#anyway. started out just sketching around with a something soft and ended up here

[chiropteracupola]

neither a meeting nor a parting

[hispg]

Longing for love

Pairings: R2! Leon X Fem! Reader

Summary: It's your birthday, and your childhood friend wants to make it special.

Wc: 2.4k

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, p in v, loss of virginity (both sides), pet names, soft sex, making out, slight oral( f receiving).

An: I know I promised I'd post this last week, but this week I was feeling down about writing anything. Just as I haven't replied to asks or comments, I'll probably reply to them tonight.

I don't know what happened, I had so much to write and ended up writing almost nothing. Anyway, I'll try to finish what I've already got half-written and try to post it over the next few days!

I really hope this bad mood passes soon, and I thank you all for your love. 🫶🏻

It was a special day, your birthday. You had nothing special planned, nothing other than lying in the comfort of your bed watching some series on your laptop.

Even though you had told your childhood friend, Leon, that you didn't want anything special today, he refused to accept it.

It was your birthday, how could he pass it up? Even though he didn't have the best financial conditions in the world, he spared no expense in giving you a shiny necklace with a heart as a pendant.

If it were up to him, he would give you anything you asked for. Because he thought you deserved all the best the world could offer.

And here he was, spoiling you with sweet, wet kisses, holding you down on the bed while he gave your forehead one last kiss before whispering:

"Are you sure you don't want anything?" You'd lost count of how many times he'd asked you that during the night.

You knew he could get you anything you wanted, all you had to do was ask.

"No, Lee..." You said softly, clutching and snuggling into him.

He nodded, tangling his fingers in your hair and playing with the strands, holding you so close to him that the two of you had your bodies pressed together.

The bed seemed so cozy for both of you, the covers that were wrapped around your bodies as the two of you exchanged these light caresses.

You couldn't have been happier on your birthday, cuddling up to him while the gentle rain fell outside.

Leon felt his heart flutter every time he saw you all dolled up in a light purple dress, looking like a princess. Wearing your prettiest earrings, glossy lips that had left a raspberry taste in his mouth that made him keep licking his lips because of it.

"You know... I saw a dress..." Leon begins, and you already know where this is going to end.

He always says he sees something that reminds him of you, and every time he ends up bringing it as a present for you, with the excuse that you'd look perfect wearing what he's bought.

"Leon, you don't have to..." You whisper, kissing him on the lips.

He closed his eyes with a soft smile, pressing you a little closer against him.

"But I'd love to..." He says with that cocky smile you already know well.

You giggle, kissing his cheeks several times. He always got frustrated and embarrassed when you did this, his cheeks getting hot from the act.

But he'd be lying if he said he didn't love it every time you showered him with kisses. The feel of your lips on his skin was something he would never forget.

Without even realizing it, he gripped your hips a little harder, getting goosebumps when your breasts grazed his chest from how close you were to him.

Once you'd finished what you'd started, the proud smile plastered across your face.

"Why are you blushing?" You asked with mischief and sweetness in your voice, biting your lip as you looked at him.

You watched his lips come together and press, a sketch of a pout there. His eyes locked with yours, his arms wrapped around your waist.

God, how could he resist that? How could he resist you?

He swears he was trying to ignore the situation, trying to ignore the way you were so close to him, your warm body crashing against his.

Maybe he was being daring, but he took the opportunity a step further, placing a light kiss on your neck. Letting his lips linger there for a few moments.

The response that came from you pleased him, he heard your breathing hitch, your chest descend and rise more visibly. He knew you liked it.

"Maybe I want something..." You whispered, looking at him with a certain shyness.

You knew that the two of you had already crossed the line into friendship, not least because you doubted that friends kissed or got that close. But when he looked at you in such a sweet way, something in you melted.

"Say... I can give you anything you want..." He whispers, lightly caressing your cheeks.

You bite your lip, leaning your forehead against his once more, and soon the sweet words are coming from your lips:

"A kiss?" It wasn't the first time you'd kissed, but the way you asked for it this time, so sweetly, the smile was kind of drawn on your face.

Who was Leon to say no?

"Whatever you want, princess." That's all he said before kissing you.

It started in a loving and gentle way, his lips moving against yours in sync, his fingers caressing your waist with affection and delicacy.

Your hands wrapped in his hair as his tongue traced your lower lip, asking for passage into your mouth. And you didn't deny it.

You don't know how it happened, or how a simple make out session turned into languid, sloppy kisses, his hands grabbing every bit of skin he could find, not wasting a single precious second to touch you.

And before you knew it, he was on top of you, his hands slowly coming down to hold your hips. And knowing how far this was going to go, you didn't try to do anything to stop it.

In the blink of an eye he had already taken off your dress, his lips trailing down your neck as he grasped the waistband of your panties, taking no time to remove them at once.

His eyes went wide once you were naked in front of him, his cock aching from the rush of seeing you like this.

"Can I...?" All he wanted was your permission to continue or to stop, it was up to you.

You nodded shyly, letting him do whatever he wanted.

And that was all he needed to continue. He moved his face down to your belly, kissing softly and sweetly across your skin, leaving no part untouched. He was so anxious that he could barely think straight, the only thing he wanted to feel was what it would be like to be inside you.

So he needed to prepare you, right? And once he saw how wet you were already getting with just a few kisses, it wasn't long before he thought of a solution to get you soaking wet.

His hands gripped your thighs, you could tell he was as nervous as you were. The blush on his cheeks, the way he was biting his lower lip to hold back the sounds he might make at the sight of you in this situation.

He'd never seen you naked like this, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't imagined this situation multiple times.

But now that you were here in front of him, it was a completely different story.

Before you could look at him, you felt his warm lips on your thighs, giving you light, wet kisses.

As if he was afraid and apprehensive of making any moves, he had never done that in his life, he was just following what he thought was right, maybe he could call it instinct or something.

His warm, soft lips gave you goose bumps, made your body shudder under his body, you gasped and arched your body gently.

His every touch was capable of making your thoughts go blank and you forget the world around you, as if nothing else mattered. Just the two of you there.

He also couldn't stop salivating once he saw your wet folds, the state he'd managed to leave you in with just a few kisses and caresses. Your throbbing pussy almost begging for him, a sight that sent an electrifying pulse to his hard cock.

You held back from moaning when you felt his hot breath against your sex.

It wasn't long before you were shuddering at his touch, the way he was so delicate as he planted kisses in your folds, he was so tender that it was simply attractive to watch. His blue eyes staring at you, just to make sure you were comfortable with it all, and that you wanted it as much as he did.

As soon as he saw that you were ready for him, he began to undress. In a hurried and clumsy way he took off his clothes, throwing them into a corner of the room.

You were mesmerized by his body, strong and muscular, so defined that you could salivate just looking at it.

Once again he was lying on top of you, his lips pressed to yours in a hot kiss.

You only heard him fisting himself a little, before he began to guide his tip into your entrance. You knew from the kiss he was giving you that he wanted to make you focus only on him, making you as comfortable as possible.

So he slowly entered you, calmly and patiently, all the while asking you if it was okay and if he could continue. The situation was new and strange for both of you, so reluctance was more than normal.

Once he had sunk into you, he could have sworn to God that he was holding back from cumming, the sensation of your warm, wet walls was more than enough to finish him off.

But he held on, held on and tried his best to stop the thoughts of simply exploding inside you here and now.

And he hovered over you, simply rigid on top of you, just as his hard cock didn't move an inch from where it was.

He felt your discomfort, the way you hissed a little when he put it in, and if you were being honest, it stung considerably.

He stood still, that is until you both got used to the foreign feeling.

But even then, he kept giving you soft kisses on the cheek, whispering sweet nothings to help you relax.

"I love you so much..." He whispered sweetly in your ear, giving the area light kisses and licks.

You moaned softly at his touch, instinctively wrapping your legs around his hips, entwining with him in such an erotic and intimate way.

And in yet another of his gestures, he entwined his fingers with yours, squeezing your hand tightly as he gazed at you with those gentle blue eyes.

It was a gaze so tender, so loving, a gaze that was reserved for you, only you.

"You can move..." You say softly, looking at him shyly.

He gets the message, and slowly starts to move, in a shallow and calm way, he had no intention of rushing things.

Not least because he could see how nervous you were, or how much your pussy clenched around him, even though he had stimulated you, had prepared you to loosen up more.

"So tight..." He moans softly, giving your lips a gentle kiss.

The way he was so tender, so tenuous as he thrust into you, he didn't even move much, just enough to cause a little friction.

Not least because he didn't even know what you liked at those times, it was two inexperienced lovers learning at once.

"Lee..." You call softly, gently biting your lower lip as you look at him.

Surely he noticed the way your hips began to move against his, as if your body knew exactly what to do in this situation.

He took this as a green light, and began to pick up the pace, still making a point of giving you kisses and caresses all over your body.

You felt your mind getting so heavy, his cock reaching places so deep, points so sensitive that you couldn't even imagine.

It was all so good, certainly better than you imagined.

In one swift movement he removed one of his hands from yours, moving down your belly until he reached your crotch, where he stopped respectfully. Not wanting to do anything without your permission.

"Is it okay if I....?" He asked, placing his index finger next to your clit.

He wanted to know what you liked, what felt good, and he was going to start here. With your bundle of nerves.

"Y-yes... Please." You asked in a sly voice, and he could even see the pout that formed on your lips.

He smiled against your neck, giving the area a hickey, leaving a small mark. And then there was his thumb, smoothing over your clit, making small, delicate circles on the sensitive flesh, making you roll your eyes and moan louder with each movement.

He eased off when he felt you loosening up more, and with that he understood that he could increase the speed of his hips, and so he did.

Now the dirty, wet sounds echoed through the room, his heavy balls slapping against you and making that characteristic skin-on-skin noise.

But neither of you cared, so lost in that moment that the least of your problems was the profanity that came out of your mouths in the form of words.

Your heavy breaths came together as one, in the purest of synchronies. He was close, and so were you.

But as far as he was involved, your pleasure came first, so he would hold back as long as he could so that you would come first.

"Leon... I think I'm going to cum." You say in a low moan, feeling a new sensation forming in the pit of your stomach.

Your walls squeezing so tightly around him, and him trying his best to hold back. With a strangled groan you felt your hot fluid pouring out of you, your body arching and crashing against his as you came.

It was enough to send him over the edge too, and he almost didn't take his cock out of you, he was so lost in your expression of ecstasy that he forgot he wasn't wearing a condom.

He even thought about cumming in your belly, but was genuinely apprehensive of making a mistake and making a mess. So he pulled out of you, fisting himself and cumming on the sheets. Moaning and grunting as his cum spurted onto the silk sheets.

You were both tired from the recent orgasm, and he took the opportunity to lie on top of you and hold you close.

"On your belly next time?" He asks softly, a shy, mischievous smile appearing on his lips.

You smile, trying to hide the blush on your cheeks with your hands, hugging him as he relaxes on top of you.

"Yes, next time." You whisper, closing your eyes and storing the moment in your memory.

You couldn't have hoped for anyone better to lose your virginity to, and for sure, Leon couldn't have had anyone better either.

You can believe it was your best birthday.

[succubusonthedoorstep]

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ ArtTeacher! Geto x Fem Reader! ᖭི༏ᖫྀ (1.1 Word Count.)

Warnings? Gojo's sweet tooth, shy reader, vibrator use, butt plugs, edging, implied cunnilingus? jealousy, peeking down shirts, sir kink. painting is Geto's love language. +18 Only! No Minors Allowed! (Part Two.)

Author's Notes? still writing my jean and eren x reader fic, but here's something I've been sitting on for a moment!! <3 (Like, reblog, and comment please!)

ArtTeacher!Geto who enjoys instructing the acrylic painting weekend course. He’s been at it for about a year, lending his Sundays to locals and students. Most looking to sharpen their skills but some seeking a new pastime. Gojo did him a favor, pulling strings at the university to give Geto a classroom (with air conditioning!) rather than the offered room in the student center. However, it was pretty isolated, a feature he learned to love after meeting you.

ArtTeacher!Geto unlocks his door an hour before his class is due to start. Students seldom came early but he left the option open anyway. Sometimes Gojo visited, usually to hand him some small, sweet cake he couldn’t help but rave about. While cleaning the paint palettes and setting up for class, the door slams shut from behind him. 

ArtTeacher!Geto whips around, eyes landing on you. He couldn’t help but immediately notice how cute you were, holding art supplies in your arms. The faucet dripped lightly behind him, brushes now forgotten. His thin white button-down shirt was rolled up to his elbows, a feature your eyes lingered on as you started explaining.  “Sorry for the scare, I know your class doesn’t start for another half an hour…” 

ArtTeacher!Geto alleviates your worries, insisting he’d never turn away an eager student. He stops what he was doing to help you set up on the easel closest to his desk, asking why he’d never seen you in his class before. 

ArtTeacher!Geto can’t listen more intently to you speak. Your voice was melodic to him, echoing slightly from the walls when you laugh at his joke about leaving home. You just moved into the city for a job opportunity and wanted to socialize in a familiar place, the art studio. He noticed some of your paints were used and you held the brush the same way he did. You were no amateur, that was for sure.

ArtTeacher!Geto’s mood goes sour once class starts. He generally enjoyed his classes, but he only wanted to be around you today. Of course, he'll still play his role well- complimenting brush strokes, giving feedback, and staring contemplatively at completed works. The whole time he’s thinking of you on the other side of the room. The image of you, in his well-lit traditionally styled studio, made his heart jump. You’d be wearing the thinnest, finest silk as you lounge for him across a chaise sofa. 

He could torture you for hours there- a plug up your ass and a vibrator for your pussy whenever he’d get bored with his work. Geto would paint you for hours, finding joy in matching his paints to your skin tone, lips, and nipples. (Even if the silk limited his view.) 

‘Enjoying the view, Geto?’ You ask, holding your arm over the end of the sofa like he asked. ‘I’ve never seen you take so long for a sketch.’

“Patience, patience,” he cooed, taking another slick glance at your most intimate parts while you yawn. “So many details to take note of, it won’t be a worthy painting of you if I miss a single one.” His easel was positioned for you as well. You had the perfect view of him working and could lean over the other end of the couch to check his progress.

Both of you knew that was out of the question, however. The little pink toy between your legs prevented any unauthorized movement. Geto was a cruel lover- dragging you just to the edge of orgasm only to press the toy to your hole and call you greedy for needing more.

Without warning the toy came to life, buzzing lowly and drawing soft breaths from your mouth. Geto, no longer interested in painting, watched your reactions with the matching remote in one hand as he palmed his cock with the other. 

“You won’t cum,” he challenged, turning the vibrator up to a higher setting. He watched as you squirmed in ecstasy, his teasing from earlier coming back for you. Leaning back onto the arm of the couch, you spread your legs for Geto’s view and let him hear the sweet moans he loved so much.

“Missing all those d-details,” you expressed, hips lifting from the sofa in pleasure. Geto couldn’t take his eyes off of you. “Is this part of your creative process?” You asked, sliding the silk robe up your legs and exposing your glistening cunt.

The stool he sat on fell over at the force he used to stand up and make his way over to the couch. Geto’s knees met the floor harshly, hands finding your thighs to push them apart and make room for his face. 

“Just need a closer look, is all…”

ArtTeacher!Geto’s fantasy is ruined at the trilling of his alarm bell. Class was over. His students were already packed and filing out of class, their goodbye’s drowned out by him searching for you.

ArtTeacher!Geto smiles when he catches your eye and waves you over. His smile falters as he watches you wave goodbye to a third-year at the university, some kid with pink hair. Geto pushes his jealousy off; he’s never in competition.

ArtTeacher!Geto has to hide a smirk when you approach his desk, clearly in high spirits.

“Thank you for class, sir. I met a lot of good people,” You gush, and Geto has to push in his chair more at the name. “I’d love to come back, when’s the next-”

“Next Sunday,” He recites it like the gospel now. The tightness in his pants only gets worse as he watches you take a sticky note from his desk and scribble your name and number on it. Geto casts a brief look down your shirt when you bend over to write, silently thankful for a memory he can use later.

ArtTeacher!Geto takes the sticky note from you with an appreciative grin, brushing his fingers with yours and melting when a flustered look crossed your face, breaking eye contact.

“See you next week, sir.”

send me prompts so i can post between fics mwah (like, comment and reblog!)

© succubusonthedoorstep2023. all rights reserved. please do not copy, repost, steal, or translate my work.

[sanctus-ingenium]

u guys wanna see more WIPs... similar to the last post, here are Some WIPs

all of these were started in sai before going on to procreate. before going back to sai again in the case of the strength card

so Blue Sky/Out Of Time... yeah it’s extremely self-explanatory, it’s very obvious what this scene depicts and i’m sure everyone gets it (this is a joke i’ve had multiple people dm me asking wtf this even is). the one element that absolutely NEEDED to be there was the LED digital clock with a bullshit time on it, and i decided to replace it with an AIRE warning sign instead and put the LED readouts in the bg. the warning sign in this setting serves the purpose of informing ppl when there are hostile faeries around. i knew what the colours would be from the beginning, but it took a bit for me to realise what sort of shading style i wanted (it took forever). but i did know i wanted to contrast the very sketchy black void against the cleaner and almost cartoony/comic book style rest of the drawing, to emphasise the fact that the foreground sky and background void are made of two very different things. again i used a colour shifting brush to quickly make all the shards of sky different colours, but originally i planned to have some of the shards be dark or night time (with stars or the moon etc). unfortunately it didn’t work, it was too dark and pascal got lost against it.

My Eyes Are Up Here is pretty obviously the exact same scene with the same character, in the same field, but with a different sort of atmosphere. i sketched this in sai then did the final in procreate. originally it was going to have a black background

i really like this version tbh but the blue works better. i think he looks good against dark backgrounds where it’s kind of hard to see wtf is even happening there

so about the neon signs..... i’m well aware that the sketch has way more promise than what the final ultimately was, and that’s because i found that i didn’t have the technical or artistic ability to pull off the complex neon signs like i wanted to. i couldn’t get it looking good enough so i had to scrap them. but these signs will be back, i want to draw them properly and do them justice. the gif was unplanned too but i thought it would be fun to have the flicker be very intermittent so that if you scrolled past it you might not even realise, or you’d have to stick with it just to catch it looping. i used GIMP to make the gif and change the frame rate, and this actually took a very long time because i had to preview it over and over. anyway if you WERE to get lost in the púca’s field, in this story, you would see neon signs like this encouraging you to follow them.

Strength is actually the last drawing i ever made that ended with a paint-over in sai, and the oldest drawing here. as such i actually don’t think it’s representative of my current ability but i do have a soft spot for it for sentimental reasons lol. the reason for the paint-over in sai was because i drew this at a time when i still did not trust procreate to be able to place the level of finish on it that i wanted

the background took me a thousand years to figure out. literally it was so annoying that i considered scrapping it for something simpler. but the idea was for it to be a kind of fairytale-ish lost in the woods sort of look while also appearing like the blood vessels around the human heart. the branches were also supposed to be heart-shaped in cross-section but i spent so long zoomed in painting them that i forgot to zoom out to see if all those fine details were actually visible, and it turned out they weren’t. i was disappointed that i couldn’t get félix’s tattoos to look right but that’s what i get for making a character with shit tons of both tattoos and body hair. i also got rid of the foreground branches really soon because they weren’t adding anything and muddied up the readability of his pose

the swan is from a daemon au and bears no relation to my other swan characters. i just like swans a lot

[mvltisstuff]

hello again, i’ve requested a few times (the feels and sweet nothing) and i was hoping i could request again? (i think i might add an emoji at the end bc i love your writing and will keep requesting as much as you allow ❤️❤️) anyway, i hope you’re doing well and things are going good.

i was wondering if i could request a buck fic where is partner is an artist and he finds a sketchbook of sketches of him and when he asks about it they talk about how pretty he is and how deserves to be appreciated and just making him feel super loved with it. thank you if you get to it and ofc no troubles if you don’t. take care 🥰

also is 🚒 good for a way to recognize me??

wasteland, baby! - e.b

summary: request

evan buckley x reader

a/n: omg you always have such creative ideas! i love receiving requests so always feel free :)) 🚒 = ❤️‍🔥 i also won’t be posting as frequently for the next few weeks due to finals, but after that i’ll be posting a ton!!

buck had come over to y/n’s apartment after his shift for dinner, and the scent of thick acrylic paint and primer had stung at his nostrils. he began to love the smell, as he knew that it meant she was around. he had let himself in with his key, taking in all of the perfectly placed plants and artwork on the walls.

she had a canvas that was almost complete, with just a few finishing touches. buck had walked over to it to examine. her talent was extraordinary. he knew it was out of this world, and the way she was so proud of her pieces his made his heart swell up with love.

“hi, buck!” y/n says, beginning to walk out of the hallway from her room to her art. she was wearing a pair of dark green pants and a white t-shirt which somehow complimented her beautifully. her face had small specks of blue and red on her cheeks and black and grey streaks on her shirt. “sorry it’s such a mess in here, but doesn’t this look great?”

“no, don’t worry about the mess, but how long did that take? it’s amazing!” buck stutters a big, not being able to comprehend how art like that could come out of her hands.

“thank you, love,” she replies, taking his belongings and placing them down for him. “how was work today? anything good?”

“just a normal old day, but you know it’s the 118.”

“it is never normal at the 118,” y/n smiles and gives him a cheek kiss before going to wipe her face off. buck goes to sit down in her living room on the couch, and she follows behind him with a quick change of shirt. she placed a small pizza in the oven to cook for them, and cuddled up next to him while they told each other stories about their day.

“it was wild, y/n,” buck starts. “i mean this woman literally rose from the dead after like 15 minutes, after being under a street. oh! you’re going to love this- and we saved some puppies in a sewer.”

“oh my god, are they ok?”

“they’re all fine, but i’m not sure if we are right now.”

“what do you mean?” she asks, slowly and carefully.

“you don’t smell something burning?”

she takes a deep inhale and looks over to her smokey kitchen. it wasn’t too bad, but definitely enough to make it inedible. “shit! fuck, i forgot about it!” she says, bouncing the pan up and down while trying not to burn herself.

y/n was busy discarding of the pizza when buck looked over at her with joy. he had a cheeky smile on his face and was laughing at the forgetfulness of both of them. he looked back down in front of him and the coffee table, and he saw a book that y/n always has on her. she brings it to work, to her family, anywhere she goes, she has it. it was her beloved sketchbook, filled with hundreds of small doodles and big pieces. buck has seen a lot of things in it, admiring each one before he comes across a bookmarked section.

when he flips the pages of the book, he notices that the person that is sketched and shaded looks particularly familiar. he makes note of the sharp nose and soft, but hard jaw. he sees the famous birthmark on the side of his face. he’s never looking right on, though. he’s always focused on something or has a light grin on his face. buck knows these are of him, but he doesn’t think he had any importance to be the top drawing in her book.

y/n walks back in to greet her boyfriend, “i think we might just have to ord-“ she looks at the sketches that she had put on that paper. a heat rose up into her face, reddening her cheeks and making her feel a sense of embarrassment.

“a-are these me?” buck asks, quietly. y/n nods, slowly, praying that she didn’t make him uncomfortable and that she will see him again tomorrow. “i-um..”

“you don’t have to say anything, buck. i never meant for you to see those and if you don’t like them, i’ll never do it again i swear. you just, you’re so beautiful, buck. and i love to draw beautiful things.”

“i just don’t know what to say, these are so good. i feel like you know me more than i know myself,” he says, chuckling a bit.

“you like ‘em?”

“i love them,” buck says.

“good, i just couldnt stop myself. you are always so pretty, no matter what and i want you to know that, so i tried to convey it through this. i was going to show you eventually, but i wanted to do more.”

“why me, though? you could draw anyone,” buck asks.

“no one else is you! you might have a pretty face and all but there is really nothing more beautiful than your soul. you are filled with so much love and sweetness and i’ve been dying to find a way to show you, because you are loved, evan. i love you and i wanted to put my two favorite things together. not a day goes by where i have anything but love for you.”

suddenly, the feeling in bucks chest is rising stronger, feeling like it’s going to burst. when it does, he has strong riptides of tears in his eyes. with a pure smile on his face, he passionately leaves a kiss on her lips, and he feels loved for the first time.

growing up, his parents never showed him love. he always begged for it from everyone he knew, and now he feels like it isn’t deserved. but someone, y/n made him feel like he will forever be worthy of love. and he will never forget how she fixed him for the best.

[hydrangeyes]

Mk x spray painter Male reader ☁️☁️

So if you don't know, Yes this already existed, my old account was deleted (accident but I can tell I won't be getting it back), and am reposting my old x male reader works!

I don't know if I saved all of them but here is one that was saved to my AO3 account.

Edit: So shuffling through my docs It's been brought to my attention that wattpad (who I use as backup) Cut a lot of my fics in half??? anyway I'll be trying to fix that also

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Aaaahhhh this is such a cute idea!!!

Mk sees male reader spray painting on a wall and what's to join/try it out!

Warning: None!! Just super cute and mushy

Requested by: ekkozied

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For the most part you started this mural on your own. The building owner wanting to brighten up the alley walkway to their backyard café, and well, the pay was really good. A quick in and out job really.

So you didn't mind cleaning it up and prepping the wall, what you didn't expect was just...how big the wall actually was.

Letting out a breathe you step back shaking the can of black paint as you eye the sketch you placed. Took you since this early morning, and by the sound of your stomach. It was definitely time for lunch.

Doing some stretches and fully opening your bag of spray paints. You felt in the mood for something pretty light but filling.

"Hmm, Pigsy's noodles it is"

Your stomach ended up making you buy 2 servings...

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It didn't take long for your food to arrive, and while it wasn't your order you couldn't help but look back at the cute delivery driver.

Wide eyed and curious, Mk quickly was distracted by the mess of empty paint cans and the sketch you had on the wall. "Woah this looks so cool! How long have you been doing this!?" he shouts in excitement turning to you, seeing you on the ground eating.

You pause to swallow then grin "Thanks! A bit of a hobby, uh spray painting or working on this?"

"Yes." Mk asks

Letting out a snorted laugh you wave him to join you, which he does sitting close, "Let's see, I've been into art and specifically spray painting since middle school I think. Been working on this commission since 4 am? maybe 5?"

Mk gasps dramatically going a small tangent about hoping you at least took a break or how he couldn't even focus on being still for that long. to which as you watch him suddenly start organizing your empty cans, could tell.

"I like to draw and everything but I never branched out of sketches? Can't even imagine spray painting."

You tilt your head finishing up your bowl of noodles and getting up with a content stretch. Fully charged and ready to work.

"Well how about giving it a try now?"

Mk shakes his head watching as you pull out the colors you plan to use. "What!? Oh no no no! I would ruin it, what if I make a huge mess and then-" You interrupt him but handing over an orange spray can. Looking up at you Mk blushes at the calm and soft smirk you give him.

"I'll help if it's needed but that's the fun with spray painting. It dries quick and you can always paint over any mistakes." you wink stepping back and picking up a blue can. "So go wild delivery man."

Looking at the can Mk smiles a little. "Call me Mk."

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

You both had fun for hours, coloring in your design and every now and then when mk stayed in one spot too long, getting it on each other.

It was a big piece so day after day, mk came with lunch and a helping hand (When you allowed it). Laughing and tossing cans to one another, it was care free and even when you put on the finishing touches, mk stuck around around, watching you work and talking calmly about his recent training session or frustrations.

You catch yourself, when you start feeling excited when the time for lunch came around. Inwardly trying to keep your cool when when you both were tired, mk leans his head on your shoulder for a quick nap.

Falling asleep with him may have caused a slight scene, someone passing by thinking there was an accident (You guys forgot to clean up the red paint...).

He found himself, really relaxing with you. It was different than with mei which confused him at first. Till one day, it was just a little too hot and you took off your shirt to keep working and not get a heat stroke. Yeah. this feel was very different, that and he felt genuinely safe with you (emotionally of course).

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

So when it was all said in done you both couldn't help but feel a little bit sad.

You came to deeply enjoy the hyper man, find him cute and a great talker for times of burn out. And he adored the time with just having fun uninterrupted with someone he....well he realized he was starting to catch feelings for.

It shouldn't have been too much of a surprised when Mk suddenly asks you out. In the middle of cleaning your equipment up, you jolt as you feel him take hold of your arm. you see how he couldn't really look at you, his cheeks a deep red and shifting as if shy.

"Mk?"

He's quiet then with a deep breathe, looks at you straight in the eyes with all the determination and adoration he had.

"WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME N/N!"

Blinking at the outburst then seeing how he started to fidget more, it finally registered what he asked/shout.

Blushing you smile brightly.

"I would love too."

[write-and-buried]

Celestial Navigation

Chapter 4 - Waxing Gibbous

(gif by the magnificent and incomporable @pedropascalsx)

Summary; You haven't thought about it... at all... not once. The invitation with "Partners Encouraged" is holding all your attention anyway, not the shirt that's tucked under your pillow.

Warnings; explicit masturbation (both m&f) toxic workplace culture, me dipping my feet into the fake dating trope

A/N; again; I am awed and humbled and over the top emotional about everyone's response to this story. Very special thanks to @astroboots and @the-ginger-hedge-witch who have miraculously not kicked me out of a group chat where I torture them with whore thoughts 24/7.

also p.s if you're a financial employee or have a solid and general understanding about the facts I'm pulling out of my ass here - I'm sorry

[Series Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist]

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“It should be treated as something separate… are you okay?”

Dieter grabs your forearm, the cheap pen hanging out the corner of his mouth as he folds and rolls the sleeve of your shirt over your elbow, flipping your palm upright on the table as he runs his thumb across the tendons of your wrist.

“I’m fine, keep talking” he murmurs, pulling the cap off the pen with his teeth and spitting it onto the ground. He starts with gentle strokes on your forearm his brow furrowed as the deep navy stains across your skin.

“They get their value from the performance of something else”

“What are they used for?” he asks

“They’re supposed to be used for the management of risk – but generally speaking it’s a loophole that allows people to make money even if they should be losing it. They’re the main cause of the 2008 financial crisis”

“I thought that was houses”

“It was, these people preyed on low-income persons and got them to get mortgages they couldn’t afford, and then basically bet they couldn’t afford them, so when they defaulted on the mortgages, they still made money. That whole system collapsed and took the global economy with it”

He shifts in his chair, twisting himself around your forearm, leaning close enough that his breath skates over the fine hairs as he sketches on your skin.

“I have my journal; you can draw in that if you’d like” You say.

“Better canvas.” He grunts, not looking up. “Keep talking, I almost understand what it is – it’s like a bet on whether stock will go up or down? And if you bet its going to go down then you make the money anyway?  Is that legal?”

“Depends on how many filters you put it through. A lot of the big places go to MIT and Harvard and recruit out of their advanced mathematics programs. Get them to write the equations for them, to reduce the risk”

“You keep saying risk, like it’s not all gambling. Like their job isn’t making bets with other people’s money. What happens when you lose?”

“You remember 2008? Or the last few years even – the economy tanked because of an outside force then as well”

“I got stoned, and Owen and Molly made a delivery system work for this place.”

“You’re lucky.”

“No, I’m wealthy. It’s why I get to be eccentric. I just tried to make sure I kept food in peoples fridges, and a roof over their head.”

You look at the crown of his head as he sketches, chewing on the end of the cheap pen whenever he takes a break, smudges the lines with his thumb, squints and turns his head. His hair catches the light, it looks soft, like it would run through your fingers like silk if you reached to touch it. Long enough for you to grip…

No.

It’s gotten easier, over the last six weeks; to label the thoughts and put them in a dark box, kick it into the corner and ignore them as they stacked precariously tall. He kept his word – nothing changed. You woke up later in the day and left, went to your apartment and did laundry, as though the sight of his shirt mixed with your underwear didn’t tug at some thread under your skin.

He touches you now. Still with permission, never crowding or cornering your space. But he brushes hair off your forehead, fixes tags in your clothing. More than once he’s caught a blueberry stain from spreading on your lip. You spend your weekends in his apartment now. Curled on that same couch with your laptop, filling out spreadsheet after spreadsheet while he paints and hums in the background. There are comfortable long silences, games of Jenga that leave you laughing until your sides hurt. He’s cooked you dinner more than once. Hell, next week you’re going there for Thanksgiving, Owen and Molly and Dieter and you, crowded around his kitchen counter on chairs made out of milk crates to eat mash potatoes and get high.

It feels like you’ve known him longer than you have, the way he slots into your life. You find yourself smiling throughout the day, thinking about his latest piece, a fingerpainting of Orion, chasing the Pleiades across a sky made of crushed autumn leaves. There are still questions you want to ask him, ones that hover in the hollow of your throat. You don’t know where his finished pieces hang, you don’t know where his wealth has come from. You don’t know how to ask.

“I have to get home. I didn’t bring my laptop and I’ve got to get this report finished”

“Ok” he says, leaning back on his own chair as he tucks the pen behind his ear with a grin.

“What is it?” you ask, looking at the scribbled mass on your forearm.

“Abstract” he laughs. “I’ll call you later”

He doesn’t ask anymore – just assumes you’ll answer, and you always do. It’s ritual, routine and safe, as you pace around your apartment with headphones and a Lean Cuisine. He tells you stories about Molly and Owen. His friend from back home and the hell they raised under a California sun. You tell him about college, the parties you skirted the sidelines of the boyfriends you regretted and ones you didn’t. The conversation ends with one of you falling into bed, the soft whump of fabric as you collapse in on yourselves, a neutron star.

The email comes late in the evening. Whatever mid-level HR representative is working at 10.30pm on a Tuesday night should be promoted, or at least paid overtime. It’s a glossy, slick reply-all email, nice graphics in a fancy font. They’re holding a cocktail party for the interns on Friday. It’s from 7-10pm and while attendance isn’t mandatory, it is encouraged, as a chance to mingle with the higher ups from the firm, maybe have one of them remember your name in a context other than the editor of a spreadsheet they glanced at for twenty seconds.

“Partners welcome”

Fuck. That was a loaded addition. Partners welcome, actually meant Partners encouraged. The portion of this job where they judged you like cats in a fair, held you up to scrutiny that your life, your whole life would fit the mould they wanted it to. You stared at it, weighing the pros and cons, going at all, going alone, trawling Tinder for some guy who looked semi okay in a suit jacket to play along for the night.

Your phone buzzed while you were still thinking, your fingers itching for a pen to start a list. Neat columns and straight lines that would lead you to the right decision to make, the answer to this impossible question.

“Hey” you answer, knowing it’s him before he speaks.

“What’s wrong? Did the interest rate not compound right?”

You laugh, shutting your laptop as you stand.

“No, just this stupid cocktail mixer. They just emailed, it’s Friday and they want us to bring our partners. I shouldn’t get so worked up over it, but going alone sends a message that you’re independent, and less likely to toe the company line. So, they’ll be looking for those people for the final layoffs in December”

“Need a Ken for your Barbie?”

“Exactly. I’ll work something out. Make an appearance and my partner can be strategically in the bathroom while I shake everyone’s hands. Or he’s working on an acquisition and couldn’t get away, something like that”

He’s silent on the other line, the rhythmic flick of a lighter the only indication that he’s still there.

“it’s just stupid. I’m good at my job, they know this. I had one little mistake a few weeks ago, but otherwise I’m the best intern they have, and they know it. The thought that they would fire me because I don’t have a partner, someone pretty to be beside me at functions and mixers, what do they think it means if I’m single? That I’m not worthy of a job at their company? If anything, it means I’m more worthy, because I’m demonstrating a willingness to give up my social life for them, I’ve lived ate and breathed this company since I started, and it comes down to this bullshit?”

“I’ll go” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll come with you. Friday? Tell me the time, and I’ll be there”

“Dieter…”

“You need someone with you, I’ll run a comb through my hair for you and throw on a sports coat”

“You don’t own a sports coat, and it’s more a suit thing”

“Then I’ll get a suit. Come on, you’ve just said it, you’ve worked your ass off for this job, it’s not fair that they judge you based on this. But when you’re director of the company you can change that. So, let’s go to this thing and make sure you’re gonna be director”

“I can’t ask you to…”

“You’re not asking Lou, I’m offering. Same rules as last time, mm wait. Slightly amended rules. I’ll have to touch you at least a little. But no kissing, not unless you ask”

“They’re uptight, stuffy corporate types”

“And I can put up with that for a few hours. Let me do this for you, please?”

“I’ll only ask you to stay for an hour” you hedge.

“I’ll start working on my cover story. Go to sleep Bette, I’ll see you on Friday”

He hangs up – leaving you with dead air and an abstract drawing he inked into your skin.

*

The ceiling fan swings lazily above him as he stares beyond the spinning blades. It’s easy now, to imagine you, nibbling at your cuticles as you pace around your apartment, trying to figure out if this will work. He’ll show up and play the part you want him to, enough to make an impression on the higher ups whose approval you seek. In his mind, you’re wearing his shirt, your legs long and bare as you twirl on the balls of your feet. You’re probably stress cleaning your kitchen, wiping down the corners of your sink with a wet sponge as you think.

Tomorrow will be the list. The columns in that journal, pros and cons in bullet points in your neat, blocky handwriting. A whole page devoted to a problem he can solve. You’ll come to the same conclusion soon enough. You have a space on his couch now – he buys sodas you like. He’s painting with his fingers because the texture of yours on his last work haunts his dreams.

You’re here, even when you’re not. His sheets are soft beneath him as he kicks his sweats to the bottom of the bed, relishing in the cool weight of linen on his naked skin. It’s cold at nights now, too cold to have the door to the balcony open more than just a crack, and the fresh scent of you lingers even as the cold creeps in.

His hands have always had a mind of their own, moving across a canvas without conscious thought, seeking out the places in soft skin to bring across cries of pleasure, his thumb stroking a cheek, cupping a breast. He follows the lines on his palm the paths they take him down always murky, always correct in the end.

That night was the first time he denied himself. Forced himself still, to do nothing more than touch the silky skin of your wrist and speak. He felt like he was in a trance, visualising everything he wanted to do to you and letting it spill forth into your waiting ear, urged onward by the way you pressed your thighs together, the whimper that parted your lips.

His hand is already curled around his length when he hears the ghost of it. The slick parting of your pillow soft lips as your eyes grew wider, the glossy haze from good weed clearing as he spoke and suppressed the urge to show not tell.

How long would it take you to realise? That he had smudged the way you slept together into your skin with a pen this afternoon. How the memory of your body pressed against him is currently filling his cock with rich blood, thickening in his grasp. How the surprise, the curiosity on your face makes him want to fuck your pretty mouth, have you map each pulsing vein with a scrape of your teeth.

He drew you. Running your fingers across the smudgy navy scribbles on your skin, the picture takes shape. The curve of your hip, covered by his wide palm, the inch of a finger under his clothes on your body. The longer you stare at it the clearer it gets, the fold in the fabric as it shifts to accommodate his warm skin. You can almost feel his heavy breathing on the back of your neck, the accidental brush of his lips against your temple as you adjusted in the morning. The way he wrapped himself around you, pulled you into him and held you.

Your fingers trail your belly as you stare at it, the memories slipping into your consciousness without permission. They’ve done this everyday since. Crept into your vision whenever you have a moment to yourself, remembering the tacky canvas or the rich chocolate. You tried to convince yourself for more than a week that the heat that same with these memories was distorted, leftover from the drugs, making them heightened and sharp.

“Have you ever been properly fucked?”

You haven’t. He knows you haven’t. Knew it from the minute you appeared, soaking and tear stained in the middle of an inexplicable storm. He can see the edges of it now, like flowers pressed dry between the pages of a forgotten book. How much you want to be. How much you’re craving the permission to seek the pleasure you’ve denied yourself.

You deserve to be fucked that way. For him to tease and tempt and torment and make you crave it, the slide of his fingers inside you, the slip of his mouth between your thighs, the sticky mess of his cum on your tits, your face, dripping down to his waiting mouth as he hardens to take you again.

He squeezes himself in warning. The groan echoing of the slowly spinning blades of the fan above him. He stares at the roof, unwilling to look at the stain blooming across his sheets as he leaks precum at the thought of you straddling his face. He knows how you fit together now.

That morning, he could have pulled you closer, cradled you in the chalice of his body and slipped clothing off beneath heavy blankets. He could have hooked a finger into the waistband of his sweats on your hips and pulled them down, felt the heat between your thighs and pulled you plush against him.

You’d feel him, the way he’d harden against your back. That moment, it pulls you up short. You’ve found yourself circling your wrist some days, absently clasping fingers around the width of it, half a second from imagining before you snap yourself out of it.

Your hand dips beneath your underwear as you close your eyes in the dark, hiding from the acceptance that you’re going to let it happen now. You’re going to wonder what it would feel like, to have him match that movement, free himself and smack heavy into your skin.

You’d need preparing, he said. What did that mean? That all you had in the morning was a torturous glide from behind, the catch of the thick weeping head of his cock against your clit as he mumbled sleepy into your neck, pulled you closer to kiss the join of shoulder and sensitive skin?

Or would he take the time to do it every time, slip fingers deep inside you until you were relaxed enough to take him, until you could stretch yourself around him in a slick and blistering glide. Would you feel him from the outside? Press a palm to your stomach and feel the difference? How full you were from him, or would you be too far gone by then? Capable only of squirming back for more as he slipped slick fingers into your mouth for you to taste.

You’d be spread so wide for him. Over his thighs, the first time at least. A pillow shoved hastily under your hips to tilt you towards him, give him the chance to smack his cock against your clit and watch you grab the sheets in answer. The way the glittery strands of precum would stick to your skin, ropy and catching the light as he presses into you, watches the way your cunt sucks him in. He wants your body greedy, desperate for him, achingly empty. Squeezing and pulsing as he nudges enough to press heavy on your g spot. Another swipe of his thumb across your clit.

Your hips jerk at the contact, your fingers finding your clit, swollen and seeking beneath a practiced hand. Lower still, you feel it, the mess you’re making, the way it stains your underwear, slips free to pool into your sheets. Two of your own fingers is comfortable, a twist in your wrist as you fill against familiar spots. Three is a stretch, not painful, but present, an unfurling of a flower as your head falls back with a whimper, the burn racing up your spine as you try to separate your fingers, spread them wider. You picture Dieter’s hand on your wrist, the thickness of his fingers and try to match it.

Three would stretch you open, curled upright would have you arching against his sheets. He’d have to hold you down, band his arm across your stomach as he kissed your clit, soft enough to make you beg him for more of it, ask for what you want, for what you deserve. You’d be so messy, wet and loud as he fucked you with them, a gentle rhythm that would soak his knuckles when he bites your inner thigh. Will you be mad at him? When he stops to lick your mess off his fingers? Or will you like it, watching him suck each digit clean with a heavy groan.

His hips jerk, reminding him of his hand curled around his weeping cock, neglected by the temptation of this fantasy. Smooth long strokes, he likes the rhythm of a calm sea, the way it batters his insides with a tide of pleasure that squeezes the air from his lungs in a groan. He can feel the way his neck strains with the effort, the sticky drops of precum that leak across his fingers, slicking him further.

He wants them on your lips, wants them glossy and kiss swollen and wet, parted just enough for the softest brush of his cock against them. He wants to jerk off onto your waiting face, lick himself inside your mouth and fuck you, oversensitive and tender be damned, fill you up to the brim so he can lick it right back out again, clean you off with his face as you twist and shudder on these sheets.

Does he taste good? Does the heady earthy scent follow to his flavour, would it burst rich and thick across your tongue? Would you get a chance to swallow before he claimed your mouth as promised? You can hear the wet squelch beneath the heavy blankets, the awkward twist of your hand leading you to move your hips instead, fuck your own fingers while you imagine his.

You wouldn’t be able to if it was him. He’s bigger than you, broader and wider and heavier, and you stretch your thighs to feel the sting. If he was on top of you, that wide expanse of warm skin you’d be pinned, unable to do much more than take it. Than feel the stretch of his intimidating cock and the weight of his body as it cramped your lungs and invaded all your senses. Your skin would slip together, sweaty and hot beneath these blankets, the air so thick with arousal you could taste it with each breath.

He can see the sweat bead on your neck, clear as the night sky. The salty burst of you across his fantasy is enough to break the ruse, for his grip to tighten as he fucks up into his waiting fist, the clench of his stomach as he groans relief. The images come in waves, crashing one after another.

The sloppy wet mess of your cunt as he fucks his cum back inside you, shivering from overstimulation, your nails digging into his arm as you beg him for more, no other words to describe what he’s offering, the damp heat of your mouth wrapping around his balls as he squeezes drops of precum onto his knuckles, you bent over in his shirt and no underwear, you; legs spread over a mustard yellow armchair, you, you, you.

He would make noise when he came, low and long groans that would rattle through your system. You already know the talent he has with words; you’ve seen proof in paintings of the talent that lies in his hands. He would cradle your skull in a massive palm and feed those noises to you, grinding his hips with every pulse of his orgasm. You would feel it, stretched inside you as he fucks you full and doesn’t stop, desperate fingers seeking your aching clit to bring you one more with him, to feel the clench of you around him one more time.

You cry out when the orgasm hits you, clamping tight around your fingers as you shudder and bite off his name, feeling the rush of fluid on your fingers as your lungs shudder, struggling for breath as your body erupts in goosebumps, sparks of electricity going off throughout your skin.

You hesitate when washing your hands. The artwork can stay until morning.

*

You don’t like him in a suit. Its not that he doesn’t look good, the deep blue brings out the warmth in his eyes, and you have to get close enough to touch it to see the threads of silver that glitter like stars. His hair is pushed back, rings abandoned, and tattoos covered. His shoes are shined and look uncomfortable as he passes you another flute of semi-flat champagne.

He’s better at this than you are. Laughing and joking with your co-workers, holding polite and respectfully mild conversations with your superiors, lazily orbiting you like the moon as he snags canapes and sips a cheap whiskey.

It feels like a lie. You’re mournful for the softness of his t shirts. The threadbare robes and slept in hair. It doesn’t help that he’s done nothing but touch you all evening. Hooking his chin over your shoulder as his hand slides across your stomach, splaying a hand at the small of your back as he follows you to greet and introduce him to another senior partner.

You’d come up with a lie, that he was a lawyer from Connecticut. Far enough away that nobody would have heard of him, plausible enough that he would come to the city to see you for the holidays. Your tongue felt too thick to speak the words.

“This is Dieter – he owns his own business in the city” was what you compromised with. His eyebrows only raised for a moment before he went along. A firm handshake with the boss that had once made you cry as she greeted him with something approaching warmth.

He was a perfect gentleman, playing the part as if you’d cooked him up in a lab. You hate it. This isn’t him, it’s not who he is, and dragging him here and showing off this fake version of him makes your stomach twist in pain. You want to talk about his paintings. You want to talk about Owen and Molly. You want them to hear the story of Mallory, or the orchids he grows for fun.

You want them to meet him.

“Gosh you look so familiar” Todd says, shaking his head as he grips Dieter’s hand.

“Just one of those faces” Dieter replies with a practised ease. It’s the third time someone has said that to him tonight. Always the same response, brushing them off and pivoting the conversation to you as if he was returning a tennis serve.

“Todd - you’re working together on the Mayfair account, right?”

You’re too focused on him. You haven’t woven your way into a conversation with the senior partners. You haven’t moved more than two feet from him since you arrived, despite his insistence he would be happy to sit at the bar, appear only when you put your arm behind your back. He’s talking to everyone, charismatic and bright and the anger is bubbling from a wellspring without a name.

He doesn’t belong to them. He doesn’t fit here, these clinically white walls don’t match his colour, the suit fits him like a second skin, and there’s no room for you to crawl inside it.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, running cold water on your wrists as you look at yourself in the fluorescent lit mirror. You try to settle yourself, checking the time and promising fifteen more minutes before you drag him out of here, find some all-night diner to split a milkshake and hot salty fries to dip in it. You want to go back to his apartment, share a joint and talk about Bette Davis. You don’t want to do this.

“He’s quite something” your boss says, appearing from behind you to wash her carefully manicured hands in the sink.

“Thank you. I think so” the truth tastes like blueberries.

“Seems to have a great deal of knowledge about what we do here. That’s good – means you’re bringing it home with you.” She offers you a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

Todd and the Mayfair account. You had mentioned that in passing weeks ago. The way he greeted your boss, a handshake just a little firmer than it needed to be, a hint of steel behind his eyes. The way he’s here at all, no questions asked. The way he’s never judged you, never asked you for anything, but has always always shown up.

You watch him from behind a fake rubber tree. He makes one of the senior partners laugh, gets a clap on the shoulder as he scans the room, glass lifted to his lips. when he spots you, he excuses himself, dropping the glass on a tray carried by a bored looking waiter.

“That guy has the highest opinion of himself of anyone I’ve ever met. You think his wife is into it? Is he like that in bed? Proclaiming his own glory?”

He scrubs a hand across his trimmed beard. You don’t like that either.

“Nah probably not. I think he’s the type to need some discipline from somewhere. They probably have a dungeon in their house up in the Hamptons, which he invited us to over Christmas. I told him we had plans, because I like you a lot, but I don’t think you want to be talked into swinging with your boss and his wife, no matter how good a job the plastic surgeon did on her tits. I mean, if you want to, I might be persuaded, but if we are going then I’m gonna need a weeks’ notice to get a sheet of LSD because I’ve found that if you’re going to be in a dungeon, it really helps to heighten the experience somehow, and I don’t think weed will be enough”

You grab his hand, stopping him as he looks down at you, his eyes creasing with concern.

“Are you okay? We don’t really have to go to the dungeon Lou”

“Dieter… kiss me.”

[criolla-star]

A Fiery Lovestory (Red Son x Mk part 5)

(i suggest you check out part 1-4 if you haven't already has a lot of information and sidenotes)

Red Son let out a sigh when Mk left and began looking around the apartment for things to do. He was curious and went into MKs' room it thankfully wasn't as messy as the rest of the place, he looked around the room because fuck privacy. Red Son stared at a photo frame it had all of MKs' friends in it, "Stupid noodle boy..." He mumbled to himself before deciding to go through MKs' clothing as far as he knew his clothes were probably dry but there was just something about MKs' clothes sure he wore it for one night but it was so comfy and warm and sure he can control fire but it was a different type of warm it made him....happy......

Red Son found a jumper it looked way bigger than MKs' other clothes totally as if the normal clothes weren't big on him but when he put it on it covered his knees, "Why does he even have clothes this big...?" the fire demon mumbled before hugging himself and purring you see he was a lot like a cat and it was a coincidence since they were also his favourite animal. There was something about cats their cute faces and soft fur that made them so lovable.

Letting out a sigh Red Son continued to search through the room and found a sketchbook, opening it there was beautiful scenery drawn the fire demon could draw but that's just because he was always sketching out templates for his inventions. He let out a sigh and put the book down before leaving the room with a fluffy blanket. Red Son sat on the couch and began making it comfortable, but while he was doing this someone unexpected appeared.

"RED SON! I"VE BEEN LOOKING ALL OVER FOR YOU" a voice called out before Macaque emerged from the shadow hearing the sudden shout caught Red Son off guard causing him to yelp, "Are you alright? You went to go work on something then just disappeared from thin air" Macaque added worriedly before grabbing Red Son by his shoulders and shaking him. "Whoa okay, geez calm down I'm fine" the fire demon chuckled out taking the shadow monkeys' hands off his shoulders. " Good, Now tell me why the fuck you're in your so called enemies apartment" Macaque hissed. Red Son let out a sigh, "Last night I went for a walk out and then it started raining, which I had no idea impacted my fire then I bumped into the noodle boy and he wouldn't let me go out in the rain" Red Son quickly explained, "Is that why you're wearing his clothes, because to me these things are dry~" Macaque teased while pointing towards his friends' clothing, Red Son lit up with blush, " Haha very funny maybe I'll listen to your opinion when you and Wukong stop fighting like a married couple" the fire demon said trying to defend his dignity. "H-Hey!" Macaque stuttered out.

"Did you lie to my parents for me...?" Red Son asked quickly changing the mood, "Hmm? Yea...told them I sent you somewhere so we could train" Macaque said relieving his friend of his worries. "Listen I can't leave now, noodle boy will freak if he finds out I'm not here when he comes back" Red Son said looking away from Macaque, "Alright kid, but you better be out by the end of the week" the shadow monkey responded, "Also you seem quite comfy in those clothes of his~" he added, causing Red Sons' face to light up again. "I have dignity and high standards I would never fall for a simple mortal!" Red Son said out embarrassingly, "but, his clothes are quite comfy..." he added whispering the last part but he clearly forgotten that he walking whispering around the Sixed-Eared Macaque so he was obviously heard and Macaque laughed out, "Anyways, I'll be seeing you later, go back to whatever you were doing" The shadow monkey said before retreating into the shadows.

Red Son let out a small giggle when Macaque left, "I don't like the noodle boy, I could never!" Red Son spoke aloud trying to convince himself. Red Son grabbed the TV remote before putting on a show and watching it while he was sitting there comfortably wrapped in blankets.

(With Mk)

"Hopefully, he hasn't done anything..." Mk thought to himself as he drove around, "He seems so innocent when he's embarrassed, he gets so easily flustered....his hair it's so soft and smells so good...-" Mk was cut out of his thoughts by a loud honking sound which caused him to jump it was a green light and he was just there daydreaming about Red Son. He instantly drove before he was honked at again, but after awhile it was his break time and he was tired. Mk sat in the truck eating some noodles until, he was absorbed in his thoughts again, "His voice, face, body and....personality......so perfect.." Mk said the last part aloud, "OOOoo, whatcha thinking about there bud, who's perfect?!" Wukong said as he appeared out of thin air. "HOLY SHIT MONKEY KING! Don't sneak up on me like that..!" Mk said as he almost had a heart attack, "Haha sorry bud, but I seriously wanna know who you're thinking about" Wukong laughed out before sitting next to Mk. "I-I don't know what you're talking about" Mk said out stubbornly looking away from Wukong, Mk was still in denial that he liked Red Son.

"Does Mei know about your little crush?" Wukong teased, there was an awkward silence between the two, "No..." Mk quietly replied, "Aww c'mon bud I won't judge you and plus I need to make sure she's good enough for you" Wukong said, " Who said it was a she?" Mk replied trying to get on Wukongs' even more, that sentence caught the great sage off guard he knew Mk had been a few relationships before and that he was bisexual but Mk always told him that it was sorta hard to find guys his type. "C'mon you can't tell me that and not tell me who it is" Wukong whined before shaking Mk, "Yes, I can...and would you look at that my break is over see ya" Mk said before staring the truck, Wukong let out a sigh of defeat before teleporting away.

Mk focused on the road, "I can't like him...what are the others gonna say..." Mk thought before digging his nails into the steering wheel.

[prismaticpollen]

the things we do for friendship (2/?)

original characters, f/f, allergy

Wren is trying her best. She and Vul make some huge discoveries.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

“Vul?” Wren called. Nothing. Still no response from the bathroom.

Fine, she’d surprise her. Turning away from the locked door in front of her, she made a beeline for the closet on the other side of the room. She found what she was looking for in a matter of seconds, then retreated to the living room to wait.

Wren was halfway through a new sketch when Vul finally emerged. She’d put the same jumpsuit back on, but hadn’t bothered with her jacket, making it abundantly clear that however different they were, her people still got goosebumps in the cold. Perfect timing, then.

“Come here, let me show you something,” Wren urged her friend. “Sit down.”

Vul obliged. Wren leaned sideways, dropping her sketchbook and pens on the end table to her left, then shuffled over a little more to pull a large down comforter from where she’d hidden it between the table and the couch. Deftly unfolding the blanket, she draped it over Vul’s bare shoulders. “Cozy, right? This way we’re both comfortable.”

“Cozy,” Vul murmured, the word half swallowed by fabric. She was already burrowing into it, nuzzling her face into the fringe along its edges and tucking her legs underneath her. “It’s so soft!”

“Glad you like it,” Wren chuckled. She hadn’t been sure what kind of bedding Vul was used to, but she wasn’t about to let any guest of hers sleep on the couch with just her ratty old throw blankets, and Vul had refused to take her bed for the night when she’d offered. “You can keep it once we finish redoing your room if you want, it’s too warm for my taste so I don’t use it much anyway.”

Vul smiled, or at least she did what passed for smiling, too many teeth showing but still undoubtedly cheerful. She waved too, fingers fluttering in front of her face, ending the conversation on a high note.

Wren waved back, but Vul was already looking away, pulling the blanket tighter around herself to settle in for the night. That was fine, she could draw for a while longer and then turn in for bed herself. It was good seeing Vul at peace.

As unfamiliar as everything must have been for her, the alien had been nothing but bright and cheery since they’d met, even as she was visibly shaken by the circumstances which had brought them together. She couldn’t imagine being that brave herself, but Vul made it look easy. If all it took to make her feel safe was a spare quilt, making one available was the least she could do.

Smiling softly, Wren stood up and tiptoed around the couch, retrieving her pens and paper and relocating to the other side of the room. Flipping to a fresh page, she started testing out ideas, filling the sheet with different shapes in vivid blue and purple. A line here, a dot there, until the doodles converged to an image in her mind. This would be a hawk, wings outstretched, feathers like Vul’s eyes.

Later, she looked up, concentration broken by a small sound somewhere nearby. A whistle, or maybe a squeak, she wasn’t sure. When no obvious explanation presented itself, she set down her drawing, intent on checking the rest of the apartment. She wasn’t worried about a break-in, but the place had had issues with mice when she’d first moved in, and a recurrence of that fiasco was the last thing she needed just then.

Moving lightly on the balls of her feet, she’d only made it to the kitchen doorway when she heard the same sound again. Louder this time, right behind her. She spun around, too fast to stay quiet, readying herself to act. Then she realized: Vul was making the noise. The other girl sat stiffly with her face scrunched up, breathy gasps blending into one long high whine.

Was that normal for her? It couldn’t be, even if it was she had to check. Wren rushed back across the room, dropping to her knees in front of her roommate. “Vul? What’s happening, are you okay?”

Vul inhaled sharply, giving no indication of whether she’d heard the question.

“Hhaaah-ehhHHH!”

Her eyes fluttered open, then squeezed shut again. Her whole body trembled with urgency. Another gasp.

“HHIIHH-!”

The dam burst.

“Hhahtchuu! Tchu! Tchuu! Hitchoo! Hehtsch! Hehtchuu! Hh’schu! Hatschuu! Hih’tsch! Hhtssch! Hihhtsschuu! Itschieew! Tchuu! Tchuu! Ehtcheew! Hhah’TSCH! Hhtch’SCHUU! TSHU! HHTCHU! HH’CHEEW! HHAH’ETSCHU! TCHUU! HAHT’CHU! HETCHIEW! TCHUU! HHIHTSCHUU! HEHTCHEEW! TCHIEEWW! TCHU! ETSCHUU! HHAHTCHUUU!”

Vul scrubbed at her face with both hands, eyes streaming. Her breathing was fast and shallow, but she was breathing, and her lungs sounded clear. Hopefully that meant she’d be fine.

Eventually, she dropped her hands and looked up.

Not knowing what else to do, Wren stared at her. The other girl’s face was flushed, eyes still watery, but her posture had softened, and her mouth hung open in her usual almost-smile. Looking like that, she had to be okay. Nothing to worry about. Right?

Vul stared back. She stretched, tail lashing against the upholstery, then broke the silence. “Wren?” Confused, maybe defensive, but no hint of fear. She was fine.

Relieved, Wren stared a moment longer, then burst out laughing. “Seriously, you too?!”

“What?”

“I changed my mind, you’re not keeping that blanket. I think you’re allergic.”

[wri0thesley]

Happy early valentines💕💖💕💖💕!!! Hope your day is going good!

Give you and your moots a blind date (with a yandere twist!)

ahh i love seeing other people do this but i fear i will suck at it so so bad!!! but i will try fgjnkbjngf. if we are moots and you are not included it is not because i Hate you it is either because i do not know how you feel about yan content or i am Scared and Afraid that we are not friendly or close enough or anything for me to actually tag you in a post!!! <3

anyway let me start with someone who i know will not give two hoots if i tag them, my beloved @hazgojo. they keep discovering little handmade chocolates on their windowsill in inazuma; and on valentines day, naturally, thoma asks for the day off to be able to take them around inazuma city, his arm around their waist tight and a warm smile on his face - and the reminder of everyone they meet that thoma is a much-beloved face around inazuma, and if somebody were to hurt his feelings . . . well. it would not end so well for them.

jade @daydreamslug is Accidentally spending valentine's day with tighnari. a trip out into the avidya forest in order for them to reference the plants growing there in their sketches and an hour spent far too close to a plant with hallucinogenic properties (for the art, you understand - they knew perfectly well what it was, but sometimes getting something right is more important than one's own health) . . . and a certain fox-eared forest ranger found them passed out and decided to take them home and take pity on them. a certain fox-eared forest ranger with a warm heart and a sharp tongue, who found himself growing very very fond of this artist he'd saved the life of, and all the more determined not to let them go when he discovered they didn't have a 'proper' home to go back to.

toast @bucciaratis-titty-window has caught the eye of a certain cavalry captain who always seems to know where she's going to be. he says it's just to do with his keen senses, but if one were to ask around the mondstadt taverns at night, they might find out that captain kaeya is always very very interested in her comings and goings, all carefully veiled in him being concerned for her as a citizen of mondstadt and nothing to do with any personal reasons. whilst he's here, though, in her favourite shop for imported liyue tea blends . . . perhaps she'd like to tell him all about them? tonight? at a restaurant he absolutely didn't already have booked for two?

gray @mydiluc is spending valentine's day with someone who really doesn't understand the buzz around the fourteenth of february. it's a day like any other, surely? but even though alhaitham thinks that there's nothing to be excited about, he'd be lying if he said that watching gray giggle and plan outfits and daydream about the colours pink and red didn't make that little beast he knows is jealousy rear up in his chest. so, despite the fact that he can't help but think that logically valentine's day is just another day . . . he makes up his mind to sweep her off her feet, just so nobody else can swoop in. and perhaps he already knows her favourite colour and her favourite foods and her favourite haunts in sumeru city, but . . . well. that's what a good boyfriend (future boyfriend) does, isn't it? in which case, he'll simply use valentine's day as an excuse to set his plans into motion.

lamb @nanamimizz is by their own admission, baby lambish . . . and there is one resident of liyue who feels it is his duty to guide those who might need a little help, to . . . fuss over them and coddle them and spoil them. this valentine's day, then, lamb finds that the wangsheng funeral parlour consultant zhongli is at their side and taking their arm and smiling, speaking to them in a soft low voice that he hopes they don't mind, but he's noticed them wandering liyue harbour these past few days (weeks. months. lamb doesn't need to know all of that), and he'd love to take them on a tour, if they're amenable to it? it's terribly hard to say no to zhongli, and before lamb knows it they are lost in his low sonorous voice and a near-perfect memory for recalling history and who knows how long it has been since this tour even began, because the sun is setting--

@scaranya naturally couldn't spend valentine's day with anyone other than wanderer, right? well - they could try, but they'd hardly fancy their chances. wanderer might not have very many ties to the world, but when he finds one - as he has in ada - he's not going to let them go. it's not a traditional valentine's day by any means - he won't spoil them with presents and gifts, he finds that kind of thing difficult to understand and fully commit to - but . . . ada will notice that he sticks close to them. that he speaks sharply to anyone else who seeks to engage them in conversation (this is a day for lovers, is it not? therefore, it is a day for them to spend together, and not any other human who has no right to monopolise ada's time). that he ends the night with a short sharp kiss with his cheeks reddened and his teeth grit - and that, to him, this is all as akin to a great romance as he can manage. whether they agree with it or not.

thats it im too shy to assign anyone else a yandere im sorry fgbnkjfgkjn

[kumeko]

A/N: For the @memoryofpromises zine! I cheated a little and put both Riku/Naminé + Repli!Riku/Naminé in this fic.

…

…

…

…

The market was lively. Sitting on the steps to the town’s well, Naminé curiously watched as villagers bustled from shop to shop, their arms loaded with fresh fruit, meat, and other supplies. Children weaved between strangers’ legs, laughing as they chased one another. Shopkeepers rang bells and shouted, trying to attract visitors. Coins clinked as goods were exchanged and the sharp scent of roasted meat wafted through the air. The whole place hummed with energy and she couldn’t tear her eyes away, fascinated.

She hadn’t known that a place could be so alive. Looking down, Naminé started to etch out the market with a stick she’d found, scraping the pointed end on the hard dirt ground. If only she had something to catch the bright colours: the gleaming red apples, the dirty grey capes, the play of light and shadows from between the bazaar awnings. If only she could memorize it all and never forget.

A shadow fell on her sketch and Naminé looked up to find her companion glaring at her. At his feet were two big white bags, stuffed to the brim. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low and scratchy. A ragged brown cape concealed his white hair, but nothing could hide his bright, blue eyes.

“Do you need water?” she asked, touching her throat. He sounded parched.

His frown grew deeper and he crossed his arms. Gesturing with a jut of his chin at her picture, he repeated, “What are you doing?”

“Sketching,” Naminé replied innocently, smiling as she glanced at the market. “I wanted to try to capture it all.”

“Are you using your powers?” He leaned forward, pulling her cape back over her head. She hadn’t noticed it’d fallen. Despite his gruff voice, his hands were gentle, carefully brushing back her hair before securing the cloth.

She watched him in silence. He smelled vaguely of the sea, despite never having been there, and it was funny the things that were carried over, the things that were inherent to a person. When he pulled back, Naminé shook her head. “No, just normal sketching.”

“Good.” He sighed, tension escaping his shoulders. Stuffing one bag under an arm and holding the other in that hand, he held out his free hand to her. “Come on, we have to go. We’ve been here too long.”

“I don’t think the organization will find us here,” Naminé murmured, taking his hand anyways. He pulled her up, his arm surprisingly strong for how lean it appeared.

“Did you foresee that?” he asked quickly. He was still holding her hand.

“No, just a hunch.” Dragging her foot over her sketch, Naminé wiped it clear, leaving behind only the stick. “Let’s go, Riku.” He flinched at the name. “Do you want me to call you something else?”

His jaw clenched but he shook his head. “No. I am Riku.” 

In a sense, she supposed, that was true.

-x-

Naminé blinked, staring at a pristine white page in a notebook. The paper crinkled as she flipped throughout, revealing dozens of sketches of the sky and migratory birds. Tracing the pencil lines with a finger, Naminé lowered her eyes. She was dreaming of that moment again, a dream that felt as real as a vision.

She lifted her eyes to gaze at the barred window in front of her, the thick metal stripes that gave her a peek of freedom. Around her, her small room was littered with soft pillows and silken sheets, with plush rugs and intricate lamps. A golden cage filled with the finest goods Organization XIII could lay their hands on. Golden bracelets clinked on her hands and feet, as though the rich metal could help her forget that they were chains.

A bird flew past the window and Naminé took a deep breath. She knew what came next. A salty scent flooded her senses, like a tide coming in, and behind her, she heard footsteps approaching her door. A rough voice asked, “Naminé, it’s time. Are you ready?”

She didn’t have to turn around to know the sharp blue eyes that awaited her. She didn’t have to, yet her body moved anyways, almost by instinct, and she stared at the familiar face of her companion. No, not quite—this Riku wore a half-smile, his expression almost kind as she came closer. Naminé had often wondered just where her spell had gone wrong, just what her Riku was missing that this Riku had. Experience. Time. There was something lacking that made her Riku gruff and angry, like he was waiting for something.

Then again, maybe this Riku had been like that when they first met. She couldn’t remember, it had been so long ago now. Only this moment remained crystal clear, a memory that refused to fade. Only this and his last breath, her hands covered in his blood, her sight blurry from tears.

“Here.” As usual, Riku held out his hand, offering his assistance in her escape.

She knew how this would end. Naminé took his hand and woke up.

-x-

Naminé leaned over to her right, peering down hill at the winding path as it led out of the forest. In the distance, plumes of smoke curled in the evening air, a dark grey against the pink sky. Even from here, she could hear the din of the town. “I can’t believe there are so many people.”

Pouring over a map he’d stolen, Riku scoffed, “Of course there are. The world’s pretty big.”

She flushed, her neck burning. “That’s true.” Even if she’d spent most of her life in Castle Oblivion, trapped by the organization, she wasn’t entirely ignorant of the world. Her visions of the future had given her peeks of a world she’d never experienced.

Still, it was one thing to see it, another to be in it. Every market was an assault on her senses, a cacophony of sounds and smells. Naminé scuffed her shoe on the ground, biting her lip. “It’s just, aren’t you curious?” Every town had a different feel to it. She could spend her life going through them and cataloguing the differences. “It’s a place you’ve never been to.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Not really,” Riku muttered, his finger tracing a path on the map. “I have memories.”

In a sense, she supposed he did. She glanced at the city one last time. “If there are so many people, then they might not find us here. Or anywhere. It’s too big for them to search everywhere.”

At that, Riku looked up from the map. His brow furrowed, his lips a thin line, and he shook his head. “You’re too powerful for that. They won’t just let you go.” Paper crinkled as his grip tightened. “You won’t be safe until we reach Destiny Islands.”

She couldn’t hear that name without remembering flashes of sun and water, three smiling children eating a star fruit. Sneak peeks of a past she should never have looked at. Stepping closer to him, Naminé studied the map. It barely covered half the continent, the vast majority of it forest with a stream leading to the ocean. “Have you figured out how to get there yet?”

Riku’s jaw tightened. Reluctantly, he shook his head. “Not yet.” His eyes lowered, long eyelashes hiding his gaze. “My…his memories…they’re incomplete. Foggy.”

Her fault entirely. Naminé bit her cheek, looking away. “We can go somewhere else,” she suggested. “There have to be other safe places.”

“No,” Riku barked, rolling up the map. “We have to go there.” He winced as he accessed his memories, as he strained to remember more. “Sora, he’s there. He can help you.”

The child with a gap-tooth and the biggest smile. “He might not be a fighter,” she countered, unable to shake the memory she’d stolen.

“He’s not as good as me, but he’s capable.” Riku grabbed her hand, his grip soft but firm. He went down the path leading away from the city. “It’s this way.”

-x-

Naminé dreamed of the scent of iron intermingling with sea-salt. If it wasn’t the start, it was the end, and Riku lay in her hands, his life pouring out him. Blood stuck to her hands as she cradled his head, begging him to breathe, to live, to not leave her alone.

He lifted a hand to her cheek, his touch soft. His lips moved slowly. No matter how many times she tried to stop, her sobs drowned out his final words. Did he blame her? Did he hate her? She was the reason he was dying here, a sword through his chest, and not safe at home with his two best friends.

Her powers were useless here. No matter what future she saw, it was dark and empty.

His hand slipped from her cheek, red smudging her skin, and the sound that escaped her wasn’t human in the least.

-x-

“Did you love him?”

Naminé blinked, tearing her eyes away from the flickering flame. Next to her, Riku was sharpening his sword, his right hand firmly sliding a rock across the blade. Despite his attempt at apathy, he was watching her from the corner of his eyes, his shoulders hunched, his jaw clenched.

She didn’t have to ask who he was talking about. They had been together for almost four months now and aside from the initial week, this was the first time she’d heard him ask about the original Riku. “Love?” she repeated, watching as his muscles tightened at the question.

“Did you?” he repeated.

How oddly direct. He was usually cagier when it came to something personal. Hugging her legs, she tucked her chin on her knees and considered the question. Love. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “No, not exactly.”

He gave up the pretence of sharpening his blade. “What does that mean?”

“He was kind.” Naminé could still feel his calloused hand that first time she’d grabbed it, his widening smile when she hesitantly asked for his help. “I didn’t know anyone could be so kind, so warm.”

“That’s it?” Riku knitted his brows, not quite believing her. “You created me. You didn’t want him to die and you created me.”

Her eyes flew open. “That was…” She trailed off helplessly. How could she explain the panic that flooded her when she realized he was dying, the grief that ran straight through her spine? Maybe she shouldn’t have taken his hand, maybe she should have accepted her lot in life. He could have lived to be an old man.

It had been too late then. It had been to late to change his fate, too late to save his life, too late to resurrect his body. The best she could do was capture his essence in a golem, to push her memories of Riku into a container and hope they stuck.

I didn’t want to be alone, she wanted to say, but the words were stuck in her throat, an ugly truth she couldn’t discard. It hadn’t been just sorrow and guilt that forced her hand—it had been fear. She couldn’t call any of these ugly emotions love, she had no right to.

And if he found out, this Riku wouldn’t look at her the same. Copy or not, he wouldn’t look at her the same and she couldn’t take that.

“It wasn’t love,” she finally uttered, falling back to the original question. “I didn’t want him to die because of me.”

A half truth, but it seemed like it satisfied Riku. He studied her one last time before returning to his sword maintenance. “So that’s all it was.” His muscles were still tense and she knew the questions weren’t entirely over. Though his mood seemed better than before. “Then…”

“Then?” she prompted.

He glanced at her, his bright blue eyes boring into hers. “What about m—” Cutting himself off, he quickly stood up. “Never mind,” he muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His ears were a dark red. “I’ll check the area again.”

-x-

Naminé leaned forward, stretching a hand out from the lip of the cave. They had been lucky to find it just as the rainstorm had started, keeping themselves dry for the worst of it. And now, after waiting for several hours, it seemed like the storm had finally stopped. The wind had died down, the sun was peeking out from the clouds, and the only water that hit her was the steady drip from an overhanging tree. “I think it’s done.”

There was no response behind her, not even the usual soft rustle of cloth when Riku moved, giving him away when his footsteps were too quiet for her to hear. “Riku?” She turned back to her companion. Slumped against the cave wall, he gave no indication that he’d heard her.

Softly, she approached him. Still nothing. Coming to a stop in front of him, she leaned forward and squinted in the darkness. His breathing came slow and steady, his body completely still, and she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear as she listened.

Riku was asleep. Slowly, so as to not disturb, she sat down beside him. He must have been tired—he rarely rested when she was awake, more often than not patrolling and scaring off any interlopers. It was unusual to find him asleep, even odder to find him in a deep slumber. In the dim light, she could barely make out his profile. Even while unconscious, he looked worn. He was trying to hard. Just like his original, he was impossibly kind, far too kind for someone like her.

At least he wasn’t angry in his sleep. That was one thing she hadn’t expected, the rage that simmered under this Riku’s skin. He was brasher, more eager to leap into danger, as though he used all his carefulness on her and left nothing for himself. Was this a fault of hers, her imperfect spell causing him to fill in the blanks of his heart with other emotions? Or was it anger from the original, at what she’d done, at what’d she’d caused?

She never wanted to find out the answer. Some things were better left unsaid. Reaching for his left arm, she watched as his expression twitched before smoothening out. Her fingers brushed against his pale forearm but he didn’t stir any further.

Relieved, she went concentrated on his arm. Riku would be angry if he knew what she was about to do. Lightly, she stroked his skin, her digits tracing images of stars and the sea. The future was filled with so many vague shapes, like hills rising out of the fog. Magic sparked at her fingertips, her eyes glowing as she tried to peer deeper into his future.

Water. The cry of sea gulls. A sharp tang of sea salt. Destiny Islands, she hoped, but it could be any port town.

Riku, a boy called. Sora, she was certain. It had to be Sora.

Was this the past or the future? Try as she might, the future remained cloudy, the fog enveloping everything in a thick, white blanket. It’d been like this ever since she’d created Riku, her visions growing weaker with each passing day. The future was obscured and it scared her a little, walking into everything blind.

If only she could see Riku’s future. She hoped he’d live.

-x-

Warm. That was the first thought that entered Naminé’s mind as she slowly woke up, swimming back to consciousness. There was something warm around her shoulders. Something hard against her head. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at the dirt floor, dazed.

Sunlight streamed into the cave, lighting up the shallow shelter. It was morning. She must have fallen asleep. Still groggy, Naminé stared blankly at the ground. Outside, she could hear the quiet drip of rain sliding off leaves. Through it all, she still felt something warm. Glancing to her left, she stared at a grey tunic. Riku’s grey tunic.

That jolted her to her senses, though she kept still as she assessed the situation. Riku’s arm was curled around her shoulder, pulling her closer to him until her head pressed against his chest. His breathing was still calm. Was he still asleep then? An unconscious move rather than a conscious one? Whatever it was, his hold was firm, pinning her to his side.

There was something comforting about it all. Something safe. Naminé couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt that way. He was warmer than her and she leaned closer, soaking in the heat. They should get up.

They should.

Naminé closed her eyes and breathed Riku in. A few more minutes couldn’t hurt.

[nibordereht]

Will you be there tomorrow? | Hitman!Bernard AU

Summary:

The song that Tim and Bernard considered as their own caused them to wonder about each other's stay in their lives the next day. Tim was sure that Bernard would be there for him every morning for the rest of his life, and Bernard would make sure to make that a reality.

Will you be there? Tomorrow (Bernard Dowd / Tim Drake) by anyrobin in AO3

Bernard Dowd kept his temple pressed against the cold glass of the bay window on the overhang of the house, watching the snow that was slowly beginning to melt even under the cloudy dawn sky; he fiddled with the ice in the glass that still held a little whiskey and took the last sip without pausing to savor the taste. On the spot, his husband Tim appeared from behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder to catch his eye. 

"Mm, good morning," he said in a hoarse voice. His eyes weren't even fully open and his touch was still warm, fresh from between warm, expensive cotton blankets. 

Bernard sketched a smile and set the glass aside so he could stand up straight, stretch his neck and deposit a light kiss on his opponent's lips. Tim received it somewhat groggily and smiled as well, sitting down across from Bernard to receive his cool arms around his neck.

"You're up early."

"No more than you. The bed was starting to get cold without you." 

Neither added anything else. Tim's hands rubbed his husband's exposed knees, while the other slid his hands up to his wrists to soon after stop the action and entwine their fingers together with their eyes on the outside. The large plot of land they owned, formerly owned by Timothy's birth family, stretched for at least a couple of miles and the wooded plains covered in snow and frost were a perfect postcard to gaze upon each twilight.

"Bern?

The aforementioned didn't answer, closed his eyes and, after taking a soft inhale, began humming the beginning of a song. A delicate melody that must have come from a piano rather than the human voice submerged the room for a few seconds that Tim enjoyed with open eyes, but closed mouth. He knew the tune perfectly, from the rhythm it carried to its lyrics and meaning, it never failed to enrapture him, lowering his defenses for the relaxation and warmth in his chest. They sang it together their wedding night and would spontaneously repeat it when the mood was right, each time in a yearning, melancholy tone. «Tomorrow» didn't narrate a love story, let alone one comparable to theirs and perhaps even distanced itself from the reality they shared; nevertheless, they liked it. The best part was when it ended and, without needing to add anything, together they would look at each other and blurt out an affirmation. 

"Of course I'll be here with you and for you tomorrow and every day after that for the rest of your life, and I know you will be too for the rest of mine."

Bernard stopped humming and laughed without parting his lips. It was the first morning they had woken up together after their honeymoon and marriage, and he felt the need to hum that one to sweeten the other man's morning. He slid his hand to Tim's cheek and left a quick caress there before taking a deep breath and standing up.

"I'm going to kill a man today," he declared. 

Tim made a grimace that hinted at a smile. 

"So soon you have to work already? I thought you'd be off work for a while considering our situation." The opposite blinked questioningly and tilted his head, causing Tim to sigh as he stretched his legs. "We're newlyweds, I thought you had some time off or something and wouldn't be working. And I'm supposed to be the workaholic?"

"I'm always working, Tim. You know that better than anyone. And at least I sleep while I'm doing it instead of subsisting on energy drinks and pure caffeine."

Tim squinted and nudged him lightly with his elbow.

"Sure, I don't need your arguments, just go," he snorted, resigned. "I had to get back to work on my own code soon anyway. I'll wait for you with lunch." Bernard pursed his lips and averted his gaze. Tim rubbed his neck and stood up. "I see. It'll be with dinner, then."

"Thank you, darling."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Go now."

Unlike Tim, Bernard was already up and well dressed, so he immediately grabbed his jacket, deposited a kiss on his husband's temple, and ran to the car to get to work quickly before morning fully broke. He had to take advantage of the fact that the sun hadn't finished rising to be at his assignment site at a perfect time. 

Inside the car, a red 67 Impala that Tim guarded with his life before meeting Bernard and handing over the keys, he waved goodbye to the beautiful mountain view and its snow covered flora to soon pull away from the countryside and arrive at a town on the outskirts where the snow had long since finished melting and his next job awaited him. 

The mission was simple, nothing he wasn't used to. Steal the life of the man who would inherit a fortune worth millions that, according to the client, he didn't deserve without leaving any traces or suspicions behind. For his luck, nothing new or complicated, although perhaps it would be a bit bloody considering the story he would put together behind the crime. 

Target 107, as his most recent victim was named, had been followed and duped for a long time. The latest update was that he spent the night exactly where and with whom he was supposed to spend it, "unknowingly" following the plan to perfection. Now Bernard was only supposed to finish the job started by his colleagues, his part was always the dirtiest; there were those who prepared the ingredients and he was then the one who cooked them. Luckily, his part was also the best paid. 

Even with the sun struggling through the mountains to show its splendor, he parked the Impala outside a sleazy hotel where his target should never have been. It was all planned; his clerks had taken it upon themselves to send continuous messages to the target posing as an alleged lover despite the victim being engaged, and to also send her partner texts and images insinuating that they were being unfaithful. If everything went as it should (and it did), the two had spent the night together in that hotel, because to finish the job Bernard took it upon himself to send them fake and untraceable emails (courtesy of his husband's software) on behalf of the alleged lover so that they would end up meeting there.

From what the hitman understood, his target's partner was classified as submissive and tolerant in attitude, so even with all the evidence of a betrayal going on, there was almost no way he would carry out a crime of passion that would benefit the client, but that's what Bernard was there for. 

The cameras had been hacked by one of the few members of his team an hour after the entry of Target 107 and his scapegoat partner, in order not only to allow Bernard to enter in the morning without any problems, but also so that there would be no recorded records of the prime suspect's departure many hours before the murder was carried out. The receptionist, the only likely witness, would be dealt with later.

As it should be, his patsy had retired early, leaving his target alone and scorned in a hotel of ill repute and ready for Bernard to carry out the last phase of the plan. 

In general, he liked quick and, if possible, clean kills. He preferred headshots; quick and precise, with no more blood than a single puddle on the floor. Poison was clean, but it took long enough to have to see the victim's reaction to it and he hadn't been interested in that sort of thing for quite a few years. He had seen so many different deaths that over time he lost the satisfaction he felt when he saw faces full of fear and pain, now he only liked to finish everything quickly and get paid to continue drinking expensive liquors and leading a good and relaxed life of which he was not worthy. The road he had to travel until he could carry out a murder that left no traces or tears behind was sometimes tedious and required him to give his all, however, that was the part that bothered him the least, because when everything culminated he could go back to being the selfless person he always was and bask in luxuries like the big house in the mountains he now shared with Tim or the almost two million pounds sterling whiskey he was drinking at night. 

Already on the second and last floor of the hotel, he tapped twice with the knuckle of his index finger on the door of the room where his beloved victim was, giving himself a second to get into the role he would play in that murder, after all, Bernard was never Bernard while he was working. Today, at that moment, he was the fiancé of someone who happened to be being unfaithful to him, with his jealousy boiling and rage built up, ready to do whatever it took to make his partner pay for betraying him. So without waiting a second longer for permission, he entered the room and after making sure to lock it tight, jumped onto the bed where Target 107 was looking at him puzzled and denoting his fear in his facial expression. 

"Who the hell are you?" 

"The last face you'll ever see, sweetness."

ههههه

"Oh, I want to break free!" cried Bernard, thumping the steering wheel of the Impala. He was happy, happy enough to sing a Queen song at the top of his lungs as he cruised down the road. 

Luckily, the job was still satisfying from time to time. The screams of the victim as he beat his bloodied skull structure with a candlestick, struggling not to fall into unconsciousness, was something he didn't see as often anymore, so he took it upon himself to revel in every second until he was sure that Target 107 was no longer going to wake up again, but he also didn't overdo it too much or it wouldn't look so much like something not premeditated. The smile he drew on his lips at the image of the white nightgown stained in blood still remained on his face as he sang loudly. 

Twilight was an amazing sight for the soundtrack and emotion he carried with him. He was in high enough spirits to reach over and pour himself a glass of the lemonade Tim loved so much instead of a glass of wine.

His most recent mission, Target 107, had just become his one hundred and sixth successful homicide since he had been in the business. Of all the targets he had been assigned to that day, the only one he hadn't killed was Timothy Jackson Drake and instead had co-written a dramatic love story with him that if Tim's adopted brother Jason knew about, he would write a novel about it.

Like all his works or many of them, Tim was a rich kid whom his younger brother wanted out of the game so he could receive the full inheritance and the title of CEO of the family company without having to beg fruitlessly since, even though he was the rightful heir by blood, it was the eldest son, albeit a bastard, who got the better part in the end; however, taking him off the board would leave his father with no choice but to keep the fortune in the family through his son or by letting his outside shareholders wipe him out, enriching outsiders instead of his offspring, and that was hardly an alternative. That's when the Dowd micro-mafia entered the equation and resulted in a clean win for the young boy, but an unexpected outcome for Bernard and Target 102.   

When Bernard's planned assassination disguised as a mugging failed as he missed his chance to give Tim a clean shot to the temple inside his beloved 1967 red Impala and suspicions began to surface of a possible conspiracy against him, he was left with no choice but to come up with a new plan to make the guy disappear from the Wayne family line of succession. However, instead of eliminating him from the list of heirs, he let his own father disinherit him at the same time that Tim decided to renounce his family for love. A forbidden love with another man that his parents would not even have been slow to reject and disown, and which his adoptive father refused to accept when he learned of the dangerous ancestry of his son's lover, erasing his name from all records within days after he fled far away with Bernard. 

Of course, that happened some time after the suspicions of the misfired gunshot accident had completely vanished and love emerged to the point where the young master gave up his position of power in order to be with another man. All it took was, "Your brother hired me to kill you, Tim, that's why I approached you in the first place, but I couldn't do it because I fell in love. I've never felt this way before. I love you..." for the sympathetic and in love Tim to accept Bernard's reality and decide to leave with him without ever looking back again. Then to have a token marriage, a honeymoon and a precious romance along with a naïve happiness that he knew would last for the rest of his life.

"I'm home," Bernard crooned. He tossed the keys to the Impala on a plate on the entryway cope and shook his head as he rolled up his shirt sleeves making his way over to Tim, who was setting the plates with dinner in the dining room.

"Welcome," he said. Turning, he raised his eyebrows in surprise and smiled. "Wow, you're back in a good mood."

"Totally. I could sing the duet from Grease any time. You know, you're the one that I want, you ooh ooh," he sang, snapping his fingers. 

Tim let out a laugh. 

"Of course, you'll be Olivia Newton-John?"

"Obviously I'll be John Travolta, honey."

They both laughed and sat down across the table from each other. Just as he had thought on the way home, and for the first time in the two years they had been together, Bernard drank from the lemonade his husband made almost every day. It was sweet, as sweet as he was with everyone most of the time. 

"Did everything go well today?" dared Tim to ask. 

Bernard hesitated for a moment, oscillating between saying what he really thought and the less coarse version that perhaps the opposite would prefer to hear. Little by little, Tim was getting colder, enough not to get uncomfortable or make things awkward between the two of them when they talked about work. As such, he decided not to go easy on him.

"That woman seriously put up a fight before she died, she was pretty dignified, but it's not like willpower can stop a hemorrhage either."

"I thought you said you'd kill a man today."

"Yeah, I did say that, honey."

The lemonade was gone. The only sweet thing Bernard wanted to drink now was a glass of brandy before going to bed. 

Without even finishing Tim's parched meat and over-seasoned potatoes, Bernard stood up shaking his head and index finger as he advanced to the radio on one of the shelves, humming an upbeat tune all the way there, under the watchful, amused gaze of his husband. 

"What are you doing?" he asked, chuckling.

"Let's go dancing, Tim," he proposed. He inserted a cassette into the tape deck and their song began to play after a few seconds.  

Between stifled giggles, Tim walked over to him and let him take one of his hands to lead him in a slow, frightening choreography, which didn't amount to a waltz or any smooth dance that resembled it, yet they both moved uncoordinated between smiles as the tune played loudly in the room. 

"Will you be there tomorrow?" sang Bernard before the song became just instrumental again for a few seconds and Tim helped him around taking his arm.

They continued to shake their heads with exaggerated slowness, spinning around until they fell into each other's arms and stayed glued there for a few moments before separating again and releasing their hands only to take them again from a different position.

"Walk by my side, and follow my dreams," Tim vociferated, trying hard to mimic Joey Tempest's lyrical tenor. "And bear with my pride, oh, as strong as it seems."

Bernard allowed himself a chuckle in the middle of the ballad just as the song was reaching its climax. He helped Tim take one last lap and when the song lowered its intensity he hugged him until the song ended, erasing all traces of happiness that had been there for the previous three minutes.

As they parted, his husband gave him a faint smile and deposited a kiss on his cheek.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I'll be here tomorrow, Tim." 

Tim nodded with moist eyes and then turned his back on her, heading to the table to pick up the half-eaten dishes. 

«It's too bad you won't, honey.»

Turning off the radio, Bernard was also ending his terribly long lie. He opened the chest of drawers under the mantelpiece and pulled out his beloved old Colt Python, the equivalent of the '67 Impala in Tim's life to his own. 

He carefully stroked the trigger after making sure it was loaded, just as he had left it during the previous early morning, and settled his hands on it, touching it like his most valuable treasure. 

"You knew I'd kill a man today, honey," he murmured. "You should have prevented it."

With Tim's back to him, he felt a small glimmer of sadness that he was ending two years of his life where he went through experiences he could not erase along with the man's existence, but the story of the killer in love with his victim began as a lie and had to die as such, it could not come true at the end of the road. He would not allow it. Bernard Dowd left no room for mistakes and finished every job as stipulated, he had no mercy. Besides, he was disgusted from the beginning to have to be with another man and he would strive to make that feeling of disgust and dislike the one that prevailed in the act and for the rest of his existence.

She was not breaking his promise. He was for Tim every day throughout his life and the only reason he would not be tomorrow would be because he would no longer have one. Their song would die as his and the words would fade away as truths without Tim knowing that they were all falsehoods. 

Or so he wanted to, but either way his hand trembled as he held the revolver, hesitating between pressing the trigger as he so enjoyed doing or just putting the gun down and returning it to the drawer that commonly held it. 

However, if he stopped to think about it for a moment, and it was for the first time he did, Tim and he really did have a life together, it was short, but it existed nonetheless. And perhaps without realizing it, there were times when the charade would fall away and what he said or did was nothing more than what he really felt. The laughter, the caresses, even the dancing and Europe's "Tomorrow" duet they had done minutes before, all of it was real and the fun and warmth he experienced were not entirely part of the charade. 

The mornings he woke up next to Tim, the tears he watched him shed during their wedding, even when it was just the two of them separated from everything they ever cared about, and the honeymoon spent between romantic gestures, it was more than just him chasing after Target 102 to make it his one hundred and seventh kill so he could have a perfect streak...

Her hand closed over the trigger again with his husband in his gaze, now without hesitation or trembling. 

Yes. It was true. Those were all special moments and he would treasure them all in the name of his most precious mission, Timothy Drake. He was fulfilling his promise to him. 

He was with him every morning of his life. Until he shot him in the back and finished him off.

[thatswhatyoucall--adream]

Day 4 of posting WIPs! Here is a super old one I’ve been toying with starting again. Not a fanfiction, though.

It was late when Carmen pushed the door of the parlor open, the neon sign on the door had long been turned off; even though there were still a few customers who were there getting whatever it was finished off, cleaned and wrapped. She smiled at the flame haired female at the counter who stood up and walked around to give her a hug. 

“Never actually thought that the mighty Carmen Finch would take me up on my offer.” the girl smiled, her cheek piercings all but vanishing into the dimples they left behind. There was no malice behind her statement, merely just a touch of sarcasm to cover up the genuine surprise there. Truth be told, Carmen never really thought she would end up in this tattoo parlour at nearly three AM but here she was. The bi-product of too much tequila and a really long heart to heart with the girl in front of her had resulted in the artist drawing her up a tattoo and double dog daring her to get it done. 

Pain never bothered her, not really. Carmen just never voluntarily put herself into situations wherein she got herself hurt or anything at all like that. Well, physically, anyway. She didn’t even have her ears pierced for the love of God.  The thought of someone coming anywhere near her with a needle intent to cause and not cure pain made her skin crawl and her blood run cold, but what Emily had said had been bothering her for weeks. Maybe getting them out from under her skin really did come from getting them onto her skin. 

Emily Mears was a long time friend of Carmen’s, they’d attended the same middle and high schools and even roomed together at college. Now, Emily had her own business and Carmen was knee deep in her father’s, and sinking fast. Carmen shrugged, “Never thought I would be here, but ever since you finished up that sketch and had the damn thing sent to my apartment, I’ve not been able to stop thinking about it.” It was the truth, too. She’d never once considered a tattoo until she couldn’t stop peeking at the sketch every other day. Couldn’t stop imagining how the smokey lines and splashes of red would be in stark contrast to her alabaster skin. She wanted to do it to piss her dad off, to show him that she wasn’t a pawn in his chess game, but she also wanted to do it to prove that she could. Prove that something beautiful could come from hours of pain. That she could put herself through that and come out the other side swinging.  That, and she never backed down from a dare. 

She knew it was downright insane, but after the events of the past few weeks she was done with feeling like a fragile flower and having to be protected. Carmen was ready to face this all on her own. She was ready to stand up and be counted in a the man’s world she had been raised in. The thing was, though, she wasn’t sure she wanted the trappings and trimmings that came with being made in this business. 

“Coffee?” Emily’s soft voice broke through the haze in Carmen’s skull and the buzzing that was surrounding them as another artist finished off a tattoo. Carmen nodded, blindly following the girl into the back room that was filled with plush furniture and a glass and chrome table and chair set in the corner. The lights came on as they walked into the room, Carmen following after the Petite red head, who babbled on and on about different types of coffee beans and coffee flavours that they had. 

“Just plain black for me.” Carmen finally muttered, it was too early or too late for anything else and all she wanted was for someone to make sense of this mess. “You know, I never thought that I wanted a tattoo, but it’s really growing on me.” She told her friend as she settled into the plush leather sofa and tucked her legs under her. “How sore will it be?” 

Emily smiled down at her friend as she brought over two mugs of coffee and sat beside her. “That depends. Your shoulder blades will hurt like a bitch, your spine too, but the rest of it should be alright.” She gave a small shrug of her tattooed shoulder before smiling at the girl. “It’s a physical pain you can do something with, though.” Emily’s voice was soft again, as though she was ready for Carmen to bolt any second. “We can make it smaller if you wanted, though. Four separate tattoos in places with the least pain.” It was an offer of an out and Carmen knew she should take it.

“No.” She heard herself say. Her voice sounding strong and confident and nothing at all like hers. “I want it between my shoulder blades. As we discussed.” “You were drunk.”

“And?” 

“We don’t have to do this. I take back the dare.” 

Carmen shook her head vehemently. “No, we’re doing this. I’m here.” 

“I can’t do it all in one go tonight. I can do the outline but the shading and the colour and a other things will have to be done tomorrow or whenever you decide to come back.” Emily shrugged her shoulders, looking down into the cup. “It’s not something I want you to regret.” 

“I won’t. I trust you to give me something incredible, Ems.” She smiled brightly, the noise in her head fading until there was a quiet that rivalled the shop. “You do have a copy of the sketch here, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I have the transfer ready, but Carmen, it’s sore. It’s a huge piece and it’ll be your first. At least let me give you something smaller to begin with so that you know the pain involved and what it’s like. I can’t leave you with an unfinished tattoo.” Emily shook her head again and got up, setting her cup on the table and heading towards the chrome table, grabbing her sketch book. She settled on the sofa again and opened the sketch pad, looking up at her friend. “Inner wrist. Something Simple.”

[swiminthunder]

I did this as a trade for a character w/ @/kuy on TH and I'm pretty happy with the character I got in return which I'll hopefully show soon if I'm not too caught up in my own web of art of my character hoard

So first up is gonna be how I drew Chocolate Kiss :3 I knew I was gonna draw a fullbody and the instant I saw Chocolate Kiss, I just knew I was gonna draw something soft with flowers and stuff, so I looked about online (was not happy with the Unsplash search results for what I wanted) and found this lovely picture (I tried to find the origin but ended at chasingdaisiesblog.com). I liked the sunset and wanted to work on my tone matching for environments and whatnot, which having a field vs a studio definitely helped that practice lol Anyway, I did realize that the specific lighting on this bub isn't exactly accurate to how a subject in that scene would look but it does look pretty and that's all that matters. Plus I added lil fireflies kinda thing bc pretty. This is prolly one of my fav pieces this year lol

Next up - Merlin! So this was a headshot and I started with a half body because I was trying to plot out the hands before cropping it up to a bust shot. In Merlin's bio, it said he is the lead singer in a band, and while I was plotting out the other drawing, I had initially thought of drawing him with a moody microphone on stage but I figured that is too typical of an approach. When I began his sketch, I searched references for studios and just traced over a microphone (there's no way in hell you're gonna make me draw a studio mic on my own w/o it lookin hella wonky). The pose just felt natural and I didn't use much reference aside from like 3 pictures of my own hands just to draw his right hand lol The lighting- I saw a post on Pinterest of someone suggesting warm shadows and cool lighting. I used to use this kind of thing all the time like 2 years ago, but I switched to warm all around or cool all around to study lighting better for the past year, but goin back to that felt funny and I feel set a pretty good studio tone for the most part. Ngl, I'm not /as/ happy abt this one, but I think my feelings on em even out because of my first drawing.

In any case, that's my thought processes for these two pieces. If y'all wanna keep seein me write out my thought processes, maybe reblog or leave a comment. If ya got any questions or art requests (like "draw Miku Hatsune!" or smth like that) then comment that for sure.

If you want your OC drawn, commissions are currently open - just DM me and I will eventually see it. Commissions are 50% off rn until New Years (quick price list for colored- $5 Headshot $10 Half-body $20 Full-body). Make sure to follow for more art, whether it be from me or my fellow artists here. I'm still new so if ur an artist here and follow me then I'll follow back and probbly reblog ur art when I am on this app. Yep, have a good one y'all

[stinginthetalehalimekaraca]

Process-Illustrations and Inside of Book

This is some of the process, for making my illustrations and the other bits that I decided to add in the book.

Unfortunately, I forgot to take that many pictures of the process. I know how important it is to back up your process with screenshots but the limited time for the project really made me subconsciously work on all the illustrations without thinking about anything else.

However, I decided to add the timelapse for two of my illustrations. The process for all of them is quite similar anyways so I don't really see this as too big of a problem.

First Page

I wanted something special for the first page. In the show Over The Garden Wall, they sometimes put up images or text in these beautifully ornamented frames. They are usually made of the faces/ silhouettes of a character, a very important object for the story, or just intricate patterns and shapes.

I decided to create my own illustration in this style that would serve as the first page in my book.

Since I wanted to capture that old, folklore-inspired, fairy tale book style, I decided to refine the sketch and use it as line art. I mostly made the frame out of pumpkins, vines and leaves, with only two of my characters in it since I think they fit the best with the aesthetic I was going with. This was very easy and fun to make. I used the symmetry and mirror tools to speed up the process.

For the colours, I wanted something very soft and earthy that would suggest autumn. I mainly used browns, oranges and dark greens with just a few of blue-ish tones here and there.

I wanted to make the illustration look like it was made with watercolours so I used a big air brush to fill in all the colours and shading. This made the whole thing look a lot softer, hand-made and as if the colours were mixing together.

I used a desaturated shade of blue for the centre and then put in the first verse of my story.

I absolutely love how it turned out. The only thing I would've added was some more watercolour texture here and there, to further emphasis the traditional aesthetic of it but in the end, I think it looks passable enough for what It is trying to look like.

Illustrations

I decided to make 3 of my illustrations on the same canvas which means I have all the process in the same video. Working on these was an absolute pleasure and I am very grateful for the techniques and useful things I have learned while painting (digitally) in this style.

As I have mentioned before, I wanted to go with a very sketchy, paint-y look for the illustrations. This gave me a lot of freedom and actually made me more confident in my ability of creating interesting shapes and brush strokes.

Up-close, you can really see how rough and unpolished everything is, and I thing this only adds to the charm, originality and character that children's books usually have.

After I finished the 3 illustrations I had that were on the same canvas. I moved each one on it's on page, where I added any finishing details.

For example, I decided to add a nights sky behind the crow and a stone wall covered in ivy to sit on. I also tried to make some kind of animation/sequence by having the crow drawn three times while it took on flying . I added a white line of action to further emphasis the movement .

Since the crow and the background are both very dark, I decided to add some rim light along the edges of all the crow drawing with a muted shade of yellow, to make it look as if the moon was reflecting on its feathers.

This really separated the background from the crow and really added a lot of dimension.

I did something similar for one of the others illustrations as well. Since I had the lit candles in , I had to make them glow and reflect on all the objects around it.

I started by creating a new layer, on which I added a very dark shade of blue-ish purple over the whole drawing. I put the layer on the blending mode ''HARD LIGHT'' which made everything darker and in harmony with the sky.

After that, I added some highlights all over the place with a bright yellow. This is also where I made the flames of the candles. For this, I used the blending mode ''ADD'' which made everything bright . I also erased the edges of the highlights with a textured brush to make them blend better with the objects they were hitting.

After that, I made another layer with the blending mode add and added a very subtle glowing effect with an air brush on all the highlights and the candle flames.

I loved working on the flames. Thinking about how the wind would hit the flames making them move was so fun and it added a nice touch of realism to the piece.

This illustration was made separately from the others. I decided to draw a cake and some dog paw prints in tune with the verse that it was representing.

I took a slightly different approach for drawing the cake. I made the ''sketch'' out of squares and rectangles using the ''rectangle tool''. I decided to go with a very generic design for the cake, I didn't want to spend too much time on the initial sketch.

After that, I started carving into the shapes, adding shading and dimension. This is where I decided to replace the pink icing with chocolate just to have more variation in colour. The wiped cream on top was a bit hard to do since the shapes was not something I have done much of before, but I think I managed to figure it out.

I added a lot of highlights on the icing to make it look shiny.

As a last, slightly gory detail, I decided to add eyes around the bottom of the cake. They were very easy and quick to do and they really accentuated the Halloween theme in the page.

This is a comparison between the ''sketch'' and the finished drawing.

As always, there is a lot of texture everywhere. This technique of adding random lines and strokes everywhere really became a signature element in my style that I have used for my other project was well. It is something I have learnt from movies like Spider-Man Into The Spider Verse and digital artists like Sam Does Art.

Bonus Illustration

I made also made this final illustration as a son of conclusion for my story, with the skeleton siblings having a fun time with the ghosts in the cemetery.

I was really inspired by the show Cuphead to make this illustration. In the show, all the background are made separately from the characters in a soft, hand drawn style, while the characters and the objects they interact with are made to look a lot more crisp and clean.

This is a technique that Disney used for very old animated movies like Snow White and Cinderella, where the background would be done on plastic sheets and the characters would be added on top of them.

Pattern End/Start Pages

While studying the components of a children's book, I have noticed that all of them would have the first and last 2 pages be made completely out of patterns of drawings or shapes on a simple coloured background.

The functional purpose of these pages is to hold the book's interior to its cover and protect the insides of the book. However, this doesn't mean that they have to be blank, The can have little drawings, repetitive shapes, patterns and other visually interesting elements.

I decided to create my own end pages. This only took around 20 minutes to make. I decided to go with this beautiful violet for the background. I thought this colour worked nicely with the blues of the front and back covers.

Then, I started sketching the little drawing pattern. decided to stick to the Halloween-y theme and have a crow, a witches hat, zombie brains, a few potion bottles and a pumpkin.

After that, I made the outline for all the objects. I decided against adding any other colours. After that, I simply duplicated the 4 objects and filled the whole page in. I duplicated the whole thing 3 more times after that.

[therealvalkyrie]

exactly the spring

Pairing/setting: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem!Reader, college!AU

Summary: Reserved biology student Ushijima finds himself falling in love when you, an adorably disorganized art student, wander into the greenhouse.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: fluff, kissing

AN: Hi!! So, the inspiration for this one sprang from the beautiful, sexi brain of Emme ( @doinmybesthere ) way back in MARCH ahem anyway, it's done! I hope it's just as soft and intimate as you envisioned<33 Also, big shoutout to my beautiful friends Arobi ( @daqueenobooty ) and Cee ( @spacelabrathor ) for being wonderful betas and giving me such kind comments:) I hope you enjoy, and as always don't be shy about leaving comments or coming to chat! Be kind to yourselves and others.  ~valkyrie

p.s. check out this amazing art that @/54prowl made of plant boy ushi!! :D

Plants don’t talk back, Ushijima learned as a toddler. He’d babble to them in nonsensical phrases as his mother worked in the garden, and they’d only sway in the wind and listen, waxy under his chubby fingers.

A volleyball doesn’t talk back, either, not even through its bounces and echoes on hands and hard surfaces. It doesn’t listen as easily as plants, but can be herded and shaped like putty into a winning thing if you touch it right. This, Ushijima learned at his father’s hand and carried with him through childhood and adolescence.

The joy and puzzlement of you is that you do both. You listen so intently and openly with your steady eyes and soft body as the words pour out of him. And then, you reply. With your clear voice and new perspective, you offer something new. You offer companionship.

It was the second week of spring semester that you wandered into the greenhouse, eyes lit by the sun and sketchbook under one arm. Ushijima was repotting a large fern, dirt up to his elbows as he kneeled on the floor. He barely gave you a second glance, preoccupied with nestling the plant’s root system comfortably.

You settled a short distance away, crossing your legs to sit on the tile floor in front of an orange tree to sketch its still-closed flower buds with charcoal pencils. He kept working as you did, the sun sliding across glass, shadows shifting into the early evening of winter. When the sun was threatening to set over the city skyline — even with the greenhouse where it sits on the roof of the biology building — he turned to tell you he was closing up, only to find you gone. In your place, sitting on the wooden table that held newly planted basil and sage, was a drawing.

It was a single branch, detailed in shades of charcoal down to the last dewdrop. At the bottom, looping handwriting scrawled, “thank you for the peace.”

That night, he tacked it up above his desk in his dorm next to the postcard from Tendō and hoped you’d come back.

And you do, a couple of days later, on a Saturday. He looks up from where he’s filling in the logbook, this time, catching your gaze and holding it for a moment before you break away to survey the room. Today, he thinks you looked breathtaking. You’re wearing a long, flowing skirt and a sweater that makes him want to feel how soft it is, and how soft you are in it, and by the time his brain catches up with his thoughts, he’s been staring too long and your eyes have wandered back to him. It’s raining, today — it never really snows in this city, he’s learned — and shadowy droplets play across your face as they drip down the greenhouse’s arched glass ceiling, highlighting the curve of your cheekbone and making your eyes glow softly.

He clears his throat and looks back to the thick spiral-bound book on the table before him. Sometimes, when he meets people for the first time, he knows he can come across as intimidating. That worked out for him in high school and on the volleyball court, but in his adulthood, it’s been more of a hindrance than a help. It makes it… difficult to make friends here, where he doesn’t already know anyone.

And the last thing he wants is to scare you away. The last thing he wants is to break the peace you’ve apparently found here.

Which is why he barely dares to breathe when he looks up to find you approaching him where he’s perched on a sturdy wooden stool.

“Hi,” you smile and lilt, and god if it isn’t the most beautiful word Ushijima’s ever heard, if it isn’t the prettiest smile he’s seen.

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t want to scare you away.

“Uhm,” you start again, when the silence makes it clear he’s waiting for you to speak, “I have an art assignment,” you start digging around in your shoulder bag as you speak, “to draw a, um, what’s it called?”

“I don’t know.”

You pause in your rifling and pin him with such a sunny smile it makes his knee start bouncing. And you laugh, too, which officially replaces your “hi” as the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Ha, you’re funny,” you resume digging, “it was um, pretty leafy and... tropical, I think? Oh! Here.” Triumphantly, you produce a wrinkled paper from your bag. It’s the first imperfect thing Ushijima’s found out about you, that you’re shit at keeping your belongings organized, and he files it away for later reference. You hold the paper in front of your face and squint slightly to read in the shifting light. “Canna indica.”

Canna indica, native to tropical climates, notable as a minor food crop for South American Native populations for thousands of years.

“And I was told that you have it, here, in the greenhouse.”

Ushijima nods and finds himself relieved that this is what you’re asking him. Plants, he can do.

“We do. Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes, please,” you also sound relieved, like he’s provided the solution to every problem you’ve ever had.

He unfolds himself from the stool, setting down his pen as he goes. You take a step back and look up at him mildly, as though you hadn’t realized quite how huge he is.

“This way,” he indicates, leading you deeper into the maze that is the biology department’s greenhouse. The winding path back to the tropical room gives him a moment to sink back into the earthy peace of being here, even if now there’s someone sharing that peace.

The temperature change from the warm main greenhouse to the balmy tropical room prompts Ushijima to shed his flannel outer layer, hanging it on the nail hammered by the door while you step in behind him.

“Whew,” you exhale, shrugging off your soft cardigan as well, “it’s hot in here.”

Ushijima hums in agreement and tries not to look too hard at the patch of skin revealed by your cropped tank top. Canna indica isn’t too far into the room, so he just gently moves past draping leaves and ceramic pots.

“Here,” he stops, holding back leaves for you. He stops breathing again when you duck under his arm and end up so close in the narrow aisle that he can smell your shampoo. The moment passes, and he can breathe again when you breeze past him and squat down to peer at the bright, waxy red leaves of your subject.

“Beautiful,” you murmur, and he silently agrees.

You’re leaning so close to the plant he’s afraid you might topple over when you make a noise of realization and sit back on your butt to rifle through your bag once again. Ushijima knows he should probably leave you to it, but he’s glad he waited just an extra minute when you pull out a pair of glasses and pop them on your face. Adorably.

“That’s better.” You’re looking back at canna indica, now, at a normal distance.

He’s figured you’ve forgotten he’s there when you start to pull out pastels from your seemingly bottomless bag, so he turns to leave you.

A soft, “hey,” calls him back to you, however, and he’s met by your face glowing eerily in the shifting rain-light. “Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome.”

When he locks up that afternoon, he finds another charcoal drawing waiting for him on the table near the door, this time of his favorite agapanthus africanus. No note, this time, but he attaches all the sounds he heard from you today in its place. He also finds your cardigan forgotten next to where you were sitting and carefully folds it for when you come back.

The drawing joins the orange branch on his wall-- an odd starter garden, he thinks, but all the more precious because it came from you.

The next time he sees you isn’t in the greenhouse, but instead at a cafe a couple of blocks away, two weeks later. He’s walking past, gym bag slung over his shoulder, when he hears your laugh ring out across the outdoor seating area. His eyes find you, head tipped back in sending peals of mirth into the lively spring air. It’s the first truly warm day of the season, though you and your companion are the only patrons sitting outside, and the sun catches on your glasses sat atop your head.

Your friend says something apparently hilarious, because your giggles redouble, and an honest-to-god snort pushes out of your nose. Ushijima catalogues it in his ever-growing list of sounds you make, and pauses at the crosswalk, halfway turned back to keep one eye on you and one on the light. If you were alone, he might’ve approached you and told you that he still has your sweater in the greenhouse, waiting on a shelf between succulents, but he doesn’t want to interrupt your— date?

He isn’t sure, but the person sat there with you seems like someone you might date. Clearly also an art student, judging by the carefully disheveled blue hair and combat boots. Are you the type to date someone with blue hair? Unlikely, he decides. You seem too… bright. Too floaty to be so concerned with looking like you don’t care how you look.

Ushijima’s still debating whether you find blue hair attractive when the crosswalk light begins its countdown and he starts across the street. And he almost makes it all the way across, too, when a voice calls—

“Wait! Hey!”

He turns partially because it sounds urgent enough that it might be an emergency, and his grandmother would roll in her grave if he remained a bystander to some horrific accident. But it’s you, standing up from your seat and waving him back over. He glances at the crosswalk countdown, which lights up red as it ticks from four to three, then turns and jogs back towards you, waving a hand apologetically to the cars waiting at the light. You meet him at the metal fence around the cafe seating area, and now that you’re standing, he can see you’re wearing a yellow sundress that cuts off at your calves and drapes over your hips like the fabric was spun from pure light.

“Hello.” Ushijima talks first this time because if he doesn’t refocus his brain on something else he knows he won’t be able to stop staring.

“Hi! Sorry about that, uh, and I’m sure you have places to be, but, um, did I leave my cardigan at the greenhouse? I can’t find it, and I know I have a tendency to forget things, so,” you finish with a laugh, one hand fiddling with the rings on the other.

“Yes, you did. I put it on a shelf in case you came back.”

“Oh! That’s great!” You sound relieved, and Ushijima’s suddenly very grateful he didn’t take it down to the bio department’s lost and found like they’re technically supposed to. “Is there maybe a time I can come pick it up? When you’ll be there?”

“I’ll be there all day tomorrow, opening at nine.” 

He can’t tell if he sounds a little too eager, and he’s about to soften his meaning by telling you that they’re open today, too, and anyone can hand you a sweater, but you’re already smiling big and sunny and telling him,

“I’ll see you at nine, then. Do you drink coffee?”

He doesn’t; his coaches have always told him that caffeine can only harm his athletic performance.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I’ll see you at nine, with coffee.”

Ushijima says goodbye and turns to wait at the crosswalk again while you swirl your way back to your seat and pick up your conversation with your friend. He can feel two pairs of eyes on him as he crosses the street, red numbers blinking down from ten, and can’t help but turn to look back as he steps onto the opposite sidewalk. Where your friend tactfully looks down into their cup of tea, you catch his eye with yours and wave. He lifts his hand halfway in a goodbye before an eighteen-wheeler stops at the intersection and blocks you from him.

Ushijima’s normal work attire is typical of an average agricultural biology student accustomed to being up to their elbows in dirt every day: practical cargo shorts, dirt-stained but sturdy sneakers, a “plant dad” t-shirt (a gift from Tendō when they’d said their goodbyes and gone away to college), and a soft cotton flannel. He’s usually satisfied with this for his shift at the greenhouse, expecting to be mud-covered at least up to his wrists by the end of the day.

But today… Today, he pauses in the dorm bathroom to scrub his face raw, and he clips and shapes his nails like his mother used to do for him every Saturday. He normally only does it before tournaments, now, and it calms his nerves to feel prepared for a Big Event, even if that event is only handing you your gently pilled cashmere cardigan and receiving a coffee he won’t drink in return.

The air that morning is heady with spring, earthy and alive, reminding Ushijima of lying beneath the hedge along his mother’s garden to pass notes to the girl next door. He was seven and she was nine, so naturally she knew everything he didn’t. She knew about the planets and why worms live in dirt and how to spell the word “catastrophe,” and Ushijima would’ve bet his whole weekly allowance that she was the coolest person in the world, if he knew what betting was. (She did, and once bet him half an ice cream sandwich that he couldn’t climb the oak tree in his backyard all the way to the top. He did, and then twisted his ankle on the way down, and she brought him an ice cream sandwich every day for a week as an apology.) She was all shiny, long black hair and dark eyes and fast words, nothing like the spring blooming around him.

You, on the other hand, are exactly the spring.

He stops at his favorite pastry place on the way to work to pick up two fresh cream donuts. The line is just dwindling from the height of the morning rush, so he manages to make it to the biology building just five minutes before he normally does.

Morning sun sends rainbows through the automatic misting spray as Ushijima unlocks the greenhouse door, letting a burst of humidity out into the rest of the building. The spiral-bound log book is there on the desk, a thick parchment bookmark sticking out from where whoever closed last night marked the page. 

Ushijima places his backpack and pastry bag on the desk and reaches to hang his key on its hook just when there’s a knock on the door.

“I know I’m early,” you start, edging your way into the room with a paper coffee cup in each hand. “But I saw it was already open, so...”

Ushijima smiles despite himself. In their second year Oikawa Tooru had told him that his smiles can be unnerving, but he can’t help it right now. You look so lovely today, in jeans and a silky tank top, with a certain morning tenderness in the way you hold yourself.

“It’s okay, come in. I just need to check the temperature controls and I’ll be done opening.”

“Sounds good,” you reply, smiling back.

As he makes his way to the temp controls on the Southern wall, you perch on the wooden stool and set down the coffee.

With his back turned to you for a moment, you allow yourself to slouch, planting two hands on the table and stretching your shoulders with a sigh. It’s earlier than you normally get out of bed, let alone actually leave your apartment, and you can already feel a quiet exhaustion setting into your bones.

But this is worth it, you remind yourself. Worth it to talk to the beautiful boy with broad shoulders and gentle hands.

He’d been unexpected. That first day in the greenhouse, you’d sat down with the intention to calm down from a tedious school day and nothing more. Your hands had moved of their own volition on that second drawing of the orange branch, scribbling out a hasty message that made your cheeks burn. But he was so present that day, in the corner of your eye but staying respectfully out of your space. And you’re not blind -- you saw the muscles under his shirt as he lifted an entire small tree in its pot. You saw the startling shade of green his eyes took on in the sun. You saw it all, and it drew you back, and now you’re here.

When he joins you back at the table, leaning back against it to face you, you stick out your hand and offer your name.

He looks at it for a moment, then back at you.

“I just, uh, realized we never properly introduced ourselves,” you explain, with a hesitant smile.

He smiles again and your heart thuds, then his big hand engulfs yours and he shakes it firmly.

“Wakatoshi. It’s nice to meet you.”

You learn in the following weeks of coming to the greenhouse that Wakatoshi doesn’t like coffee. But he does like tea and donuts, so that’s what you bring him on the mornings you can find it in you to wake up before nine. You sit with him in the greenhouse, talking and listening as he records data and waters plants and sits next to you on the quilt you’ve fallen into the habit of bringing. The occasional professor or student comes through, and you get to watch Wakatoshi show off his brains when he leaves you to help them.

There are several things you learn about him over those weeks. Number one: he never minces words. Two: he prefers grapefruit chapstick over anything else. And three: he kisses like it’s his last day on Earth.

You discover number three late one night when you decide to drop by after class, shooting him a text to make sure he’s still there. Today he’s closing instead of opening, and you missed spending your morning with him.

The city lights cast a different kind of glow at this time of night. They add a distance to everything that’s palpable as you drop your bag by the door.

“Toshi, are you here-- oh, hi.” You turn the corner to find him closing the door to the supply closet.

His cheekbones are highlighted briefly by a billboard outside flashing red.

“You should get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired. And I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?”

He takes a step towards you and you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep your eyes on his. They’re leaf green and unreadable.

“Yeah, uh,” you wet your lips with your tongue, “is that okay?”

“Yes.” He pauses for a long time, then, watching you carefully in the neon glow of the exit sign. His hand shakes as it reaches up to push your glasses from your face onto your head.

Without them, he looks fuzzy and soft around the edges.

He says, “Can I kiss you?” and it feels like there’s a bird trapped in your ribcage.

“Yes. Kiss me.”

Wakatoshi kisses nothing like you expected, all tongues and teeth and heavy fingers in the dip of your waist. He growls when you gasp and mewl against him, sucking on your lower lip as your hands find purchase in his shirt. He kisses you so absolutely breathless that you think you might pass out. Your knees buckle and you pull away, gasping with your eyes closed for a moment until you come back to yourself.

“Are you alright, little one?”

The endearment makes your cheeks flush with heat and your eyes snap open.

“Yes, I’m alright. Please do it again.”

And so he does it again, and again, and again until you find yourself bringing him home with you on the last bus that goes towards your neighborhood. He’s standing in the aisle, one hand wrapped around a pole and the other wound around you, who’s standing in front of him. He keeps you steady as the bus rounds a corner.

That night, you bring the peace of the greenhouse into your home, and the only thing you find yourself wishing for is that it never leaves.