison to many of you.”

“Smaller stature, sure, but you’re not miniature. Give yourself more credit.” He shook his head before she inquired, “And where’s Estinien?”

“Oh…”

“What?”

“He…told me not to draw him…”

If her eyes could turn red in fury like Nidhogg, they would have in that very moment. “Give me but a moment, Alphinaud…” she told him quietly. She turned away from the smaller elezen and exited out the door in a seemingly calm manner, concealing her fury.

*********

Estinien, Thancred, and Urianger enjoyed a cup of coffee in the lobby.

“So you sort of just…wait for an assignment?” Estinien confirmed. The other two nodded. “Frankly, it’s been a bit more trouble to have the patience recently, particularly since our last assignment wasn’t exactly taken by choice”, Thancred stated.

“Indeed. Though we only aged some few moons in the Source, our souls hath lived on for years in the First, and kept us all plenty occupied, particularly when our friend finally arrived”, Urianger affirmed. Estinien made a hum. “What did you do while waiting before?”

“Oh”, Thancred began nervously, “Nothing too unusual. We just took our rest, did something leisurely, enjoyed ourselves whilst we waited.”

“Is that what thou calleth courting several maidens at once?”

Thancred scowled at Urianger while Estinien made a slight smile at the remark. Suddenly, Thancred and Urianger made horrified faces and scattered from their positions, abandoning Estinien to his fate: a furious Warrior of Light, wearing a look she wore when she killed gods.

“Do you want to explain your thought process here?” Dia confronted him.

“You’re under the assumption that I care to explain anything.”

“Look, I get you that you like to work alone; frankly, it’s understandable in a way. Twelve knows half the work I do needs to be done alone, lest anyone without the Echo be tempered, but I have news for you: you are not alone anymore!”

He growled, “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” She placed her face in her palm, then explained annoyedly, “The portrait, Estinien.”

“By the Fury, you’re angry with me about that?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

“It’s a bleeding portrait. What does it matter?”

“It matters, Estinien! It matters a lot to me, to Alphinaud, to quite a few of us.”

His face betrayed his befuddlement. Not having been a Scion for very long, her irritation seemed misplaced.

“That portrait’s not my place”, he attempted to explain, “And quite frankly, I don’t understand why you all so desperately want this portrait in the first place.”

“We want to commemorate our little family.”

“This isn’t my family. It never was.”

“Never?” she repeated incredulously.

He raised an eyebrow at her tone.

“Estinien, Alphinaud fought for you after your possession by Nidhogg. I fought for you. When everyone seemed intent on killing you, even yourself, we did everything we could to keep you alive. We even entreated Hraesvelgr to help us save you when Aymeric seemed content with just stopping Nidhogg at any cost. Then you go and follow us through Gyr Abania, to the point where you even pushed back an Ascian in the body of Zenos yae Galvus, and pulled my comatose body out of a battlefield and back to the front. And on top of that, you helped take out Black Rose facilities for us while the rest of us were off in another world. You mean to tell me that meant nothing?!”

Estinien blinked.

“Guess what, dragon boy? You were a Scion before you even offered your lance!”

He looked away to the floor, pondering her words, irritated by the nickname.

“Don’t call me ‘dragon boy’…” he snapped.

“That’s what you’re taking from this?”

He remained silent, still thinking through. What in hells had he done? What did he get himself into? He let out a frustrated breath and walked away. She watched him get away from her in disbelief, and followed him as he aimed for the Solar.

Estinien opened the door and called, “Alphinaud?”

The young elezen looked up and away from his efforts. “Yes, Estinien?” The dragoon hesitated, then begrudgingly ordered, “…put me in your damn portrait.”

Dia flashed a huge grin, and Alphinaud’s eyes lit up in excitement. “I’ll do just that! Thankfully, I was still sketching, so I can find a way to add you.”

“Hm…good, I guess.” He closed the door behind him and glared at Dia, still chipper from his agreement. “You’re a pain in my side, Dia Sito.”

“You have to be to do what I do. Thank you, Estinien. He’s a great artist; he’ll do you justice.” He shook his head and stomped off while Dia hurried back inside the Solar.

*********

A bell had passed since Estinien agreed to be in the portrait. Making sure he wasn’t followed, he quietly slipped into the Solar where Alphinaud continued his work unabated. He sat down in front of the young artist and bade him, “How goes the portrait?”

“Quite well, all things considered. I did have to remake the idea a bit, but overall, I’m quite pleased with how it turned out.”

“I see.” The dragoon shuffled in his chair for a moment, unsure how to phrase his next question. “Alphinaud…you are doing this of your own free will, correct?” He brought his attention from his work to the question brought before him. “Of course I am”, he answered incredulously.

“You’re sure, Alphinaud?”

“I am. Why do you ask?”

“I want to make sure this is something that you truly wish to do. Dia has a tendency to be a bit dramatic as I’ve recently learned.”

“Fear not, Estinien. I’m under no influence but mine own.”

Estinien let out a long breath and asked, “I know her reasons, but what of yours? What does obsessing over a painting get you?”

Alphinaud smiled at him. “I get a chance to relax.”

“Really?”

“I do. The past few times I’ve drawn, ‘twas out of necessity in order to locate our missing comrades or to gain entry into forbidden cities. This isn’t like that at all. Despite our friend’s being a bit more enthusiastic than I’m used to, I feel no pressure.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself at the very least, Alphinaud. But is that the only reason why?”

Alphinaud brought his gaze back to the portrait. In particular, he focused on the outlines of two people; Dia and Estinien.

“When I lost command of the Crystal Braves…when I heard that everyone I knew had been lost to that bloody banquet, all I felt was hopelessness. I felt stuck in a dark abyss, where nothing could see me nor pull me from it’s shackles. That’s what I earned for dehumanizing those who would help me, for seeing them all as pawns in my game to unite Eorzea.

Then Dia pulled me out of it. So did Tataru and Haurchefant.

Despite everything I ever thought of her, despite the way I would send her out as though she were my trusty god-slayer from my toolbelt, she stood with me, and helped me find a new home. Had she not saved Haurchefant’s friend from the Inquisition, and slayed Shiva, and the dragon that threatened the gates of Ishgard, we would not have found refuge within it’s walls.

After everything that came of our tenure in Ishgard, the Scions became something different. Especially now that my blood family has forsaken me, the bonds I’ve formed with my comrades became a great source of comfort to me. Everyone has their reasons for why the Scions are their home. If we wish to commemorate that with a painting, I see no reason not to oblige.”

Estinien didn’t usually pry into this sort of business; that was Aymeric’s domain. Yet, he did find himself in a better understanding of Alphinaud after that. He met the boy when he was still so immature, inexperienced in many things that were obvious to him growing up with Ser Alberic. It was interesting to hear how he changed, and what he missed.

“So this truly is more than just Dia’s will being imposed on others, then.”

“Dia’s not wont to impose her will onto others. She merely expressed a wish that the rest of the Scions shared, myself included.” Alphinaud raised an eyebrow. “Now that I think of it…I’m not entirely sure what her will is on a normal day. What does she want?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps it’s best for that to remain her business, hm?”

“When this is all over, and the Final Days are halted, I mean to express my sincere gratitude to her in any way I can.”

“Heh. Good luck with that”, Estinien commented as he rose from his chair. “Well, I won’t pry from your work any longer. Keep at it, Alphinaud.”

“I will, Estinien, thank you.”

The dragoon turned away and left through the door to the Solar. Alphinaud returned his full focus to the portrait.

******

The days passed while Alphinaud took his time to focus on the painting. The Solar was nearly forbidden territory, with the exception of Dia, who nobody would dare try to stop. After nearly a week’s worth of effort, Dia finally opened the door, and approached her fellow Scions.

“If any of you would like to view the portrait and help us decide where to place it, that would be most welcome”, Dia announced to the group as they sat in the lobby. All but Estinien rose from their chairs and walked towards the Solar.

“That means you too, Estinien.”

“Your suggestion is noted.”

“Get in here, or I’m telling Alphinaud to put it on your bed.”

He stood up reluctantly and followed her into the Solar, where they beheld the group fawning over the portrait. Estinien and Dia looked to each other, Dia wearing a smile on her face, Estinien his usual stoic look. He slowly walked towards the portrait to join the group.

For the most part, the positions of everyone stayed the same with one notable exception; Estinien stood between Dia and Thancred with a smirk and with his hand placed on Alphinaud’s head.

“I’m glad he took my suggestion and made himself taller”, Dia mused. Estinien tore his eyes away from the painting and looked to Dia. “Didn’t he do a good job with you, Estinien?” He nodded, “Aye, he did.” He brought his attention back to his portrait self.

Is that how he sees me, he thought.

“All right, now the question remains: where do we place it?” Alphinaud asked the group.

Everyone took a moment to think. “What about up there?” Estinien suggested, pointing to a spot above the desk…the spot that once held Tupsimati. Most of the group shifted uncomfortably with the exception of G’raha and Dia.

“Well…” Alphinaud started.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Dia defended. The group made faces of disbelief towards her. “Look, I will never forget Louisoix, nor will I forget Moenbryda’s sacrifice. But that spot is perfect. Anytime we walk in, we’ll see us hanging there proudly. After all, Tupsimati’s not hung there in how many moons now. Why don’t we use that spot to honor a new legacy?”

The Scions considered her words. “Did I touch upon something sensitive?” Estinien whispered to Dia. “‘Tis a long story. You did nothing wrong”, she whispered back to him.

“All right. Perhaps it would be better for us all to let our own story be told. After all, we saved not just one world, but two. That should be worth a nice spot, don’t you think?” Thancred reasoned. The group nodded.

“Allow me”, offered G’raha. He took out his staff and levitated the portrait from it’s spot. Y’shtola took out her cane and prepared a nail for the painting to hang upon. The two combined their efforts, and in a matter of minutes, the portrait hanged proudly in the very same spot Louisoix’s legacy once stood, the legacy that Dia had unfortunately sacrificed along with Moenbryda in her attempt to destroy Nabriales.

“There. I like it there quite a bit”, Dia complimented. “Thank you, G’raha, Y’shtola.”

“Of course. Now would you care to explain to me why that spot seemed to cause discomfort?” G’raha questioned.

Dia smiled. “I owe you two an explanation, it would seem.”

[aminiatureworld]

In My Dreams II

Characters: Diluc, fm!reader

Word Count: 3,273

Warnings: Depictions of a panic attack

Premise: The past is many things. Something to admire, something to learn from, something to hold dear. And yet how unreliable it can be, especially in the hands of ghosts.

In which the reader dreams of the past.

Author’s Note: Translation notes and historical references will come after the fic. The history nerd really came out this time around.  

Diluc

You knew that holding onto the past too much was a dangerous game to play. Yet you continued to chase it, desperately looking for something that might finally bridge your present self to the person you’d left behind.

You’d been mostly upfront to Diluc about this obsession of yours. Knowing that your partner also lost his family, it was easier in some ways to grasp onto this shared loss, and to use it as a way to continue on. Not that Diluc ever pushed you to forget your past, as other might have done. Instead he tried to help you, using his not inconsiderable connections to attempt to find as such land that matched the vague descriptions you could give. Though you knew the quest was most likely no more than a wild goose, you greatly appreciated his attempt to help.

However you knew that even someone as kind and understanding as Diluc would never be able to condone something like this.

You rubbed your arms, feeling every inch of the cold musty ruins around you. You’d heard that a sizeable group of Abyss members were gathering here and figured that these figures who boasted of civilizations long gone might be valuable pieces of information. Though sneaking into a gathering of the upper members of the Abyss was perhaps not the smartest thing you’d ever done. It was too late to turn back now however. Ducking into a corner you slowed your breathing, hoping that no one would care to look at the nook in which you were now curled up.

Listening to the slow creaking of the domain you suddenly felt the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as the air grew charged with magic. The room around you suddenly grew completely silent, as if even the walls were aware of something important. Not daring to sneak a peak at what was happening you closed your eyes, willing your senses to focus on your ears.

“My brethren, I’m glad to see you.”

Opening your eyes wide you gathered your control, willing yourself to not immediately turn around. The voice was familiar, its cadence smooth and soothing, polished as marble. It struck something within you, some deep hidden memory that you’d long ago forgotten. Now that memory struggled to the surface of your mind, the sketch of a long ago time.

“I know that our plans are continuing smoothly. Soon we will able to Khaenri’ah, and topple those who so callously left it to smolder, having lit the flame themselves. We will one more emerge into the world, no longer required to hide our faces.”

The words passed through you, intangible as air. What were they talking about? Nothing was making sense, not one word was something you could interpret. And yet the voice seemed almost an explanation in itself. If you knew who was talking then you’d find out the answers, or at least some of them. Vraning your head ever so slightly you looked up, jerking back slightly in shock as you found amber eyes staring right at you.

The person who was talking was immensely familiar, everything about them echoed with a long gone familiarity. Looking out of place amidst the rank and file members of the Abyss he exuded a cold sort of confidence, a determination to see his words realized. Staring at him you noticed the emblem which embellished the scarf he wore around his neck, a golden eagle which seemed to move with the fabric. A part of you was tempted to run, but you found yourself frozen, trying desperately to process the figure which danced before your eyes.

The young man said nothing, gaze shifting as he calmly began to speak again, though you couldn’t hear his words over the pounding of your heart. When his gaze once more passed yours he grinned an understanding sort of grin. It was as if you two were cohorts in some sort of pranks of scheme, rather than complete strangers who stood on opposites ends of an invisible struggle. The gesture confused you, and you found yourself sinking back to the ground. Putting your head in your arms you took a few deep breaths. You would figure out what was going on. It was alright, there was a logical explanation for this. Perhaps he just wanted to finish up this odd gathering before turning his minions upon you.

And yet the order to attack never came. After what must’ve been at least an hour the young man declared the gathering over. The air filled with the familiar mark of waypointing, and soon the ruin was once more deadly quiet. Straightening your back you studied the wall opposite of you, sure that you were dreaming a confusing sort of dream.

“You can come out now.”

You jumped, freezing as you wondered what to do. You thought that you were alone, yet he remained. Was this the moment, had you truly just been tricked.

“You don’t have to be so afraid.” Laughter drifted to your ears. “I promise the rest are gone.”

Slowly turning around you peered over the broken wall once more. True to the young man’s word there was no one left, only the two of you.  Standing up slowly you summoned your sword, still not trusting the person in front of you.

“What is it?”

“That’s the last thing I expect you to ask.” The young man was smirking now. “Surely there are more important things.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You wound me! Have you truly forgotten the face of your family.”

The words felt jagged, almost accusatory. You stiffened, face twisting into a scowl as you moved your sword slightly forward.

“You’re a liar.”

“I assure you I’m not! Why, I cannot believe you truly have forgotten so much. Is it just me, or have we all been banished from your thoughts?”

Reaching into his pocket he threw something at you. Catching it you stared at the egg, mind full of half-incredulous questions. The egg was evidently a work of ambition and love, its outer shell the color of the night. Diamonds crept up the sides of the egg, embedded into gold that shone even in the dark of your current place. There were four portraits embedded into the sides, studded with diamonds and crowned with stars that seemed so bright and silverly you were almost afraid to run your fingers over them. Something that seemed to be monograms sat underneath the portraits, but the script evaded your understanding.

Shifting your gaze to the portraits you found an even greater surprise. The person staring back at you, a small smile on her face, was you – though you couldn’t recognize the complex dress in which you’d been painted. The portrait was such a good likeness it took your breath away, the miniscule brush strokes truly the work of a master painter. Rotating the egg slowly you recognized the young man in front of you as the next model. Sporting what could only be some sort of military uniform, small medals of red and blue lined up on top of a blue sash, he seemed to be joking with the artist, his cocky smile offset by the stark lighting of his eyes. Next was a woman, somewhat who could only be this boy’s mother. He face was set in a straight line, her expression one of regal aloofness, as if she was thinking of something very far away. She was wearing the same sort of dress as you, though hers was much more complex in nature. The clothing screamed importance, as if to confirm the expression on her face. Lastly you found yourself looking at the portrait of someone who was presumably the boy’s father. Surprisingly under dressed her wore the same uniform as the boy, the only distinction being the number of medals. No crown sat on his head, no sign of any particular regal bearing shone in the portrait; instead there was a tiredness about him, a cloud which betrayed the fact that he was ultimately quite unworthy of remembrance.

“Do you remember now?”

You looked up wildly, denial fighting with realization as you shook your head. This wasn’t remembering; remembering was something else entirely. Remembering wasn’t the feel of the world sinking around you, remembering wasn’t losing faith in the world around you.

“Are you telling me that this means nothing to you?” Accusation flooded the boy’s speech as he glared at you.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I, I don’t trust this.”

“Always the same sister.” The boy’s tone was mocking now. “You always were the suspicious one, and as unambitious as our poor father once was.”

“Was?”

“He’s changed his tune quite a bit. He had too, of course. How could anyone stay so weak after surviving what we survived?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about death. Or as close to it as one can get I suppose. You should know this, you were there when they stormed the place, when they took us away. You were there when we were ordered to the basement.”

A flash of memory danced in your vision, speeding up your breath as you were overtaken by sudden panic. Swaying slightly you screwed your eyes shut, letting out a cry of frustration when the memory only grew stronger. You were dancing for a moment, spinning around with the boy in front of you as a distant melody drifted upon the air. Then you were inside an unfamiliar place, the new space so claustrophobic it squeezed the air out of you, the windows, having been painted over, offered no reprise. Then it was midnight and you were shuffling outside. The stars seemed so distant; they’d stared cold and unfeeling down as you shuffled behind a familiar figure, entering a door which seemed so familiar.

You leaned against the stone wall, trying to find some sort of reprieve in the cold damp of it. Forcing your eyes open you stared once more at the strange boy in front of you. His expression was one of ill-concealed triumph, mixed with barely suppressed rage.

“Do you see now? Do you see what they did to us? A wonder any of us escaped at all, then again I suppose those wretched idiots had no sense of magic. They were after all a bunch of thugs.”

“Where… where was that place?” You heaved slightly, feeling as if the ground was floating underneath you.

“Somewhere long destroyed. No point in thinking of it now. There is only this world after all. This world and the destruction that seized it as well. Only this one can be saved.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Khaenri’ah! The city struck down by the gods who could contemplate no power except their own! Their people suffered the fate of ours, should they not get the revenge we will never be allowed?”

“You’re mad.”

“Am I? Or are you just the same coward as always?” The boy shook his head. Pointing to the egg in your hand he back away. “You can keep it. Think of it as a memento, a way to contact me. If you ever wish to see right, well, I’ll be waiting.”

And then he was gone, so fast it was as if he’d never existed, as if he’d suddenly turned to dust. Sinking to the ground you pushed scalding air into your lungs, watching helplessly as your vision spotted around you. What had you done, oh gods what had you done?

The return trip to the Winery was an excruciating one. At first panic had been your only sensation, as you half stumbled, half crawled your way out of the Abyss’ lair, stopping every few minutes to lay down as to not pass out. The moment you got into the open air you made your way towards the nearest stream, waterlogging yourself in your hurry to pour icy water down your throat. Collapsed on the back you stared up at the sky. It was still night, which meant Diluc was probably guarding Mondstadt. You prayed to Barbatos that he wouldn’t notice your absence, for how could you deal with your shame? You’d been so foolish. How could you have ever expected things to turn out well? Now you were simply paying the price for your arrogance.

Finally lifting yourself up from your position you stumbled the rest of the way to the Winery, careful to keep your mind blank, afraid of what might happen if you let panic once more set in. Tears pricked in your eyes as familiar vines appeared within your sight, and you could’ve cried for joy upon opening the sturdy oaken door and crossing the threshold of the place you’d learned to call home. Creeping upstairs, hoping desperately that you hadn’t managed to wake any of the other residents, you breathed a sigh of relief when you entered the familiar bedroom which you’d grown to call you own. Sinking down onto the coverlet you let out a soft sigh, finally letting tears fall as you drifted off to sleep.

 -------

Yet your dreams refused to offer you any sort of reprieve. Finding yourself in a darkened hall you silently passed a variety of rooms, their imposing grandeur a familiar one. Someone seemed to be whispering a song in your ear, though when you turned to see who it was no one appeared.

“How can I desert you, how to tell you why.”

Reaching a room even grandeur than the rest you stared at the chairs that sat on dais on the opposite side from where you entered. They shimmered as if a mirage, and when you went to approach them two figures seemed to appear out of thin air. The man and the woman that were painted into the egg gazed at you with sad eyes, each saying nothing as you continued to make your way towards them.

“Let me have a moment, let me say goodbye.”

“Who are you?” You called out to them. The woman turned her head, as if ashamed of your lapse of memory. The man stood up slowly, arms reaching towards you slightly. Hurrying your pace you moved to meet him, spurred on by some unrecognized emotion.

“Harsh and sweet and bitter to leave it all.”

You as you reached the man he vanished, red ash falling softly to the ground in his wake. Gasping in horror you watched as the woman did the same. Suddenly the dream began to crumble, burning itself away to reveal nothing but black. Dropping you into an eternal night you couldn’t escape.

“I’ll bless my homeland ‘til I die.”

You bolted up, mind struggling to place where you were. Looking around you, your eyes were met with the familiar comforts of your home. A soft light drifting through the crack in the curtains, the foretelling of the dawn.

Besides you Diluc stirred. Sitting up slowly, rubbing his eyes in a gesture which made your heart squeeze, he glanced at you through sleep eyes.

“Is there something wrong, my love?”

You meant to say no, to assure him that you’d just had a strange dream. Yet the softness of his voice was contrasted so with the venom of the young man and the silence of the people who seemed to have been your family that you found yourself cracking. The sobs were soft at first, but soon you found yourself wailing, not caring how your hoarse voice pierced through the quiet of the Winery.

“My love?”

Diluc immediately wrapped his arms around you, saying nothing as you continued to sob into his chest, staining his nightshirt with tears as you cried out all the tears you could possibly contain. You felt like the world around you was shattering, like nothing was real anymore. You felt as if all you had held to was suddenly gone, and nothing remained but searing contempt.

“It’s alright, it’s alright.”

Diluc carded his fingers through your hair, whispering soft words of comfort as your sobs diminished. Finally you felt completely spent, and as you relaxed in his arms you felt a sudden surge of tiredness, washing over you and calling you once more to the perilous depths of sleep.

“May I ask you what’s wrong?”

You fought your fatigue, disconnecting yourself slightly as to look Diluc in the face. Could you tell him what had occurred? Could you lay bare your weakness, your shame, your guilt? A part of you recoiled at the idea. And yet, as you stared at Diluc you found yourself recounting what happened, shaky breaths accompanying your soft confession. Lowering your gaze you spoke of your night, grateful that Diluc never let his arms leave you.

“I see.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Why should you be sorry?” Lifting your gaze you found Diluc’s eyes raw, his expression one of surprising honesty.

“I was selfish, and I didn’t expect the consequences of my action. All I could think of was the past, of getting back what I’d once had.”

“And is that not a natural thing?” Diluc took a deep breath, hold on you tightening slightly. “If I could not remember what had happened to my father – if I woke up one day in an  unfamiliar place with nothing but a sense of loss – I would go to the ends of the world to find what I’d lost. There is no crime in wanting your loved ones home, even when you cannot recognize them.”

“And yet it seems the only survivor has turned into a monster.”

“Does that make your past love for him any less? Do the bonds of family immediately cut the moment our loved ones turn rotten?”

You thought back to the young man in the ruins, to his mockery and his impatience. You hated him, you hated what he was doing. And yet you missed him, you somehow missed him so much. Turnign towards the nightstand you opened the small drawer. Pulling out the egg you’d been given you examined it in the dim light. How beautiful it was, how different from the image that had been put in front of you.

“Do you wish to forget what you have remembered?” Diluc’s voice was filled with nothing but kindness.

“No.” Even if it embarrassed you to say, you knew it was the truth.

“Then don’t forget it.”

You smiled, placing the egg once more in your drawer. Though it had only been a few words, though this terrible night hadn’t been erased from your memory, you somehow found yourself much lighter. Turning to Diluc you pressed a soft kiss on his forehead.

“Thank you.”

Diluc said nothing, merely leaning down to kiss you as well. Cushioned in the familiar sanctuary of his arms you allowed the darkness of your encounter to drift from your mind.

 -----

Drifting off to sleep you found yourself once more in a corridor, face to face with the man who was once your father. You stared at him, wondering if he would disappear again.

“Are you truly happy as you are now?”

“Yes.” Somehow you knew it was the truth.

“I see,” the man nodded, a slight smile flashing across his face, “then we shall keep you no longer.”

Leaning over he kissed you softly on the forehead. Next to him now stood the woman who was one your mother. Smiling now, a smile which utterly transformed her melancholy aura, she wrapped you in a hug.

“Do not forget us.” She whispered.

Even as the words were spoken you knew that you never could.

--------------------------

The egg that I used this time around is a reference to Faberge eggs. The tradition having been started by Alexander III giving an egg every Easter to Empress Maria Feodorovna, the tradition was continued by Nicholas the second - who gave an egg to his wife and his mother every year. Each egg is a masterpiece of innovation and creativity and is breathtaking in its aesthetic and in the mechanic of hiding its “surprise”. The two eggs I used as reference were the Alexander Palace Egg (1908) and the Twelve Monogram Egg (1896).

The song that I referenced this time around was “Stay I Pray You” from the Anastasia musical. Highly recommend.

The parents are based off of Nicholas II and Alexandra Feodorovna. I do not have time to go into them because we will be here for 300 years. The dresses I mentioned are traditional Russian court gowns. An image will be linked in the reblog.

[parkersloths]

Hi ^^

First of all – your Art is INCREDIBLE!!!

I especially love your use of colors and textures :) Everything is so bright and colorful, but still cohesive. And your images are so clear without being overly detailed! It’s all literally perfection!!!

I like to draw digitally as well and your art-style is a huge inspiration for me. So I wanted to ask if you have any work in progress videos or pictures? Or if you could explain your process in general? Like, are you using a sketch layer underneath, with how many layers are you normally working, what kind of brushes do you use or any tips overall to improve digital painting?

Of course you don’t have to answer this (kinda a lot of questions, sorry 😅 ). Just know that I adore your art and that you’re helping me on my own art-journey just by sharing your work with the world – so, thank you!!! <3

Hey!! So first of all thank you so much for everthing you said about my art, I really appreciate it! But also omg thank youuu for this amazing ask like this is for real the kind of ask I've always wanted to get, where a total stranger is interested in my process XD So yeah don't worry about asking a lot of questions, they were great and I loved them!

Also I'm super flattered that my art has inspired you in your own digital art journey and I hope the stuff I say here can also help somewhat! This will get pretty long so sorry in advance everyone for making you scroll so much cause for some reason the read more option doesn't work on mobile :/

But anyway to answer your questions!

Sadly I don't have videos but I do have some pics I'll share. This is actually my second attempt at answering this because before I was going to use some WIP pics of the Majid drawing as example but then I didn't want to because it was in black and white and color is kind of one of the main things I like to emphasize in my art so I wanted to talk about it in the example XD Then I started a couple new drawings and was taking pics of those but I got super artblocked, but luckily I just finished one out of the blue that I can use. Okay so... I started answering this, again, and it was getting way too long and rambly so I'm gonna try to keep it simple this time and maybe I can elaborate more another time if you're still interested/ if anyone else wants know X'D

My process in general: I always start by making a simple basic background to work on, just fill it in and add some blotches of color. Then on a new layer I just start painting the subject, no sketch, so again just laying down some colors (I usually take whatever color in the bg is closest to skin tone and adjust the new color from there) and I just start blocking some shapes in aproximately the right places to start defining where things will be and how they fit together and just go from there. It's hard to explain it more cause that's kinda it, I just paint until things look like they're supposed to or at least visually appealing enough XD I add or adjust whatever colors seem necessary along the way (in this particular drawing I left the darker values until way too late which I don't recommend) and just refine and refine and refine things and add as many or as few details as I feel like, working on everything simmultaneously bit by bit.

Layers: like I mentioned before there's no sketch, and I try to use as few layers as possible so usually I'll have about 3-5. One for the basic background, one to three (though sometimes I merge them) additional layers for more background effects/colors/value fixes that I usually add later in the process, and I try to have just one for the subject. Sometimes I have one or two more if I'm feeling too hesitant but I always merge them in the end.

Brushes: I only use one brush at 50% opacity the whole time for everything. It's a squarish/rectangular brush that has some sort of jagged edges and a bit of a watercolory texture.

Tips: so this part is especially hard cause like.. I feel like any tips I could give are only applicable to drawing portraits and even then it'd be for doing it in the particular way that I prefer.. Like for example I could say it's best to work on every area at the same time and never spend too long one thing before moving on to the next but.. some people actually prefer finishing the eyes completely before moving on to the nose for example you know? So honestly the main thing I'll say is kinda to just experiment with a lot of methods and styles and see what works or doesn't work for you. Something that I think always helped me a lot was watching speedpaints of people who were more skilled than me and had a distinct style, just literally watch how they did their thing and every once in a while I might notice something I'd be interested in trying for myself and yeah with practice and experience you just kinda figure out what kind of things you not only like seeing but actually want in your own art. Like years ago I used to sketch but then I saw enough videos of people painting without sketching that I wanted to try it and I realized it's just more fun and makes more sense to me that way. So yeah try lots of different things and see what works for you and what you want to incorporate into your own art style!

Some more standard digital art tips I could give I guess are like.. the thing I said about not spending too much time on just one area (if it applies to your prefered process XD). Flip the drawing every now and then to catch stuff that's off. Stay zoomed out as much as possible and when you do zoom in for details always keep an eye on how the bigger picture's looking. Take your time finding or arranging a good reference pic that really inspires you cause it'll save you time and frustration later. And aaa idk I could say more but I don't think it's that informative or helpful, and all of this is probably really basic obvious stuff anyway and this is long enough as it is so yeah I'll leave it there...

I hope any of this can help in some way or that I've at least answered your questions in a satisfying enough way haha And finally here are some of the WIP pics I took. Where you can see some parts of the process. I did a lot more after that last pic but yeah at that point it's just about fixing little things, refining and adding details, but there you can see the color adjustment thing I usually do as the very last step (though not for this pic). I don't always have to do it, and there are probably times when I shouldn't, but I almost always like to do it anyway and that's why my colors look so exaggerated and bright XD I usually make the midtones more red and/or magenta, the shadows more blue, and the highlights more yellow (and sometimes a bit cyan) but if you wanna try something like that it's definitely fun to experiment with the different color possibilities ;u;

And yeah that's it for now! I'm sorry this is so long, and this was the short version lol I hope you like the answers at least a fraction of how much I loved the questions X'D

[dothwrites]

worried Dean @ Cas: “I’m not bothering you, am I?”

---

It’s a widely accepted tenet in the art department that Castiel Novak is a genius. 

Dean first hears rumors of Novak’s skills when he’s a freshman. He doesn’t believe them at first. He suspects they’re overblown by groupies who are too interested in trying to get into Novak’s pants (not that Dean can blame them: with his shock of dark hair, ice-blue eyes, and delicate scrollwork of tattoos spiraling up his arms to disappear under the sleeves of his very tight t-shirts, Novak is a walking wet dream). Then, at the end of his freshman year, he’s busy setting up the annual art show when a piece catches his attention. 

At first glance, the painting is deceptively simple. A shadowed figure stands in the center of the canvas, his arms raised up to the sky. Around him are swirls of red, black, and gold, somehow blending into one color in the background. The more Dean looks, the more ambiguity he finds in the painting. Are the swirls of gold lifting the figure up or restraining him? Is the figure fading into the black or breaking free? Is the red coming from him or is he drawing it in? Are his hands raised in supplication or defiance? 

Dean loses track of how many minutes he spends staring at the painting, admiring the shading, the color, the symbolism. Transfixed, he reaches out to touch at the rough surface of the painting before he recalls himself and snaps his hand back to his side. 

“You can touch it if you want.” 

Dean whirls around at the deep voice, his eyes widening when he sees Castiel Novak standing behind him, hands tucked deep into his pockets. Castiel raises a pierced eyebrow at him. 

“Seriously. Go ahead.” 

Dean shakes his head, aware of Castiel’s reputation. “I can’t...we’re not allowed to disturb the artwork--”

Castiel’s mouth twists and Dean doesn’t know whether he’s angry or deprecatory. “Well, I’m the artist, and I say you can.” 

Castiel’s eyes rest heavily on him. Dean swallows, his heart picking up a rhythm that seems attached to the flick of Castiel’s tongue over his lower lip. Hand shaking, he reaches out to brush his fingers over the textured canvas. 

“It’s rough,” Castiel says from right behind him (when the hell did he get that close?), “because becoming is always rough.” 

And that’s how Dean Winchester decided Castiel Novak was a genius. 

---

As school and life continues, Dean admires Castiel Novak from afar. 

From what he can tell, Castiel doesn’t have many friends. He has admirers, which he ignores, and he has a few people who hang onto his fame, which he disdains, but actual friends? The only thing keeping Dean from volunteering is the thought that Castiel will turn the same withering look on him. 

Castiel haunts the art building and, as Dean continues delving into the Art program at Carver Edlund University, he does the same. Sometimes he’ll pass Castiel on his way to his studio. Castiel always nods at him, but it’s a companionable gesture, the same that you might give to someone at the grocery store. He never stops to chat, doesn’t even remove his earbuds. 

And that’s fine. So Dean’s harboring a crush that’s as much intellectual as it is physical. Plenty of people have crushes. It’s fine. It’s not like he’s obsessed. Not like he lurks around just so he can leave at the same time Castiel does. Not like he skulks through the dark halls so he can get a look at Castiel’s new project. That would make him creepy and pathetic, and those are two adjectives which certainly don’t describe Dean Winchester. 

After a while, denial doesn’t even taste bad, just a little bitter. 

By the end of his sophomore year, Dean’s accustomed to the status quo. He notices the light in the private studio allotted to Castiel (all senior Art majors get their own studios, but Castiel got the nicest of them), but he doesn’t stop on his way to his own (shared) studio. When he arrives, however, he screeches to a halt. 

His studio is filled to the brim with snotty freshmen. His personal workplace has been completely commandeered by a freshman with a (barf) man bun. “What the hell?” Dean sputters. He can feel his face turning red with rage. “This is my time.” 

Man-Bun pops his gum as he looks at Dean. His eyes are so hazy Dean’s surprised that he’s not deep-throating a bong at that very moment. “Um, guess again? We totally booked the studio for tonight?” 

Seething, Dean storms to the schedule and checks. Sure enough, there’s a long list of names on the door for the studio space. “I always have Thursday,” he protests, but it’s an empty sort of rage. “I’m always here for Thursdays.” 

Man-Bun shrugs, turning back to his psychedelic smattering of colors. “Not this Thursday, dude.” 

Dismissed, Dean gathers his remaining dignity, and leaves. Standing out in the hallway, he reviews his options. He’s kicked out of his regular studio, and he needs to work tonight, otherwise he’ll never get his final project for figure drawing done. Every studio he passes is booked to capacity; clearly the art program is full of procrastinators. In fact, the only studio that has any sort of room...

“No. No. Shit.” Dean weighs the consequences of failing his class versus metaphorically throwing himself into a volcano. Finally, his fear of failure takes over, and he knocks on the door of his last remaining option. 

The door swings open, revealing a Castiel who looks significantly more disheveled than normal (though normal Castiel usually looks like he was rode hard and put away wet). A smear of blue paint decorates one cheek while his earbuds dangle from his neck. Dean tries to ignore the spirals of Castiel’s tattoos, especially where they disappear under his shirt (he especially tries to ignore the thoughts of what those tattoos look like underneath Castiel’s shirt). Castiel blinks in surprise. 

“Dean. What are you doing here?” 

(The fact that Castiel knows Dean’s name comes as a shock. Dean assumed that he was one of the thousands of nameless faces Castiel passes every day.)

“Um, first let me say, it’s totally awesome if you say no, I don’t expect you to say yes, it’s a huge imposition--”

“Dean, you’re rambling.” 

“Can i use your studio? Or share it? I wouldn’t ask, but a bunch of douchebags took mine and there are no other spaces open, and I really need to finish this project--”

“Sure. Come on.” 

And with that, Castiel steps back and beckons Dean into his studio. 

Dean crosses the threshold with something resembling awe. He never imagined, in his wildest dreams, that he would be allowed into Castiel’s inner sanctum. He tries not to gape too obviously as his eyes dart from corner to corner of the room. It looks...like a studio for the most part. Several canvases are hung around the room; if they’re discarded attempts or inspiration, Dean doesn’t know. They could easily function as either. Castiel finally steps in front of him, directing Dean’s attention to one corner of the room. 

“Would there be good?” 

Dean nods. “Yeah, that’s good.” He pauses, eyes darting nervously around the studio. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”

Castiel frowns, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “No, of course not. If you were, I wouldn’t have opened up the door.” With that, he seems to consider the topic of conversation closed, and retreats back a few steps. 

He sets up his work and tries to ignore the fact that Castiel Novak is watching him. It’s almost impossible not to feel his eyes; the skin on the back of Dean’s neck prickles in awareness, but he perseveres. 

He sets his sketch on the easel before casting a critical eye upon it. He frowns as he notices every imperfection. it’s based off a series of sketches he jotted down in class earlier that day. Dean remembers the careless grace of the model, the way that the fabric had draped artlessly over his waist and shoulders, but he can’t recapture the specific atmosphere of the room, which was what made that particular model striking. Every time he tries to put onto the paper how the room felt, his figures end up wooden and two-dimensional. 

“You’re paying too much attention to the form.” 

Dean jumps, his charcoal pencil scrawling an ungainly line across the page. Not a huge loss, he was already going to toss this one anyway. He turns around to find Castiel standing directly behind him. 

Castiel nods towards his sketchpad. “In your drawings. You’re paying too much attention to the form. That’s why it’s coming out wrong.” 

“The form is all there is,” Dean replies, a little peevishly. He knows the sketch sucks, but that doesn’t mean he wants Castiel freaking Novak pointing it out to him. 

“The form is one part. But you have the lighting and shading and you have the intention. The intention is...the feel of the room. It’s what remains unsaid and unseen to those who weren’t there. It’s what you’re trying to capture by paying so much attention to the form. Of course, by concentrating too much on the technical, you lose the abstract.” 

Castiel flicks over to a new page with a deft flick of his wrist. He plucks the pencil from Dean’s grasp with one hand. With the other, he poses Dean’s hand close to his face. Castiel stares at Dean for a few excruciating seconds before he turns his attention to the empty page. 

Dean hardly dares to breathe as Castiel sketches. He’s not sure how he’s going to return to real life, knowing now the tiny crease that knits between Castiel’s brows or how the tip of Castiel’s tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. How is he supposed to live, knowing Castiel hums tunelessly as his hand works? 

“There.” Castiel flips the sketch to face Dean. In it, Dean finds his own face, rendered in a few lines. It’s rough, certainly, but it’s a close enough likeness. More than that, Castiel’s managed to capture...

“Do I look that scared?” Dean blurts out, before he can stop himself. 

Castiel actually laughs, deep and rumbling, from the diaphragm. It’s a lovely sound, one that fills the studio, and one Dean would gladly hear again and again. “You don’t look scared.” He sets the pencil down on the easel and turns fully to face Dean. “Anxious maybe. Hovering on the edge of anticipation.” He steps closer. His chest almost brushes Dean’s, which could be misinterpreted as Castiel not understanding the concept of personal space. 

What can’t be misinterpreted is the unsubtle drop of Castiel’s eyes to Dean’s lips. 

“I guess now would be a good time to tell you that I’ve really wanted to kiss you for almost a year,” Castiel says, his voice scraped rough around the edges. His eyes drag up to Dean’s, and Dean’s taken aback at the wild glint in them. Castiel steps closer and his clever fingers slip into the spaces between Dean’s fingers. “Please Dean,” Castiel breathes, raw and needy, “please, can I kiss you?” 

“Fuck yes,” Dean murmurs, which is all he gets to say before Castiel’s hand cups the back of his head and his lips descend upon Dean’s. 

Not that Dean’s bragging, but he’s had quite a few good kisses in his life (and been told that he gives quite a few good kisses). Castiel blows them all out of the water. Dean’s never been kissed so thoroughly before, like Castiel wants to own him, like Castiel’s interested in finding exactly what makes Dean tick. His teeth nip at the swell of Dean’s lower lip while his tongue delicately traces the seam of Dean’s lips. Dean eagerly opens his mouth, moaning into Castiel’s mouth as Castiel’s tongue slips in along his. 

Hours or days later, when they part, Dean realizes that while one of his hands is cupping the spur of Castiel’s hip (holy fuck, those hips feel like handles for his hands), his other hand is still holding Castiel’s. It’s certainly the sweetest kiss that’s ever given him a boner. 

Castiel laughs, a little breathless. It’s only then Dean realizes he’s a little taller than Castiel. “You do live up to expectations,” he murmurs, and Dean’s not sure whether Castiel’s talking to himself or not. 

The words spark a recent memory in Dean, and suddenly nothing is more important than finding out the truth. “You said you wanted to do that for a year?” Castiel nods, his eyes suddenly shifting to the side. “Why?” 

“Everyone always goes on about my art. How groundbreaking it is, how I’m a ‘once in a generation talent’.” Castiel uses finger-quotes, which should not be as endearing as Dean finds it. “And it’s nice, but none of them even bother to see my art for what it is. They just see my name attached to it and they lose their shit. But last year...You saw that painting. It didn’t matter to you who made it. You saw it and appreciated it for what it was. And I...I saw you.” 

Castiel swallows. For all his suave confidence earlier, he looks oddly vulnerable now. “So, anyway. Yeah. For a year now. Um...” He glances at Dean’s easel. “I guess I’ll leave you alone now. Or if you want privacy, I can go.” 

“Or,” Dean says, the pink flush on Castiel’s cheeks giving him all the bravery he’ll ever need. “You could stay.” Castiel’s eyes slice to him, their blue intense and jaw-dropping. Dean grins, a little predatory, like they’re on even ground. 

“After all, I’m going to need a model for this sketch.” 

[violetnotez]

Izuku x reader

⤷ Genre: Fluff, Artist AU!

⤷ Word Count: 1700+

⤷ Warnings: the reader is preggers in this one!

⤷ Synopsis: All you want to do is to get Izuku back in bed once you realize he’s working on his latest project in the early morning.

Song Recs: ⤷Adventure of A Life Time-Coldplay ⤷Simple and Clean-Mree ⤷First Light-Lindsey Stirling

This is for the Izuku Month! pls go check out the awesome writers participating for this month here!

Also thank you so much @freckledoriya for helping me with this one! 💕💕💕

You sighed as your mind began to drowsily awake from sleep, your eyes cracking open at your nightstand. Your hands went out to reach your phone in the dark, your limbs feeling heavy as you checked the time, flipping over the phone screen sluggishly. The light blinded you momentarily, your eyes scrunching by the brightness. You squinted through your lashes, a fuzzy number 3 in your line of vision.

It was 3 in the morning?!?

Well great.

You sighed in annoyance. You were sick of waking up so early and having such a diffult time going back to sleep. Your hand went out to reach for the man next to you, seeking to touch his warm and calloused skin.

Izuku was always your go to when you couldn’t go back to sleep-all you had to do was snuggle into his body and listen to his rhythmic heartbeat and you be in a blissful sleep in no time.

To your disappointment, though, your arm collided with empty air and a cold bed, Izuku nowhere to be found. You propped your body up on the bed, looking for your green haired lover-maybe he was using the bathroom?

Nope-the light in your shared bathroom was completely off, your bedroom coated in darkness.

You rolled your eyes internally with a smirk-you had an idea where he could be.

Your sluggish feet touched the cold wood floor, the only clothing on your body being a pair of underwear and one of Izuku’s t-shirts, the fabric loose and flowing against your frame.

You wobbled slightly on your legs-waking up suddenly had made your body unbalanced, and being pregnant wasn’t helping it.

You were over 2 months pregnant, the belly of the baby you had with Izuku finally beginning to show.

Izuku was ecstatic to become a father, always showering you with love and affection for you and the baby you shared together. You were constantly being kissed and caressed on your belly, his green tresses tickling your skin as he hummed sweet little phrases to your growing child. He was the most perfect man to have a baby with, always so kind and generous with his love for you two.

When he had heard the wonderful news, he instantly began crying, squeezing the life out of you as he blubbered on about how much he loved you and your child. After you had soothed his weeping state, he had promised he was going to begin decorating the baby’s room in the spare bedroom you two had.

Izuku had never been given a quirk, and it had sadly hindered him from becoming a hero, which was his dream job as a child. After finally coming to terms with his reality, poor Izuku was so devastated he resorted to art as his outlet for his disappointment. He was incredibly talented, and his strong determined spirit led him to being one of the most successful freelance artists in Japan at the mere age of 22.

So now his most recent project was quite simple-make the most beautiful mural ever for his future baby.

It was quite sweet of him to be so caring, but you had to admit-Izuku was taking it way too seriously. He had this wonderful plan of painting the whole room with pearly white clouds and feathery storks, their eyes sweet and doe like as they watched over your future baby as they slept.

You couldn't wait to see the final result, but-Izuku was spending a lot of his time on it.

You were waking up too many times in the night to only find that Izuku was gone from bed, working in your baby’s room at ungodly hours of the morning. You just wanted him to stay-all that work could wait for the morning.

You tiptoed to the room, the room light on as Izuku worked on his masterpiece. The faint smell of chemicals wafted in the air, signaling that Izuku was indeed painting in the room.

Thankfully, Izuku didn’t close the door completely, allowing you to watch him at work.

You loved seeing him when he painted-he always look so calm and at peace with himself, even if the eye bags under his eyes betrayed his actual state. His hair was unruly as ever, specks of blues and white coating the tips as well his nose.

Splatters of baby blue, opaque white, and pearly pink dusted his cheeks, blending in with the faint freckles that were already littered on his face.

You watched his strong muscles move delicately along the wall, the brush strokes going back and forth as he worked on one of the wings of the many storks he had sketched out.

He was so meticulous about each detail, yet so in peace with his work.

You walked in, deciding you were done admiring him and now wanting to complete your original plan- getting him to come back to bed.

He must have been really in the zone, though, as he didn’t even hear the steps of your feet on the plush carpeting as you wrapped your hands around his torso, snuggling his neck.

“It looks so pretty ‘Zuku, your doing such an amazing job,”

Midoriya jumped slightly by your touch, but then quickly eased into it once he realized it was you. A coating of pink blossomed on his face, realizing you must have been watching him work for a while now.

He sighed into your touch, his eyes closing in bliss.

“Hi puppy,” he greeted warmly, his voice low and feathery,” what are you doing up so early?”

He turned around, his eyes searching yours as his hands gently grasped around your stomach, his soothing digits running along the clothed skin.

His heart pinged just by the mere sight of you wearing his clothes-he loved when you wore anything of his.

“I should be asking the same about you.”

He chuckled lightly, his eyes going to the side in embarrassment. He knew he was staying up way too late to finish this project, but he felt in his heart he had to do it. This was for the child you two had made together, your very first one. He had to do everything in his power to make sure they came into a room that was filled with love and comfort.

“Y/n, you should be in bed right now, you and the baby need sleep,” he said sweetly, his hands still rubbing against the skin of your stomach.

“But how can I sleep when your baby misses you-“

You placed your hand on top of his, a giggle slipping out of your mouth.

“I think they know when your gone, because I always wake up when you leave the room to do this project-“

You pretended to look angry at him, a pointed look on your brow.

“-which has been every other night, might I add,”

A soft blush creeped into his skin, his warm lips kissing the top of your forehead.

“I’m sorry, dear, it’s just-I really, really want to finish-“

“Come on Izuku, you’ve got 7 whole months to finish the room!,” you argued softly, your hands brushing against the back of his neck, “you don’t have to rush it so much.”

“I know, but -but-what if I don’t finish it? What if something comes up or I have to paint another collection and I just get too busy? I would feel terrible if I don’t finish it in time for our baby.”,”

You smiled at the green haired man, his eyes drinking you in. God, he felt so lucky. You most definitely the most beautiful woman in his eyes, and he couldn’t fathom how he had snagged somebody as amazing as you.

“You won’t get too busy and you will finish it. I know you Izuku. Once you put your mind to something, you will keep doing it until it’s done. This project is no different!”

He gazed at you with a warm smile, his cheeks glowing under the specks of paint. You could feel how tired Izuku was, his body language a little less energetic than usual. His shoulder slumped as if they were weighed down, his half lidded eyes warm and dreamy. A soft sigh escaped his lips as you brushed the skin under his eyes, almost as if brushing the sleepless bags away.

“Please just come to bed,” you whispered, “I can’t go to sleep without you,”

He sighed as he took a small moment to think. His body was yelling at him to go to you, to just envelope himself in your warmth and comfort. But he really, really wanted to finish his project, because once it was done, he wouldn’t feel such a need to finish.

He gave you a tired smile, his fingers brushing against the skin of your arm as he reluctantly let go of your embrace.

“Okay...just let me finish this one wing and I’ll come back-“

“No!” You yelled defiantly, your hands wrapping around his neck. Your body collided with his strong back, your face nuzzling into the crook of his neck. A blush erupted on Izuku’s face as you cuddled against him.

“Bed-now,” you commanded softly. Your breath fanned against his skin, making goose bumps crawl up his back.

“Oh y/n, I promise I don’t want to argue with you,” he sighed out as he desperately tries to hold backs yawn, “I just want to-“

You rolled your eyes playfully at the defiant boy.

He really could be the most stubborn person you knew-but after being with him for so long, you knew exactly what would make him change his mind.

You swiveled yourself around Izuku until you were right in front of his face, his bright emerald eye staring at you with confusion. You gave him a soft smile, your lips gently colliding with his as you grasped his face with your hands.

The faint taste of strawberries (most likely from his chapstick) bursted in your mouth, making you smile against his lips. It was adorable to you how nervous he still was when you kissed him, your fingers warming up against his cheeck from his intense blushing. You parted from the boy, giggling at his clearly dazed expression.

“Bed?” You mused sweetly, your lashes fluttering, “Pretty please?”

Izuku chuckled at your attempts to win him over, your plan working perfectly. You knew him too well, and you knew exactly how to get him wrapped around your finger.

He gave you a small peck on your cheek, a smile blessing his lips as he bent down slightly, his hands curling around the backs of your knees.

You opened your mouth to ask him what he was doing, but what only came was a small squeak as he picked you up bridal style, your hands immediately finding an anchor around his neck.

He chuckled at your obvious shock, kissing your nose with warmth and endearment. He smile down at you as he walked out of the room, a contented sigh escaping his lip.

“Bed it is!”

[notquitetwilight]

What are your headcanons about Alice's personality before vampirism? Once she became a vampire she was able to choose who she wanted to be, or maybe deep down she was able to recognize things she liked from her past and maybe built off of that? For example, if she liked helping her mother sew dresses (that didn't actually happen) then maybe that's why she has such a strong desire for fashion even if she doesn't know why. Something like that. I hope I'm making sense!

This makes perfect sense and I love this! Thank you for letting me fire up my actual brain cells lol. Smeyer is kinda contradictory when it comes to Alice — on one hand Alice only gets visions based on people’s decisions, but on the other she bases her whole vampire life on a vision of Jasper saying her name. Jasper would’ve only known her name from Alice telling him, but Alice only knows her name from the vision of Jasper calling her by it. That doesn’t make sense to me because she makes the decision to find Jasper and then the Cullens after her vision, not before it, so how’d she even have the vision of that happening in the first place if she hadn’t made that decision yet? Does that make sense? I don’t get it lol

I like to think she has some subconscious sense of her human self. Alice was her middle name after all so clearly she didn’t pull that out of the sky when it became her forename as a vampire. I can picture her human self being similarly spirited to how she is as a vampire, as well as her having a very strong sense of self or of trust in her own instinct. We know she had visions as a human and I’m sure when she woke as a vampire she knew to trust in those visions because of how her human self had been right about her mother’s murder etc, even if she had no conscious recollection of that. So, if we go with this theory, here are some possible aspects of her human life that might explain Alice’s current personality/interests:

- From the moment she was born, Alice shared a close bond with her mother, unlike her daddy’s girl of a sister. This is why Mrs. Brandon believed in her visions when nobody else did.

- Her mother was beautiful, and Alice inherited not only her pixie-like features, but her eye for fashion and beauty. She’d often be all dressed up with nowhere to go as she tended to the house while her husband travelled and worked.

- Mrs. Brandon would let her play dress-up in her wardrobe from a very young age, and little Alice would beg her to do her makeup so she could feel as beautiful as the woman she admired so much looked. She always eventually gave in, but told Alice she wasn’t allowed to look until she was finished. She’d then lead her over to the mirror, her hands over Alice’s eyes, and do a big reveal each time. Alice would always gasp and hug her in delight, and her mother would kiss the top of her head and say, “my beautiful little doll.”

- As Alice grew older, she loved helping out at her father’s jewellers so that she could people-watch. The shop was always filled with rich southern belles getting their husbands to buy them expensive jewellery. She loved fantasising about being able to afford what those whose style she admired bought, while also silently judging those she felt had more money than taste.

- Her father usually kicked her out after an hour or two of her starting work because she was so daydreamy, and he’d impatiently tell her she made the customers uncomfortable.

- But one regular, an elderly widow, would always request Alice’s assistance specifically. She’d have the girl trail around after her, accessorising a diamond necklace here with a diamond bracelet there. She had a rather harsh way of speaking, but she’d always shake Alice’s hand and slip her a $50 note after purchasing from her father at the register. The lady had very little time for Mr. Brandon, and when she came in and asked for “the short young lady” after Alice had been institutionalised, he told her she would not be returning but he’d be happy to assist. She gave him a long, hard look before leaving the store, and he never saw her again.

- Her mother taught her to sew. She’d stay up practicing until all hours, and eventually started sketching her own dress designs. The first piece of clothing Alice ever designed and made from scratch was a surprise dress for her mother, made from an expensive, pale blue fabric she had bought from the saved $50 bills. Her mother was in so much awe of her daughter’s talent and thoughtfulness that her eyes welled up as she ran her fingers over the garment.

- When others began speaking about Alice’s visions, accusing her of being a witch, a changeling or simply cursed, Mrs. Brandon would comfort her and tell her to ignore them. “You’ll never lead yourself wrong, Mary,” she told her firmly. “Always count on yourself.” Alice occasionally overheard her parents arguing about her throughout her childhood and teenage years, her father insisting she be sent away. But her mother always came to her defense, and the last time she heard them argue, the usually gentle woman was so infuriated she yelled that she would discuss it no further — that Alice would be sent away over her dead body.

- Alice was thereby sickened to forsee her mother’s murder, and was so hysterically panicked she struggled to tell her of what she saw in a coherent manner. Her mother tried to reassure her that she’d be cautious — that nothing would happen, that she’d never leave her — but the pit in the girl’s stomach never went away.

- Mrs. Brandon’s death left Alice feeling very strange. She took it hard, but it had also felt like a nightmare inevitable to come true. She imagined herself standing on a train platform, watching two trains headed for a collision and powerless to stop it. People whispered about how she wore a pale blue dress instead of black to the funeral, but she couldn’t hear them through her grief. She also foresaw that nobody would believe her when she claimed her mother had been murdered, but she tried to tell them anyway to no avail. For the first time, despite years of being mocked and ostracised for it, she began to hate her gift.

- She was grateful for it again just a few months later though, having envisioned her father and his new wife attempting to kill her. The vision gave her just enough time to make her escape, ultimately saving her life. She swore she’d only ever follow her late mother’s advice from then on and always trust in herself and what she saw.

- When she woke as a vampire, the first vision she had was Jasper saying her name. The next was of the pair of them surrounded by the rest of the Cullens. She was resolute that these visions were leading her to the life she was destined to live, despite having no recollection of her past.

- About a month after she joined the Cullens, Alice stood at the door of Esme’s studio, where her already maternal figure was painting inside. She didn’t know what had possessed her to do what she had done for this person she barely knew, but something about it felt right.

“Esme?” she called as she knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Esme said absentmindedly, concentrating on the landscape she was working on. Alice burst through the door excitedly, causing her to look up in alarm.

“I have something for you. And I’ve already seen: you’re going to love it!”

Esme’s shoulders relaxed. She smiled and set her paintbrush down. “I’m sure I will. What have you got there?” She gestured to the material folded over Alice’s arm. “Spoiling me already?”

Alice proudly held up her latest creation from its hanger. “I designed a dress, just for you.”

[kitaychan]

We need to talk

Summary: After a breakup, Ivan realizes his life was not as fullfilling as he had thought. Reaching out to old friends might prove to be a slow task with interesting outcomes.

Chapter preview: Yao sighed, peering over to the kitchen, he gasped and hurried inside. “How did you set my teapot on fire?”

Ivan could hear Arthur’s alarmed voice and the water tap running. “I don’t know.”

He approached the kitchen, the smell of smoke was stronger and he found Arthur frowning alongside Yao inspecting the blackened teapot.

The brown haired man huffed, leaving the teapot on the sink. “Stop burning things, Alfred is not around, so you can quit gaining his attention.”

“It was an accident and I asked for help, neither of you seemed to notice, are you deaf?”

“You are banned from my kitchen, now. Go and commit arson on your boyfriend’s house, he can manage the fires quickly.”

Ivan let out a laugh. “I am totally going to tell Alfred about this.”

Scrolling down memes on his phone, Ivan glanced at the hour, he had spent at least half an hour just looking at his phone, on the back of his head, deep inside, he knew that he was delaying the inevitable.

He typed out a simple ‘hello’ before erasing it, why was it so hard to start a conversation? Alfred would just send him a random picture and they would talk about it or start a string of random pictures, but now, Ivan found it difficult to send a simple greeting to Yao. What should he say? What if he was busy?

He managed to gather enough words to form a coherent greeting alongside the question of ‘What are you up to?’

Dread invaded him instantly after he sent it. Perhaps that was too vague, or too informal. He sighed, setting the phone aside, it was done and he couldn’t take the message back, that was better, he’d be overthinking the whole day anyways.

This day, he was less worried about the nonexistent alarm that set off in his mind in the mornings, and more focused on the little pang of guilt that told him that he was wasting his time.

He took a breath, reminding himself that he was on vacation, he had nothing to worry about besides his cat and trying not to be a burden to Katya, whom unlike him, had left earlier to give off her classes.

He played for a while with his cat, the entertainment was short as Boris decided it was better to lie on his side instead of hunting the toy, Ivan poked a bit at the fluffy cat to make him move again but it didn’t budge, wiggling its tail.

The day passed rather slowly, Ivan had tried not to go out, not wanting to spend the time by himself in the park again, though the prospect of finding Yao again crossed his mind, he figured the man would be working just as Katya was.

Of course he was, that was probably why he couldn’t answer. Ivan sighed, why did he have to keep worrying about it? this was what he hated about being alone, his thoughts would be nagging at him, he had to find something to do or he would be anxious about a message the whole day.

He sighed, focusing on the lonely plant by the window, he searched around the house, finding some paints. It was time to stop delaying his task and deliver that child’s project.

The base was fairly easy if he remembered well, the background was mostly blue with some clouds around. What worried him was the boat, as he wasn’t used to painting at all, and well, he’d never made a decent boat.

He left the pot aside so the blue paint could dry, perhaps he could ask for help with it later.

Ivan glanced at the clock again, time had passed and Katya would probably arrive soon but he couldn’t help but feel a bit annoyed at the passiveness of his day.

His phone buzzed, taking him out of his thoughts. The short message displayed made him pause.

“Hi, sorry, I forgot my phone, I’ve just headed back from work. Do you want to come to my house?”

Ivan had to double check his phone.Firstly, to make sure that it was in fact a message coming from Yao, and secondly, to process the question.

Another message appeared.

“Are you busy?”

Ivan smiled, it’s not like he had anything better to do and at this point he’d be delighted to busy himself with anything.

Feeling less awkward he replied. “Not really, I was trying to paint the boat on the flower pot but I am failing at it. Anyway, yeah it’d be nice to talk”

“In that case, bring it with you, I’ll help. Let’s meet at the park, I have to see Arthur there.”

Ivan pondered for a moment giving out an affirmative reply, he wrote a note to Katya so she wouldn’t worry, grabbed a coat, the flower pot and left.

Once in the park, he went to buy some pastries, it would be mean to present himself empty handed, right? He even got another bottle of wine, to replace the one from yesterday. The cashier handed him everything on a paper bag that he carried quite difficulty.

He sat outside on the same bench, it was indeed a nice place. He could see Arthur and Yao approaching, both of them were wrapped with scarves and heavy coats, the latter was holding two cups of hot coffee.

Yao handed him one of the cups. “I’m so sorry, How long have you been waiting?”

Ivan shrugged, taking the beverage. “Not much.”

“For real, you can be as petty as you want, it was Arthur’s fault that we were held back.”

Arthur, groaned, taking a sip of his own drink. “I only said that they didn’t know how to make iced tea, I thought it was obvious.”

“The barista didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“If they want to make iced tea, they have to make tea, let it cool and add the ice. Not use that horrible mix with water.” The Englishman frowned, observing his drink. “At least they make good coffee.”

“Not really.” Yao let off a huff, ushering them to follow. “Anyway, let’s go upstairs, it is freezing down here. Aren’t you cold, Ivan?”

“I’m a bit used to it, it’s more chilly where I live.” Ivan paused, the englishman seemed to notice his hesitation, taking the paper bag and allowing him to finish his coffee and carry the plant.

Ivan walked with them, taking short steps. They questioned him about the city, about his work, his coworkers, Ivan had to suppress his frown at the last topic.

Yao’s apartment was warm, Arthur stepped in casually, making a beeline to the table while Yao took the flower pot from him so he could take off his coat.

Ivan fumbled a bit with his scarf, leaving it on and approaching the table. There were a few stocks of papers and books scattered on it.

Yao laughed nervously. “Sorry for the mess, I was revising some exams last night.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, setting the bag on the table, the Englishman raised an eyebrow and stared at him. “Yao, did you cook Francis’ recipe yesterday?”

The brown haired man nodded, placing the plant on the table. "Yeah, it took me some time and I had to buy wine because he would not leave me alone until I did."

"You let the frog get away with his quirks, he drinks wine with everything. I hope the dish was worth the expensive wine."

"It totally was." Ivan said, regretting his words as Arthur's expression changed into amusement.

Yao retrieved the books from the table, shaking his head. "Stop staring like that, we met at the store and I invited him."

"Sure… that's why you still have exams to grade, right?" The Englishman taunted, holding out one of the papers.

Yao hummed, fumbling with the papers. “You have delayed exams too.”

"True but why did he bring wine?” Arthur smiled, turning his stare at Ivan. “Are you following Francis’ advice or something?"

Ivan tensed a bit, at this point everything he'd say would be used by Arthur to tease them. “It is polite to bring a present when you visit someone’s house.”

“How dare you speak to me about proper manners,” Arthur chuckled, collecting papers from the table. "Yao has a good collection of books and I need to complain about it, you will help me out, right?"

"Not my fault that you burnt yours to get a date." Yao retorted, laying some brushes and paints on the table and taking a seat beside Ivan.

Arthur gasped. "If you keep that cocky grin on your face, I will kick you out."

Ivan watched in awe as Yao took a pencil, tracing swiftly the sketch of a small boat on the flower pot. "This is my house, you can't kick me out. What books do you need?"

The Englishman stood up, observing the books displayed on the shelf. He turned around with a serious expression on his face “Ivan, have you read ´War and peace’?”

“Uh not really, I have a copy laying around but I don’t think I ever finished it.” Ivan shrugged, toying with a brush.

“What keeps you from reading it? Is it the french parts of it?”

“I am actually fluent in french so...” Ivan saw how Arthur’s smile changed into a grimace, had he said something wrong? He quickly added. “I just hadn’t taken the time to actually read it.”

Arthur grabbed a couple of books, taking a seat. “I remember you once delivered a paper about The great Gatsby, it was very interesting though quite weak at the end.”

Ivan glanced at Yao in an attempt to ask for help but the grin the brown haired man held on his face told him that he wouldn’t get any. He laughed nervously. “I barely remember what I ate for breakfast, I don’t think I will recall something I wrote on highschool.”

Yao’s laughter filled the room, Ivan couldn’t help but stare at him, it was not rare to see the chinese smile, but it was certainly pleasant to hear his laugh, he found himself laughing too, Arthur joining as well.

They shared a glass of wine and devoured the pastries, Ivan painted slowly the small boat and answered more of Arthur’s questions, Yao praised his patience every now and then until Arthur left him alone in order to make some tea.

Ivan watched closely as Yao traced details on the little boat skillfully, silence enveloped them as he finished.

Turning back, he could hear Arthur pacing around in the kitchen but he could not see him.

He took a long breath before leaning over the table, just a bit, in order to gain Yao’s attention, the brown haired man set aside the brush, arching an eyebrow.

“When you invited me over, I didn’t think it would end up like this.” Ivan admitted, smiling sheepishly.

Yao tilted his head, a small smirk gracing his face. “Why?”

Ivan fidgeted with his scarf, he didn’t know how he was able to hold his gaze, he felt his face almost burning with embarrassment but he had already dug his grave so he might as well just die on it already, he reached out to take Yao’s hand, and lowered his voice. “Well… for starters, I didn’t think that Arthur would be acompaining us.”

Ivan considered the idea of not coming back to the town when Yao retreated his hand and chuckled, this was like highschool all over again but perhaps ten times worse because he had hoped to be on the right track just once, and now, he dreaded his sole existence.

No matter how much he tried to shrink on himself, to hide under his scarf, he would not disappear from the situation.

His train of thought was stopped or more accurately, smacked back to reality by a soft hand caressing his cheek. He could barely register Yao’s words. “You are fun to tease.”

Ivan nodded slowly, he was doomed, wasn’t he? He wanted nothing but melt on this man’s hands, he knew he was blushing, but this time, he didn’t mind it.

He gathered enough courage to lean forward, barely brushing his lips with the other, Yao’s hand moved to the back of his head, pushing him lightly so their lips met.

“Bloody hell!”

They both flinched back, Ivan had forgotten about Arthur’s existence, a sense of self awareness flared up in him but it didn’t manage to overcome the annoyance he felt. The Englishman was nowhere to be seen.

Yao sighed, peering over to the kitchen, he gasped and hurried inside. “How did you set my teapot on fire?”

Ivan could hear Arthur’s alarmed voice and the water tap running. “I don’t know.”

He approached the kitchen, the smell of smoke was stronger and he found Arthur frowning alongside Yao inspecting the blackened teapot.

The brown haired man huffed, leaving the teapot on the sink. “Stop burning things, Alfred is not around so you can quit gaining his attention.”

“It was an accident and I asked for help, neither of you seemed to notice, are you deaf?”

“You are banned from my kitchen, now. Go and commit arson on your boyfriend’s house, he can manage the fires quickly.”

Ivan let out a laugh. “I am totally going to tell Alfred about this.”

Arthur groaned. “From everyone you could have chosen to embarrass me in front of, it has to be with the one person Alfred has a direct line with, you are the best of friends, Yao.”

Sending pictures of a burnt teapot to Alfred wasn’t the way Ivan thought his night would end but he was delighted by today’s happenings.

Not only could he get another kiss from Yao before leaving, he had asked him out on an actual date, much to the Englishman's amusement, the remarks the latter made after they left Yao’s house weren’t embarrassing anymore.

Ivan had entered a state of sheepish acceptance, if he had to take on Arthur’s teasing in order to date Yao, then so be it.

[anakin-danvers]

say anything

Din Djarin x fem!reader 

gif credit to owner

Request: “Congratulations on 100, lovely! For the prompt lists, how about "One Hundred Ways to Say 'I Love You'" #2 and #48 for my man Din Djarin? I love your writing 💗” as requested by @obirain​

Description: Traveling with the notorious bounty hunter known as The Mandalorian has its risks. However, nobody told you the biggest risk would be having to face your feelings for him. 

Word count: ~3.4k how did this get to be so long? 

Warnings: some angst, pining, fluff, mentions of alcohol consumption

A/N: Ahhh Aubrey I really hope you like this!! You know I love you very very much and your fics always blow me away so I hope this is to your enjoyment!! I’m very excited to have written for our love Din! I had this idea for some time now and decided to write it out with these prompts! Originally I put English words of endearment but then accidentally started using words of endearment in Spanish and I sort of rolled with it? Translation(s) down below 😁 Hope you all enjoy, and as always, lmk what you all think (I read everything you guys write, seriously, multiple times)! 🥰

Translations: cariño - sweetie

vida mia - my life

Taglist:

@mcu-padawan​ @obirain​ @corellians-only​ @valkyrieofthehighfae​ @littlevodika​ @catsnkooks​ @hounding-around​ @roseofalderaan​ @ohhellokenobi​ @goldenkenobi​ @snips-n-skyguy0501​ @cherrykenobi​ @sacred-things​ @nobie​ @anakinswhore​ 

join my taglist!

——

“Hey, put that down!” You reach over to take the canister of homemade paint from the small green hand. 

A babble of protest is all you receive as a response. 

“I told you we could paint if you didn’t make a mess. That was the deal, remember?”

Another babble. The hands reach out again, wanting to take the canister from you. You pull it out of their reach, giving the baby in front of you a stern look. 

“No, no, kid. We’re doing it my way. Got it?”

A squeal serves as a response, and you nod, taking hold of one of the kid’s hands to do what you’d planned on doing. 

“Alright, we’re going to dip your little hand here, okay? Then press it on the wood. We do that 5 more times and hopefully it’ll turn out the way I imagined...”

A childish laugh escapes the kid’s mouth as his hand comes in contact with the blue paint. You hold it up, letting some of the excess paint drip from it before placing it on the wood. After a few seconds pressed, you slowly peel away the blue and green hand, revealing three little fingers on the wood piece. 

“Yes, that looks great. Good job, cariño.”

He gives you a happy coo in response, and you continue to put his hand in the paint to finish the project. After the last hand print, you take a hold of the wood, six, three-fingered hands creating the image of a blue flower. 

“Beautiful. We’ll see if your dad likes it.”

Familiar footsteps come from behind you, and you know their owner can hear your conversation now. 

“Might be good to put some color on this ship. Make it more of a home, don’t you think?” 

The child coo’s at you, his eyes focused on the blue paint on his hand. He doesn’t understand why you’re saying what you are, but then again, it’s not exactly directed to him. 

Wordlessly, the one your words are aimed at passes you, the Razor Crest’s door closing behind him. Once you know his back is to you, you allow your eyes to meet the armored body, traveling up from his boots, to his cape, to the back of the Beskar helmet. 

You avert your gaze, focusing again on the child and art supplies before you. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you say, picking up the kid from his awaiting arms. 

You take him to wash his hands of the paint, putting the wood to the side to dry and the other supplies in your designated art bag. You hum to yourself, the only noise within the ship besides the quiet lull now that the ship is traveling through hyperspace. After cleaning up the kid, you put him to bed, placing a small kiss on his forehead. 

You’ve been traveling with the notorious bounty hunter known as the Mandalorian and his adopted kid for some time now. Din, the name he gave you when you’d asked him in a drunken spark of courage, took you in as a traveling companion and babysitter when they’d stopped by your recently destroyed shop on Agamar. It just so happened to be the bounty that Din was after that had destroyed your shop, so after giving him and the child your last salvaged fruit, you’d helped him track down the bounty. And now you’re here, traveling the galaxy together. 

You step into the cockpit, notebook in one hand and pencil in the other. As before, without a word, you take the seat next to Din, crossing your legs on the seat and opening your notebook to your latest project. If there’s something that living in Agamar gave you it was time, time to think, to daydream, or in your case, draw your thoughts and dreams. When you joined Din and his kid, you only started drawing more, the different things in the galaxy giving you an endless supply of muses. 

But your favorite muse is the one sitting next to you, the one that hadn’t said a word to you since you’d seen him in the morning. As if sensing your thoughts, Din finally speaks. 

“Next stop is Pasanna.” The modulated voice is like music to your ears, and you don’t realized how much you’ve been missing it until now. 

“For a quarry?”

He shakes his head, look still focused on the controls before him. 

“No. I need some parts for the ship, and I know someone there who can sell more durable ones to me.”

You nod, some relief washing over you when you realize Din won’t be in danger. He turns his seat to face you, and the simple view of the front of his helmet makes your heart skip a beat. 

“It’s warm there. I was thinking, maybe you can take the kid and explore. Visit some shops even.”

It’s warm there. It’s a simple statement to anyone, but to you, it means everything. Agamar is not a warm place, and having spent all your life there, you now prefer warmer climates. And Din knows that. 

You can’t stop the smile that makes its way to your face. 

“That sounds great, Din. I’d love that.”

“I thought you would,” he says, and you can feel the tips of your ears warm at his words. 

Without realizing it, you move your notebook to hide the page you’re working on. Din has seen your drawings before, praised them even. But this drawing, it’s more personal, something you’re not sure you’re ready to share yet. 

Thankfully, it seems as if Din doesn’t notice. Instead, his visor is directed towards your face. Even though you’re not able to see his eyes, the eyes you’ve only dreamt about seeing, you can feel his stare.

“You have some paint on your cheek.”

“Oh, I do?” You move your eyes away from him, a flustered mess before him. You bring your hand up to your cheek, trying to wipe away at where you think the paint is. 

“Y/N, let me. I’ll do it for you.”

You couldn’t protest if you wanted to, because the moment his hand comes up to take a hold of your cheek you weren’t wiping, you freeze. 

It’s not the first time he’s touched you. Living together for the past months meant you’d have to have touched each other before. The occasional brush of hands, the bumping into each other, the helping each other onto the ship after a long day. No, it’s not the first time he’s touched you. But it’s the first time he’s touched you like this. 

His gloved thumb swipes at your cheek, once, twice, three times before you’re sure he’s taken the paint off. But his hand remains holding you, almost as if you’d crumble like the dried paint if it pulled away. And honestly, with the way your heart is thumping, that might be the case. 

A small sigh escapes your lips, and you try to fight the need to close your eyes, to no avail. Your eyes close lightly, and the feelings you’ve been having for Din come rushing to you. If there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s that your late night confessions are almost as dangerous as your drunken ones, and right now, you’re treading on thin ice. 

“Din...” The name rolls out of your mouth as a plea, and you feel a shiver run down your body. “I...I need to tell you something, Din.”

“I think you need to rest.”

You open your eyes at his words, a small frown making its way to your face. 

“But first I have to say something.”

His hand stays on your face, his thumb moving up to rub on the frown of your brows. 

“You don’t have to say anything.”

Don’t have to say anything? Does that mean he knows?

“Din, I —“

“Please, Y/N, don’t say anything.”

And just like that, it feels as if the once comforting hand burns your skin. You pull your face away, his hand dropping. Before you feel like more of a fool, you get up, closing your notebook and tucking it under your arm. 

“Wait, you don’t have to go.” Din makes a move to grab your hand, but you’re out of his reach before he can. 

“Goodnight.”

“Y/N...”

You leave the cockpit without another word. You feel your face burn in embarrassment, embarrassment for how vulnerable you allowed yourself to be. Embarrassment for almost telling Din how you feel. 

It isn’t until you’re in your cot that you let a few tears roll down your cheeks. You almost told him. Not that it would have any effect. It seems he knows already. But he doesn’t want you to tell him.

You bring your hand up to wipe the wetness of your cheeks. In an attempt to distract your mind, you open your notebook to draw. Only, you open it to the page you’d been working on. And staring back at you is the helmet that fills your day's thoughts. Of course, the moment you want to not think of Din, you open up your sketch of him.

Taking a deep breath, you flip the page, blankness staring back at you instead. Without another thought, you flip back to the drawing, your pencil coming down to continue defining the curve of his helmet. It moves on to sketch the shape of his arms, the flow of his cape, the curve of his boots. Before you know it, you’ve finished the sketch. You’re not going to deny how good it is. It’s so accurate, and all by memory. 

I’ve stared at him long enough, I would be surprised if I didn’t sketch this by memory, you think. 

You close your eyes and rub them, the tiredness getting to you. Closing the notebook, you tuck it into the bag of your other art supplies, and settle into your bed, letting the darkness of sleep consume you. 

~~~

As you feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, you’re sure you’ll never get tired of the feeling. The comfort that comes with the sun’s warmth is one you’ll always cherish. And you’ll always be thankful that Din is the one that introduced you to that comfort.

An excited babble from the kid brings you back from your thoughts. You look over at where he’s following Din in his pod. You can’t help but smile at the sight, the warmth blooming in your chest better than the one coming from the sun. At Din’s insistence, he and the kid had gone to look for the ship parts so that you could get some time to wander the shops alone. That was a little over an hour ago, and now they found you near where you had departed.

You swing the backpack of things you’d bought over your shoulders, walking over to meet them halfway.

“Hey, cariño,” you say, reaching out to grab the little green bundle of joy. A happy giggle is given to you in response, and you pull him close to you.

“He missed his mom.”

You look over at Din, your cheeks burning at his choice of words. His mom. That was the first time you’d been called that.

“Well, I missed him and his dad very much.” Your eyes are focused on the kid, his smile grounding you as you feel the heat travel all the way up to your ears. You’re not looking at Din, you can’t look at him. After last night, you feel as if you’re setting yourself up for heartbreak. He doesn’t want you to tell him how you feel, yet, you bring it up again.

Silence is all you receive as a response from him. In a way, you’re thankful for it. At least that way you can concentrate on the baby talk instead.

And that’s how the rest of the walk to the Razor Crest is. You opt to carry the kid, talking with him the whole walk. Din is silent behind the two of you, the only indicator that he’s even there is the sound of his boots trudging in the sand.

Night is beginning to fall, and for how warm it was in the day, the night brings with it a chilling breeze. You’ve decided to stay in Pasanna until the morning. It was your suggestion, telling Din that there was no rush to your next destination, so might as well get some good rest. He’d agreed, little words exchanged between the two of you throughout the day, the tension from whatever that was which happened the night before still evidently present.

You’re sitting in the pilot chair of the Razor Crest. The kid is fast asleep, the day’s exploring having tired him out. You, on the other hand, can’t sleep, your thoughts flying through your mind at hundreds of parsecs per second. 

Your eyes wander to the many buttons and switches on the control panel of the ship. You know how to use most of them, Din showing you how to use a feature on nights you’d both find yourselves in the cockpit. Usually, you’d sit in the seat slightly behind him, allowing him to sit in the main seat. But when he wanted to teach you a new feature, he’d let you take his seat, crouching next to you, so close, so patient when you were confused. To be fair, most of the times you were confused were due to him; he distracted you, the proximity never ceasing to take your breath away.

The protagonist of your thoughts is the one who takes you from them. You hear Din walk into the cockpit, the sound of his footsteps instantly catching your attention in the otherwise silent space. Impulsively, you turn to look at him, his visor already set on you.

“Din.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” You’re not sure if it’s a question or a statement, but you nod anyways. Your hands begin to clam up, prompting you to rub your hands on your thighs.

“I had a nice time today. I...I appreciate you choosing to come to Pasanna. The warmth was nice.”

He takes a seat in your usual spot, a sigh heard through his modulator. It’s ironic, in a way. You’re sitting in the pilot’s seat, him in the secondary, but it doesn’t feel like you’re the one in control of the situation. No, it feels like you’re the ship itself, waiting for his directions to tell you where to go from here.

He doesn’t say anything, simply nods as a response. Since you’ve known Din, you’ve never seen him without his helmet on, and you’ve never questioned it. But you’d be lying if you didn’t wish you could see his face right now, the face that you’re sure is more beautiful than the way you could ever imagine it. You wish you could see his expressions to try to decipher his thoughts, know where exactly his eyes are focused on. Is it your forehead? Your nose? Perhaps directly at your eyes?

“I...I picked up a few things for you at the market.”

You blink a few times to once again refocus on the present. Only now do you notice he’s holding something, a rectangular object wrapped in sand brown cloth. 

“Oh?” You’re not really sure what else to say, his actions foreign to you.

He gets up to walk to where you’re sitting, crouching in front of you and holding the wrapped object over. You take it from him, curiosity filling you at the anticipation of what this is. Your fingers unwrap the lightly bound cloth, revealing a simple wooden box. You look up at Din, and at his nod, you move to open it. At the contents inside, you gasp. Within the box, there are paint brushes, beautifully crafted ones of different sizes. And next to the brushes are a few small pots of paint. Real paint. Not the homemade one that you’ve been making work. No, this is real paint and it’s yours...

“It reminded me of you.” 

At his words, you look up to meet his visor again. Now you really wish you could see his eyes. Try to get some idea as to what he’s thinking, where he’s looking. Is he looking at the confusion written on your face? Is he looking at the way your eyes suddenly feel wet with emotion? Is he looking at the faint frown of your brow? 

Turns out he’s looking at your lips. They’re slightly parted, the absence of words leaving them in a waiting state. His gloved hand comes to take a hold of your chin, thumb swiping your bottom lip. All air leaves your lungs, and your tongue darts out to lick your lips to try to ease the dryness of mouth you’re experiencing. You hear Din let out a small groan at your actions, the sound only making your heartbeat speed up even more. 

“I’ve seen your drawings.”

At his words, you feel heat rush up to your face. Has he seen the ones you’ve drawn of him? 

“Have you seen…” You can’t even bring yourself to ask the question. 

He nods. “The ones of me? I have seen them. You’re not the best at being discreet about it, you know?”

“Well, with such a beautiful muse, can you judge me?” You don’t realize what you’ve said until the words are out of your mouth. “Din…I—“

“Y/N, about last night—”

“You d-don’t have to say anything.” You try to repeat his words from the night before with the same coolness he’d said them, but find you can’t with the way he makes you feel. 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says, sighing lightly. His thumb comes up to touch your lip again, staying on it this time. “I’m just...I don’t know what this is. I’m not good with words, you know that. I just need you to know I care about you, I have for a long time. And I need you in my life. You and the kid, you’re all that matters to me.” 

Taking a shaky breath, you bring your hands up to grab the one he’s holding your face with. Slowly, as if you’d frighten him with faster movements, you bring his hand away from your face, taking a hold of the glove and peeling it off his hand. Closing your eyes, you bring his hand up to your lips, kissing each finger. His thumb, his index, his middle, his ring, his pinky. Then you kiss his knuckles, again, one at a time. You don’t open your eyes until you’re done, meeting his visor staring back at you. 

“I love you, Din, mi vida.”

And indeed he is your life. Him and the kid, just like he’d said. 

“Close your eyes again.”

You do as he says, eyes closing but not letting go of his hand. He moves it away from you, putting your hands on your lap and bringing his up to cover your eyes. You hear the sound of something being placed on the ground, and before you can ask what it is, you feel lips connect with your own. They’re soft, warm. They’re Din’s. 

He kisses you softly, and you can feel the caution behind it. He’s being careful, waiting to see how you react. 

You can’t get enough of the feeling. Your hands fly up to take a hold of his head, bringing him closer to you and causing him to kneel instead of crouch. Din groans softly at your eagerness, his other hand coming to take a hold of your thigh. His large hand rubs up and down, all while your fingers comb through his hair. 

His hair. His lips. You’re feeling what you never thought you would. And it feels so right. 

The thought alone makes the fire burning inside you grow, and before you know it, you’re nipping lightly at his bottom lip. Another groan escapes Din, his hand on your thigh squeezing lightly. It’s your need for air that causes you to pull away, your eyes still shut tightly under his hand. 

You wait there, heart beating, face warm, swollen lips tingling. When Din removes his hand from your eyes, you keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see anything he doesn’t want to show. 

“You can open your eyes, sweet girl.”

You do, eyes meeting with the familiar visor once again. You can’t help but smile, a breathy laugh escaping your lips. 

“I love you,” you say again. 

“I love you too. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

That night, you sleep in Din’s cot with him. It’s small, and definitely not meant for two people. But it’s the most comfortable sleep you’ve ever had.

[emy-loves-you]

Wrong Numbers and Useless Gays Chapter 9

Merry Christmas!

Chapter 8 | Masterlist | Chapter 10

Warnings: Crying, Virgil getting teased for basically being a sugar daddy, Logan attempting to deny his ever-growing chocolate addiction

P- (10:00 AM) Happy First Day of Christmas!

R- (10:01 AM) On the First Day of Christmas my true love gave to me

R- (10:01 AM) A Partridge in a Pear Tree

V- (10:02 AM) Okay first of all the 12 days of Christmas are December 25th to January 5th. The partridge is supposed to represent Jesus, whose birthday marks the 1st day.

V- (10:02 AM) Second of all, why isn’t Logan pointing out that Christmas is in 24 days, like he did with me for Halloween?

L- (10:03 AM) No comment.

R- (10:03 AM) Didn’t strike you for the religious type, storm cloud. And Logan won’t say anything because he gets a homemade chocolate Christmas calendar.

V- (10:04 AM) I had a very religious English teacher. And seriously, Lo? I gave you chocolate weekly and you STILL reprimanded my “Days of Halloween” until the chocolate bouquet. How much chocolate are they giving you?

L- (10:04 AM) No. Comment.

P- (10:05 AM) [*Photo attachment*]

[The photo is of a giant wooden calendar leading up to December 25th. It’s painted white with red doors covering the days. It’s obviously been used for many years. The 1st day is open, and there is a gallon-sized container of truffles next to the calendar. The container is half-empty]

V- (10:06 AM) L, please tell me you didn’t just eat half that container of truffles in 5 minutes.

L- (10:06 AM) NO. COMMENT.

R- (10:06 AM) He did it in 3.

L- (10:06 AM) TRAITOR!

V- (10:07 AM) IF YOU’RE THAT ADDICTED TO CHOCOLATE WHY WERE YOU MAD ABOUT THE BOUQUETS?!?!

L- (10:07 AM) BECAUSE I’M PRETTY SURE YOU SPENT $150 ON THEM!

V- (10:07 AM) IT WAS $118!

P- (10:08 AM) Kiddo, you don’t have to spend that much money on us!

V- (10:08 AM) I know, but it makes me really happy to spoil you guys!

V- (10:08 AM) Speaking of which, what do you guys want for Christmas?

R- (10:09 AM) Give us a moment

R- (10:09 AM) Last time you asked this I jokingly said “Katana” and you actually BOUGHT ONE

R- (10:09 AM) Now we actually have to think about what we want.

Virgil snorted, pocketing his phone. He didn’t have anything planned for today, so he went about sketching. He decided to do some elaborate snowflakes, each with their own unique design. He felt his phone go off several times in a row, so he quickly picked it up and scrolled through Princey’s rant.

R- (10:15 AM) We have made our decisions

R- (10:15 AM) Patton would like one of your more elaborate sketches. Something that makes you smile. If you need to buy him something, he would greatly appreciate some new cooking supplies or some stuffed animals.

R- (10:15 AM) Logan would like a new telescope. His original one broke a few days ago and he hasn’t found the time to get a new one. Some chocolate would also be appreciated.

R- (10:15 AM) And I would like a new set of headphones and anything Disney related.

R- (10:16 AM) But if you are going to buy anything for us, please let us return the favor. I understand your desire to not meet, but the thought of you giving us gifts with nothing in return is pure torture.

Virgil bit his lip, a habit he’d quickly developed after he met these guys. He’s already known them for over 6 months, and they’ve shown no signs of recognizing him or trying to use him. In fact, they’ve done the exact opposite. They respect his want to remain faceless; and while they do like the gifts that he gives them, they discourage him from spending more than he’s comfortable with (what they don’t realize is that he’d try and buy them the world if they asked for it). Virgil sighed (another habit that he's started partaking in more and more) and sent a quick response.

V- (10:17 AM) If I send you my address, do you promise to not try and come over while I’m home?

R- (10:17 AM) We swear on our honor that we will only visit when you are not home, and even then it will be to deliver gifts.

Before Virgil could second-guess himself, he already had his address in the group chat.

P- (10:18 AM) I didn’t realize you lived so close to us, Kiddo!

L- (10:18 AM) Indeed. I have also yet to meet anyone in this city named Virgil.

V- (10:19 AM) Yeah, I don’t really get out much and even then I don’t share my name.

R- (10:19 AM) Well, now that we have a place to send gifts, here comes the question: what would you like for Christmas, JDelightful?

V- (10:21 AM) I mean, new art supplies would be nice. If it helps, I love Nightmare Before Christmas and my favorite colors are black and purple

R- (10:21 AM) Alright, Storm Cloud. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to deliver your gifts!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(December 18th)

“Remus, Darling, what is that monstrosity in your hands?”

Virgil looked up from his map. They were currently in Aventura Mall, the largest shopping mall in Florida. They liked to come here every year for Christmas shopping, and they had a small set of stores that they went to each time. But Virgil had a longer list this year, so he needed a map to tell him where the other stores were. In front of him stood Janus and Remus. Remus appeared to be holding a pile of condiments. “It’s a hotdog,” he said. He took a bite out of the top, clearly missing the hotdog. Virgil noticed that the inside of the condiment pile was white, and he couldn’t tell if it was mayonnaise, marshmallow fluff, sour cream, or whipped cream. Knowing Remus, it could be any of them, or even a combination of the four. Virgil suddenly wasn’t curious anymore, or hungry.

“Come on, the first store’s just up ahead.” They made their way to the first store, which had one of Virgil’s gifts for Patton.

“Virgil, why are we stopping here? It’s not like we have a very specific set of stores we visit every year.”

Virgil’s eyes were suddenly glued to the sale in front of him, his cheeks bright red. “I just have a few more items on my list this year, that’s all.”

“Oh? May we see?” Virgil nodded, covering the section for Janus and Remus’ gifts before showing them his list.

They stared at the list for a while before Remus burst into giggles. “You really are their Sugar Daddy, aren’t ya?”

Virgil’s face grew even redder, if possible. He quickly turned back to the sale, grabbing what he wanted before making a beeline to the next aisle. “Shut up, Remus. I just like buying stuff for them, that’s all.”

“Right, and that’s definitely not the literal definition of a Sugar Daddy.” Janus replied, picking up one of the items in fake interest. Virgil was going to respond, he really was, but he got a text and he’d rather talk to his crushes than try and explain himself to these knuckleheads.

P- (2:36 PM) Hey, Kiddo! Are you home right now?

V- (2:37 PM) No, I’m at the mall right now. Probably won’t be home until around 8.

P- (2:37 PM) Alright, just wondering! Have a nice time!

Virgil fondly rolled his eyes, going back to the items on his list. The list wasn’t long enough for 5 hours worth of shopping, but Janus will probably want him to come over after their trip. Speaking of Janus, Virgil tuned out the giggling idiots behind him. He’d try and dissuade them from making “Sugar Daddy” comments later; right now, he needed to compare these prices.

Just as Virgil expected, they finished shopping at around 5 and Janus insisted that Virgil stay over for a while. Virgil tried to be as dramatic as possible, summoning his inner Princey as he ‘begrudgingly’ agreed to come over. They hung out for a few more hours, making snarky comments and discussing Virgil’s new “Sugar Daddy” title. Time flew by and before Virgil knew it, he was getting a text from Patton.

P- (7:34 PM) Hey, Kiddo! I just dropped off a box on your back porch. It has wrapped presents from the three of us and my homemade chicken n’ dumplings! I hope you enjoy them (we’re eating them on Christmas Eve) and don’t open your presents until Christmas morning! Hope you like them!

V- (7:35 PM) I’m sure I will, Patton. Thank you

P- (7:35 PM) No problem, Kiddo!

Virgil asked Janus to give him a ride home and sure enough, a large box stood on his back porch. Inside were three wrapped gifts and a closed Tupperware container. Virgil quickly brought the box inside, putting the container in the fridge and the presents under the tree. The three presents were the same size, with red, blue or silver wrapping paper. It was quite obvious who each gift was from, and they were probably all in the same standard boxes. Virgil smiled, going to wrap presents for his crushes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(December 25th)

Virgil woke up to his alarm going off at 10 AM. Which was weird, since he almost always woke up before his alarm went off. His mind went back to last night, with the heavenly taste of chicken n’ dumplings and enough Christmas puns to send Virgil back into a giggle-fest. He slowly got up, meandering his way out to the living room. He quickly sent a text to the group chat.

V- (10:02 AM) Merry Christmas, guys

P- (10:02 AM) MERRY CHRISTMAS, KIDDO!

R- (10:02 AM) MERRY CHRISTMAS, STORM CLOUD!

L- (10:03 AM) Merry Christmas, Virgil.

R- (10:03 AM) Now that you’re up, we can open our presents!

V- (10:03 AM) How long have you guys been up?

L- (10:04 AM) They both woke up at 6 AM. I convinced them to wait for you to wake naturally before opening presents, since most of these gifts were from you.

V- (10:04 AM) Alright, then. Let’s get to opening these gifts.

Virgil decided to wait until the others opened their gifts before opening his. He already knew what he got them, but he had no idea what they got from each other.

R- (10:10 AM) [*Photo Attachment*]

[The photo is of a wrapping paper massacre. In the center of the massacre are a set of gifts. The first one is a red pillow with the name ROMAN embroidered in gold letters, probably from Patton. The next gift is a book about the history of musicals, most likely from Logan. Virgil had gotten him a sleek set of headphones and a stack of Disney t-shirts. The headphones were red with gold stars on the ears and the word PRINCEY written in silver.]

P- (10:11 AM) [*Photo Attachment*]

[The photo is also of a wrapping paper massacre with several presents. There were two Winnie the Pooh posters from Roman and a new cookbook from Logan. From Virgil, there was a set of stainless steel cookware, a light blue stuffed dog, and 4 of Virgil's snowflake sketches. Each snowflake had small details that pertained to a specific person, such as crowns, hearts, stars, and storm clouds.]

L- (10:12 AM) [*Photo Attachment*]

[The photo has all of the wrapping paper neatly set off to the side. There was a navy blue pillow with Logan's name embroidered in silver from Patton. There were several posters of different galaxies from Roman. Virgil had gotten him a large metal telescope and several boxes of chocolate. The telescope was navy blue with silver accents.]

P- (10:12 AM) I LOVE THESE! THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH!

R- (10:12 AM) THESE ARE FANTASTIC! YOU ALL HAVE MY DEEPEST GRATITUDE.

L- (10:13 AM) I also appreciate the gifts, but VIRGIL HOW MUCH DID YOU SPEND?

V- (10:13 AM) No comment ;)

P- (10:14 AM) Did you open your presents, Kiddo?

Virgil turned back to the three boxes, an anxious pit in his stomach. What did they get him? He carefully unwrapped each present. Like he suspected, each present was a standard cardboard box that was taped shut. He turned to Logan's present first. The box contained a new set of art supplies and a sketch pad with a dark purple cover. The first page had a note that read:

"I sincerely enjoy your drawings. The one of the night skies was particularly pleasing. I look forward to seeing more of your art in the future. - Logan"

Virgil blushed at the compliment, turning to Roman's gift. Inside were several Nightmare Before Christmas posters and plushies, with a note explaining that he had bought the posters back in August because "they reminded me of you, storm cloud."

Blushing even more, Virgil turned to Patton's present. When he first opened the box, it looked like a pile of fabric. When he picked it up, however, he was shocked. It was a black hoodie with hand-sewn purple patches. The name “Virgil” was embroidered into one of the patches. Virgil immediately put it on. It was loose and slightly baggy, different from the tight black jacket that he wore as Anxiety. He loved it. Virgil went to text a response when he saw something sticking out of the hoodie pocket. He grabbed the note and felt tears forming in his eyes. It was actually a card, the front saying UR FAM. The inside had a giant heart with the letters ILY. Virgil knew that it was just a pun on family, that this wasn’t actually a confession of love, but a tiny part of him hoped that this meant what he thought it meant.

But he would never tell them that. No, the last thing he wanted was to ruin their friendship. He shakily grabbed his phone and blindly pressed send photo, wanting to send a picture of the gifts like they did. As he angled the camera to show off all of the gifts, he started muttering to himself. “God, these are perfect. It’s all perfect. Goddammit, Virgil, stop crying.” He quickly took the photo and hit send, still misty-eyed from the gifts. Sure, he had gotten gifts from Janus and Remus, but they had never sent such personal gifts, much less heartfelt notes! He quickly wiped his eyes when he felt his phone buzz. He went to check the messages when he felt his heart stop. “Oh Shit.”

V- (10:19 AM) [*Video Sent*]

P- (10:20 AM) Virgil, sweety, why are you crying?

L- (10:20 AM) I believe that Virgil is feeling “emotional.”

R- (10:21 AM) That’s alright, Storm Cloud. There’s nothing wrong with crying when you’re happy! You are happy, right?

Virgil had sent a video. Where he bawled his eyes out and muttered nonsense to the camera. God, Virgil had never wanted to stop existing more than he did now.

V- (10:21 AM) I’m happy, Princey. Embarrassed, but definitely happy.

R- (10:22 AM) No need to feel embarrassed, my Raven. After all, you’ve given us so much over the past few months. Knowing that our gifts made you THAT happy is… quite nice. We care about you, Virgil. It’s nice to be able to show you in ways beyond words.

V- (10:23 AM) Thanks, guys. It means a lot to me.

L- (10:23 AM) It was no issue, Virgil. Now, weren’t you planning on going to your friend’s house today?

V- (10:24 AM) Yeah, I should be going soon. Thanks guys, and Merry Christmas

L- (10:24 AM) Merry Christmas, Virgil.

P- (10:24 AM) Merry Christmas, Kiddo!

R- (10:24 AM) Merry Christmas, Storm Cloud!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist: @bisexualdisaster106 @self-taught-mess @itawalrus @arodynamic-enby @sanderssides-angst

[howdoyousleep3]

you lean into me like you know

A/N: Hi so I’m feeling super wack right now and it’s really hard for me to write or to even get to that point, but this is something I wrote a while back and didn’t have the courage to share and then never finished it entirely to the extent I wanted to. There isn’t explicit smut but it’s implied or glossed over. The vibe I had in my head was very retro, not modern day, “The Outsiders” vibe. It is very different than what I normally post but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I’d love to hear your thoughts. 

After his second year of college Bucky comes home for the summer. His heart desires to stay in the city, yearning for the chaos, but he acknowledges how important it is to come home for his Ma. It’s a mild June morning, air already growing sticky, and it’s the first time Bucky sees Steve Rogers. 

Seeing Steve makes him realize he’s never seen sunlight before. Looking at Steve makes Bucky hopeful again, makes him want to smile, makes him want to be a good person. He’s the most beautiful thing he has ever set his eyes on and Bucky wants to fucking break him. Perfect little Steve Rogers with his rosy cheeks, golden blonde hair, his seemingly-always broken glasses, his full-ride scholarship, and his perfectly-keen artistic eye.

 It’s disgusting.

 Bucky’s pretty sure he’s in love. 

The sight of Steve makes Bucky short of breath and that isn’t even because of the cigarette between his lips. He sucks more nicotine into his lungs to shove down the growing ache in his chest and throws it to the concrete so he can stomp on it like he wants to do his own heart.

Once Bucky sees him coming out of the library that afternoon he sees Steve Rogers everywhere. He most definitely doesn’t blame that on the fact that Steve takes up every empty space in his mind, fantasizing about every which way he can make Steve cry. He sees him in the grocery store, walking down the road, at the local diner; Bucky sees him everywhere and it feels like he is drowning. 

He’s never been in love, not even close, never wanting to do more than fuck and move on. The foreign feeling in his chest and brain makes him comprehend why history is full of people who go mad over love, spend their days mourning, harm themselves, even die, for love. Bucky’s a tough kid. No one messes with Bucky Barnes. But one Steve Rogers is slowly cracking him open and Bucky’s doing what he can to protectively keep all the pieces of himself together.

The first time Bucky talks to Steve is a critical moment. If he’s shattered inside without even having heard Steve’s voice, he can’t imagine what hearing it will do to him. It isn’t planned. Bucky has no warning. He is standing outside the diner sucking down another cigarette, his date for the night (Sherry? Sarah? Stacey? Shit.) waiting far too patiently inside. It’s a decent summer night aside from the rain that’s been meandering down from the sky nearly all day. Bucky registers the bell on the door signifying the entrance or exit of someone, but he has no intention of lifting his head to acknowledge them. People usually like it more when Bucky doesn’t notice them.

“You know those things are awful for you,” a deep voice says to him and he’s ready to square up with the person who belongs to said voice when he looks up and—

Ah fuck.

He’s looking over at Steve, perfect little Steve Rogers. If Bucky felt like he was drowning before, he’s dying now, hanging on by a thread. Bucky opts to not immediately respond and instead takes in the kid and savors the moment. Steve is so small up this close and Bucky wants to squeeze him, wants to hurt him, wants to touch him. He swears he can smell him but that’s incredibly unrealistic given the distance between them and the humidity. 

He can see a smattering of summer freckles starting to form across the bridge of Steve’s proud nose and he aches inside at the sign of youth. He just knows that that smooth creamy skin would bruise like a peach, all sweet, under Bucky’s chaotic grip. Bucky’s palms begin to sweat and once again he finds himself flicking the butt of his cigarette to the ground, blowing out smoke into the heavy air between them, smashing and grinding what’s left of the cigarette unnecessarily into the pavement beneath his feet.

“No shit, kid,” Bucky manages to bite out before heading back inside the diner, narrowly avoiding brushing shoulders with Steve, bell ringing, hands shaking, breaths rushing. Bucky’s core, his equilibrium, have completely been compromised. If Bucky imagines that the body beneath him later that night, the one he’s fucking into, is comprised of bony joints, a strong jaw, and eyes that take him to oceans he’ll never in his life visit, he can’t be blamed. This is Steve Roger’s fault.

The next time Bucky talks to Steve he is more prepared. He knows it’s coming because he is the one who initiates the brief conversation. He needs to get his feet back under him, needs to be the one with the upper hand, needs to hear Steve Rogers’ disproportionately husky voice hit his ears again. 

He finds himself at the local market indecently early all because his Ma wants fresh green beans from Mr. Walter. He is very aware of the fact that Steve sells his art at a rickety old table, simplistic and pure, sitting behind it all in a near-broken wooden chair. He’s so compact that the splintered chair sees no strain and Bucky’s heart does that achy pull when his eyes land on him. He swears to himself he’s in one of those romance films they show at the drive-in on weekdays for cheap. It makes him nauseous.

He pretends to pick and sort through a barrel of peaches, fingers barely detecting the fuzziness of their skin, eyes trained on the soft blonde. Steve Rogers looks just that, so soft, so gentle, plain white t-shirt and faded jeans, knees tucked to his chest to balance the worn sketchbook on them. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to feel pain, to counterbalance the warm twinge beneath his ribs but it barely works. Bucky realizes with a wave of panic that he could watch Steve Rogers draw and sketch and focus for the rest of his life.

Bucky has a plan, knows what he is going to say, can only hope what little Steve Rogers replies with. Thick shaky legs take him right up to Steve’s table and before his lips can even part the wind gets knocked right fuckin’ out of him. His words die on his tongue as his eyes rove over the worst thing he could have ever seen—himself.

Amongst all the sketches and drawings, even a painting, there to the left lies a rough sketch of Bucky. He’s standing outside the diner, the point of view of the sketch drawn from within it, and a cigarette hangs between his lips. He looks brooding, dark on the paper, side profile gutting. He’s never seen these emotions splayed across his face before and how dare Steve Rogers, of all fucking people, showcase it to the world.

His brain tries to catch up with his limbs and mouth as he listens to himself mumble, “What the fuck, Rogers?”, fingers reaching to touch at the paper reverently. That wasn’t what Bucky was supposed to say. Bucky’s supposed to make Steve Rogers blush and stammer, conceal an erection, think about Bucky when he closes his eyes at night. He gets the blush and stammer, cerulean eyes wide as he damn near falls out of his seat in an attempt to snatch the sketch from Bucky’s reach and view.

“Fuck, I didn’t…Bucky…” he mumbles and a noise bubbles up in Bucky’s chest at Steve saying his name. Steve is quick but Bucky is quicker, pulling the sketch out of reach. Steve’s small arms are no match for Bucky’s longer ones. Bucky takes a second to appreciate the sketch up close before blinking over at Steve who looks like he is about to burst into tears. He’s fidgeting where he stands, arms crossed over his wisp of a chest, both face and neck a splotchy red mess. His eyes are downcast and Bucky can actually hear Steve wheezing. Bucky wants to wrap him up in his arms and kiss his cheek, to press his lips right there on Steve’s temple like he’s almost damn sure would make him blush. Bucky has absolutely not ever done that or felt this way before. His fingers twitch.

“How much?”

Bucky watches as Steve’s head shoots up, a look of sheer surprise and embarrassment flowing over his features. He stammers and chokes on his words, the strong crease between his brows prominent.

“Fucking Christ, Rogers—how much?” Bucky says in as much aggravation as he can muster, which is a miracle considering his veins feel like thick honey full of adoration. Steve quickly shakes his head feverishly.

“No, it’s…no. Nothing, s’free.” He still won’t look up at Bucky, picking at the hem of his shirt, and Bucky already wishes he could see those eyes again. How can he long for something, someone, when they’re right in front of him?

“I-I usually sell them for like…t-twenty dollars. It’s cool though, I—”

Bucky raises his hand dismissively, Steve snapping his mouth shut with a click, and he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He tugs out a fifty-dollar bill and tosses it on the table. Steve doesn’t look up at him. Bucky wants to cradle the sketch close to his chest, to show it to the world, to frame it in glass and get it signed. Instead he turns and says, “See ya later, kid,” and walks away. 

He walks away a fluster of emotions. 

He’s still uneasy and off-balance, angry, but his entire being feels like it’s letting out a sigh of relief. Bucky refuses to think of why his thoughts are forming the way that they are and instead folds up the sketch and places it in his back pocket with shaky hands. He’ll keep it on the table next to his bed and smooth out its creases as he looks over it every night before he sleeps. Bucky doesn’t think about how it’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for him. 

[agentofscifi]

Super Genius Ch. 3

I march my way through the complex, ignoring the stares off all of the Avengers. My Dad is biting into a bagel as I stop next to him. He swallows quickly. “Happy Birthday Kiddo!”  

I feel my eye twitch. “Peter, Peni, Miles, Anya, and Gwen have all been bitten by radioactive spiders. MJ and Ned seem to be some sort of Superhero backup. Riri and Harley recreated your tech in garages. Are any of these kids normal?”  

My Dad flushes. “How’s you find out?”  

“Peter got surprised, jumped, landed on the ceiling and then stayed there! This is not normal!”  

My Dad opens and closes his mouth. “I can explain!”  

I raise an eyebrow. “Explain what? How every one of your new interns is either helping a superhero, is a superhero, or is on their way to being a Superhero? What is this, the Junior Avengers?”  

My Dad rolls his eyes. “I haven’t coined a name yet, and don’t you mean everyone but you?”  

I raise an eyebrow. “Maybe.” It didn’t matter as much now. My parents in France were told about me being Ladybug after I became the Guardian. The kids all already knew. Harley had looked in my bag for my charging cord last night only to find Tikki. This would be when Peter freaked out and got stuck on the ceiling. Giant talking bugs were not normal in New York, according to Peter. Either way, my superhero ID had already known to the rest of the kids.  

My Dad does a double take. “What does “maybe” mean?”  

I shrug. “Maybe means that I was given a pair of magical earrings with a tiny goddess that’s attached to them when I was 12 and that I’ve been fighting a magical terrorist for the past 3 years while in Paris.”  

Everyone is looking at me once again. My Father is blinking rapidly. “This is a joke, right?”  

Tikki suddenly pops up in the air next to me. “Hi, I’m Tikki! I’m the Ladybug Kawami.”  

A disheveled Clint looks up from his cup of coffee before slowly grabbing a newspaper and rolling it up. “Stark, don’t move. There’s a giant floating bug.”  

I reach forward and snatch the newspaper from his hand. “She’s a goddess.”  

Clint closes his eyes slowly. “So, no huge bug bites from the giant floating bug goddess?”  

I resist the urge to facepalm. “No, there won’t be any bug bites. Drink your coffee.” Clint nods and slowly starts to sip on his coffee again.  

My Dad clears his throat. “Magical terrorist?”  

“Who uses evil butterflies to possess people.”  

My Dad stares at me then looks to the ceiling. “FRIDAY? Is my daughter on drugs?”  

“No, Mr. Stark. Further research has turned up a few blogs and news articles speaking of Ladybug, Chat Noir, and several other heroes fighting a Hawkmoth and Mayura.”  

My Dad furrows his brow. “Is Paris on drugs?”  

I roll my eyes. “No, Dad. This is not the point. Are you, or are you not, starting some kind of Junior Justice League?”  

My father gives me a playful glare. “Mari, you know me. I’m just mentoring.”  

“So you are starting a Junior Justice League.” I throw my hands into the air. “You have got to be kidding me!”  

“Marinette!” My Dad is whining now, like a child.  

I roll my eyes and decide to skip out on the rest of my questions involving my Father’s collection of teenage superheroes. “Dinner with Pepper, Rodney, and Happy tonight?”  

He smiles. “Of course, at your favorite restaurant!”  

I peak him on the cheek. “Love you Dad!” I twist around on my heels and hit the button for the elevator.  

Sam blinks as I step into the elevator. Tikki waves at Sam, who hesitantly waves back. “What’s with the floating giant bug in the elevator?”  

“The tiny goddess attached to Tony’s kid’s earrings that she used to fight a magical terrorist in France that’s possessing people with butterflies.” Natasha leans back in her seat, sipping on a cup of coffee.  

Sam rubs his eyes and looks back at Tikki, who is still waving cheekily. “I’m going back to bed.”  

The elevator door closes as Sam turns back around to go to bed.  

A few seconds later I end up back in the Teen living room. Harley looks up as I walk back in. “So, are we the Junior Justice League?”  

“Yup. You guys ready for today?”  

Ned briefly throws his hands up in the air. “5 Days of Star Wars in less than 24 hours!”  

MJ rolls her eyes as she finishes up the shopping list. “It’s 7 days Ned. We need to sleep.”  

“Sleep is for the weak!” Peni sitting on top of her robot, her spider resting on her shoulder.  

Anya sighs and runs a hand over her face. “I cannot believe I am doing this.”  

My mouth splits wide open. “Doing what Anya? Adding an AI to the Avengers Tower, freeing ourselves of the Baby Monitors, and rebelling form the man upstairs.”  

Gwen looks over the back of the couch with a raised eyebrow. “Is the man your father?”  

“Yes and if he was in my shoes, he’d be doing the exact same thing.”  

Gwen shrugs. “Probably.”  

“I’m sorry!” Peter looks around at all of us. “Are we all just going to go with the tiny goddess living in our...apartment, the girl with magical earrings, and the terrorist in Paris with magical butterflies possessing people?”  

“Peter,” Miles looks up from the sketch book in his hand. “There's a wizard with a semi-sentiate cape living in New York. The tiny goddess makes more sense than the cape. The evil butterflies, I’ll give you that. That’s just weird.”  

I click my tongue. “Says the kid who developed invisibility after being bitten by a spider. That’s weird.”  

Miles holds his hands up. “Agree to disagree.” He reaches down and holds up his paper. It was done in colored pencil, but was drawn as if it was spray painted. It was a large yin-yang symbol, however, a spider sat in the Yin circle of the Yang side and the arc reactor symbol sat in the Yang circle of the Yin side. “What do you think?”  

“I think we need to add spray paint to the shopping list. We have our symbol of rebellion.”  

Harley shrugs again. “Or the symbol of our Junior Avengers?”  

Riri glares up at Harley. “Way to ruin the moment, country boy.”  

Back in Paris  

Lila’s POV  

Alya squeals as Miss. Bustier smiles before the collection of students. Technically, Lycée was out for the year, but after months of fundraising and paperwork, the Akuma Class of Lycée Françoise Dupont was attending the International Technology Showcase in Washington D.C. in 2 months. A sizable anonymous donation was sent to the school. I had already spun a story telling all of my sheep that Tony Stark sent the money so that we could see the Showcase in D.C.  

Max had already planned on attending the showcase this summer, as he was showing off a computer program of his. With the announcement that the school would be covering the rest of the trip, several other students in the class were considering adding their own inventions to the showcase. I would have to whip something up and then maybe I’d be able to catch the eye of someone at the showcase. Science wasn’t where I wanted to end up, but winning some award at a huge competition for a bunch of nerds would look great on my portfolio.  

I give a loud sigh. “This sounds great, but unfortunately, my designs went missing. I had this amazing idea that I worked out with Tony Stark. The equations and blueprints disappeared out of my bag on the last day of school.” 3, 2, 1, and!  

Alya gasps. “I bet it was Marinette, just like your laptop Lila!”  

“Did you ever go to the police, Lila?” Rose is giving me one of those obnoxious smiles.  

“I tried, but since I didn’t have any proof, they said they couldn’t do much. Marinette must have reset the tablet.” I give a few sniffs as the class tries to comfort me.  

“You know, I bet if we told Marinette’s parents they’d believe us!” Alya stands up from the benches just outside the school. “I bet they’ll force Marientte to give back Lila’s laptop.”  

A brief wave of shock rolls over me. That was something I hadn’t considered yet, turning Ms. Goodie-Tooshoe’s parents against her. The iPad idea might not work alone, but with all the other stories I had made up, I could probably convince them. “Well, if you think it’s the best thing to do.”  

The whole class makes their way over to the bakery, Alya at the lead. I let the class escort me over, as if I didn’t want to be bothering the two bakers.  

Alya slams open the front door, the bell’s ring catching the attention of the two people behind the register, as well as the woman attempting to order. Both of Marientte’s parents give the class smiles, however, they seem hesitant. “Hello kids,” Marinette’s mother waves to us. “I’ll be with you in a second.”  

Alya, instead, marches her way towards the counter and pushes the woman aside. “Mrs. Dupain-Cheng, we have something important to talk to you about!”  

Said woman’s smile falls instantly as the other woman rubs her side. I immediately knew this wouldn’t go to plan. I’d have to adapt to get things my way. “Alya, I’m with a customer. It will have to wait a few minutes.”  

Alya rolls her eyes. “This is more important. Where’s Marinette?”  

Mrs. Dupain-Cheng crosses her arms over her chest. “Marinette isn’t here. What is this all about?”  

“Mari’s been bullying Lila!” Alya points back to me and I give a small wave. “She’s stolen things from her, called her a liar, has sent mean texts, and just a few days ago, she took Lila’s iPad and some tech plans Lila worked out with Tony Stark.”  

Marinette’s parents share a look before her mother bursts out laughing. Alya rears back her head in shock and I can’t even hide my surprise. Mrs. Dupain-Cheng looks back at us. “Marinette didn’t steal any tech plans. She doesn’t need to.”  

Alya opens and closes her mouth a few times. “What! Of course she does! She’s a complete scatterbrain.”  

Mrs. Dupain-Cheng’s eyes darken. “My daughter skipped a year of school and still had the best grades in your class, hell, in your year. She managed to have these top grades while juggling her class’ work, class representative duties and all of your outrageous requests that were usual last minute and always free.”  

Several of my classmates are red or pale after those words. This was not going my way at all. I give Marinette’s mother a big smile. “Well, that’s what friends do, they help each other.”  

Mrs. Dupain-Cheng raises an eyebrow. “Right. I suppose this is why my daughter spent countless nights and hundreds of euros on fabrics for commission she was never paid for. Or, why Marinette was told she’d be babysitting three little kids for free while their older siblings went on dates with the money their parents gave them for babysitting. Or why she was told she was being selfish everytime she tried to ask for help.”  

I let my smile fall. This was not going to plan at all. “She stole things from Lila!” Alya has a look of disbelief on her face. “She stole important work. So what if Marinette’s a year ahead. Max still has way better grades than her. You’ll see next year when we restart classes.”   

Max’s chest puffs out in pride. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Mrs. Dupain-Cheng just raises an eyebrow. “Go to the police then, if my daughter has stolen something. As for next year, Marinette graduated Lycée last week after years of working ahead. She’s attending MIT in the fall.”  

This could not be happening. Adrien looks at Marinette’s mother with shocked eyes. “Why didn’t she tell us?”  

At the same time Alya screams. “What!”  

The eyebrow is raised even high. “Because you told my daughter that you weren’t friends with her anymore. Now, you had barged into my shop, pushed a client, and rudely interrupted a sale. Please leave!”  

“But-”  

“Now!” The class scurried out the door, me along with them. Marinette’s mother looked truly angry.  

We all stand outside the shop, several of my sheep looking completely confused. Since when was Ms. Goodie-Goodie smart enough to graduate two years early?  

I huff and I slowly make my way up the staircase of the Dupain-Cheng home. I need something for this showcase and if Marientte is as smart as her mother says she is, then she’d have something. I managed to pick the lock of the bakery and make my way up to the attic that Marinette called a room.  

It was bare. That was the best way to describe the room. All of the walls were empty of decorations. The desk had nothing on it either. All that was left was the basic furniture and the sheets on the bed. I try all of the desk drawers and even under the bed, nothing. Then, I remember it the board Alya told me about. The schedule of Adrien’s that Marinette had kept.  

I rooted around at the edge of the bed until I found it. The edge of the board. Smiling, I pull it all the way down. It was several layers of plans on top of each other. There were details about several apps, some green projects and well as some super resistant fabric for firefighters. What really caught my eye was the equations and blue prints for a small device that would wirelessly charge any device in a 50 radius. I snap photos of all layers of plans. If I could get this stuff out there, I could make thousands, and all with the help of Marinette. The only issue would be if Marinette came after me for stealing her work. Who was I kidding, that wouldn’t be an issue. I’d just shed some tears and tell everyone about Marinette’s bullying. I had school records to back me up. It’s not like anyone would believe her if she said she did the work.  

New York City

Marinette’s POV

I click my tongue as a notification pops up on my phone. After Chloe had broken into my room I’d set up security cameras and motion sensor alerts in case anyone else tried something. A good idea seeing as Lila was currently picking at things in my room. I raise an eyebrow as she pulls down my chart and starts to take photos of my inventions on there.  

“Everything alright?” Riri stops at shoulder and looks over at the phone. “What is she doing?”  

“She is taking photos of my ideas. The coding for a few apps, blueprints for some green energy things, the information required for my super resistant firefighter fabric and an invention I got a patent back on last week. It goes on sale in a month with Stark Industries.”  

“Cool. How does she expect to get away with this?”   

“Didn’t you hear!” I pick up an overly fake fangirl tone of voice. “It’s Lila Rossi! She’s Ladybug’s best friend, she saved Jagged Stone’s kitten, she does all kinds of environmental charities with Prince Ali, she helps the Avengers and all while having arthritis, sprained ankles and wrists, and tinnitus that switches ears every few hours.”  

Peter stops in the middle of the living room, a look of complete confusion on his face. “I thought Jagged Stone had a crocodile?”  

“He does Peter.”  

“Since when does Tinnitus switch ears?” Peter is still confused.  

“Since she saved Jagged Stone’s cat from an airplane.”  

Harley snorts from the edge of the kitchen. “This sounds like fantasy.”  

I groan. “You’d think, but my class all believes her. Max made a freaking A.I robot, with emotions, but believes that a paper napkin could cut his eye. He wears glasses.”  

“What did Hawkmoth lower your class’ IQs or something?” Anya settles down into the nest we had made in the past hour.  

“A leading theory.”  

The phone rings with a facetime request. I hit the accept button and my father’s face pops up with a stack of papers in his hands. “What is this?”  

I raise an eyebrow. “You got our declaration of independence.”  

My father looks unimpressed. “What is this?”  

Riri is grinning next to me. “Our declaration of independence.”  

“What does that mean?” I can’t but laugh at the confused expression on my Dad’s face.   

Harley pops up on my other shoulder. “No baby monitoring protocols!”  

“Junk food all day!” Miles yells from his spot.  

“No bedtime!” Peni is cheering. Sometimes I forget how young she is.  

There’s laughing in the background from my father’s end. “Tony, are the kids beating you up?” I recognize Bucky’s voice in the background.  

My father ignores the comment. “How did you block FRIDAY?”  

“Simple, I added in my own AI. I left the backdoor open years ago.”  

“You have an AI?” My father’s face is torn between confusion and pride.  

“JADA. Junior Avengers Defying Adults.”  

“Mari!” My Dad is whining again.  

“You have 5-6 days to review our Declaration, we will be occupied during this time. We have a lawyer, for the record.”  

“Do I want to know what you’ll be doing?”  

“Star Wars marathon. All 12 movies, along with all 7 seasons of Clone Wars, the first season of the Bad Batch, all 4 seasons of Rebels, and the two seasons of The Mandalorian. If we don’t sleep, it’s roughly 7711 minutes of Star Wars, which is 128 hours and 31 minutes or 5 days and eight hours. So, when you see us again is entirely dependent on how long we can go without sleep.”  

“I worry about you sometimes.”  

“ I’ve got to go. Ned just put in the first film.”

“Just one question. What is on the floor behind you?”  

I looked over my shoulder at the nest that had been put together over the past hour. Riri was settling into her spot. “That’s 6 mattresses, 19 blankets, and about a dozen pillows.”  

“Why?”  

“Couches are boring.”  

“Ok, now I’m worried about all of you.”  

“Goodbye Dad!”

Before ~~~~~~ Next