#tiny canvas save me

[freakycare]

My babies!!!!

they are anon interactive too teehee ;°3€~

[rambunctioustoons]

various magma doodles ✨

in which the drawings just get smaller !

[ljubimaya]

Another lil thing that I can't believe I made on Canva

IT'S GONE, NOW ENJOY SOME BAJIRENA ART DRAWN BY ME can u tell I drew this with a touchpad

[damselneedssaving]

BATBOYS BUT THEY'RE ALL SUPER FANS OF F!STREAMER!READER.

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, crack, pure crack, the boys being majorly obsessed with you, your username is just your name

★ A/N: doing this instead of revising for an exam! yay!

"Uh, can I do it another day?" Tim's hand lifts to scratch behind his head, eyes anywhere but near Bruce's own as he continues, albeit a tiny bit sheepishly, "[Name]'s streaming today."

The aging man goes to respond, lips parting and words on the edge of his tongue.

But the voice that comes next isn't from him.

"[Name]'s streaming today?!"

Dick barrels in from seemingly nowhere, eyes wide and mouth agape as he drops the bowl in his hand and sends hundreds of cereal grains scattering across the floor—a sight which has Alfred sighing already.

"Uh, yeah," Tim responds like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "She always streams on Fridays."

"I thought today was Thursday."

"Clearly you're not a real fan then, are you?" Jason pipes up from his spot on the couch, book in hand and eyes glued to its pages.

"Oh, and you are?"

"Realer one than you, Dickhead."

"Oh please, I'm not a real fan just because I forgot what day it is today?"

"I mean," Tim starts again, "the rest of us keep track."

Dick turns to send his scathing glare to his other younger brother, flames practically flickering off his form in favour of burning the younger man for daring to question his devotion to you.

Meanwhile, Bruce just stands there, absolutely speechless at the sight of his sons bickering like... well, like themselves, really.

Actually, forget it, he isn't at all surprised.

"Your arguing is pointless"—all eyes fall to the new figure who arrives with a tall stride and his hands full—"it doesn't matter which of you is a 'realer' fan than the other. I trump you all in terms of my devotion."

"Really?" Tim, ever the anti-fan of his youngest brother, deadpans from his place near Bruce, "I bet you don't even know half the games she plays."

"Yes, really," Damian replies, narrowing his gaze for a split second before leaning back and pulling his lips into a smug smirk, "I even made her fanart." Then, he turns the giant canvas in his grasp, proudly displaying the art he made of you.

And what a piece of art it is. From the sparkle in your eyes down to the very fibres of your clothes, Damian has truly captured your essence on paper and turned it into something hauntingly beautiful. Though, it could never compare to the real thing.

"I plan to send it to her postbox." He smiles, caressing the painting right where your cheek is. "Then she will truly understand the extent of my devotion to her and we will be wed in no time."

He catches a book right before it hits his face.

"As if," Jason scoffs, arm unashamedly stretched in the direction of the demon head. "If anything, she'll just find you weird and creepy."

"And I suppose she'll be all over you?" Damian practically hisses back at the man, holding his painting to his chest like it's a priceless museum artefact.

Jason smirks in response, crossing his arms and leaning back against the couch with all the confidence of a tyrant. "Of course. She's comin' to Gotham soon for a Meet-n-Greet. No doubt'll run into some trouble, and guess who's gonna be there to save her when she does?"

A batarang slices clean through the air, planting itself straight into the pillow just beside Jason's head and sending a flurry of feathers bursting out of it—earning Alfred's second sigh of the day.

"If you jeopardize her safety, I will murder you."

Jason's eyes narrow back at the Wayne, their glares like two bolts of lightning clashing in the middle, sharp and harsh enough to spark a fire all on their own.

"Uh, I think you're all forgetting something," Dick cuts in, practically waving off the murderous energy of the two. "She's dating me."

Immediately, both Jason and Damian stop glaring at one another, eyes blown wide and brows shot up to their heads as they stare at their older brother with their mouth parted.

Tim, on the other hand, makes a move to let out the third sigh of the day, hand moving up to pinch his nose as he speaks in a tone seeping exasperation, "Dick, watching 'A Date With [Name]' does not mean you're dating her."

"It does in my heart."

"Sorry for being late, chat." You smile at the camera, tone just shy of sheepish. "I was trying to fix my mic."

Almost as soon as you finish talking, a donation flies in.

@/therealdamianwayne donated $1,000! Not to worry, Beloved. You owe us nothing.

"Oh wow." You hide your mouth with a giggle, that username paired with a large donation an unsurprising sight to say the least. "Thank you, Damian. You're as sweet as always."

@/sweetestassingotham donated $2,000! not as sweet as me tho 😜

Ah, here your top donators go again.

@/therealdamianwayne donated $10,000! Do not test me, Grayson.

"Guys, guys, please." You sweat-drop, raising your hands as if to placate them as your chat goes wild at both the huge numbers, and the bickering donators. "Let's not fight, alright? And how many times do I have to tell you to not donate so much money to me? As much as I appreciate it, I'm sure there's others out there who could use the money a lot more."

@/greatestdetective donated $5,000! you're so kind

You let out a chuckle. "Thank you—"

@/greatestdetective donated $5,000! and loving

"Oh! Thank—"

@/greatestdetective donated $5,000! and perfect

You pause, head leaning forward a bit as you wait to see if you'll be interrupted again.

A beat passes with no other donations rolling in.

"Right." You clear your throat, feeling your smile creep up onto your face again. "Thank you, greatest detective. That means a lot coming from who I assume to be a very smart person."

Unbeknownst to you, Tim just let out a high-pitched squeal in the batcave before quickly clearing his throat and acting like nothing happened (and also thanking God that his siblings always watch your streams separately in their respective rooms).

He still keeps staring at your face with a dreamy smile though.

@/jaybird donated $10! im broke af but that doesnt mean i cant treat you better than all of them combined babe

That one gathers a laugh out of you, your finger reaching up to swipe under your eye in the clear view of the camera, the action causing Jason to lean back in his seat with a smug smile as he basks in the heat of Damian's glare through the wall.

"Alright, alright. Enough chatting, lemme start the game."

You clear your throat, reaching over for your controller when yet another donation rolls in.

@/dukethomas donated $1,000! hey [Name]!

"Oh! Duke!" You pause immediately, hands clasping over one another and expression bright and beaming at the camera as you address your donator. "How are you? Are you liking the plushie I won you the other day?"

It takes no less than five seconds for Damian to burst through the door of the Signal.

"Thomas," he says, slowly, achingly, "What does she mean by 'are you liking the plushie I won you the other day'?"

In another two seconds, both Jason and Dick are right behind him. And in a second after that, Tim is there too.

Duke doesn't even get to respond before they're eyeing the stuffed panda in his grasp, hugged right up against his chest like he's a child who can't leave the house without his teddy.

"Duke?" Dick calls out, tone just short of one of betrayal.

Duke's lips only quirk up.

"Oh this?" he starts, and his tone causes his brothers to all wince at once, "Just the plushie she won me when I ran into her at an arcade while in Central City."

Slow blinks.

Then—

"I want it!"

"It's mine!"

"Gimme it!"

"No me!"

Meanwhile, you sit there on stream, blinking as you wonder where on earth your donators went off to.

COMING NEXT -> BATBOYS BUT THEY SEE SOMEONE THEY RECOGNISE ON F!STREAMER!READER'S IRL STREAM. FT. WALLY WEST!

[juicegremlin]

I'm going to try and explain this as best I can, but I'm thinking about Caitlyn's character design and how, at base, she is relatively undecorated. When you look at the characters around her, many of them sport body modifications or elaborate hairstyles of some sort. We've got people with metal limbs, full-body tattoos, distinct facial scars, etc. where the most "unusual" aspect of Caitlyn's design is her hair color. Even then, the blue of her hair is a deep navy -- not nearly as striking as Vi's bright pink or Jinx's teal -- and she either wears it straight down or straight back in an uncomplicated ponytail. Her tooth-gap is also easily hidden behind a tight-lipped smile.

In no way am I trying to say that Caitlyn's design is bland or uninteresting, but I am saying that it is relatively simple compared to the characters around her, which I feel was a very, very intentional choice. The bulk of Caitlyn's visual complexity often comes from the clothes she wears -- the uniforms she wears. She places so much of her own identity into the role she is currently playing. When she is in her enforcer uniform, she is an enforcer. When she dons her undercity getup, there is an obvious shift in empathy towards the Zaunites (I know this is also in part because this is literally the first time she's in the undercity, but bear with me). She dons a skin and wears it like it's hers.

Ambessa recognizes this moldability in Caitlyn: nothing but a blank canvas, a wet ball of clay. Caitlyn's identity is tied to her role, so why not give her a cape and make her into the monster -- the scapegoat-- Ambessa needs her to be? Caitlyn's grief only makes her more susceptible.

“She must have a kind, fat face. Clever to charm her subjects, but pliable, so we can mold her.”

We see a similar dynamic with Mel and Jayce. Jayce's character design is also relatively uncomplicated: no tattoos, no piercings, no scars (save for the tiny nick on his eyebrow). Representative of his pliability. Ambessa taught her daughter to look for and exploit these traits. Granted, Mel is nowhere near as sinister as Ambessa, but the parallel is there, and it is juicy.

Anyway, the character design team went the fuck off with every single choice they ever made.

[qingyuns]

— i won’t let you fall down, unless you’re in my arms

alternatively, the 3 times kinich saved you from falling and the 1 time that he was the one who fell

pairing: kinich x gn!reader, wc: 2.8k, two or three swear words, reader has a pyro vision because mualani kinich reader burgeon team is a funny hc i have, ajaw makes 2 brief appearances, fluffy but ig they don’t do that much?? pre-relationship and confessions (does this count as a confession), title from an nct dream song (rains in heaven), pls reblog ty

1) The fall that was Pacha’s fault

You were never one to back down from a challenge, not when your pride was on the line. And presently, it was. It was an unfortunate mistake on your part when you’d been a little too cocky, bragging about your rock climbing skills, and as an even more unfortunate result, a friend of yours from the Scions of the Canopy had decided to dare you to climb an actual cliff near his village.

“I’ve got all the equipment,” Pacha had exclaimed. “If you’re really that good, then this should be no sweat.”

You’d narrowed your eyes at him. You couldn’t tell if his smile was mocking or not.

“No problem.”

But now, as you looked up and tried to find another edge to grasp at, you were wishing you had backed down. Seriously, this cliff was just a flat canvas of orange. What were you supposed to hold onto?

“Stupid Pacha,” you hissed to yourself as you reached for a bump in the cliff face. “Stupid cliff.”

Man, you wished you had a Geo vision. Then you could probably create some kind of ledge to rest on. Or maybe an Anemo one would be more useful. You could make yourself float to the top.

You were also never one to be afraid of heights, but as you glanced down, your heart jolted at the distance between you and the ground. Too high. Much, much too high. Your Pyro vision hung uselessly at your hip.

A second glance told you that Pacha was no longer anywhere to be found, and you cursed him under your breath.

“Okay, don’t panic. Just don’t panic and don’t fall,” you huffed. “Easy enough.”

Your palms were moist, your fingers were suddenly too smooth. And just when you risked a second to wipe your hand dry on your leg….

….the other one slipped, and you were falling.

The organ in your chest seemed to stop. This is it, you thought, I’m dead. You were falling, and falling and falling, until suddenly, while your eyes were squeezed shut and your stomach was leaping like a wild Koholasaurus in water, you were flying.

It took you a second for your brain to orient itself, to realise that you weren’t in fact dead yet, but when it did, you felt an arm wrapped securely around your waist, so tight that it was almost painful. You peeled your eyelids open. In your limited view, your saviour was nothing more than a head of dark hair and a blur of green attire. The surrounding cliffs were reduced to blobs of colour as you were swung through the air, down then up, down then up, until your feet were once again on solid ground.

Your knees almost collapsed once you were, and both of your saviour’s arms moved to steady you. A blink. Two blinks. You waited for your breathing to return to normal, then your eyes flitted up to meet theirs.

A kaleidoscope of green and gold greeted you. Huh, pretty.

Your saviour let out a strangled sound, something between a choke and a grunt, and released you. Oh. Had you said that out loud?

“Uh, sorry,” you coughed awkwardly. You took a step back, fiddling with your fingers. “Thanks for saving me.”

With the bandana that was tied over his forehead, it was difficult to discern his emotions. He gave you a curt nod. “You should be more careful.”

A distant yell made both of your hands turn, and you saw the tiny figure of Pacha rapidly approaching and waving his hand at you. By the time he’d closed the distance, which to his credit only took about eight seconds (so he must have felt at least a little guilty about almost letting you die), the guy beside you had vanished.

“Are you okay?” Pacha exclaimed as he skidded to a stop in front of you. You nodded, and he let out a sigh of relief, before looking around curiously. “Was that Kinich?”

2) The fall that was a Tepetlisaurus’ fault

The next time you met Kinich (‘Malipo’ Kinich, a Saurian Hunter who according to Pacha, was transactional, blunt and borderline reclusive), you were on the cliffs by the Children of the Echoes, picking Saurian Claw Succulents as a favour for a new friend of yours, a sweet young girl by the name of Kachina.

And maybe you shouldn’t have been crouching so close to the edge of a cliff, but how you were supposed to know that a Tepetlisaurus burrowing in the earth would come straight for your footing and uproot you, effectively tossing you off the side? Really, it wasn’t your fault! It was just some kind of ninja saurian.

This was only the second time you’d ever fallen off the side of a cliff, but for some reason, you were hardly surprised when the same person came to your rescue this time.

He looked at you blankly as you clutched at the succulent in your hand, eyes darting around to avoid prolonged eye contact. You were sure he probably had an eyebrow raised under his bandana.

“Do you make it a habit to throw yourself off every cliff you come across?”

You flinched. “Well, no.”

His arms crossed over his chest, and you couldn’t help the way your eyes were drawn to the tattoos exposed on his biceps. The teal suited him, you thought absently.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a screeching voice. “Well, what’s your problem, then!”

A flashing myriad of yellow and green flitted into the air. The creature that had popped up from behind Kinich was … strange, to say the least. A strange, blocky thing. It looked strangely flat, like a hundred tiny, flat, square blocks. Were you going insane?

Kinich sent an annoyed glance towards the creature, before looking back at you to see that your mouth was now agape as you stared.

“Oh, right. You haven’t met Ajaw.”

“Oh,” you muttered, suddenly feeling fainter than you had when falling off the cliff, “so this is Ajaw.”

The blocky creature expanded around the middle (you supposed that was the equivalent of puffing out its chest). “Aha! So you’ve heard of the Almighty Dragonlord, K’uhul Ajaw, have you? Tell me, peasant, what have you been told? That I’m ferocious and powerful?”

Kinich sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. You blinked at the creature. You thought back to what Pacha had said – “Ajaw. He’s Kinich’s saurian companion. Really weird little guy. Super annoying.”

“Yeah,” you assented, “something like that.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Kinich sighed. It took you a second to realise that he wasn’t talking to you.

“Maybe you should shut up, Kinich!” Ajaw’s eyes angled themselves into a glare, and he fluttered around agitatedly.

The response he received was a flick of a gloved hand, which sent the Saurian soaring into the sky, until you couldn’t even see him anymore. You were pretty sure you’d never blinked as much in your life as you had in the last five minutes.

Kinich turned to you. “Sorry about him.”

“Um, that’s alright,” you said half-heartedly.

“So how come you’ve fallen off another cliff?”

Yikes. He must have thought you were either insanely insane or tremendously stupid.

“A Saurian knocked me off the side when I was picking succulents,” you muttered, cheeks flushing with heat.

He hummed. You weren’t quite sure what that meant. “And the other time?”

 “Um, my friend dared me to climb the cliff. So I did.” You winced. “But I swear, these are the only times I’ve ever fallen off a cliff.”

It was a sentence you never thought you’d have to say. How embarrassing. You waited for the inevitable scolding or mocking to fall upon your ears, but then—

“Alright,” Kinich nodded easily. “Maybe try to avoid cliffs from now on."

Then he turned around, and started walking away. The sudden departure made you recoil in shock. Was the conversation over? Pacha really wasn't exaggerating when he said Kinich was reclusive.

"Huh? Wait a second!" You weren't sure what came over you in that moment, but you had a startling feeling that you couldn't let him leave here.

He paused, and turned to look at you, head tilted slightly to the side.

"Um, hold on." You thought for a moment. How to make him stay for longer? "Are you free right now? I'd like to treat you to a meal, if possible. You know, to thank you."

Your hands clasped in front of you and you fiddled with your fingers.

Kinich blinked slowly for a moment and stared at you. For a horrible moment, you thought he was going to decline, in which case you would have had to turn tail and flee on the spot, but instead, he nodded.

"I have some time."

You brightened. "Great! I know this place that has the best tatacos!"

There was a light skip in your movements as you began to lead the way, trusting that he was following you. You could only hope he didn't eat too much. You weren't sure your pockets could afford it, and you'd hate to make an even bigger fool of yourself in front of him by being too broke to pay. What a horrible first impression...

“Oh, right!” you paused in your steps for a moment. “I forgot to introduce myself!”

And so you did, and you watched as something that almost looked like a smile twitched at Kinich’s lips. Then, as if testing the way it rolled on his tongue, he repeated your name carefully.

Something fluttered in your stomach as you beamed. Yeah, you sure liked the way that sounded.

3) The fall that was the fault of a slippery rock

“No, guys, trust me. I just discovered it. It’s like, really underground.”

Kinich sighed as Mualani giggled at her own joke. As if on impulse, you laughed along with her, but you even as the sound escaped you, you couldn’t tell if it came from a place of pity or not. Underground, because it was literally in an underground cave. Hilarious. Still, a small smile made its way onto your face. This was nice. As much as you loved your other friends, it sure felt great to hang out with people who didn’t always challenge you to risk your life (fuck you, Pacha), though you suspected Mualani was just waiting for a chance to take you Spirit Wave riding, and you weren’t sure you were quite ready for that yet.

Today, however, you were spared. Mualani had promised you and Kinich a relaxing afternoon in a new hot spring she’d found. And so you were following her into an opening in the rock face.

The air was immediately a little cooler than it was outside as you stepped into the darkness. The cave was still illuminated by the sunlight, and you could see more patches of light ahead. It glowed slightly in the reflections of the rock on the ground.

“It’s a little steep here,” your friend warned. “Watch your step.”

No sooner had you nodded to show your understanding than you had placed your foot down on a particularly slippery patch on the floor, and it slid.

A gasp tore out of you, but two arms were already wrapping around you from behind.

“Be careful,” his voice murmured in your ear. You almost gasped again. How glad you were that he was behind you and thus couldn’t see the way you froze up at the feeling of his breath on your skin.

From a little ways ahead of you, Mualani called out. “Hey, you alright?”

Your throat suddenly felt very dry. You cleared it before telling her that you were.

Kinich kept one hand on your waist for the next few steps before removing it after you had found your footing. You found yourself missing his touch upon the removal.

No matter, you assured yourself. Focus on not falling over again. The decline of the slope eased out into a flatter path, and soon the tunnel opened up into an expansive area. The underground spring was much brighter than you had anticipated, thanks to the perfectly round opening at the top. Smooth, round rocks seemed to line the edge, and the water sparkled in the ripples as Mualani crouched down to test it with her hand.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed.

You turned your attention to her. “What is it?”

“It’s cold! It was really toasty last time, though,” she frowned. “It must be because it’s further away. The underground water flow can get unstable and–“

As she rambled on, you crouched by the side of the spring, dipping your hand into the water. It lukewarm at best, but the pool wasn’t as big as most of the one’s above ground. You could work with this. Placing both hands in the not-so-hot spring, the vision at your side pulsed with energy. You let the heat flow through your body to your fingertips, as steam floated just above the surface of the water.

You failed to notice the pair of eyes that were fixed on you as you smiled to yourself.

“Hey, Mualani? Is this better?” Mualani’s eyes widened as she watched the mist rising out of the hot spring.

“Yes, yes, yes!” She squealed. She rushed to your side, squeezing you in a hug, before drawing back immediately. “Ow, hot!”

The girl quickly submerged her arms in the water, sighing in relief. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped.

You grinned at your friends, stepping into the water yourself. “Shall we swim?”

The pounding of your heart against your chest was hard to ignore when Kinich slid into the spring and settled right beside you.

???) The fall that wasn’t even you

Kinich wasn’t sure what was wrong with him lately. He’d been sleeping the same, his regimented diet was unchanged, but in recent weeks, he’d found himself feeling a lot more strange.

Hunting commissions had been slow lately, so he’d taken the liberty of accepting ordinary bounties and commissions from the Adventurers’ Guild. When you’d heard about it, you’d insisted on joining him. He hadn’t had a problem with that, but since he started taking on these new commissions, Kinich had noticed that something was happening to his health.

He’d been spending a lot of time with you these days, but that couldn’t be it. How could that explain his borderline feverish symptoms? The heat that flushed his head and neck sometimes, and the weird way that his heart flipped, like it did when he went bungee jumping that one time.

And sure, those symptoms only happened when he was with you, but that was just because he was almost always with you. How could fighting a few treasure hoarders in your presence make him ill?

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ajaw growled. “You like them!”

Kinich was too surprised to scoff. “What?”

“You have a big fat crush.”

“No, I don’t.”

The little green dots in Ajaw’s eyes rolled around so hard, Kinich thought they might fall out.

“Fine! Don’t believe me, then! Even though you blush whenever you’re with them, and you stare at them when they’re talking, and you didn’t even complain when they wanted to join your commissions and you’ve been losing half the profit!”

Ajaw’s body doubled in size before he vanished in agitation. Kinich raised a hand to his chin in thought. He needed a second opinion.

“You like them,” Mualani replied simply. “It’s pretty obvious.”

Kinich blanched. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it is,” she grinned. “Dude, you’ve fallen hard.”

There was a twist in his stomach. The tips of his ears turned redder than a hot chili pepper.

“Come on, Kinich. You’re a smart guy. Think about the way they make you feel.”

Despite everything, despite the fact that he was, in fact, a smart guy, and he had always been sure to analyse and prepare for every outcome, and he was always weighing the costs of his relationships and seeing right through people and thinking way too much about everything—

—the realisation hit him like a tidal wave.

Oh.

Mualani grinned, satisfied. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, then.”

Kinich barely registered her departure.

Because of course. Your relationship had never been transactional. All you ever did was give and give, and without even realising it, he’d poured his all into giving back without a moment’s hesitation. He’d never asked anything of you, nor you of him.

And because Kinich was a level-headed man, and ever-so-straightforward, there was no time wasted before he was at your front door.

If there was ever one thing he would ask of you, it was this.

“I like you, and I need to know if you feel the same.”

A grin found its home on your lips. A step forward and you closed some of the distance. The sparkle in your eyes did nothing to shake Kinich’s nerves, but it did make his stomach flip.

“Guess you’re the one falling for me now, huh?”

[ateezscupid]

hii! can u write a gally x reader where they’re already in a relationship & reader gets hella flustered whenever he has that rebellion gas mask on, he knows it and purposefully teases them.. thank you! :)

𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐨𝐲. ☆

warnings ✩ FLUFF!! Short but sweet, gender neutral reader this is after the gladers make it to the last city, reader and gally are dating (implied they've been dating since the glade) so reader is replacing teresa, reader basically has a mask kink

tags ✩ @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @skzkias

MAZE RUNNER MASTERLIST / REQUEST

In the early morning light, dew clung to the grass like a thousand tiny crystals. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth. You stepped outside the homestead, savoring the quiet solitude before the day's activities began. The sun had not yet fully risen, but the sky was a canvas of soft pastels that promised a beautiful day ahead. You stretched, feeling the tension from the previous day's...activities with Gally.

Gally emerged from the nearby barracks, the iconic rebellion gas mask hanging around his neck. He noticed you immediately and his eyes crinkled into a knowing smile. You couldn't help but feel your cheeks warm up at the sight of him. It had become a sort of game between you two, ever since you had accidentally admitted that the mask had an oddly alluring effect on you.

"Morning, sunshine," he greeted, his voice teasing. He knew exactly what was going to happen next. He reached up and slowly pulled the mask over his head, the leather strap creaking as he tightened it. The mask was a stark reminder of the battles he had fought, the lives he had saved, and the world that had shaped him into the leader he was today.

You watched, your heart racing, as he took a deep breath, the mask molding to his face. His eyes searched yours, and you knew he was waiting for your reaction. "What? Why do you always act weird when I have my mask on?" he asked, his voice muffled yet still full of mischief. You bit your lower lip, trying to maintain composure, but it was a futile effort. The way the mask framed his face, highlighting his strong jaw and piercing gaze, had always sent your thoughts spiraling into a whirlwind of confusion and attraction.

"It's just…it's different, that's all," you murmured, hoping he wouldn't press the issue further. But Gally wasn't one to let things go easily. He stepped closer, the early morning shadow playing across his features.

"Different how?" His proximity made it even harder to think straight. You stuttered, trying to find the right words, but they eluded you.

"It's like…you look more," you pause, squinting your eyes and looking for the words. "Hot." you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating against your own as he stepped closer, the mask seemingly amplifying his presence. "Hot, huh?" His eyes danced with amusement, and you could feel the heat from his body. "Is that what gets you blushing like that?"

You nodded, unable to find the words to explain the tumult of emotions that the mask brought out in you. The way it made him seem both more dangerous and more vulnerable at the same time was an intoxicating paradox. He leaned in, the cool metal of the mask brushing against your cheek as he whispered, "You wanna see what other secrets it holds?"

Gripping the edges of the mask, he slowly lifted it off, revealing his smirking face. The moment the mask was removed, it was as if a weight had been lifted from the atmosphere. The tension between you dissipated like morning fog, leaving behind only the warmth of his smile and the closeness of his body.

"Gally, you're such an asshole," you said, trying to lighten the mood with a playful punch to his shoulder. But the impact was lost as your knuckles connected with the hard material of the gear. He just grinned wider, clearly enjoying your flustered state.

"Maybe," he conceded, setting the mask aside. "But you love it."

Your eyes narrowed playfully. "Do not."

"You don't?" He stepped closer, his arms encircling your waist. "I've seen that look before. It was on your face when you first met me."

You felt a blush spreading across your cheeks, but this time, it was from his touch rather than his teasing. "You're just full of yourself."

He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin. "Is that a no, then?"

You pushed him away gently, trying to regain your composure. "It's not funny, Gally."

"I know it's not," he said, his voice dropping serious. He reached up to stroke your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "You don't like when I talk about how you blush when we-"

You hit him, understanding what he meant. "We're in public!" You exclaimed, trying to pull away, but his grip was firm and warm, anchoring you to the spot. The early morning light cast a soft glow on his face, making him look less like a warrior and more like the boy you had grown to love amidst the chaos of the Glade.

Gally's eyes searched yours, the playfulness replaced with a gentle concern. "You're right," he said, his voice sincere. He leaned in closer, his forehead touching yours. "But I can't help it. You're just so…cute when you're embarrassed."

You felt your heart race even more at his words, your palms growing sweaty. You didn't know how to respond, so you just leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart. The moment was intimate, a brief respite from the harsh realities of their world

"Don't you have a meeting to get to?" you mumble into his chest.

Gally's grip tightens for a brief moment before he sighs and nods. "Yeah," he says, pulling back slightly. "But I'll make it quick. For you." He winks, the action making you roll your eyes even as you can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth.

He releases you, the loss of warmth leaving you feeling slightly cold. You watch as he walks away, the mask swinging from his hand.

[mistyorchid]

Meet-Cute (Ch. 3)

Old Man!Logan x fem!reader

summary: You and Logan relax during a particularly hot summer day, engaging in "parallel play" together. An innocent hangout quickly gets heated after he overhears a nsfw Twitter video blaring from your phone. Goddamn auto play. Ch. 1 Ch. 2 warnings: MDNI, no use of y/n, smut, established relationship, age gap, reader is 21+, oral fixation, praise kink, oral (male!receiving), light d/s, pet names (bub, baby, babe, daddy, good/dirty girl, princess), size kink, slapping (referenced + explicit), cum play. wc: 3.6k

Logan kept his promise. Well, you didn't go on a million more dates, but the time you spent together stretched the meaning of time itself. They started as singular outings; with early nights overlapping into early mornings. It didn't take long until your dates morphed into week-long "hangouts" at his place.

You willingly uprooted your life for Logan after a year of dating, packing your world into cardboard boxes and weaving it into the fabric of his home. The only thing you missed was the in-unit air conditioner that cooled your tiny apartment. It turns out that summers are unbearable when you live in a smelting plant.

The metal walls and poor insulation transform your makeshift studio into a furnace. Oil paint fumes waft upwards from the canvas, aggravating a migraine that slowly travels from the top of your head to your temples. In an attempt to preserve your sanity, you rapidly untie the paint-stained apron and storm out of the studio.

Beads of sweat trickle into your cleavage, gathering at the underwire of your bra. You tear it off somewhere between the kitchen and the living room; you can't be bothered to pick it up from the floor. Maybe Logan will stumble upon it and stash it away, an uncharacteristically pervy habit that he thinks goes unnoticed.

"I'm melting, Logan. Save me!" You slump into the couch, dramatically grazing your forehead with the back of your hand to mimic a damsel in distress. Logan lowers his newspaper to acknowledge your presence. Cigar smoke billows from his mouth; the inky tendrils momentarily fogging his glasses.

"Not much I can do, bub. Fan just died," He explains, tilting his nose towards the archaic floor fan. An annoyed grumble escapes your lips as you move to the end of the couch, relaxing your head against the armrest and stretching out like a starfish. Logan shifts the paper to one hand to lightly caress your ankle.

You stare at the ceiling, mentally conjuring metallic constellations by connecting the bolts and welds. It takes five minutes for you to snap your eyes shut in defeat. Although you normally accept boredom as a challenge—a testament to your imagination, the sweltering heat makes it difficult to think.

Logan quirks his brow, sensing your exhaustion. "You're such a baby. It's barely ninety in here." You shake his palm off your leg and draw your knees toward your stomach, creating a makeshift boundary against his feigned judgment. "Barely ninety? Don't piss me off," You laugh, reaching for your phone on the coffee table.

Parallel play is new to Logan. He tends to isolate himself, preferring to spend his leisure time alone. When you introduced the concept to him, he dismissed you with an eye roll that bordered on sassy instead of annoyed. "You getting this from your Tick-Tock-whatever the fuck?"

"Let's be alone together," You reasoned. He’s enjoyed these moments of domesticity ever since.

Your index finger lingers above the touchscreen, debating which app will distract you from the heat. The comforting feeling of Logan's hand returning to your ankle inspires you to open Twitter. Your body is slowly relaxing and you want your brain to follow suit.

Logan cherishes your laugh as you stumble upon a hilarious tweet. You scroll further, settling on a video that displays a pitch-black screen. Assuming it was an edit, you wait for a transition to reveal a montage from a show you liked, or an incredibly depressing edit of Kendall Roy. Those always seemed to invade your TikTok for-you page around 3 am.

Your jaw drops when it fades into the unmistakable sight of an amateur porn video. It depicts a woman on her knees, presumably filmed by her partner. The man slaps his cock on her tongue before slowly inching the tip into her eager mouth. "That's a good girl, drool on my cock," the faceless man praises.

The video had been relatively silent until that moment.

Nothing could have prepared you for the high-pitched moan that traveled from the girl's throat and out of your phone's speaker. You were ambushed. Logan pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, pointedly refusing to react to the noise. "I'm reading the paper, and you're watching porn?"

"I didn't click on it, I scrolled, I—" you threw your phone onto the couch, crossing your arms over your eyes to shield your flustered cheeks. "—Ugh! whatever." Your embarrassment provides Logan ample time to grab your phone as he quickly unlocks it and scrolls back to the source of the moan.

Auto-play resumes, suddenly filling the room with the sound of more slapping. "Please give it to me, Daddy! Promise I'll be good for you," the woman pleads in an exaggerated falsetto. Logan shoves the phone in front of your face, forcing you to acknowledge the video.

"You into this shit?" He asks, invading your mortified posture to push your arms away from your face. His knee slots in between your stretched legs, effectively caging you in. "I asked you a fuckin' question." His gruff tone would have scared you if it wasn’t accompanied by the slight upward curve of his mouth.

Logan's cock throbs as his eyes linger on your gaping mouth. You were reacting appropriately, dropping your jaw in shock. All Logan could think about was how your plush lips formed a perfect "o," similar to the woman on the screen.

"I plead the fifth," You huff, narrowing your eyes and reaching out to pause the video. Logan clicks his tongue while mocking you, shaking his head side-to-side. "It's in your feed. Doesn't that mean you are into this shit?"

Fuck. You regretted explaining social media algorithms to Logan. It was an act of charity, showing an old man how to use the "interwebs," as he first called it. He'd still have a flip phone if you didn't explain why only drug dealers and Y2K-obsessed tweens used them.

You push Logan's knee forward, making him momentarily lose his balance. He falls on top of you, the full weight of his adamantium-plated bones pressing you firmly into the couch. Logan's heart drops in his chest as he sees you shut your eyes in pain. "Oh my god, I-" He uses his elbow to twist away from your chest, landing on the floor with a comically loud thunk.

He groans with the force of the fall and immediately regrets landing on his back. The scarred planes had already been traumatized by decades of recklessness, but his old age further weakened their tenacity.

"I'm sorry, babe. You okay?" He slowly rises to his feet, grimacing when he hears his joints creak under the weight. Logan uses the edge of the coffee table to stand up fully. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks," You squeak, unable to meet his worried stare. When he fell on your chest, you could feel his bulge through the thin cotton boxers.

Two can play that game.

You fail to stifle a giggle as Logan waves his hand in a sweeping motion in front of your face. "You sure I didn't hurt you? Seems like you're in shock," He asks, genuinely concerned with your well-being.

"You're hard," You state, fixated on the prominent tent in his boxers. Logan is a cocky motherfucker; he rests his hands on his hips and slightly leans backward, emphasizing the bulge.

"Yeah? So what? I’m always hard when you wear those shorts. Makes me feel like a fuckin’ teenager." He smirks, clearly enjoying the sight of your flustered face. His nostrils subtly flex and you can tell he smells how wet you are for him. It's simultaneously embarrassing and empowering unraveling for Logan—you feel so timid under the heavy weight of his gaze, yet so brazenly sensual.

“Know what I think?” You drawl, shifting from your position on the couch to stand before Logan. His broad frame would be intimidating if he weren’t so gentle with you. Only you. Sunset filters through the lace curtains you installed last summer to soften the hostile industrial space. Soft, indeed. The living room is swathed in an amber glow, and so is Logan’s face. The light tenderly traces each wrinkle and scar—decorations gifted by the tedious passing of time. Your calves burn as you rise on your toes, lips grazing the shell of his ear.

You grasp his strong shoulders to stabilize yourself before whispering, “I think you’re secretly into this, too.” Logan turns his head away from you, closing his eyes to conceal how much your words affect him. He’s confused when he feels you rake your palms against his chest, only opening his eyes when your hand catches on the waistband of his boxers.

Logan’s a man of few words. Your unabashed look of adoration combined with your position on the floor stole any he could use to disagree.

“What’s the matter, Daddy? Cat got your tongue?” You lean forward, tenderly nuzzling your cheek against his leg. 

“Jesus,” Logan mumbles, tentatively reaching down to pet the top of your head. “You’re fuckin’ filthy. Don’t call me that.” The gravel of his voice triggers a dull throbbing in your core. It was easy to unravel for him because he never demanded your submission. He earned it by respecting your mind and body, nurturing it like a fragile orchid that could wither if handled without care. 

You strain your neck to peer into his eyes. He tugs on your roots before tenderly tracing your bottom lip—a silent betrayal of his plea. “Why, you don’t like it? I’ll stop if you don’t,” You reason, allowing him to admire your plush lips. A ragged groan escapes him as he watches you suck his callused thumb into your hot mouth before releasing it with an audible pop.

“It’s not that, I just—” His words die in his throat as you pull the hem of his boxers down, tugging the elastic until you can feel his hard cock bob on your face. You gently stroke his length before pressing your cheek against it, smiling against his warmth. “I don’t wanna ruin you any more than I already have,” He chokes. The doubt written on Logan’s face kills you. You’re suddenly on your feet again and Logan’s cock can’t help but twitch at the absence of your hot breath. 

“Stop it. I hate when you say shit like that.” Logan resists the urge to clench his eyes shut. He hates it when you look at him like he’s a puzzle you’re eager to solve. “All you’ve done is give me everything I’ve ever wanted,” You sigh, reaching on your toes to burrow your head into the crook of his neck. 

Logan wallowed in self-deprecation like it was his job. The age gap between you both was a recurring theme of past arguments. He often distanced himself whenever you begged to ride him, gazing sympathetically into his eyes as you felt his thrusts falter. 

You cherished it.

He could be bandaging your knee after a bad fall in the studio and then spanking your ass until it matched the deep purple and red hues mixed on your palette. The duality drove you crazy. Logan knew exactly when to nurture you and when to fulfill your desire to be taken, worn down; he masterfully chipped away at the facade of your resolve until you were pliant in his rough embrace.

“Besides, ‘Daddy’s just a term of endearment. Same as baby, doll . . . my girl.” You whisper, teasingly nipping his earlobe. “I love being your girl.”

Logan’s hesitation breaks at that, planting a chaste kiss on your neck and inhaling the comforting scent of your hair. You smelled like home.

“Can you get on your knees for me, baby?”

The subtle command ignites a tender ache in your bones—you’re suddenly slinking down his form and bracing against the cool concrete. This must be how people felt when the first skyscraper was built. The towering mass of his body is deliciously intimidating; you’re at his feet, worshipping the foundation of an idol that refuses to be honored.

His hips jut forward as you teasingly lick the head of his cock in short, cat-like strokes. You indulge in his flesh, roaming the hard planes of his thighs and caressing the black tendrils around the base. Something in Logan breaks when you pause to gently kiss the tip while peering up at him through your fluttering lashes. 

“Give me your phone,” He commands. You were too embarrassed to admit how much you craved this side of him. Your back strains with your sudden movement to reach behind you, knocking little knick-knacks on the coffee table as you fumble for the phone. 

Logan’s cock twitches as you hurriedly unlock it before presenting it to him like a pup offering its owner a bone. “I, uh—” His voice hitches when you place your hands on your thighs; your arched back pushing the swell of your breasts against his legs. “I need you to open the camera app for me.”

A teasing smirk overpowers your once coy visage. “Sure thing, Daddy.” You strain to reach the phone, quickly swiping to find the cute camera icon. He’s purposefully not bridging the distance. 

He’s making you work for it.

Logan reverses the camera before angling it in front of your face. “Repeat what she said.” His hooded eyes follow your dumbfounded expression, lingering on the inviting expanse of your lips. You stutter as Logan’s thumb traces dizzying patterns on your open mouth, dipping in quickly to collect your spit.

“Pl- please give it to me, Daddy . . . promise I'll be good for you,” You drawl, satisfied now that you could feel Logan in your mouth. Your face is inches away from his hard cock and you can’t help but admire how fucking pretty he is. When he’s worked up like this, his cock resembles an enticing red lollipop, shiny with the glaze of your spit. The line between your internal thoughts and external babbles blurs as you murmur, “Wanna suck you off so badly. Need to taste you.” 

“What was that, bub?” He props up your chin with his finger, helping you focus on his hazel eyes. He shifts the phone into his left hand before firmly grabbing the base of his cock with his right to lightly slap your cheek. “I asked you a fuckin’ question,” He growls, snapping you out of your horny reverie.

Your voice is meek and airy, a familiar sign that you’re falling further into a comfortable haze. There were no labels to describe your relationship, but you both fostered a nurturing pattern of dominance and submission—often smudging the lines whenever necessary. At this moment, all you wanted was to surrender to him.

“I need to suck your cock, Daddy.” You smirk as it bobs almost subconsciously, leaving dribbles of precum on your cheek.

“Good girl. Fuck.” The praise lures a wanton moan out of your throat that sends pleasant vibrations throughout Logan’s body. You slowly inch the tip in, eagerly spreading his precum around the head with your tongue. Heavy, thick, and wet. So unbelievably wet.

Logan’s stifled growls encourage you to grasp the heft of his cock with both hands. You often joked that jerking him off would give you arthritis in your right hand; the stamina needed to twist up and down his length utterly exhausted you.

His eyebrows knit together in pleasure, a silent love letter to your unabashed yearning to soothe him—in mind, body, and spirit. You adore Logan like this, all bark and no bite. 

“So fuckin’ needy, hm?” You peer up at him through your lashes, focusing on the subtle twitch of his nostrils. “Just the tip and you’re already a mess,” He chuckles. Although you’ve enjoyed each other’s company for a few years, a warm blush always manages to reveal how flustered you get whenever Logan smells your arousal. The strained moans that tumble out of his throat ignite a dull throbbing sensation in your core.

Logan opens his eyes when he realizes your hands have left his cock, eager to scold you (lovingly, of course.) He thrusts into your mouth as he’s greeted by the sight of you desperately toying with your clit, pausing here and there to slap against the sensitive bud. 

You can barely think. Pleasure transforms into a tangible gift, tied off with a voluminous red bow. The pressure to open the box is removed—you’re content with admiring the details of its exterior, swirling your fingers on the silky textile and getting lost in the feeling.

“Ah—Logan! I’m gonna— fuck, I—” You stutter, unable to string together words into a sensible arrangement. Logan slowly thrusts deeper into your hot mouth, reuniting your nose with the coarse hair around the base.

He pulls back slightly when you gag around him. Your pussy flutters as you feel his cock harden at the involuntary sound, somehow stretching your mouth even more. “I know, baby,” Logan sighs, gently wiping away your tears. “Shhh . . . you can take it.”

Every time your mouth swallows his entire length, you dart your tongue out to playfully coat his heavy balls with spit. You’re acting like a bitch in heat—as if the thought of living without the taste of Logan’s cock would be futile. Realistically, you knew that the masculine salt of him on your tongue served as a reminder of his tangible presence in your life, a presence that was meaningful, nurturing, and everlasting.

“That’s a good girl. Drool on Daddy’s cock,” Logan praises, adapting the line from the video.

Your release is sudden and impactful. The shaky tone of your cries corresponds with the shakiness of Logan’s hand. His knuckles turn white as he struggles to hold the phone upright.

“Oh my god, oh my god, mmmm!—” You moan, muffled by the delicious drag of Logan’s cock. “Ah—I’m coming, fuck . . .” Your swollen clit pulses as your thighs cave inwards, pushing you even closer to the hilt.

He comes immediately following your orgasm, finding your fucked-out expression unbelievably attractive and haunting. Thick ropes of cum flood your mouth and you can feel his cock twitch when your eyes meet. A rough cacophony of moans and grunts breaks free from Logan’s chest.

You look utterly ruined. Swollen lips still stretching around his girth, tears etched onto the flustered apples of your cheeks. “As beautiful as you look right now, I need to pull out, baby.”

You’re desperately trying to taste more cum from his weeping slit, but Logan manages to push away from you with a dramatic hiss. His jaw falls when he watches you emphasize the act of swallowing his cum.

“My dirty girl,” He drawls, pleased when you stick out your tongue as proof. You want the echo of Logan’s thick cock slapping onto your tongue to be ingrained in your mind. It doesn’t take long for him to explode again. You help him along, breathlessly stroking the plush stiffness of his cock and looking up at him with sinfully soulful eyes.

The first streak lands on your lips. Logan’s head rolls back as he mindlessly ruts forward, painting your entire face with hot cum.

He returns to earth when you press chaste licks to the tip once again. “Holy shit, there’s so much cum, I’m sorry—” Logan apologizes, stunned by the masterpiece he’s created. His release drips down the sloping facade of your cheekbones before landing on your cheeks and lips. You quickly dart out your tongue to taste him.

“Don’t be, Daddy. Can you give me some more?” You plead, batting your eyelashes. Logan pauses the recording and  tosses the phone onto the couch. Before you can process why, you hear a loud thunk on the concrete.

Logan kneels in front of you to match your position on the floor. He reaches out to brush your hair away from your face, studying the white marks adorning your skin.

“You’re so pretty with my cum on your face,” He sighs. Your eyes widen when he reaches down, dragging two thick fingers through your sensitive folds. Then, he swipes the same fingers through his cum before bringing them to his lips and sucking gently.

He closes his eyes, truly indulging in the delicacy of your love. “Mmm. We taste so good together, baby. Wanna try?” You nod earnestly, biting your lip to dampen your whimpers. Logan repeats the process, in awe of the way you lean into his touch.

Logan doesn’t register that you’re falling until he’s sprawled out on the cool concrete floor with your tits cushioned against his chest. He’s quick to check on you, stunned by the sudden movement.

“You okay, princess? What happened?” Worry is framed by the wrinkles between his brows.

“Mhm, Logan. Daddy. We do taste good together,” You confirm, feeling pleasantly overwhelmed yet supported against the solid foundation of his body.

Logan kisses you sweetly, wrapping his broad arms around you to stabilize your torso. “It’s a lot cooler on the floor, baby. Gotta clean you up, I’ll be right back.” You whine as he gently rolls over to lay you on the floor before walking towards the kitchen.

After picking up a nearby towel and wetting it under the faucet, Logan almost slips on something on his way back to the living room.

The familiar heart pattern of the bra makes the corners of his mouth turn upwards; it’s satisfying knowing that you left these out for him rather than randomly forgetting a thong here and a lacey bralette there. You were deliberately feeding into his desires and he loved you for it.

You both played the game of life together, and Logan wouldn’t want it any other way.

an: I heard it's someone's bday today . . . I hope they never read this but consider Meet Cute Ch. 3 my gift to all of you. Thanks for being so patient, I know it's been a while. FYI I imagine the character whenever I'm writing, not the actor. Hope everyone has a great weekend.

tag list: @bratscave @elflutter @fairiebabey @pointyxsole @scorpiosaintt @th3mrskory

[cinnamni]

𐔌 필릭스 .ᐟ ꒱ ─ the forecast said forever.. ౨ৎ

LEE FELIX! ⓘ frog umbrellas. goofing around in the unexpected rain. but it's okay, because you're with him!

⌣ ﹒ ✿ ﹕ 𝑏f!lixie ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff ! 2700wc. ⎯⎯ ᒪIᗷᖇᗩᖇY ⟢ cw. pure love, intimacy, kissing, unfunny jokes, cheesy, rain. ┆ ☆ ⋮ drabble .ᐟ

𝑦𝑎𝑛𝑖'𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𓈒 𓈒 ⭑ trying to consistently post while also studying for 10 hours a day.. anyway!! again, a super short drabble. enjoy !!!! >< happy reading!

you knew the sky had been lying to you all morning.

it had that syrupy sort of brightness that doesn’t feel warm, just suspicious—like the sun was peeking out of cotton clouds only to lull you into a false sense of security. and you, like a fool, believed it. even as the air got denser, heavier, humid like a held breath. even as the wind picked up and whispered, “you forgot your umbrella again.”

but you didn't really listen. you had earbuds in and a boyfriend who always said, "you'll be fine, baby, the sun is out," and when felix says things, they sound like promises. even when they’re just hopeful guesses.

now, as you stand at the edge of campus with your arms hugged tight around your tote bag, staring down a wall of rain like it personally betrayed you, you regret everything.

it’s not a drizzle. no, it’s biblical. thunder is laughing at you somewhere in the distance while your canvas shoes soak through in record time, squelching gently with each annoyed shift of weight.

and then— you hear it. the slapping of fast footsteps. the squish-squish of someone absolutely booking it across campus pavement.

you barely turn before a blur of yellow and frogs barrels toward you.

“baby!” he’s yelling before he’s even halfway across the street, voice bright and sunny and too cheerful for someone getting soaked to the bone. you blink. “why are you running-” and then he’s there.

felix skids to a stop in front of you, panting dramatically, holding the world’s tiniest, most offensively adorable umbrella. it’s lime green. with little frog eyes popping out on top. the handle is curved like a question mark and definitely designed for someone under the age of seven.

he beams. water drips from his golden bangs, his hoodie is soaked through, and his jeans are sticking to his legs like wet napkins. he smells like rain and vanilla lip balm and that weird artificial grape gum he chews when he’s anxious.

you can’t help it. you burst out laughing.

“lixie—” you wheeze, covering your mouth, “what is that?”

“what?” he gasps, scandalized, holding the tiny umbrella above you like it’s sacred. “you don’t like freddie the frog? he’s saved me three times this week.”

“that umbrella is the size of a dinner plate.”

he shifts closer, tucking the umbrella lower, trying to fit you both beneath it, which… barely works. your heads are nearly touching. raindrops slip down your exposed shoulders and trail along the curve of your arm, cold as melted ice.

“you forgot yours again,” he sing-songs, nudging your cheek with his shoulder. “didn’t i tell you it was gonna rain?”

“you also told me i’d pass my stats exam. and that chick-fil-a was open on sundays.”

“i never said that last one,” he grins, eyes creasing like sunshine through rainclouds. “that was wishful thinking. big difference.”

you roll your eyes, still half-laughing, and tilt your face upward to look at him. he’s beautiful in the most inconvenient way—wet hair curled over his forehead, lips pink from the cold, long lashes glinting with raindrops, and still smiling like he just saw a puppy in a window. you adore him. unfortunately.

“i’m freezing,” you mutter, pressing your nose into the sleeve of his drenched hoodie.

“then let’s run.”

“we’ll slip.”

“then let’s slip together.”

you give him the flattest look you can manage through chattering teeth. “you’re insane.”

he grins and shifts the frog umbrella so it’s directly over you, exposing more of his own shoulder to the rain. he leans in close enough that you smell his fabric softener—the honey almond one you picked—and bumps his nose against yours, affectionately.

you feel it in your chest. that achey-sweet sort of i’m so in love with you it hurts to be mad feeling. it crawls up your throat and makes your words softer.

“you didn’t have to come all the way from your apartment, lix.”

he shrugs. “you looked like a sad sock in the group chat. i had to save you.”

you frown. “i didn’t even say anything in the chat.”

“i could tell from your three read receipts.”

you blink. “you track my read receipts?”

he tilts his head, innocent. “i have my ways.”

you squint. “i love you, but you’re terrifying.”

he gasps, pressing a hand to his heart, mock-offended. “that’s not what you said last night when i made you grilled cheese at 1 a.m. and gave you foot rubs.”

“that was love,” you murmur dramatically, “not logic.”

felix giggles—a full, sweet, nose-scrunching sound that feels like fireworks under your ribs. he tucks your damp hair behind your ear and kisses your temple, then your cheek, then your forehead. you swear the rain pauses just for that.

“i love you,” he says simply.

not in a loud way. not like before. this one’s softer. quieter. like it’s meant to curl around your bones and stay there.

you close your eyes. you feel the way his hand slides down your arm, lacing fingers with yours, squeezing just enough to say hey, i’m here, still here, always.

and you smile.

“you’re such a frog,” you murmur.

“you love it.”

you press your face into his chest and sigh. “unfortunately.”

you don’t remember who let go first.

maybe it was you. maybe your fingers slipped from felix’s just slightly when your laughter bubbled up and spilled out of your mouth too fast for you to breathe properly. or maybe it was him—eyes twinkling under frog eyes, hair dripping into his lashes, body humming with too much joy to stay still.

either way, the umbrella falls.

it lands with a dramatic, soggy fwump between you both, tipping on its side like a defeated warrior. a puddle swallows it whole.

and then—

you look up.

and felix is grinning at you like he knows something you don’t.

"don’t even think about it," you say, backing up a step.

"think about what?" he says, all innocent sunshine and soaked denim.

"felix," you warn, lips twitching.

and then he bolts.

straight into the rain, arms out like he’s about to take flight, mouth open in a laughing whoop, kicking water into the air like a chaotic golden retriever.

“oh my god, you’re such a gremlin—” you start, but you’re laughing too hard to finish.

he twirls.

literally twirls. like he's in a musical. a very wet, very frog-themed musical.

“c’mon!” he shouts over the rain, already drenched, hair sticking to his forehead in fluffy strands. “live a little!”

“i am living!” you shout back, clinging to your tote like it’ll save you.

“live more!”

and then he’s running at you again—barefoot now, of course, because felix has no concept of weather-appropriate behavior—and you shriek, trying to dodge, but he catches your wrist like a kid on a playground.

“dance with me,” he says, eyes so wide and happy you swear the sky softens for him.

“i don’t dance in the rain!”

“you do now.”

and before you can argue, he tugs you into him.

you stumble, slip a little—your shoe skids on wet stone and your whole body collides into his chest—but he’s solid and warm despite the rain, and he’s already swaying you side to side like this is a slow song playing in his head.

it’s stupid.

it’s romantic.

it’s the most fun you’ve had all week.

"you're insane," you mutter into his soaked hoodie, your fingers curling instinctively into the soft, damp fabric.

"i'm your insane," he says, and he says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

the rain drums all around you, cool and constant, pattering on your shoulders, your arms, the top of your head. the sound fills every space between you, but felix still hums a melody low in his throat—some old r&b tune he always sings when he’s doing the dishes.

you smile against his shoulder. you can feel his heartbeat like a rhythm beneath your palm.

he spins you. like a doofus. like you’re at a ball. you’re soaked. you’re laughing. he steps on your foot and you yelp, but neither of you stop.

you twirl until you're dizzy. until the campus is a blur of grey and green and rain-slick bricks. until your cheeks hurt from grinning and your knees feel like noodles.

and then—he pulls you back in.

not like before.

not goofy this time.

his hands slide down your arms, water trailing after his fingertips like liquid ribbon, and when his fingers lace with yours again, it’s slower. like the moment caught up with him, too.

he steps close.

you tilt your face up.

your lashes are wet, your lips chilled, your clothes soaked through and clinging like second skin. but you don’t feel cold. not when his eyes look at you like that.

“hi,” he whispers.

“hi,” you whisper back.

he leans in and kisses you—soft, slow, full of rain and sweetness. it tastes like everything you missed about summer. like warm air and sidewalk puddles and first crushes. his lips are plush, careful, his nose bumping yours, your bodies curved like commas into each other.

you kiss him again.

because once isn’t enough.

because nothing with felix ever is.

when you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours. your breath mingles in the tiny space between you, warm and foggy and close.

“did you know,” he murmurs, “that frogs can’t swallow without blinking?”

you blink. “what?”

“it’s true.” he grins. “they push food down their throat by using their eyeballs.”

“that’s disgusting.”

“i’m just saying, freddie the frog is a survivor.”

you laugh again, the sound bubbling out uncontrollably, and felix looks so proud of himself, you swat his chest.

“we are going to get sick,” you groan.

“we’ll get soup,” he says cheerfully.

“you don’t know how to make soup.”

“i’ll learn. for you.”

“soup is boiled water, felix.”

“still counts.”

you’re still holding him when thunder rolls again, rumbling like a sleepy lion in the sky. he hugs you tighter, resting his chin on top of your head, his body all soft warmth and heartbeat.

the world feels far away. like you’re tucked into a pocket of time too gentle to last forever.

but for now—you let it.

you close your eyes.

and just exist. with him. in this puddle. with frog umbrellas. and frogs. and love.

so, by the time you both make it to felix’s apartment, everything you’re wearing is holding onto the rain like a secret.

your shoes squish. your jeans cling. your bag drips a steady rhythm against your thigh. and your boyfriend—golden-haired, sun-souled, walking puddle that he is—has been humming the same tune under his breath for two blocks straight.

he opens the door like a gentleman. then leans against the frame like a flirt. one brow arched. one dimple out.

"you come here often?" he asks, voice low and syrupy.

you pause.

dripping. exhausted. dripping on the doormat.

and you say nothing. just blink at him. slowly.

then.. "only when a frog prince drags me here in the rain."

felix clutches his chest. “eugh.. that one had bite.”

“and yet,” you say, stepping past him into the apartment, shedding your soaked tote bag, “here i am.”

“you just couldn’t resist me.”

“or the frog umbrella.”

he makes a scandalized noise behind you, already tossing his hoodie onto a nearby hook with dramatic flair. the door closes with a soft thud, sealing you both inside a little world of foggy windows and warm lamplight.

the rain outside hasn’t stopped. you can hear it still—soft and constant, pattering against the balcony like applause. but inside? it’s all golden. cozy. safe.

home.

you pad toward the kitchen, shoes squeaking, socks cold and squishy.

felix follows close behind, undoing the buttons of his shirt with one hand. it peels off with a damp shhhhk, revealing the skin beneath—golden, smooth, lightly flushed from the cold. he’s not showing off. he never does. but you notice anyway.

you always do.

he catches your eyes lingering and smirks.

“like what you see?” he teases, towel-slapping his hair dry.

you give him a once-over, dramatic and slow, then sigh exaggeratedly. “you’ll do.”

“wow.”

“i have standards, lix.”

he tosses the towel at you. you catch it just before it smacks your face.

the next twenty minutes are an adorable circus.

you change into one of his soft tees, while he rummages around the kitchen with vague plans of “soup or something?” you curl into the couch, legs tucked under you, towel over your head like a ghost, just watching.

and giggling.

because felix in the kitchen is like a baby deer learning to walk—enthusiastic, slightly reckless, charmingly unaware that the stove is on the wrong setting.

“what are you doing now?” you ask, watching him squint at the microwave.

“defrosting the peas,” he says with the intensity of a bomb technician.

“that’s… not what you think it is.”

“i can cook, y’know.”

you snort. “you heated up leftovers last week and called it gourmet.”

“because i sprinkled parsley. gourmet.”

he makes two mugs of cocoa in the meantime—using oat milk because he knows it’s your favorite—and brings one over to you like it’s an offering to a deity.

you take it. hold it in both hands. let the heat bloom through your fingers like tiny fireworks.

felix plops beside you, a blanket in one hand and his smile in the other. he throws both over you and tugs you closer. your cold toes immediately tangle with his warmer ones, and your nose buries into his collarbone like it belongs there.

“hi,” you murmur.

“hi,” he echoes.

the cocoa is warm. the couch is softer than it has any right to be. his body is even softer. the blanket slides over your shoulders, and he rubs small circles into your arm, slow and lazy, like there’s nowhere else to be but here.

and maybe there isn’t.

maybe the world outside doesn’t exist anymore. maybe this tiny apartment is all that matters. a little pocket of light and heat and you and him and the smell of chocolate and rain.

your mug rests half-finished on the coffee table now. he’s not drinking his either.

you both just sit there. sinking.

his thumb brushes your jaw.

you glance up.

and he’s already looking.

eyes lidded. half-laughing. half something else. that look. that soft, liquid honey gaze that only he gives you when it’s late and the world’s quiet and you’re close like this.

he doesn’t say anything. he leans in instead.

and kisses you.

longer this time.

it’s not rushed. not even playful. it’s the kind of kiss that feels like a story you’ve read a thousand times but still want to hear again. his lips are warm. slightly chapped. he tastes like cocoa and rain and everything familiar. his hand finds your waist, gentle, slow, resting there like he’s afraid of pulling you too close, too fast.

but you lean in anyway.

you kiss back like you mean it.

because you do.

you shift into his lap, blanket falling halfway to the floor. your fingers curl into his hair, still damp at the roots. he breathes your name against your mouth and it feels like poetry.

then: “your nose is cold,” he mumbles, laughing.

“yours too,” you whisper.

he presses his forehead to yours, noses bumping, your cheeks flushed and glowing.

“i think i’m in love with you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

your heart softens.

melts.

“i think i already knew,” you say.

he grins. that dimpled, sunshine, heartbreaker grin.

then whispers, “i also think i burnt the soup.”

you blink.

sniff the air.

“oh my god.”

he scrambles off the couch like a cartoon character—slipping, tripping, darting into the kitchen with dramatic gasps and yelps.

you follow, giggling, and catch him trying to save a charred pot that smells suspiciously like betrayal.

there’s a moment of chaos. of smoke and waving towels and the fire alarm chirping once in confusion. and then—

you both end up on the kitchen floor. still laughing. still glowing. still in love.

later.

the rain slows.

you’re back on the couch. wrapped in each other. your cocoa is cold. the soup is ruined. your hair’s a mess. but his hands are warm around yours, and your laughter is echoing in the walls like music.

and when he kisses your forehead one last time, whispering, “thanks for coming over,” with a wink—

you know it’s true.

you’d come here a thousand times. every day. if it means him. if it means this.

𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑛𝘵 𝘵𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘵 ୨ৎ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @its-stayville-forever @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @inlovewithstraykids @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 @my-neurodivergent-world @unbel1ve4ble @cowboylikemalika — fill out this form to be added !!

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3 © heartsbyani, dearmini '25 ★

[manicmanuscription]

Exhibit

PolySJM Week: Day Five

Prompt: Memories and History

Pairings: Feysand / Reader

Summary: You're the last one left in the inner circle, taking a weekly visit to the museum.

Word Count: 2225

Tags: Extreme angst, no like, a lot of angst, hurt and barely any comfort, author hurt her own feelings. Inner circle is all dead. briefly smutty memories but explicit, 18++

PolySJM Week 2025 Masterlist | Acotar Masterlist

My shoes clicked softly against the hardwood floors, yet each step echoed throughout my entire being, the sound deafening in the quiet halls and a sense of dread bled into my heart with every movement.

Being here was suffocating and I tried to remind myself to breathe, to force air into my lungs. Yet I tortured myself with this feeling every Friday, at one p.m. With tentative steps I reached the next room, the open floor plan allowing everything to be displayed properly and I halted in front of one of the clear cases. 

My heart constricted at seeing the matching set of jewelry. A custom set commissioned by Rhysand for Feyre and I. Small glittering black diamonds fashioned into the shapes of small stars and tiny pearls all strung up elaborately to cascade down the earlobe. 

The earrings sat next to their complimentary tiara's, the highest point also forming into a star. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment at the sight. It had been a mating gift, one of many after the elaborate ceremony he planned. The earrings had been one of my favorite pieces in my vanity and had seen the sun so often my mate had regularly taken it in for cleaning and upkeep services.

Though when they stopped pumping air into their lungs and their heart gave out from the extent of their injuries the sight of it quickly made me want to tear my skin off. 

Lifeless eyes and bloodsoaked satin flashed before my vision and I gripped my walking cane so hard I swore you could hear tiny wood pieces splintering.

A few hundred years later andI could still hear Nesta’s anguished cries and Mor’s horrified whimpers as we rushed to save them. 

Too late. Too late. Too late. 

I could still feel Cassian’s grip on my arms as he forcefully pulled me away from the sight of the gruesome scene, everyone yelling over one another as it all dissolved to chaos. The only thing that existed in that moment was them, the sight of their limp bodies into my mind forever, that agonizing pain in my chest as the bond shattered with their last breath. 

Madja wouldn’t even tell me what had truly happened to them. I found out, of course. It took me weeks but eventually I found out. That knowledge nearly sent me spiraling over the closest cliff, and the memory had that ragged bond in my chest stirring painfully. 

I forced myself away from the display case and ventured further into the Inner Circle’s exhibit. Blinking the horrid memories away as I passed a few of the other cases, letters between The Spymaster and Highlord, various weapons, sculptures, depictions of great battles my family fought in and other heroic deeds, even some shattered siphons from when my friends were youthful and untrained, a replica of the mirror the General used to capture the death god Lanthys, then a replica of the sword used to slain him. -the real thing had been given to their daughter-  great paintings depicting the Battle of Hybern and the Three Sister’s once human in all their glory. Each piece a living reminder of the legends that were my family until eventually I paused in front of my greatest torment. 

Feyre’s last unfinished piece was sitting in a storage unit a few blocks away, sometimes I’d sit there wondering what it was meant to be, my sneaky little mate having kept it a secret until she meant to reveal it on our anniversary, it tortured me for years after their deaths knowing she’d never finished it and never would, yet this canvas in front of me…

Feyre and I were sitting on lavish chairs facing forward as Rhysand stood behind us with an arm on each of our shoulders, a coy smile playing on his lips. Even though I was starting to forget a lot of things with my age, I remember that day like it was yesterday. 

“Stop trying to make me laugh!” I scolded Rhys mentally. His laughter echoed down the bond and I whirled around in my seat to face him, still keeping my hand firmly intertwined with Feyre’s. A reprimand on my tongue even as I struggled to control my giddy smile. 

The painter gently reminded me to sit still and Rhysand smirked. “Yes darling sit still we’re trying to get our portrait taken after all.” I rolled my eyes, sending a harsh wave of annoyance down the bond. “You’re the one distracting me!” I protested even as I faced the painter once more. 

“I. am. not.” Rhysand objected, his smooth voice falling on my ears, the sound of it a balm to my soul even though he was getting on my last nerve. Three seconds passed before another image of the three of us flashed in front of my eyes, my lovely wife was all wrapped up in pretty silk tied to our bed while I had the pleasure of tasting her, my tongue circling her clit as my husband kissed up her thighs before reaching her breasts. Her soft moans filled the room and- the image dissolved with a brush of Feyre’s magic and she glared at both of us and huffed slightly. “That is enough!” She snapped angrily, a faint blush crept up her cheeks and she adjusted herself on her chair. 

“The both of you are behaving like children! We wouldn’t even be in this position if you” She sent me a pointed glare.  “hadn’t insisted on a live portrait.” 

The artist gave us a confused glance at our conversation flowing in and out of mental or verbal speaking but returned to their canvas quickly not wanting to somehow upset the powerful leaders of the Night Court. 

“I thought it would be fun!” I whispered back and Rhysand chuckled softly leaning down to give Feyre and I a quick peck on the cheek. “She truly had no idea how boring these things are. I'm just trying to liven it up a little.” 

“Well quit it. Because you’re distracting me, our mate, the artist and making this whole ordeal last longer than it needs to.” 

Rhysand winced as her harsh words dug into his mental walls and I threw a look over my shoulder sticking my tongue out at him before returning my gaze forward. Feyre gave my hand a warning squeeze accompanied with her signature glare and I muttered an apology. 

Another few agonizing minutes passed before another image flashed before my eyes. I was slowly removing the silk dress from my body, stepping out from the expensive fabric in nothing but lingerie, Feyre trailed her hands up my spine from behind me a dark look in her eyes watching as Rhys leaned down to hungrily claim my lips with his own. Soft manicured nails tugged at my hair harshly eliciting a soft moan from my lips and she turned my head to the side to give our mate more access and Rhys trailed those kisses down to the side of my neck– 

“That is it!” I hissed. Standing up from my chair and storming out of the room as I fought to get my arousal under control. 

Rhysand just leaned down to Feyre’s ear. “I told you I could get her to break.” She just rubbed a tattooed hand over her temples, a small -annoyed- smirk playing on her lips as she stood as well. 

The memory faded and I brushed the tears away with an aged hand. Feyre ultimately finished the painting by taking the reference photo from the memory of the artist we hired, and reimbursed the poor girl for wasting her time. 

A wave of anger rose within me, I would never not be mad at them for leaving me to raise our child alone with that stupid fucking pact. Sure I had our family’s help but they had their own children and spouses to attend to as well and eventually old age or injury picked them all off until it was just me. The shattered bond in my chest ached at the thought refusing the anger and sadness that suffocated me so strongly a wave of pain almost had me doubling over in the exhibit.

I knew I was starting to go, forgetting things and losing time. I had to start walking with a cane and my hair turned fully white ages ago. Even my hearing was almost nonexistent. Not a lot of fae got to be this age but I was stubborn, refusing to go until I was sure my son, nieces and nephews, and court were ok. 

Sometimes I could feel my mates, brushing their hand with mine as I hobbled down the streets of Velaris, whispering things to me in the wind that I could not decipher. Sometimes I could feel one of my friends, urging me to relax or even teasing me from realms apart.

 It was getting more frequent and I knew my loves would be coming to collect me from this realm soon. 

When they did I would never, ever stop yelling at them for what they did to me. They broke their promises leaving me with a temperamental and newly made High Lord who was just a little too young to rule and a grieving court. I sat down on one of the museum’s benches as a cluster of people entered the exhibit, the clock striking one fifteen. 

My favorite part of the day. 

The tour guide spoke softly as the fae walked around the room, awe lining their faces. No one recognized me from the paintings and they were all too young to realize anyways, I hadn’t ventured to any political or public events in years, not ever since I broke my hip on some stairs in the Hewn City and my son all but banned me. Just as protective as his father. 

The guide spoke about my family with quiet reverence, telling stories about countless battles and wars won, treaty’s built. She talked about victory over Koschei and the Illyrians unrest. She talked about the political wins of my mates, she talked of the Lady of Death and her Valkyries. 

She then spoke of me, telling the love story of my mates and I, put together from long dead witness statements, letters, and even stories spilled from the old Inner Circle. 

The guests moved about the room excitedly, pointing at old artifacts and statues. It was always strange to hear my life and my family’s lives from another person, one who wasn’t there but had studied us. My nieces and nephew’s loved to hear the stories I told when they were young, but sometimes…it was nice to hear about it from someone else, I was the only one left who truly remembered what happened after all and even those were slowly going. 

It helped me remember. Remember Cassian’s booming laugh long faded, Azriels quiet reassurance, chess games between Nesta and Amren, Elain’s garden long untouched by her own loving hands. 

The perspective shift was amusing to me and war and peace raged in my heart at the memories the tour guide returned to me with her intricately weaved tales. I missed my family, missed the way our home came alive with their presence. 

Every fiber in my body ached and a stray tear slipped as the guide eventually moved onto my mate's demise and the betrayal of our ‘allies’

There wasn’t time, even if we spent eons together it would have never been enough. 

Eventually the crowd cleared as she concluded this part of her tour and moved to another exhibit. Leaving only one person in the room with me. Nyx strode across the room in just a few steps sitting on the bench beside me. “I nearly had a heart attack when Simone told me she lost you. Again.” 

“Why must you torture yourself like this Mother?” He asked, placing a comforting hand on my wobbled knee as he took a pained glance at the room. I didn’t respond, just took a chance to study his face doing my best to commit it to my weathered mind.. He was getting old, stress lines making him seem even older and being a High Lord and a new father certainly didn’t help.

Gods he looked so much like them. With his soft freckles and violet eyes. He most certainly had Feyre’s nose. 

I smiled, another ghostly wisp of a warm touch running along my spine and I knew it would be soon. I could feel that knowledge all the way down to my weary and ancient bones. Just as I knew Nyx would be fine, him and his cousin’s had been ruling for quite some time and I’d never been prouder of them and I would finally get the chance to confront my mates for I had hundreds of years of grievances to settle with them. But I would also get to hold them close once more, press kisses to their shoulders and tell them stories of the male our son had become. 

I would be able to cherish them once more, to hold them close once again, to hear their voices and see their smiles. 

I would be able to see my family once again and that peace would settle my soul for eternity. 

[neosprites]

Digital Stamp Making Tutorial

Hello, and welcome to the long-awaited(at least on my part) digital stamp-making tutorial from neosprites! I’d like to preface that I learned what I was doing from this tutorial so it may be a bit redundant, but if anything I get a bit more specific. Thank you so much to @graphic--horde for your work, it changed me as a graphic maker. This is gunna be a long post so feel free to bookmark it for later. Now, onto the show!

The frame I will be using for this tutorial (which is the frame I use on 99.9% of my stamps) I found from the above linked post, which I believe is from a creator that OP lost track of. Its inner dimensions are 94x50 pixels and its outer dimensions are 99x56 pixels. Here it is!

Find your material! - I recommend using websites like Tumblr and searching with the “GIF” filter only on, or alternatives such as Giphy or Tenor. Your browser may let you directly save the .gif file; if not and you are noticing it restricts you to save it as a .webp file you can try an extension like “Save webp as PNG or JPEG” (for Firefox but I image other browsers have similar functions, but I really recommend you switch to Firefox). To use this you will right click on your source .gif like normal but instead of clicking on “Save image as…” click “Save webP as…” and then click “GIF”. You should be redirected to the website ezgif.com where we will actually be doing all of our editing! Here’s the .gif we’ll be working with.

Convert to GIF (optional) - if you used the extension from the above step you should already be ready to click the blue “Convert to GIF” button. If not, go ahead and open ezgif.com and click on “webP” and then “WebP to GIF”; then convert to a gif with the blue button.

Resize the GIF - now that we have a gif ready to edit, let’s make it the right size. The easiest method I have found is to change it directly to the frame’s inner dimensions, 94x50 pixels. [EDIT: Make sure in the aspect ratio drop drop menu you select "stretch to fit" and not "center and crop to fit" like I did in the photo example.] Click “resize” and then type [94] in for the width and [50] for the height. Next press the blue “resize image” button.

Add the frame - next click “overlay” then click the thin blue button that says “Extend canvas size(use if overlay exceeds GIF sizes)”. This will give us some extra room to add the frame onto the design. Next click “Browse…” and find the frame you have saved onto your device, then click the blue “Upload image” button.

After that it’s going to be misaligned, that’s normal! It will say you have the option to drag it into place, but don’t bother. That’s one of the reasons my old stamps look wack, it’s just harder to do. Instead type [44] in for the Left box and [22] in for the Right box. It took me a while to figure out these dimensions to be honest, and I’ve only tested it with this frame so I don't know if it works with others. Then click the blue “Generate image” button.

Crop the transparent edges - click on “crop”. You will have the option to check a box that says “trim transparent pixels around the image” however, I don’t recommend this as it tends to crop a few of the frame’s pixels with it sometimes. Next, set the Left position to [44] and the Right position to [22]. For the other dimensions we will use the outer dimensions of the frame which are 99x56 pixels, this will trim everything except the tiny spaces in between the stamp frame’s spikes. Type the width as [99] and the height as [56] and click the tiny blue button that says “set”. After that click the blue “Crop image” button.

Save and use! - all that's left is to click “save” and upload the graphic to your liking. (best seen on dark mode obviously)

If you’d like to tag me in stamps you’ve made using my tutorial I would love to see them, but it’s not required!! Make sure to always give credit for pictures/gifs when you can and try not to make stuff out of personal/fan art. Thank you to the person in my inbox who requested this tutorial, I had been meaning to for a while but it was just the kick I needed. :)

[un-lawliet]

— Respect

— a small drabble in which you fall, and Scaramouche saves you.

“Hey.”

You’re blinking up at a light in which you cannot perceive, blurred blobs of illumination merge together to create a kaleidoscope of unsures and confusion.

“Hey c’mon I can’t sit with you forever y’know?”

You groan.

The light blends together to create a canvas of blue before you and you blink again and see another pair of darker blue eyes blink back.

Huh?

A palm softly slaps at your cheek, and you wince at the resounding sound in your head.

“You’re just being lazy now.” And that voice, you’d recognise anywhere.

“Scaramouche?” You mumble, reaching a hand out towards the blurry face above you.

Your finger tips touch the soft skin of his cheek, and if your head didn’t hurt so much, you’d probably have gasped and withdrawn your touch the second you breached contact.

It’s no secret that you harbour a tremendous liking respect for the man above you, and usually, you would stutter and awkwardly converse with him, but for now, now you’re tired and sore and logic has burned to crisp.

“Yea, yea it’s me.” He replies, flicking your forehead gently.

Your head is in his lap, cushioned by his thighs, and you’re entirely confused and disoriented, but your hand on his face grounds you.

You trace a finger across his features, stopping briefly at the plush of his lips, because even in your fragmented state, you know what boundaries to stray from.

“What happened?” You whisper, your voice croaky and scathed, a result of your unknown injury.

“You fell.” Scaramouche says plainly, his eyes scanning your face, taking in the small cuts and bruises littering your pretty face.

“I did?”

“You did.”

Everything hurts.

-And that must show on your face, by the way he slowly moves you to a more comfortable position.

“Where?” You hear him ask, his voice almost sounding bored, but you swear you could hear concern.

“Huh-”

“Where does it hurt, idiot.” He reaffirms, glancing back at your eyes again.

“I-is everywhere an option?”

Scaramouche tuts, shaking his head.

You go to remove your hand, feeling more conscious, but gasp when you feel his hand on your own, pulling it back to his cheek.

He doesn’t look back at you, looking away with a sigh, when your eyes open slightly wider and a small, inconspicuous smile crosses your face.

And you understand.

“You caught me.”

“Can’t have you being more of a burden to this journey.”

You grin, despite the roaring in your head.

“Thank you for saving me Kuni.” You whisper, letting your head fall to the side, away from his gaze.

“Tch.”

And to your greatest, eternal surprise Scaramouche grasps your wrist and places a tender kiss to the palm of your hand.

It’s fleeting, but you feel it, and your entire body warms.

“You get five more minutes.” He says, refusing to meet your gaze, “And then we’re moving again.”

And you nod and close your eyes, a peaceful smile on your face as succumb to your tiredness at last.

And what you don’t feel is the gentle way he brushes your hair out of your face, and the tiny smile that he regards you with, relieved you were ok.

masterlist <3

feel free to leave a request !!!!

A/N - SOMEONE DM’D ME AND ASKED FOR SCARAMOUCHE SO I PROVIDED !!

this was entirely based off of scaramouche saving the traveller in the new event EEEK ! anyway i always write something small before i start posting regularly again !!! thank u for reading and i love u soooo much <333

artwork credits

[odileeclipse]

Why do I imagine if y/n has trouble sleeping...with pure vanilla's calming aura and stuff...I bet he'd have various methods to help you fall asleep and would want you to sleep on his chest.

Sleepless nights

a/n guess my favorite cookie challenge (HARD)

The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of the wind against the window. The air was cool, the blankets warm, and yet sleep remained distant, teasing the edges of your mind without ever settling. You shifted again, turning onto your side with a quiet sigh, staring at the ceiling. You weren’t sure how long you lay there before a soft glow filled the room. You blinked, tilting your head to see Pure Vanilla Cookie standing in the doorway, his staff casting a gentle golden light. His expression, ever warm and full of quiet understanding, softened when he saw you still awake. “Oh, my dear…” His voice was barely more than a whisper as he stepped closer, his robes flowing like golden silk with every movement. He set his staff aside, allowing the glow to dim to a faint shimmer before kneeling beside the bed. “Another restless night?”

You nodded, rubbing your eyes. “I don’t know why… I just can’t seem to fall asleep.” Pure Vanilla smiled, but there was a hint of sorrow behind it. “Then let me help.” He reached for your hand, his fingers lacing through yours as he guided you to sit up. “Come with me.” You hesitated but allowed him to pull you from the bed. His grip was steady and sure, his warmth instantly comforting. He led you through the quiet halls, his light illuminating the path ahead. It was peaceful, the only sound being the soft padding of your footsteps and the occasional distant hum of the wind outside. Finally, he brought you to a small, open-air balcony. The night sky stretched endlessly before you, painted in deep blues and purples, stars glimmering like tiny flecks of light scattered across a velvet canvas. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and blooming flowers, and the breeze carried a soothing coolness. Pure Vanilla guided you to sit beside him on a cushioned bench, his arm instinctively wrapping around your shoulders. “When I struggle to find rest, I often come here,” he murmured. “There’s something about the night… It reminds me that even in darkness, there is always light.”

You leaned into his warmth, breathing in the scent of him—sweet, familiar, safe. “Do you struggle to sleep often?” He chuckled, but it was a quiet, tired sound. “More than I let on.” His fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns along your arm. “There are many things I carry, many thoughts that linger even when the world is still.” You frowned slightly, tilting your head up to look at him. In the soft light, you could see the weariness behind his gentle eyes, the weight of something unspoken. He always carried himself with such grace, such unwavering kindness, but now… he looked almost fragile, as if the burdens he bore had chipped away at him over time. “You shouldn’t have to carry everything alone,” you murmured. He blinked, his lips parting slightly in surprise before his expression melted into something impossibly tender. “And yet… I find myself saying the same to you.” You smiled softly, nudging your forehead against his shoulder. “Then maybe we can help each other.”

Pure Vanilla exhaled a quiet chuckle before pressing a gentle kiss to your hair. “I would like that.” The two of you sat there for a while, watching the stars in comfortable silence. The steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his touch, the way his magic seemed to wrap around you like a protective embrace—it all felt so safe, so calming. Eventually, he shifted slightly, guiding you to rest against his chest. “Close your eyes,” he murmured, his voice like a lullaby. “Just listen.” His heartbeat, slow and steady, echoed beneath your ear. His hand traced soft, rhythmic circles along your back, and his magic pulsed faintly, soothing every restless thought, every lingering worry. You breathed in deeply, letting the exhaustion finally settle in. With him here, with his arms around you and the stars above, sleep no longer felt so far away. Just as you began to drift, you heard his voice soft, warm, full of quiet devotion. “Sleep well, my light. I’ll be here when you wake.”

[newttxt]

hi quip! i really like your one piece comics and i am curious how you do them! i'm not good at comics and want to be better at drawing them! how do you learn how to make comics?

thank you!

uh oh... im afraid u have caught me at the perfect crossroad of "bored at work" and "unrelated task ive been meaning to do but keep putting off."

this is long. i hope you like reading (and grayscale progress pics). and of course!!! disclaimer before we begin that this is just how I, personally draw comics. there is no "right way."

quip's comic-making process!

Switching my typing to make this more legible...

My process can kinda be broken down into 6 steps:

Brainstorming

Thumbnailing

Sketching

Panels & Text

Lines

Tones/Colors

1. Brainstorming

My brain is a leaky sieve on a good day, so I sloppily jot down ideas in my phone notes the moment I have them. This helps me when it's time to draw too, because if I feel art blocked, I can look through old concepts and see what catches my interest.

Otherwise, I love drawing for other people's writing. :) And if worst comes to worst, doing manga/comic page redraws in my style teaches me new things every time.

Once I have my idea, I'll usually make a bulletpoint list of "plot points" or "story beats" I want. Then I plan the comic with this format that I've adapted from a tutorial I read once. I'm going to use my most recent comic (original comic post) as an example.

I start in the third column, writing notes of what I'd want to see in each panel. I also include the dialogue (in this case, I didn't have to write the dialogue! it's from the fanfic linked in the original comic post!). I usually write the whole name like [Luffy:], but at this point I've drawn so much of these guys, just the first letter works.

I like to handwrite these notes to get an idea for how much text I'm putting in a single panel.

After I describe all the panels, I go back and separate them into pages. I can't tell you how to know how many panels to a page. It's whatever works for you. I just kinda know about how big each panel will be, and so I can feel when I'm probably running out of space. (Also. You can change things later. I don't in this example, but I add/drop pages/panels all the time.)

2. Thumbnailing

Thumbnailing—as the name suggests—should be done tiny. Too tiny to accidentally get sucked into details.

This is about marking down blobs where items/characters go, and figuring out the paneling. I'll draw and redraw these a bunch of times too.

This is also the most time-consuming/brain-working part for me. If I were in a zine that did progress percentage, I'd try to finish thumbnailing around the 50% mark (but I'm also a moderately fast artist, so your mileage may vary).

I think the terrible quality makes them charming, actually. I really like how silly they look. :')))

I will add, when you draw your "page" rectangle, make sure it's the same proportions as your actual canvas for the final image. You want an accurate idea of how much space each panel will take up, especially if you have a lot of text.

3. Sketching

This is my most recent change to my usual workflow, and it's saving me a lot of time. I make my thumbnails a bit bigger (each one about half the size of the final canvas), and I sketch these basic body forms right over them.

It just helps give me placement for my actual lines!

I usually draw these in a paleish color so I can lower the opacity and not get distracted by them while lining. The random darker parts are to either help keep two forms separate (like when two characters have their limbs all over) or to better define sections that were too sloppy/poorly proportioned.

I also think this helps my poses stay looser, because I have more dramatic/wriggly shapes that aren't too bogged down by proportions yet.

Sidenote: I CANNOT show this here, but sometimes this is when I take videos. Of myself. I prop my phone camera up and shoot a video of me acting each panel. :/// It looks really dumb, but it also shows me fun body language ideas like hand gestures, expressions, weight distribution, etc. Just pretend you're an overdramatic cartoon character, and try not to worry about your roommates or mother walking in on you doing odd things. (You can also use the video for anatomy reference later, but I usually just capture the vibe and don't try to copy the actual video frame.)

4. Panels & Text

Oh, boy. So, the panels are usually just straight lines (though it's fun to make creative exceptions, like a round panel to mimic looking through a spyglass), but there are some fancy rules that I don't strictly adhere to.

I believe (I have no technical training in this. Take everything I say with a grain of salt) the vertical gaps (between two side-by-side panels) should all be a consistent width and the horizontal gaps (between two panels on top of each other) should be another. The vertical ones? Should be thinner? Because you want the eye to easily glide between them, whereas the horizontal gaps should be a visual barrier to keep you from jumping ahead. Just something I've vaguely noticed.

There are lots of fun "default layouts" you can look up. Or keep it a consistent grid. I think it's fun to sometimes have characters/objects sticking out of panels and overlapping others. This is just a matter of taste, creativity, and inspiration. (Read Witch Hat Atelier... It has some of my favorite paneling...)

You may also notice I have already done the speech bubbles. This is, to me, a crucial step. This helps me catch early if I don't have enough room for all the words. It also lets me plan the art in each panel with the speech bubbles in mind. There's nothing worse than working really hard on a panel, and then you realize there's no room for the bubbles.

I also try to lay them out in a way that guides the eye! Even without art, can people tell where to go next? Better yet, if I want people to look at panels out of order (aka not left to right, in my case), can I use the speech bubble path to make them? Here's just a vague example of what I mean.

As an added bonus, doing speech bubbles early also allows me to be lazy! :) Ignore the comic; I'm not supposed to post it yet oops,, There's a whole lot of drawing to do on each comic page, and I am not wasting my time on stuff that will be covered up. So yes, if I hide my bubbles, there are a lot of unfinished lines trailing off into nothing. (As a bonus, if there's a part of a character you're struggling with—and it won't look weird to do so—you can move speech bubbles to just hide the problem area yayyy)

Making the actual bubbles could be their own whole tutorial, tbh, but there are some general guidelines I use.

Zoom out when you choose your font size. You want to know how it will look to the average reader, so it isn't super teeny tiny or way too big. You generally want to keep the same text size for all your pages/bubbles.

When I draw bubbles, I try to size them about one vertical letter height (and some change) around the words [left side]. This isn't always the case though, because humorously large or funny shaped text bubbles can convey different feelings [right side].

On Procreate, I set my bubble lines to Reference and just drag-and-drop the white fill on a separate layer below the lines. (Remember to turn Reference back off again when you're done, or your fill bucket won't work right when you're drawing.)

To get the white outlines I use to keep the bubbles from cluttering up the art, I literally just Gaussian blur an all-white copy of the lines + fills... and then I copy and merge it 5 times until it's opaque enough. This is a terrible way to do it, but it works for me. :')

5. Lines

This is the part that I can't tell you how to do. I literally just. Draw right over my wacky sketched body forms. Boom. Comic drawn.

I'll make three suggestions:

Don't focus on making every panel perfect. Give a little extra love to big ones or ones you want people to linger on. Otherwise, know that people are typically speeding through the art. It's way more important to focus on storytelling than art technique. In my opinion, a good story that's told well will always be better than a beautiful one told poorly. (Some comics are beautiful AND well-written... Alas, I am just a hobbyist who needs to get the ideas out of my head at top speed.)

Put your background lines on a different layer. Put your foreground lines on a different layer too, if you have those. Basically, I try to keep the main part of each panel (usually a character or object) on my lines layer so I can erase background/foreground/etc lines to ensure clarity/focus.

You can make background lines lighter colors too. I have too many numbers sorry. (1) Background. The stuff that's farthest away. Lightest lines. Few details; more focused on shapes and the suggestion of a background (I'm not good at backgrounds). (2) Midground. Same distance away as the characters are. Lines can be black. (3) Also midground, and also the same distance away. But they're very detailed, so I lighten them so they aren't so distracting. (4) The characters. Black lines for focus. For people who haven't seen the comic, I swear they are just hugging. This is SFW. D:

6. Tones/Colors

Do not. Do NOT ask me. I don't understand colors. I hate working with them, but I try because I want to improve. I hate doing anything beyond the simplest grayscale shading. Please go elsewhere for your coloring/tone advice. This is how my color picker looks 95% of the time. I have pre-set "percentages" of black that I got by lowering the opacity of a black layer and just color picking it. I don't even know the exact percentages I used. Good luck out there. Be better than me.

7. Sharing

This is a bonus step that I didn't mention earlier, but it's actually the most important of all of them.

You need a friend. Or maybe a groupchat or discord. A family member or coworker if you're really close like that. I don't know.

Find SOMEWHERE you can spam wips and be cheered on. Drawing comics takes a while, especially if you're trying to tell longer stories than I'd dare to attempt. If I don't force someone to praise me for every line I draw, I shrivel up and die.

Also if and when you post online, add alt text. I'll admit I'm the first person to complain and drag my feet on this, and I literally use a screenreader myself when my eyes hurt (strong prescription glasses wearer). Comics should be accessible, because stories are fun and everyone should be able to enjoy them.

***

Learning???

And I guess lastly, how do you learn to make comics? Two steps: 1) read them and 2) make them. This is the tragedy of creating things.

1) Reading them: I grew up reading comic strips, western serialized comics, and webcomics. I've always loved graphic novels too. Then in late middle school, I started reading manga (Death Note and Haikyuu were my first two), and now I'm trying to read more webtoons (sorry im so slow bree)!

I also... mass-consume doujinshi, thanks to proxy mailing services and bilingual friends/Google Translate/knowing some Korean. (I have an entire bookshelf of doujin, actually,,)

The thing is, it's not usually enough to just read comics. You also need to be thinking. :/ I notice paneling, comic devices, clever comedic timing, etc. as I go. It's just a lot of studying/learning while also enjoying the story.

2) Making them: You just have to start. :( Even if you think they're "bad." My first comics were actually just drawings placed randomly all over the page, connected by speech bubbles (yay... I was already practicing how to place bubbles to lead the eye around the page...). I was going to post a pic here, but I'm a coward. Backscroll my account and you can find some older ones though.

I also know my art in general improved dramatically when I did ten comics in ten weeks for my friend's fic. Don't do this. It hurt my hands/wrists. But do practice in moderation.

***

If you actually read all that... I hope it made even a modicum of sense. And maybe it was even helpful? Just know at the end of the day, there is literally no right way to draw a comic.

And if you aren't ready to go for it yet, you can start by just adding a couple speech bubbles to your illustrations or doodles! It's a way to add storytelling and dialogue writing to things you may already be making.

Yay. I love comics. :))))

[mikaylathenerd5]

Fourth & Forever - Chapter 1

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Author Note: I am only writing for the character Roman Reigns and NOT the person Joe Anoa'i, please refer to this post about addressing this.

Due to recent events, please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the taglist. I want to make sure I am respecting everyone's wishes, as I know that due to recent events, it can be triggering for some.

Pairing: Juno Davis (black oc) x AU Roman Reigns

Summary: In the vibrant heart of Miami, Juno, a guarded single mother and graphic designer, attends a lively backyard barbecue at the insistence of her best friend, Rhea. Accompanied by her three-year-old daughter, Luna, Juno navigates the unfamiliar warmth of a tight-knit community, where music, food, and laughter create an intoxicating atmosphere. Struggling to balance her protective instincts with a longing for connection, Juno is caught off guard by Roman, a stoic and enigmatic football star whose quiet intensity and genuine kindness challenge her carefully built walls.

Word Count: 5k

"Sometimes, it’s not the fire that burns you. It’s the warmth you thought was safe."

The Miami afternoon clung to Juno like a second skin, the air thick with humidity and the faint promise of an evening breeze. She stood in her cramped apartment, the living room a mosaic of Luna’s toys and half-finished design projects. Her laptop glowed on the coffee table, displaying a client’s logo she’d been tweaking for hours, but her focus was elsewhere. Rhea’s text from earlier looped in her mind: Barbecue at the twins’ place. You’re coming. No excuses.

Juno sighed, running a hand through her curls. She wasn’t one for crowds, not anymore. Not since Luna had become her world, her anchor, her reason to keep moving through a life that often felt like it was holding its breath. But Rhea was relentless, a force of nature wrapped in a leather jacket and a smirk, and Juno knew resistance was futile.

“Mama, where we goin’?” Luna asked, toddling in from her bedroom, a stuffed giraffe clutched in her arms. Her brown eyes, wide and curious, mirrored Juno’s own, though Luna’s held a spark of wonder Juno had long buried.

“To a party, baby,” Juno said, kneeling to adjust Luna’s sundress. The yellow fabric was dotted with tiny sunflowers, a thrift-store find that Luna adored. “There’ll be music and food. Maybe even bubbles.”

Luna’s face lit up. “Bubbles?”

Juno smiled, her heart softening. “Yeah, bubbles. But you gotta promise to stay close, okay?”

Luna nodded solemnly, her curls bouncing. “Pwomise.”

Juno pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, grounding herself in the familiar ritual. At three, Luna was a whirlwind of energy and stubbornness, but she was also Juno’s compass, guiding her through the chaos of single motherhood. Every choice, every late night at her graphic design job, every skipped meal to pay for daycare—it was all for Luna.

The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the AC and the distant salsa music drifting from a neighbor’s window. Juno’s gaze fell to her sketchbook on the couch, its pages untouched for weeks. Once, drawing had been her refuge, a way to pour her dreams onto paper. Now, it felt like a luxury she couldn’t afford, like so many other things she’d left behind.

“Get it together,” she muttered, grabbing her canvas tote. She packed Luna’s essentials—snacks, a sippy cup, a spare dress—then hesitated at her own reflection in the hallway mirror. Her denim shorts and white tank top were practical, but the faint circles under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion. She swiped on lip gloss and tucked a curl behind her ear, a small act of defiance against the weight of the day.

Her phone buzzed. Rhea.

Rhea (Mami) 🖤😈😜: You better be on your way. Jimmy’s already grilling, and I’m not saving you ribs.

Juno rolled her eyes, typing a quick reply.

Juno ✨👑🧿: Chill, we’re leaving now.

She scooped Luna up, the toddler’s giggles filling the air, and headed out into the Miami heat.

The drive to the twins’ place was a blur of palm trees and neon signs, the city pulsing with life. Luna sang to herself in the backseat, her voice a soft counterpoint to the reggaeton blasting from the radio. Juno’s hands gripped the wheel, her mind wrestling with the unease of stepping into unfamiliar territory. She’d grown up in Miami, but her world had shrunk since Luna’s birth—work, home, daycare, repeat. Socializing felt like a foreign language, one she’d forgotten how to speak.

The twins’ house was a sprawling bungalow in a vibrant neighborhood, its front yard dotted with cars and scooters. Music spilled from the backyard, a mix of reggaeton and old-school hip-hop that made the air vibrate. Juno parked her weathered Honda and stepped out, the scent of grilled ribs and jerk chicken hitting her like a wave. Smoke curled skyward from a massive black grill, weaving through the humid air, mingling with the tang of salt from the nearby ocean.

She shifted Luna on her hip, the toddler’s wide eyes scanning the chaos. Luna’s tiny hand reached up to touch Juno’s cheek, a silent reassurance that grounded her. Juno kissed her forehead, drawing strength from her daughter’s quiet trust.

“I don’t know these people,” Juno muttered, adjusting her tote’s strap.

Rhea appeared from the crowd, her grin as chaotic as the scene. She wore a cropped tank and ripped jeans, her braids swinging as she sauntered over. “Yeah, but I do. You’ll be fine. Just don’t let Solo challenge you to arm wrestling. Man’s got no mercy.”

Juno followed Rhea’s gaze to a towering figure in the corner of the yard. Solo was hoisting a cooler packed with ice and drinks with one arm, his biceps straining against a sleeveless black tee. His face was impassive, but the twins—Jimmy and Jey—were hyping him up, their voices carrying over the music.

“Oh,” Juno said, her tone dry.

“Yeah,” Rhea replied, her smirk deepening. “You’re welcome.”

Juno shot her a flat look, but her lips twitched. Rhea’s chaos was a constant, but so was her loyalty. In a life where trust was a rare currency, Rhea was Juno’s vault—wild, unpredictable, but always there when it mattered.

The backyard was a kaleidoscope of movement and sound. Fairy lights crisscrossed above, casting a warm glow over folding chairs and picnic tables laden with platters—golden cornbread, glistening ribs, bowls of mango salsa. A group of aunties danced barefoot in the grass, their hips swaying to a soulful hook, solo cups raised like offerings to the night. Kids darted across the lawn, their shrieks rising above the music. Bottles of rum and tequila passed from hand to hand, and the air buzzed with a joy that felt both fleeting and eternal.

Juno set Luna down, keeping a hand on her shoulder as they navigated the crowd. The twins were a whirlwind of charm and noise, just as Rhea had warned. Jimmy greeted Rhea with a spinning hug that nearly toppled them into a table, his laughter bright and contagious. Jey, his mirror image, offered Juno a plate piled with ribs and macaroni salad, his grin a mix of mischief and warmth.

“I’m Jimmy. That’s Jey,” he said, jerking a thumb at his brother. “Don’t get us confused, unless you’re buying us both dinner.”

“Y’all are a mess,” Rhea laughed, snatching a rib from Jey’s plate.

Juno raised a brow but smiled, the vibe rowdy yet welcoming. She’d grown up in Miami, but this kind of warmth—loud, unapologetic, familial—felt foreign after years of guarding her heart and her daughter. Luna tugged at her hand, pointing to a group of toddlers chasing bubbles near the grill. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and Juno’s heart unclenched.

“Go on, baby,” Juno said, releasing her. “Stay where I can see you.”

Luna scampered off, her yellow dress a bright spot in the crowd. Juno’s eyes tracked her every move, a habit born of love and vigilance. Luna was her anchor, her reason for every sacrifice. At three, she was a force—curious, stubborn, with a smile that could melt the hardest hearts.

Juno adjusted her tote, feeling the weight of her sketchbook inside. She hadn’t drawn in weeks, her creativity stifled by late nights at work and the demands of motherhood. But tonight, the energy of the barbecue stirred something in her—a flicker of inspiration, like a spark waiting to catch.

“Stop overthinking,” Rhea said, nudging her. “Luna’s good. You’re good. Just breathe.”

Juno exhaled, forcing herself to relax. “Easier said than done.”

Rhea grinned, her eyes glinting. “That’s why I brought you. Time to live a little, Juno.”

Before Juno could retort, a new voice cut through the chatter. “Rhea, you bringin’ strangers to our party now?”

The woman approaching was petite but commanding, her locs swept into a high bun, her smile sharp and assessing. She wore a vibrant yellow sundress that glowed against her dark skin, and her eyes flicked from Rhea to Juno with curiosity and skepticism.

“Marisol, chill,” Rhea said, rolling her eyes. “This is Juno. She’s family.”

Marisol raised a brow, her gaze lingering on Juno. “Family, huh? You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

Juno bristled but kept her tone even. “Born and raised in Miami. Just don’t get out much.”

Marisol’s smile softened, but her eyes remained wary. “Fair enough. Welcome, then. Grab a drink, but don’t let these fools rope you into their nonsense.”

“She means the twins,” Rhea whispered, leaning close. “Marisol’s their cousin. She’s protective but cool.”

Juno nodded, filing away the information. Marisol’s skepticism mirrored her own—a reminder that trust was earned, not given. She glanced at Luna, who was blowing bubbles with a little girl in pigtails, and felt a pang of gratitude for Rhea’s insistence on dragging her here. Maybe, just for tonight, she could let her guard down.

Juno found a spot near the edge of the yard, a folding chair tucked under a palm tree. She sipped a mango mojito, the tart sweetness a small comfort as she watched Luna play. The barbecue was a living thing, its energy pulsing through the crowd. An older man with a graying beard strummed a guitar, his voice weaving through the music. A group of teens battled over a card game, their laughter sharp and infectious. The aunties had moved on to a line dance, their movements precise yet joyful.

Juno’s fingers itched for her sketchbook. The scene was a canvas—vibrant, chaotic, alive. She could almost see the lines she’d draw: the curve of an auntie’s hip, the blur of a child’s run, the glow of fairy lights against the dusk. But she pushed the urge aside. Drawing was a dream from another life, before Luna, before the weight of bills and broken promises.

“You good over here?” Rhea plopped into the chair beside her, a plate of ribs balanced on her knee.

Juno nodded, though her eyes were still on Luna. “Yeah. Just… taking it in.”

Rhea followed her gaze, her expression softening. “She’s a star, you know. Got your fire.”

Juno’s lips curved, but her voice was quiet. “Sometimes I worry it’s too much. This world… it’s not kind to girls like her.”

Rhea set her plate down, her tone serious for once. “That’s why she’s got you. And me. And all these crazy folks.” She gestured to the crowd. “You’re not alone, Juno, even when you try to be.”

The words hit harder than Juno expected, stirring a lump in her throat. She’d spent years building walls, convinced solitude was safer than trust. But Rhea had a way of slipping through the cracks, her loyalty a light in the dark.

“Thanks,” Juno said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rhea nudged her shoulder. “Don’t get sappy on me. Eat something before Jimmy hogs all the ribs.”

Juno laughed, the sound easing the tension in her chest. She took a rib from Rhea’s plate, the smoky flavor grounding her in the moment. For the first time in a long while, she felt a flicker of belonging, like maybe she could be part of this world without losing herself.

That was when she saw him.

Roman.

He sat at the edge of the wooden deck, a half-empty plate balanced on his knee, his golden skin kissed by the fading sun. His hair was pulled back in a loose bun, a few rogue strands framing his face. Tattoos coiled up his arms, their intricate patterns disappearing beneath the sleeves of his black t-shirt. Even seated, he exuded a quiet power, like a storm held in check. He was still water, deep and dangerous, the kind that could pull you under without warning.

And he was staring at her.

Not in the leering way she’d learned to deflect. No, this was different—curious, surprised, almost reverent. His dark eyes held hers, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them. The music, the laughter, the clink of cups—it all faded, leaving only the steady thrum of her pulse and the weight of his gaze.

Juno blinked, her breath catching.

Roman blinked back, and then, to her shock, he stood.

Rhea nudged her, her voice low and teasing. “Oh damn. He never gets up for anyone.”

“What do you mean?” Juno asked, her eyes still on Roman.

“That’s Roman,” Rhea said, as if it explained everything. “Defensive tackle for the Dolphins. Local legend. Big, broody, and emotionally unavailable. Right up your alley.”

Juno rolled her eyes, forcing herself to look away. “I don’t even watch football.”

“Exactly why he’s lookin’ at you like that. You’re not impressed. That’s new for him.”

And then he was there, standing before her, all six-foot-something of him, his presence filling the air like the smoke from the grill. Up close, he was even more imposing—broad shoulders, a jawline sharp enough to cut, and eyes that seemed to see straight through her carefully constructed walls.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and husky, the kind that lingered in your ears and curled into the hollows of your chest.

“Hi,” Juno replied, her arms folding instinctively, a shield against the warmth in his gaze.

“I’m Roman.”

“Juno. And that’s my daughter, Luna.”

Luna turned at the sound of her name, her curls sticking to her sweaty forehead. She gave Roman a shy smile before ducking behind Juno’s leg, her tiny hand clutching the hem of her mother’s jeans.

Roman’s expression softened, and he crouched down, bringing himself closer to Luna’s level. “Hey there, sweetheart. You havin’ fun?”

Luna nodded slowly, then pointed to the bubbles drifting near the grill, their rainbow surfaces catching the light. Roman followed her gaze and chuckled, the sound warm and unguarded.

“You got good taste. Bubbles are undefeated.”

Juno watched, her breath catching. There was something disarming about how he shifted his entire presence to meet Luna where she was, his massive frame folding into something gentle. It wasn’t a performance. He wasn’t trying to impress her. He was just… being.

And that was dangerous.

She’d met men like this before—charismatic, attentive, with smiles that promised the world. But promises were fragile, and Juno had learned the hard way that they often shattered, leaving her to pick up the pieces alone. Luna was proof of that—a beautiful, stubborn reminder of a love that had burned bright and then burned out.

“Nice kid,” Roman said, standing but keeping his voice soft, as if he sensed the weight of her thoughts.

“Thanks,” Juno replied, her tone guarded. “She’s my everything.”

He nodded, his eyes flicking to Luna and back to her. “I can see that.”

The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. Before she could, Jimmy called out from across the yard, waving a spatula like a conductor’s baton.

“Yo, Roman! You eatin’ or what? These ribs ain’t gonna grill themselves!”

Roman’s lips twitched, but he didn’t move. “I’m good,” he called back, his eyes still on Juno.

Jimmy groaned, but Jey laughed, slinging an arm around his brother. “Leave him alone, man. He’s busy.”

The twins’ teasing broke the tension, and Juno felt herself relax, if only slightly. Roman gestured to a nearby table. “You want a drink? They got mango mojitos, or I can grab you something else.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Mojito’s fine.”

He moved with a quiet grace, weaving through the crowd to the drink table. Juno watched him go, her mind a tangle of curiosity and caution. Rhea leaned close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

“Told you. Right up your alley.”

“Shut up,” Juno muttered, but she couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips.

As Roman returned with her drink, the ice clinking softly in the cup, Juno found herself drawn into a conversation that felt both foreign and familiar. He asked about her work, his curiosity genuine as she described her graphic design projects—logos for local businesses, posters for community events. She mentioned her love for jazz, a passion sparked by her father’s old vinyls, and Roman’s eyes lit up.

“Miles Davis or Coltrane?” he asked, leaning against the deck railing.

“Coltrane,” she said without hesitation. “A Love Supreme hits different.”

He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Good choice. I’m more of a Kind of Blue guy, but I respect it.”

The exchange was easy, unforced, and Juno felt a flicker of surprise. She wasn’t used to men listening, really listening, without an agenda. But Roman’s attention was steady, his questions thoughtful, his responses measured yet warm.

They talked about Miami, too—the way the city felt like a dream and a hustle all at once. Roman shared a story about sneaking into a jazz club as a teenager, his voice softening with nostalgia. Juno countered with a memory of painting murals in her high school art room, the walls her only escape from a chaotic home.

“You still paint?” he asked, his gaze flicking to her hands, as if he could see the ghost of a brush there.

She shook her head, her throat tightening. “Not much. Life got in the way.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable but not judgmental. “Life does that. But it’s never too late to pick it back up.”

The words were simple, but they landed like a stone in still water, rippling through her. She wanted to argue, to say that dreams were luxuries for people who didn’t have bills to pay or a child to raise. But something in his eyes—quiet, knowing—stopped her.

Luna’s laughter broke the moment, pulling Juno’s attention. Her daughter was now playing tag with a group of kids, her yellow dress a blur of motion. Roman followed her gaze, his expression softening again.

“She’s fearless,” he said.

Juno’s lips curved, but her voice was tinged with worry. “Sometimes too much.”

He nodded, as if he understood more than she’d said. “She’s got a good mom. That’s more than most.”

The compliment was quiet, but it hit Juno like a wave, stirring a warmth she wasn’t ready to feel. She sipped her mojito, using the moment to steady herself.

As the afternoon melted into a golden dusk, the shadows stretching long across the yard, Roman stayed close. Not hovering, but present, like a planet exerting its own gravity. He brought her a second mojito before she realized her cup was empty, the ice clinking softly as he handed it to her. He checked on Luna without being asked, his eyes tracking her as she played, ensuring she was safe. His presence was a quiet anchor, steadying Juno in a way she hadn’t expected.

The barbecue pulsed with life. An older woman with silver braids led a toast, her voice carrying over the crowd. “To family, to summer, to nights like this!” The crowd cheered, cups raised, and Juno found herself clapping along, caught up in the moment. Luna scampered back to her, her cheeks flushed, and Juno scooped her up, kissing her sweaty forehead.

“Having fun, baby?” she asked.

Luna nodded, her eyes bright. “Bubbles, Mama! And cake!”

Juno laughed, glancing at Naomi, who was cutting slices of a towering chocolate cake. “Cake later, okay? Let’s get you some water first.”

Roman appeared with a sippy cup, handing it to Luna with a smile. “Heard you were thirsty, little one.”

Luna took the cup, her shyness melting as she grinned at him. “Fank you!”

Juno’s heart did a strange flip, a mix of gratitude and unease. Roman’s ease with Luna was disarming, but it also raised her guard. Men who were good with kids often knew the power it held, and she’d fallen for that charm once before.

“Thanks,” she said, her tone cautious.

He nodded, sensing the shift. “Anytime.”

The evening deepened, the fire pit crackling to life, its embers glowing against the indigo sky. The kids were winding down, their laughter softening into yawns. Luna was curled up on a blanket with a few other toddlers, her eyes heavy but content. Rhea and Naomi had taken over auntie duties, waving Juno off when she hesitated.

“We got Luna,” Rhea said, her tone firm. “Go live a little.”

“Don’t overthink it,” Naomi added, her smile knowing.

Juno’s gaze drifted to Roman, who was leaning against the deck, his eyes on the fire. Marisol’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and insistent.

“Juno, come here a sec.”

Marisol stood by the fire pit, a drink in her hand, her eyes narrowed. Juno excused herself, leaving Roman with a small smile. Marisol pulled her aside, her expression a mix of concern and suspicion.

“What’s with you and Roman?” she asked, her voice low.

Juno frowned. “Nothing’s with us. We just met.”

Marisol raised a brow. “Didn’t look like nothing. He’s been glued to you all night.”

“He’s just being nice,” Juno said, but the words felt hollow.

Marisol sighed, her gaze softening. “Look, I’m not trying to be a buzzkill. Roman’s a good guy—better than most. But he’s… complicated. Got a lot of eyes on him, a lot of baggage. You got a kid, Juno. You sure you wanna get mixed up with someone like that?”

The words hit like a punch, echoing Juno’s own doubts. She glanced at Roman, who was now talking to Jey, his posture relaxed but his eyes flicking toward her. Marisol’s warning was a mirror to her fears—that letting someone in, even someone who seemed kind, was a risk she couldn’t afford.

“I’m not getting mixed up with anyone,” Juno said, her voice firm. “I’m here for Luna, not for… whatever this is.”

Marisol studied her, then nodded. “Alright. Just watch yourself, okay? You seem like good people.”

Juno forced a smile, but Marisol’s words lingered, a shadow over the warmth of the evening.

Later, as the fire pit cast flickering shadows across the yard, Roman approached Juno again. Luna was dozing on Naomi’s lap, her tiny snores a soft counterpoint to the music. The crowd had thinned slightly, but the energy remained, a low hum of laughter and conversation.

“Wanna take a walk?” Roman asked, tilting his head toward the edge of the backyard, where a wooden path led to the beach.

Juno’s heart climbed into her throat. She glanced at Luna, then back at Roman, his expression open but not pressuring. Marisol’s warning echoed, but so did the memory of Roman crouching to talk to Luna, his voice gentle and genuine. She nodded, her voice caught somewhere between courage and caution.

They walked in silence, the sand cool beneath their feet, the ocean stretching out under a sky studded with stars. The moon hung low, its silver light painting the waves in shimmering strokes. The air carried the scent of salt and summer, each breeze a whisper against Juno’s skin.

“Beautiful,” she murmured, her eyes on the horizon.

Roman’s gaze never left her. “Yeah. It is.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she pretended not to notice, focusing on the soft crunch of sand beneath her sneakers.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” she asked after a while, the silence between them both heavy and light.

“I used to,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost lost to the waves. “Then I learned it was easier not to.”

“Easier or safer?”

He looked at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Both.”

She understood more than she wanted to. That kind of silence wasn’t born; it was forged in the fires of betrayal, grief, and the slow realization that words could be weapons in the wrong hands. She’d built her own walls for the same reasons, each brick laid with the memory of a promise broken.

They stopped near the water’s edge, the tide kissing their toes. Roman bent down and picked up a smooth, moonlit shell, brushing the sand from its surface with careful fingers.

“You’ve been hurt,” he said, not a question but a truth.

“So have you,” she countered, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.

He nodded, his jaw tight. “I don’t do relationships. Don’t bring women around my people. Don’t… open up.”

“Then why are you doing all those things now?”

The question hung between them, fragile and sharp. Roman didn’t answer right away. He turned the shell over in his hand, its pearlescent surface catching the moonlight.

“Because something about you makes it feel like maybe I could.”

The wind picked up, lifting Juno’s curls and sending a shiver down her spine. Something inside her cracked open—a door she’d bolted shut years ago, rusted with fear and mistrust. She wanted to lean into the warmth of his words, to let them wrap around her like a blanket. But Marisol’s warning, her own scars, and the weight of Luna’s future held her back.

“I should get back to Luna,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the waves.

“Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t move, his eyes searching hers for something she wasn’t sure she could give.

They walked back in silence, the night wrapping around them like a secret. At the car, Roman held the door open, his hand lingering on the handle as she slid inside. Luna was already buckled in, her head lolling against the car seat, her tiny snores a soft counterpoint to the distant music.

Juno paused, looking up at him under the glow of the porch light. His face was a study in contrasts—hard lines softened by something vulnerable, something that mirrored the ache in her own chest.

“I don’t know what this is,” she admitted, her voice raw.

“I don’t either,” he said, his tone matching hers. “But I don’t want to regret it.”

Her breath caught. For a fleeting moment, she thought he might kiss her. His eyes dropped to her lips, his jaw flexing as if he were fighting himself. But he stepped back, nodding once, like he was sealing the moment in his memory.

She drove off, her hands gripping the wheel too tightly, her heart a tangled mess of hope and fear. In the rearview mirror, Roman stood in the driveway, watching her taillights fade into the night.

“I’m fucked,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Completely fucking done for.”

The drive home was quiet, the city’s neon lights blurring into streaks of color. Luna slept in the backseat, her stuffed giraffe clutched tightly. Juno’s mind churned, replaying the night—the barbecue’s warmth, Roman’s gaze, Marisol’s warning. She felt like she’d stepped onto a tightrope, one wrong move away from falling.

Back at the apartment, Juno carried Luna inside, the toddler’s weight a familiar comfort. She tucked her into bed, the room a haven of color—walls painted with murals of stars and moons, a project from Juno’s sleepless nights after Luna’s birth. She brushed a curl from Luna’s forehead, her heart swelling with a love so fierce it sometimes scared her.

“Night, baby,” she whispered, kissing Luna’s cheek.

Luna stirred, her voice sleepy. “Bubbles, Mama?”

Juno smiled, her chest aching. “Tomorrow, sweetheart. Promise.”

She closed the door softly and leaned against it, the events of the night crashing over her like waves. Roman’s face, his words, the way he’d looked at Luna—it was too much, too fast. She’d spent years building walls to keep men like him out, men who seemed too good to be true, who promised warmth only to leave her burned.

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. A text from Rhea.

Rhea (Mami) 🖤😈😜: Yo, Roman asked about you. Wants your number. What do I say?

Juno’s heart stuttered. She stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of her wanted to say yes, to let herself fall into whatever this was. But the other part—the part that remembered empty promises and sleepless nights—screamed for caution.

Juno ✨👑🧿: Tell him I’m not ready.

Rhea’s reply came almost instantly.

Rhea (Mami) 🖤😈😜: Girl, you sure? He’s not the type to chase. You might be passing up something real.

Juno set the phone down, her hands trembling. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

She moved to lock the car, her steps heavy with exhaustion. As she reached the Honda, she froze. Tucked under the windshield wiper was a small, pearlescent shell, identical to the one Roman had picked up on the beach. A tiny note was folded beneath it, written in a careful, slanted script.

For Luna. —R

Juno’s breath caught, her fingers tracing the shell’s smooth surface. She looked out into the dark, half-expecting to see Roman standing there, but the street was empty. She must of not noticed it on the way home. The shell felt like a promise, a question, a challenge.

She clutched it tightly, her heart a wild thing in her chest, and wondered what she’d just set in motion.

The next morning, Juno woke to the warmth of the sunlight and Luna’s off-key singing from the living room. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting stripes across the hardwood floor. She lay in bed for a moment, the shell on her nightstand catching the light. It was a small thing, but it felt heavy with meaning, a reminder of the night that had shifted something inside her.

She rose, pulling on a worn hoodie, and found Luna in the living room, surrounded by crayons and construction paper. “Morning, baby,” Juno said, kissing her head.

“Mornin’, Mama!” Luna held up a drawing—a chaotic swirl of colors with a yellow blob in the center. “It’s bubbles!”

Juno laughed, the sound easing the knot in her chest. “It’s perfect. You’re an artist, just like me.”

Luna beamed, and Juno’s heart swelled. She wanted to protect that light, that fearless joy, from a world that could be so cruel. But last night had stirred something else—a longing for connection, for a life beyond survival.

Juno programmed the Keurig to prepare her morning coffee. The machine instantly presented the coffee, waiting for Juno to consume. As she prepared the coffee to her liking, her phone buzzed again. Another text from Rhea.

Rhea (Mami) 🖤😈😜: You change your mind about Roman yet? He’s not gonna wait forever.

Juno sighed, setting the phone down. She wasn’t ready to answer, not yet. But the shell on her nightstand seemed to pulse with possibility, a quiet challenge to her carefully guarded heart.

She sipped her coffee, watching Luna draw, and felt the weight of a choice she wasn’t sure she could make.

Hey loves! 💖 If Juno, Roman, and Luna’s slow-burn spark in Fourth & Forever had you feeling all the Miami heat, let me know what you think! Drop a like, slide into the comments with your fave moments (that shell tho 👀), and reblog to share the love with your crew. Your vibes keep this story burning bright! 🔥 Want more of my worlds? Dive into my masterlist for fics like Spice & Surrender and Everything I Wanted—there’s a little something for every mood. Hit me up to join my taglist for updates, and let’s keep the convo going! Who’s ready for Chapter 2? 😘

[coffeepaintwater]

pov; your classmate's seeing ghosts at 3am and you just want to piss. alexa play i know by fiona apple

notes/i need to start calling them rants but im a coward:

i hate full illustrations (i can't do background for shit). but, surprisingly this one was a quick thing. i really felt starved for ofa content in the mha fandom (hello btw first time posting anything for yall), but also felt so sad about the fact that these people had to basically die a second time when izuku let go of ofa.

technically, they were only brought together by duty and this need to save people, but i think it would shatter me to interact with such determined souls and then just- not. they've got me feeling some type of way AND THERE'S SO LITTLE CONTENT.

also, i've recently seen someone say that, while all might shouldn't have placed the responsibility of ofa on a kid, no one else should have to bear this burden either. and so, izuku was actually the best option. i think it has to do with the amount of determination he has. because, despite all might NOT KNOWING (!!!) izuku would eventually have to fight all for one, he picked the type of person who would have accepted ofa even if he knew it came with a bigger burden. and while i understand the "izuku is too young to suffer those things", i think this fandom in general focuses on the young age of the characters (which is important to discuss as well) to the point they ignore all the other nuance that comes with the themes of mha. (yes, i am mostly talking about fanfiction. especially those 'dadzawa' ones. stop projecting and go get therapy people, those fics are so ooc.)

izuku's story would be just as tragic if he was a twenty-year-old. all might would have unknowingly ruined/disturbed the life of anyone he gave ofa to. it's just that izuku, despite being a teenager, had what it took to defeat the danger, while anyone else might not have.

but, back to the actual art i post, because despite what it looks like, i'm not an essay account; i've added a watermark!!! it's so tiny you can barely see it but i've had a vision. also i love yoichi he's so drawable. the plan was to actually fit all of the vestiges as reflections but i realized quickly how unrealistic that was for the canvas size i selected and was too lazy to change it. so you get bruce (lee), kudo (fucking gingers) and bbg yoichi. i've learnt a tip for drawing really sharp lighting too so i'm remotely happy with this one.