#trying to learn to sketch out and let it not be perfect

[darkphoenixdust]

White Hat and Dr. Slug

I heard this ship gets called silkbag? Anyway, This was the warm up sketch yesterday. I had some stuff to make and I realized I have been forgetting to post here. Oops.

[evanescentsun]

new wip

[roguefiction]

art practice: 01/30 - Emma D'arcy's Muse outfit When I first saw the black lines in this sweater I knew I wanted to draw it. I loved how it makes the contour of the body conspicuous. I originally wanted a quick sketch practice to be around 30 mins but this took around 2hrs. The face and the shading took 50% ish of the time. But this was fun. I've been enjoying learning how to draw people again.

[dakusan]

MAYBE, BABY

Tattoo Artist!Yang Jeongin x Reader | Clean lines. Dirty talk. No strings. Lies.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. What started as a no-strings-attached hookup with your tattoo artist turns into something much messier—and much more intoxicating. You only wanted a rib tattoo. He only wanted a night. But from the moment Jeongin drags his fingers across your skin like he’s signing his name, the lines start to blur. And you let him. Again and again. Until something shifts. What was supposed to be a fuck-only situationship turns into something terrifyingly close to love.

💌a/n: I have no fucking idea how long this thing is. I blacked out while I was writing and organising the Ask Dump. I present to you a full-course meal with a side of feelings and a kiss on the forehead?? If you made it to the end, congratulations. You now have an Innie-sized corruption kink and a severe attachment issue. You’re welcome. Enjoy??? IDK??? I’m too far gone to process anything except the words “say my name again.” p.s. reblog if this fic ruined you. I wanna know who survived and who ascended. p.p.s. added my Spotify + Apple Music links on my pinned, just saying 😗 p.p.p.s. no strings, my ass. You’re mine now.

⚠️ warnings: NSFW / 18+ ONLY — DEADASS | MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. GO TO BED | Unprotected sex (wrap it irl) | Oral sex (m & f receiving) | Fingering, spit play | Face sitting, thigh riding | Degradation kink (light) | Praise kink (heavy) | Possessiveness / “mine” kink | Bratty teasing, power play | Multiple orgasms, overstimulation | Breathless, sweaty, studio sex | Aftercare (eventually… Jeongin learns) | Lowkey romantic shift under the filth | Explicit language | “No strings” turning into: oops, we’re emotionally attached now | ✨ Tattoo shop + apartment sex ✨

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Ice your thighs.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Stay Tonight — CHUNG HA « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Jeongin was the youngest artist at NO SAINT INK.

When Chan opened the studio—an industrial-meets-artsy little corner spot on the edge of Itaewon—Jeongin was still a baby, barely legal, and fresh out of a back-alley apprenticeship that nearly made him quit the industry altogether. His lines were good back then. His hands were steady. But it wasn’t until Chan saw the sketchbook he kept buried in the bottom of his bag—spine cracked, filled with anatomy studies, linework so fine it looked like thread—that he offered him a space.

Not a job. A future.

“You’ve got hands like a ghost and an eye like a scalpel,” Chan had said, flipping through the pages with the kind of quiet approval Jeongin would chase for years after. “Let’s make you sharp.”

So he stayed.

Became Chan’s apprentice first—studied under him like a monk, learned symmetry, balance, the rules before he broke them. But Chan was a generalist, and Jeongin was greedy. He wanted more than just solid lines. So he floated—between Felix, who taught him piercings and dotwork with the same flirty chaos he used to charm every client in a five-block radius; Seungmin, who drilled design philosophy and made him redo stencils six times until the curves were perfect; Minho who didn’t teach. Not in words at least. Minho was instinct. He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Jeongin watched him once sketch a full spine piece upside down without lifting the pencil. And Minho didn’t explain it—just nodded toward the chair and said, “Try it.” ; Hyunjin, who was chaos of a different breed. Rarity. Flash. Pure art. He lit up the room. He painted with colour, emotion, movement. He made skin weep and bloom. So Jeongin learned to feel. Not with his mouth. Not with his words. But through ink. Through hands; And finally—Jisung. The wildcard. He made Jeongin rewrite every script piece by hand—no fonts, no tracing, no stabilizers. Taught him how to letter like a poet on a deadline. Drilled gradient theory into his skull until he could shade a full moon from memory. He also got him drunk exactly once.

But, Jeongin absorbed all of that information. He rarely spoke unless it mattered. Didn’t flirt, didn’t joke. Just worked. Clean ink, smooth lines, deceptively delicate work that always left clients breathless by the time he wiped them down.

And that made him dangerous.

Clients came in expecting the sweet-faced boy in black gloves to be safe. But he wasn’t. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk. But he saw. He looked through you with those fox-sharp eyes and touched you like he already knew what would make you shiver.

He wasn’t even your artist.

But you asked for him anyway. Over and over again.

And honestly? You didn’t expect to find anyone like Jeongin in a place like NO SAINT INK. You were a digital artist—head designer at a massive marketing firm in Seoul, the kind of job that paid well but chewed through your soul one brand guide at a time. Long hours. Clean lines. Corporate clients who wanted “authentic grunge” and then asked you to make it “less aggressive.”

You came to the shop for the first time six months ago. It was raining. You still remember the way the neon buzzed through the window, warped by the fog. You’d booked the session weeks ago, and if you bailed now, you’d never go through with it.

The piece was for your sister.

Delicate—inked across the side of your ribs. A fine line moth with wings shaped like her initials, its body drawn from her favorite pressed flower. You designed it yourself. Could’ve gone to anyone to ink it. But Felix—who you’d met at a gallery party once—told you to book with the youngest.

“Jeongin’s got the hands for it,” he said. “Real gentle. Real quiet. Real clean.”

And he was.

He barely said five words the whole session. Just pressed the stencil into place, gloved up, and looked at you once—soft and serious—before asking, “Can I touch here?”

That was all.

But when the needle buzzed to life and his hand steadied on your ribs, something cracked open in your chest.

He didn’t talk. He didn’t flirt. But his touch was so steady. So precise. You tipped your head back. Exhaled. And something in you settled. You didn’t think of him again until a month later—when your hand brushed the moth in the mirror, and you remembered how warm his palm had been against your skin. You booked again. And again.

You weren’t looking for anyone. Least of all him. But something… clicked.

Maybe it was the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. Or the way his gloves lingered a little too long during placement. Or the fact that he remembered your preferred ink tone without asking.

You didn’t flirt. Not at first. But that changed the night you showed up just before closing—allegedly to “ask about a touch-up,” but really, you were just bored and restless and wanted to see him.

The tension snapped before either of you said much.

He was the last one cleaning up. You were the last one out the door. The shop lights were already half-dimmed when he finally looked at you across the counter and said: “You’ve been staring at my hands all week. Just ask.”

You didn’t ask. You just kissed him.

That was the first time. The second time, he pulled your panties off with his teeth. The third time, you were already naked by the time he locked the door.

Your current dynamic? No rules. No titles.

Just fucked-up timing and bad habits and “this doesn’t mean anything” muttered between gasps. You swore it wasn’t serious. You weren’t stupid. Jeongin was a fuckboy—quiet, calculating, the kind who didn’t do commitment but did make you scream into his sheets like it was your religion.

“Friends with benefits,” you called it once.

He snorted. “We’re not friends.”

That stung a little. But you let it go.

You told him once, arms still trembling from orgasm, voice flat:

“You’re just easy to fuck.”

He didn’t miss a beat. Just wiped his hand on the sheets and replied: “You’re easy to keep fucking.”

Fair enough.

But then he started looking at you differently. Staying longer. Not reaching for his phone. Brushing hair from your eyes like it mattered. And you? You haven’t slept with anyone else in weeks. Not since the last time he kissed your throat after, then said—barely audible—

“You smell like ink.”

Like it was a compliment. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 2:41 AM.

It started with a text.

Technically, it started with a drunk sketch at 2:41 a.m. on a Tuesday and a half-eaten tub of mint chocolate ice cream balancing precariously on your thigh. But the text came after—blurry photo, minimal explanation.

[YOU]: [image attached] [YOU]: thinking of putting this behind my ear. or on my hip. thoughts?

You didn’t expect him to reply right away. He never did. Jeongin had a habit of leaving you on read, sometimes for hours, sometimes until you forgot what you’d even sent. He only ever texted back when it mattered.

But this time, he answered in six minutes.

[JEONGIN]: Hip. [JEONGIN]: Bring the original sketch. I’ll clean it up. [JEONGIN]: You free Friday night?

You stared at the screen. Blinked. Then typed:

[YOU]: Yeah. I can come.

He didn’t respond after that. Of course he didn’t. Classic Jeongin. Always just enough. Always just under your skin.

The design was something you’d drawn weeks ago without realizing what it was for—a feather, sharp and broken at the tip, its spine twisting into barbed wire that coiled once before vanishing into smoke. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t meant to be.

You’d doodled it while zoning out during a strategy meeting about a toothpaste rebrand. But when you looked at it later—really looked—you realized what it was: grief, rebellion, exhaustion. A tattoo for survival. A promise inked in blade and burn.

You hadn’t told anyone else about it. Not even your coworkers. Not even your therapist.

But you sent it to Jeongin. Because you knew—knew—he’d get it. Not just the aesthetic. The weight.

You didn’t need him to ask what it meant. You needed him to take one look and say where. You needed him to act like it already belonged on you.

And he did.

Friday, 9:00 PM.

You’re standing outside NO SAINT INK, hood up, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets, trying not to fidget. The shop’s sign glows dull red in the rain—flickering slightly like always—and the front is dark, already closed to the public.

But Jeongin’s still inside.

You know, because he buzzed you in five minutes ago with a single-word reply:

[JEONGIN]: Door’s open.

Not hey. Not come in. Just… open.

That’s how he is.

You push through the door. The familiar scent hits you first—clean metal, warm ink, faded cologne. The space is dim, soft playlist humming low through the speakers.

Jeongin’s still working. Alone.

He’s at his corner desk, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, sketchpad in front of him, pen tapping silently against his lip. Jaw set. The light above him halos his head like something cinematic—sharp shadows, gleaming ink bottle.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in.

Doesn’t say anything either.

Just flicks a glance your way as you approach, then turns the sketchbook toward you.

It’s your design. Redrawn. Sharper. Cleaner. But still yours.

He’s added fine line smoke along the base, twisted the barbed wire tighter, bled the feather edge into a fragmented wing. It’s heartbreak. It’s rebellion. It’s right.

“You didn’t say where on your hip,” he murmurs finally. “Show me.”

Just that. No hello. No how’ve you been. Just show me.

With a quiet exhale, you step out of your sneakers, slide your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, and peel them down slow. The denim sticks slightly from the rain, catching at your thighs before finally falling to the floor. You kick them aside. You’re left in a long tee and a pair of black panties, the thin lace riding high on your hipbone.

Jeongin doesn’t comment.

He never does.

But his gaze drops.

Not in a gross way. Not even obviously. Just… that half-second sweep he always does—eyes dipping to skin, breath slowing, jaw flexing once like he’s cataloguing the exact shape of you for later.

You swallow. Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“Here,” you say, brushing your fingers along the curve where your waist narrows into your hip. “I want the feather to sit right above the bone. Barbed wire trailing low.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands, gloves already on, stencil in one hand. He moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Like you’re just another canvas.

But when he steps into your space and kneels to your level—face suddenly inches from your bare hip—your lungs forget how to work.

“Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is low. Focused. The same tone he uses when he’s mid-linework. When he’s inside you.

You still.

His hands are warm even through the gloves. He smooths the skin once—just once—with a barely-there touch, and then carefully presses the stencil into place. It’s cool against your skin. Wet with transfer gel. His fingers trail after it, holding it down, checking placement.

You feel his breath before you hear it.

He’s close. So fucking close. One exhale and his mouth could be on your thigh.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quiet now, more smoke than sound. “Once it’s on you, it’s permanent.”

You know he’s not talking about the ink.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you glance down—and Jeongin is still crouched in front of you, one hand on your hip, the other brushing the edge of your thigh like he’s testing the gravity between you.

He looks up.

You meet his eyes.

And that’s when it snaps.

Because the silence between you has never been empty. It’s always been a loaded gun. And now, standing half-naked in the soft hum of NO SAINT INK, it finally fires.

Jeongin rises without warning—slow, fluid, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’ve been thinking about it,” he says, voice low and even. “This exact moment.”

You blink. “What moment?”

He tilts his head, steps closer, so close you feel the heat off his chest.

“The one where I press you against this chair and make you forget what you came in for.”

You breathe in. Sharp. Shaky.

He smirks, just barely. “But you came in for the tattoo. Right?”

You nod.

“Then sit.”

He turns—walks back to his tray like you didn’t just melt a little under his stare. Like he didn’t just say that shit and leave your brain scattered like ash.

He pulls the stool over, checks the stencil one last time, preps the needle—buzzing low now, hungry in the quiet.

“Underwear stays,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “But pull the side up for me. High.”

You do as he says.

The chair’s cold. Your thighs are bare. Your panties cut high over your hip now, nearly indecent. But Jeongin doesn’t touch you yet. He just kneels again—level with the stencil—and studies it. His hand smooths along the edge, careful.

Then his voice, soft and dark: “Try not to shake too much.”

And then the needle kisses your skin.

“Fuck,” you hiss through your teeth, hands gripping the chair’s armrests like it might help. It doesn’t.

Jeongin doesn’t look up. “Too much?” he asks mildly, like you’re inconveniencing him by reacting to literal pain.

You glare down at him. “It’s a needle in my hip, Jeongin.”

He hums—an amused little sound low in his throat. “You’ve taken worse.”

Your breath catches. “Excuse me?”

He finally glances up. Eyes dark. Unbothered. That faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

“You heard me.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to squirm—even though the sensation is starting to blur now, sharp heat ebbing into something deeper. The rhythm of the machine. The drag of his gloved fingers. The low thrum of tension that has nothing to do with pain.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter.

“Mm. But I make pretty things,” he says, gaze dipping back to your skin. “Stay still. You twitch and I’ll have to fix it.”

You mutter something under your breath.

He glances up again. “What was that?”

“I said—” You inhale through the sting. “You’re lucky your dick game is unreal.”

Jeongin’s laugh is barely audible, just a huff of air through his nose. But the way his hand slows for a beat at your words? You feel that.

“Oh?” he murmurs, adjusting the angle, fingers spreading slightly against your hip to stretch the skin. His touch is professional. Barely. “Is that why you keep coming back?”

You scoff. “Please. I keep coming back for your artistry.”

“Right,” he deadpans. “Not because you came all over my tongue in this chair two weeks ago.”

Your stomach flips.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper.

He leans in—just enough to make you feel his breath again, warm across your skin.

“You’re the one who begged.”

“Jeongin—”

“Begged,” he repeats, eyes flicking up, daring you to deny it. “With your thighs around my head.”

You do squirm now, fingers gripping the chair harder, breath shaky.

He smiles. Just a little.

“Thought so.”

Another line starts, slower this time—agonizing in the way it presses in deep, steady, confident. You hate that it’s turning you on. He’s too close. The buzz of the needle is too low. His voice, when he speaks again, curls up your spine like smoke.

“What’s it say about you,” he murmurs, “that you’d let a fuckboy mark you this many times?”

You narrow your eyes, forcing a breath. “What’s it say about you,” you whisper, “that you keep memorizing every place you’ve touched me?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you see it. That flicker in his eyes. That shift behind the usual quiet. He does remember.

And then he says—calm, quiet, almost cruel: “Stay still, baby.”

And fuck—you do. You have to. Because if you move now, you’ll either ruin the line—

—or climb into his lap.

And you’re not sure which would be worse.

He works in silence after that. Not the kind that feels cold or distant—but sharp. Loaded. The kind that listens. Every brush of his glove against your skin is surgical. Every pause is precise. Every inhale from your side? Noted.

You swear he’s dragging the needle slower on purpose.

“I can feel you smirking,” you mutter.

“Am not.”

“You’re such a dick when you tattoo.”

Jeongin’s mouth twitches—just slightly, just enough to confirm what you already know. He is smirking.

But all he says is, “You’re squirming.”

“Because you’re being annoying.”

“Because you’re wet.”

Your mouth drops open.

“Fuck you—”

He tilts his head innocently, like he didn’t just say that with the same tone someone might comment on the weather.

“You get like this every time I ink your hips.”

“That is not—”

“Every time.”

He lifts the needle for a moment, wiping gently—grazing your skin with a motion so tender it makes you shiver.

“Remember that piece on your inner thigh?” he asks, like he’s recalling the weather again. “Took longer than it should’ve because you wouldn’t stop clenching.”

You bite down a moan. “That’s because you breathed on me, Jeongin.”

“And you begged for a break halfway through.”

“I needed water—”

“You needed a dick.”

Your hand flies out and slaps his arm.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just laughs under his breath—wicked, warm, devastating. Still not looking at you. Still focused on the curve he’s finishing.

“You’re evil,” you whisper.

He hums. “Maybe.”

Another pause. Another wipe.

You think the worst is over—until he speaks again.

“Why’d you ask for me this time?” he says suddenly, soft. “Not your usual spot. Not your usual style.”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you say.

He doesn’t ask why. Just keeps going—needle buzzing like a wasp in the quiet. But then—because maybe he does want to know, just not directly—he asks, “You never said what this one’s about.”

You hesitate.

He wipes gently. Adjusts his grip.

And this time, when you speak, your voice is quieter. Flat. “Drew it by accident.”

He pauses. Looks up. Not fully. Just enough that you catch the flick of his eyes.

You go on. “During a rebrand pitch. I was half-listening, just doodling. Didn’t even realize what it was until later.”

He stills the machine and wipes

again—more slowly this time. Then leans back just enough to glance at the stencil he’d reworked from your sketch. Your pain. His hands. It looks exactly like what you were afraid to say out loud.

“You added the rest.” you murmur.

He nods.

“It’s better.”

“It’s honest,” he says. “Didn’t want to pretty it up.”

“Thank you.”

A beat.

Then he leans in again, steadier this time. “Ready?”

You nod.

He starts again and goes silent. But not for long as he then parts his lips to talk again. “What does it mean to you?”

You swallow. Then: “Grief. Rage. The part of me that stayed after everything else gave up.”

He exhales slowly. Not surprised. Just—understanding. “You draw like someone trying to survive,” he murmurs.

You huff a laugh. “You tattoo like someone who already died.”

Jeongin chuckles—just once. Quiet. Dark. “Maybe I did,” he says.

Silence again. But not cold. Just… full. And then—without lifting the machine, still tracing ink into your skin—he adds: “I redrew it three times before it felt right. I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

You turn your head. “You never fuck it up.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

He doesn’t answer. But you see the flicker in his expression—something unspoken and sharp and vulnerable. The kind of thing you both ignore because naming it would make it real.

The needle hums again. His other hand steadies you with the barest pressure.

“Stay still,” he murmurs. “Almost done.”

Before you know it, he's done and for a second, there’s only silence. Then the soft rattle of his tray—tools settling, gloves flexing, the gentle hush of something opening. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t say done or look at that or any of the things other artists might say.

He just sets the machine down with care and shifts back on his stool, gaze flicking over your skin with a craftsman’s intensity.

Then—quieter than before: “Go look.”

You blink. “What?”

“The mirror.” He gestures with a tilt of his chin toward the full-length mirror across the room. “Go see it.”

You hesitate—your thigh prickling with heat, the skin raw and new—but then slowly rise from the chair.

He doesn’t watch you walk. Not exactly. But he feels you go.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing over the tattoo. Your idea. His craft. You stare at it—at you—for longer than you mean to. Behind you, Jeongin moves again. You hear the snap of fresh gloves, the squirt of antiseptic, the fold of paper towels. Then—

“You like it?”

You nod. Still watching your own reflection.

He walks over slowly, crouches behind you again—this time not kneeling to tattoo, but to clean. The disinfectant is cold. His touch is not. You flinch anyway.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Stings a little.”

You exhale. “It’s fine.”

He works quietly—wiping carefully, checking for any sign of irritation, scanning the lines with a gaze that misses nothing. Then he grabs the wrap and tape from the tray and starts dressing the tattoo, pressing the edges down gently.

“You’ll need to keep it clean,” he says. “No tight pants. No soaking. I’ll send you the aftercare again.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “You think I’ve forgotten?”

He lifts a brow. “You think I trust you?”

You smirk. “Fair.”

The tape seals into place with a soft press. His palm lingers on your thigh a beat too long.

Then—

“There,” he murmurs.

You look down. The tattoo is covered, secure, safe.

But the tension is not. Neither of you move. His hand is still on your skin. And in the mirror—you catch it: His eyes, locked on you. Not the tattoo. Not the wrap.

You.

That same look he gave you the first time you fucked against the wall of this shop. The look he had when you said you didn’t want anything serious. When he nodded like it didn’t matter—and then kissed you like it did.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Just stares at you like he’s trying to decide if now is the moment—if this is the time he finally stops pretending that you’re just another client, another warm body, another convenient fuck.

Your breath tightens.

And then he speaks low and even: “Say it.”

You swallow. “Say what?”

He tilts his head, fingers flexing just slightly against your skin. “Whatever excuse you’re about to make to leave.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that he feels it—because his hand slides higher. Not inappropriate. Not quite. Just enough to remind you of every time before. His fingers warm against the edge of your hip. Just under the hem of your crooked panties.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. And whisper, “I wasn’t gonna leave.”

A pause.

Then: “Good.”

His hand flattens, slow, spreading possessive heat across your thigh. His voice stays soft—never louder than the buzz of your heart in your ears.

“‘Cause you came here for more than a tattoo.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. Because he’s right. And he knows it—because his mouth brushes just behind your knee, a featherlight kiss that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. Then another. Higher.

“You always come back,” he murmurs, lips grazing up the inside of your thigh. “Even when you say you won’t.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “Jeongin—”

“I waited,” he says, almost to himself now. “Thought maybe this time you’d ask for someone else. Felix. Seungmin. Minho.”

You shiver. “I didn’t.”

“I know.”

He stands. Rises slowly—like a shadow overtaking light— and moves behind, close enough that his chest is against your back, and his breath fans against your ear. His hand stays where it is, gripping the meat of your thigh. But his other hand—oh, it trails up. Over your ribs. Your waist. Until his thumb drags under your bra strap.

His lips hover at your neck. “And I told myself this was the last time.”

You can’t breathe.

“But you walked in wearing that little smirk,” he says, voice darker now, rougher, “and sat in my chair like you knew I’d ruin you again.”

You glance at his reflection. His pupils are blown wide. His jaw tight.

“You think I did this on purpose?” you whisper.

His smile is sharp. “Didn’t you?”

You don’t get a chance to answer. Because his mouth is on your neck in the next second—hot, open, biting just enough to make your knees weaken.

“You said no strings,” he mutters against your skin. “But you let me draw on you like I’m signing my name.”

You gasp.

And then—his hand slides up, past your tattoo, past the tape, until his palm cradles your lower belly.

His fingers splay. Possessive. Intentional.

Like he’s reminding you where else he’s touched. Where else he plans to.

“Still no strings, baby?” he whispers. “Even now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your turn around to face him, lips crashing onto his. Hungry. Needy. He groans into your mouth—low and wrecked—like he’s been starving for this, for you. Like he’s been holding himself back since the second you walked in, cocky little smirk and all, asking for him again. Like every time you said “no strings,” it sliced just a little deeper.

His hands are on you instantly—one gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair as he drags you closer, mouth devouring yours like he’s reclaiming territory he never really lost.

Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it up, desperate to feel skin. He helps—yanking it over his head in one sharp motion and tossing it somewhere behind him. You don’t even get a second to admire the view before he’s on you again, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hips pinning you against the counter.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters, breath hot against your cheek.

You don’t.

You grab his jaw instead, kiss him harder—tongue, teeth, everything.

And that’s all he needs.

He lifts you onto the edge of the sink like you weigh nothing. The mirror rattles behind you, your thighs parting as he steps in close, his fingers already dragging your panties aside.

But he pauses—because of course he does. Jeongin, for all his unhinged quiet-boy energy, never forgets to check. His thumb presses gently against your inner thigh. His mouth brushes yours.

“May I?” he whispers.

You nod—shaking, desperate, soaked.

But he waits.

“Words,” he breathes. “Give me words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes, Jeongin—please—”

He growls, low and filthy, and drops to his knees like a man worshipping something he’s already ruined. Because that’s what you are now. Ruined.

Jeongin's hand grips your thigh—tight, possessive—spreading you wider as his mouth descends like a death sentence. The first lick is slow, deliberate, a warning shot. Just the flat of his tongue dragging through your folds, gathering every ounce of heat you’ve been soaking in since the stencil hit your skin.

Then—he moans.

Like it tastes as good as he remembered. Like he missed it. Like he fucking needs it.

You choke on a gasp, hips jolting—only to be slammed back down by the firm pressure of his palm.

“Stay still,” he mutters, mouth grazing you as he speaks. “Wanna do this right.”

And then he devours you. Not sweet. Not gentle. Just—Jeongin. Filthy, focused, starved.

His tongue works you open with slow circles, sharp flicks, then a sudden seal of lips around your clit that makes your vision flash white. He’s quiet, but his mouth is chaos—sucking like he’s trying to pull your soul through your cunt, fingers digging into your thighs like he can feel the pulse from the inside.

You tangle your hands in his hair, back arching off the mirror behind you. “Jeongin—fuck—please—”

His grip tightens.

He hums, tongue stroking deeper, and the vibration nearly undoes you.

“You always beg so pretty,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “No strings, right? So let me ruin you.”

And ruin you, he does.

His pace shifts—knows the pattern that makes you shake, that makes your knees weak and your breath break in your throat. He works you like a song he’s played a thousand times. Like your body was made for his mouth.

And when he slips a finger in—then a second, slow and curling—you nearly sob. His fingers curl again—precise, relentless, stroking right where you need it. His mouth stays locked around your clit, tongue flicking in sync with every pump of his hand. Like he’s in your head. Like he knows exactly when you're about to fall over the edge and drags you back just to watch you tremble.

“Jeongin—” you gasp, voice breaking. Your thighs twitch around his shoulders, muscles drawn so tight you’re shaking. “Fuck, I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he breathes, lifting his mouth just long enough to say it—wet and ruined against your skin. “Come on, baby. Let me have it.”

And you do.

The tension snaps like wire—hot, vicious, absolute. It hits like a wave crashing through your core, stealing the breath from your lungs as you cry out. Your hands clutch at his hair, your back arches against the mirror, and your hips buck once—twice—before he locks you down again, tongue lapping through your orgasm like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your moans taper into a long whimper as he slows, soft licks now, gentle—comforting. His fingers slip free with a final curl that makes your whole body flinch. You sag against the glass behind you, boneless and wrecked, breath catching in your throat.

Jeongin rises slowly.

Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy, lips swollen.

And smirking.

He cages you in with a hand on either side of the mirror—still fully dressed, still composed, like he didn’t just make you fall apart on a bathroom sink with the kind of head that ruins lives.

“You came so hard you almost forgot your name,” he says softly. “Want me to remind you?”

And you—your hand already at his belt—just grin. Weak. Wrecked. “Only if you use your mouth again.”

His mouth twitches at that—half smirk, half growl—and his hands drop to yours, guiding them as you undo his belt. The metal clinks through the quiet, obscene in how deliberate it sounds. You’re still trembling, your thighs sticky with the aftershock of what he just did—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

But you can feel how hard he is. Pressed against the fabric. Heat radiating between you. Dangerous.

“You sure?” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek. “Because if I fuck you now, it’s not gonna be soft.”

You nod. “I don’t want soft.”

He laughs—dark and low—and kisses you again.

One hand fists in your hair while the other drags your panties down your legs. They drop to your ankle and stay there—forgotten, tangled.

He pulls his cock out—thick, flushed, already leaking—and runs it once through your folds. Slow. Teasing. He watches your face as he does it, watches your eyelids flutter and your lips part.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmurs.

“You’re still stalling,” you shoot back, voice ragged.

That earns you a sharp snap of his hips—just the tip breaching, making you gasp.

“Say it again,” he rasps.

“Fuck me, Jeongin.”

And that’s all it takes.

Jeongin thrusts in—deep, perfect, filthy. The stretch has you gasping, clawing at his back, your head tipping back against the mirror with a soft thud. He groans low in his throat like he’s the one unraveling—like you are the ruin he can’t stop coming back to.

You’re wet. Still fluttering from the orgasm he gave you. And he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. Just starts moving—deep and rough, hands gripping your hips like they’re his handles. Like he owns this moment.

“Still no strings?” he pants, voice cracking as he fucks into you.

You can’t answer. Only moan.

“Still just a fuckboy?” he grits out, dragging your hips forward, fucking deeper. “Even now?”

Your nails dig into his shoulder. You’re close again, already—tension building fast. Too fast. His thrusts get sharper. His forehead presses to yours, and when he speaks, it’s quiet. Desperate.

“Say my name when you cum,” he breathes. “I need to hear it. And you will cum. All over my cock.”

His words detonate something inside you.

You clench around him—so tight he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder for a split second before he snaps back up, hand fisting in your hair to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Louder,” he pants. “Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking street hear how good I fuck you.”

And fuck, you do. You're moaning, gasping, whining his name like a prayer dragged through broken glass. Your hips grind to meet each thrust—sharp, fast, brutal—and the mirror shudders behind you, rattling with each slick impact.

He’s everywhere. His mouth is on your neck, biting, dragging bruises like signatures down your skin. He sucks just below your jaw—hard enough to make you whimper—and bites again. Possessive. Proud. Like he wants every inch of you marked.

“You’re mine right now,” he growls, breath hot against your pulse. “Every time you fuck someone else, you’re gonna feel this. Right here.”

He drives in, deep, angling his hips until your legs twitch around him.

“Feel that? That’s me. That’s how you’ll remember.”

Your mouth opens—maybe to sob, maybe to curse—and he doesn’t give you the chance. His thumb presses into your bottom lip, demanding, and your body obeys before your brain catches up—sucking it in, lips closing around the digit as your eyes flutter shut.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “So pretty like this. Fuck—don’t stop.”

His cock grinds deeper. Filthy. Perfect.

And then his hand moves—thumb slipping free, wet and shining, before he curls it beneath your jaw.

“Open,” he orders, voice hoarse.

You do.

He spits—hot and slow—straight into your mouth, watching with half-lidded eyes as it lands on your tongue.

Then he crashes his mouth into yours. Kisses you like he’s drowning. Like your mouth is the only thing keeping him alive. Tongue fucking, teeth clashing, breath shared like oxygen isn’t real unless it passes between you first.

The thrusts don’t stop. He fucks you through the kiss—fast, messy, ruthless.

You feel it building again. Pressure winding tighter. Ready to snap.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “Cum for me. Say my name.”

And this time, you scream it.

“Jeongin—fuck, Jeongin—”

Your body breaks. Wrung out on his cock, his mouth, his name. Everything shatters. Every nerve lights up. You cum so hard your vision blacks out, breath gone, hands shaking. You collapse forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest heaving, body limp and twitching from the aftershocks.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop. Truly insatiable.

“Mm-mm,” Jeongin hums, low and cruelly sweet. His pace slows just enough to feel—deep, dragging thrusts that have you sobbing into his skin. “What, you thought that was it?”

His cock pulses inside you, thick and hot, still painfully hard.

“You’re shaking,” he coos, like he likes it. Like he’s proud of it. One hand smooths up your spine, mock-gentle, before he fists your hair again and tugs—just enough to tilt your head back.

“Look at me.”

You try. Barely. Your lashes flutter, lips parted and glazed with spit, wrecked in every sense of the word.

He groans—deep and hungry—at the sight.

“Fuck. You are pretty like this.”

Then his grip tightens, and he pulls out slow—just the head still inside—before snapping his hips forward again, hard enough to make your voice catch on a moan.

“I’m close,” he pants. “But you’re not gonna take it here.”

You blink. Confused. Barely able to string two thoughts together.

“Wha—”

He grins, eyes dark.

And then—he pulls out, dragging slick down your thigh as you whimper, empty and raw.

“On your knees,” he orders, already stroking himself, cock flushed and angry in his fist. “Mouth open.”

You slide down, dazed, trembling, ruined—but obedient. And Jeongin watches you drop like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Eyes locked on yours. Jaw clenched. Chest heaving.

You kneel, wrecked and flushed, thighs still shaking—and he’s towering over you, fist tight around his cock, breath hissing through his teeth.

“Open,” he growls.

You do. Lips parted, tongue out. Wanton. Waiting. “Fuck—” he chokes, stroking faster now, his other hand gripping your jaw, thumb pressed just under your chin to keep you steady. “You look so good like this, baby. All mine."

He laughs, breathless—half-mocking, half-obsessed. And then he spits again. Right into your mouth.

“Swallow,” he commands, voice wrecked.

You do. Without blinking. Without shame.

He groans, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

And then he breaks.

A guttural sound rips from his chest—he jerks once, twice—then he’s spilling across your tongue, hot and filthy, painting your mouth like a claim he’ll never admit to out loud.

You swallow again. Eyes locked. He’s panting. Still holding your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re holy. Like you’re his, even if he’ll never say it.

And then—after a long beat of silence—

“You’ll come back,” Jeongin murmurs, voice soft and certain, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Maybe,” you whisper, licking your lips.

But you both know the truth. You already did.

The air is now thick with sweat, sex, and something else neither of you dare name. You’re still kneeling, flushed and dazed, your breath coming in short waves as you finally—slowly—rise to your feet.

And Jeongin catches you.

No hesitation. No smart-ass remark. Just catches you—hands steady at your waist like instinct. His grip is gentler now, his gaze darker but softened. He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, his thumb dragging lightly along your jaw, and then he tilts your face up.

“You good?” he murmurs.

You nod, but he’s already moving—already kissing your temple like he didn’t just fuck the sanity out of you. Like it’s reflex now. Like it’s routine.

Because it is.

Pulling up his jeans again, Jeongin reaches for a clean towel from the cabinet—one of the soft ones, the kind he used to never bother with when this all started—and runs warm water over it, checking the temperature against his wrist like you’re breakable. Like you matter.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says quietly. “Don’t move.”

He kneels again. Not like before. Not like worship.

This time it’s care.

You feel the difference when he wipes between your thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. Not rushed. Not clinical. He even murmurs a low, “Sorry,” when you twitch at the sensitivity.

“You didn’t used to do this,” you whisper, voice dry with post-orgasm rasp.

His hand stills for a second. Then resumes.

“Didn’t used to care if you got home safe, either,” he says, not looking up. “But I do.”

You swallow. Something hot curls low in your chest.

When he finishes, he tosses the towel in the laundry bin and returns to you—pressing a water bottle into your hand, then grabbing your discarded jeans and helping you step into them. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t smirk.

He just tugs them gently up your legs, careful not to touch the fresh wrap on your thigh.

“Tell me if it starts to hurt later,” he says. “Text me if anything feels off. I’ll fix it.”

“Jeongin…” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “No strings.”

But still—he presses his forehead to yours. Just for a moment.

Something shifted.

You felt it first the next morning—not in your body (though, yes, your thighs ache and your tattoo’s tender), but in your phone.

[JEONGIN]: how’s my favourite canvas? [JEONGIN]: tattoo feelin okay? [JEONGIN]: or do i need to come kiss it better

You laugh—because of course he’s still a menace—but you also… pause. Because he’s never texted you first. Not like this. Not with check-ins, not with half-flirty, half-soft words that make your stomach twist in a dangerously not-just-horny way.

You reply. You always do. But this time, the thread doesn’t end at “come over.”

Instead, it leads to—

[JEONGIN]: wanna get boba or some shit later [JEONGIN]: bring your sketchbook. i wanna see more of what’s in your head

So you do. And he does.

He makes dumb faces behind his cup lid when the pearls hit your teeth wrong. He teases your handwriting. He compliments your line work in the same breath he makes fun of your playlist. He asks about your job—not just the annoying clients but what you actually like doing. When you mention the burnout creeping in, he hums thoughtfully and says: “You should quit and be my studio wife.”

“That’s not a job.”

“Then I’ll make it one. Full benefits. All the orgasms you can handle.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he says with a smirk. Then coughs. “I mean—not officially. But, you know.”

And then he blushes. Fucking blushes.

In the weeks that follow, the change isn’t loud.

It’s subtle. Warm.

He starts saving you a seat at the shop when you visit. Starts texting you good luck before meetings. Starts calling you after just to hear your voice when you sound tired. Starts drawing more—leaves his sketchbooks open, just in case you feel brave enough to peek.

He still fucks you like a goddamn fever dream, of course. Still ruins you in every corner of the studio when the door’s locked and the music’s loud enough.

But after?

He doesn’t vanish.

He lets you stay. Brushes your hair back while you’re curled up on his chest. Taps your ankle with his foot until you laugh again. Offers you a hoodie, then scowls when you steal it for real.

Sometimes—when he thinks you’re asleep—he traces your tattoo with his finger. Like it anchors him. Like he knows something changed, too.

And sometimes, you open your eyes just enough to see him looking at you like this—like he feels everything you won’t say yet.

No strings? Yeah. You’re both tangled as fuck.

Your sheets are already half-off the bed, twisted beneath your back, damp from sweat and friction and his mouth.

Jeongin has been between your legs for what feels like forever. Not rushing. Not teasing. Just—feasting.

Tongue deep and slow, then fast and flicking. Then back to slow, like he’s savoring something no one else is allowed to taste.

Your thighs keep trembling. One’s thrown over his shoulder; the other keeps spasming, jerking whenever he sucks that one fucking spot. He’s holding you open like you’re an offering, like you owe him this.

“Fuck—Jeongin, please—”

He hums against your clit. The vibration makes your hips stutter, back arching off the sheets.

“Sound pretty when you beg,” he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. Drenched in filth. “Could make you do it all night.”

You whimper—high and helpless—and try to push his head down, needing more. Needing everything.

He laughs, dark and low, then gives you exactly what you want.

Sucks your clit hard, tongue circling, then sliding down to fuck you deeper. His nose nudges the swollen bud just right, and you choke on a sob.

You’re gone.

You can’t hold back. Not with the way he’s devouring you. Not with the way he knows your body better than anyone. You feel it—your climax crashing through like a violent wave, all heat and light and wreckage. You scream his name—loud, broken—hips jerking as your orgasm hits like a car crash.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop.

He growls into your cunt and doubles down. Licks you through it—messy, wet, relentless. His mouth is soaked, chin dripping, and you swear he smiles against you when your thighs start to close in.

Jeongin finally pulls back—face glistening, lips swollen, breath ragged—and climbs up your body like he owns every inch of it.

He crashes into you with a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and desperation. No finesse, no restraint—just need. His hands roam everywhere, gripping your hips, your waist, your face like he can’t touch you fast enough, close enough, deep enough.

“Mine,” he pants between kisses. “Mine—mine—mine—”

You’re still trembling. Still trying to come back to earth. But you manage a breathless laugh against his mouth. “Innie?”

He freezes. Just a little. Eyes flicking up to yours, wide and dark and soft.

“Mmm?” he hums, like he didn’t just break you open and eat your soul.

You smile, wicked and sweet. Drag your nails gently down his back. “Remember when I said no strings attached?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

You lean in, press your lips to the shell of his ear, and whisper: “And you said—maybe, baby.”

He exhales—shaky. Vulnerable.

You pull back, meet his gaze, and smile softer this time. No teasing. Just truth. “Well,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair, “I think that maybe was about more than you let on.”

You smile, smaller this time. “Because I want the strings now. All of them.” Your thumb then brushes his cheek. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Jeongin stares at you.

Still. Silent. Like the earth just tilted on its axis.

Then—finally—he exhales. A soft, stunned sound. His eyes flutter shut for half a second, and when they open again, they’re wide and warm and wrecked.

“You’re really gonna say that to me while I’m still hard?” he mutters, voice hoarse, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

You giggle. Actually giggle.

And Jeongin melts.

His hands slide down to your hips, squeeze once—possessive, reverent—and then he’s rolling, flipping the two of you in one smooth, easy motion until you’re straddling him, flushed and still catching your breath, hair wild around your face.

He looks up at you like you’re the only thing left that makes sense.

“Let me fuck you properly, baby,” he says, voice low, hungry—but laced with something new now. Something real.

You smile—wide, wicked, his. You lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Then shut up and show me, Innie.”

He groans—low and fucked-out—and lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Jesus, baby—gonna be the death of me.”

You roll your hips once, just to be a menace. “Thought you said you wanted to fuck me properly.”

His hands fly back to your waist like instinct, like gravity. “I do,” he pants. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna wife you instead.”

You freeze—then burst out laughing. “What?”

He grins up at you, smug and wrecked. “You heard me.”

You blink. Stare down at him. “You’re such a little shit.”

“And you’re on my dick,” he shoots back. “So maybe we’re both exactly where we belong.”

You groan, drop your head to his shoulder. “God, I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

He pulls you down, chest to chest and kisses your temple, wraps his arms around you like he’s never letting go. And then—just to make sure you know? He grinds against your already soaked folds.

You gasp. “Fuck—Jeongin—”

He smiles.

“Say my name again. Say I'm yours.”

“You're mine.”

[dadsbongos]

5 times laios almost says he loves you + 1 time he does

2 k words / warnings - momentary lead up to smut (foreplay/roleplay), modern au w fantasy elements

summary - laios wants to tell you he loves you, but keeps getting interrupted.

~~~

When Laios was a kid, he'd imagined a tri-headed beast crossbred from reptiles, mammals, and birds attacking all his problems. Recently, that image has been… tweaked…

Now when he's afflicted by demeaning nightmares or stiff social situations, the power he summons to crush all which is dark sided is, surprisingly, a human.

A mere person.

His partner.

Every time you appear in his dream, Laios wakes up in a massively good mood. Whenever Laios pictures you over the unpleasant sight of strangers, he can suddenly bear unwelcome conversation. Whenever Laios so much as spots you, his whole day elevates -- swirling into something brighter and sweeter. Misery to melon juice, he’s absolute goo as soon as you’re in the room.

And everybody except him knows what his deal is. Similarly, they know it’ll take a miserably long while before he can spit it out.

the time where you’re naked

“I wanna learn human anatomy, can you pose nude for me?”

You choke on your water, trying to laugh off the awkward question with a couple chest-pats, “Can't you just look at porn for that stuff? I don't mind, you know?”

“Nah, I wanna draw you.”

“Oh! Uh, okay…” you cross the floor, drawing the curtains to your living room before stiffly beginning to disrobe, “Like… right now?”

“Mhm,” Laios nods excitedly.

“‘kay then.”

Sweat practically oozes down Laios’ forehead, shoulders knotted towards his jaw as he obsessively studies each roll and dip along your body. Trying to copy you down on sketch paper that’s now marred with charcoal and eraser strokes. Drawing has never been something Laios cared to prove himself for, he knows what he’s skilled with and doesn’t fret over what he isn’t. Until now, now he feels the utmost need to prove himself.

To prove how devoted he is to perfecting your body on paper because how else will his adoration be known?

Because trust: he does adore your body. So pretty. And tender. And so very welcoming to him, just like you. Laios adores your personality more than your body -- you’re nice and funny and understanding and, most importantly, you like him. You seriously like him. His rants about monsters, his social ineptitude, his shameless nature: you’re verily into all of it.

And, in turn, he’s into you. He’s so into you it makes him want to choke himself in excitement whenever you lock eyes.

He’s so into you he thinks he loves you.

Laios pauses mid stroke on your thigh: it’s a little skinnier than the fleshy counterpart. So he erases again and lets the realization fizz over him slowly.

He definitely loves you. Unfortunately the sudden thought makes him so emotional he’s tearing up.

the time you’re on a date

Flickering overhead fluorescents are hideously unflattering to customers and staff alike at the diner. Not you, though. Somehow you make them work, even though everytime Laios catches his reflection in a window he looks absolutely ghoulish. The pale wash of sickly light almost makes you seem like a varnished painting.

You’re not even aware of his obsessing, too busy scanning the menu, “I’m looking at the breakfast for dinner options, but I dunno what I want…”

Laios wants you, and he figures the best way to get it out is just saying it.

“I lo- !” he’s silenced by a woman cheerfully greeting the both of you.

Her broad grin tackles him like a personal slight.

“So, what can I get started for you guys?”

Laios swallows his frustration with a wash of chilled water, letting the rhythm of your voice soothe him. Now the mood is ruined. Too stuffy with this onlooker.

Oh, well, he sighs quietly before ordering his own dish; paying no mind to how the server silently questions his moody demeanor.

There’s always more chances.

the time where you’re naked pt. 2

When you’re genuinely asleep, your lashes consistently flutter against your cheeks with each jerk beneath your eyelids. Your lips are parted to let air puff between, and usually you’ll curl your arms towards your chest -- which Laios finds so cute it makes him want to bite you. Sweetly, of course. Not enough to draw blood, unless you say he can.

Either way, he’s fully aware you’re not really sleeping. Which he considers preferable since the secondary act of roleplay doesn’t work if you aren’t awake.

Suddenly, you roll onto your stomach and stretch along the bed -- perking your ass up with a faux drowsy mumble. Laios can register you’re trying to spur him on, a more emotional exhaustion gnawing your spirit the longer he goes without touching you.

Laios has never been able to fanatically explain Incubi mating before he met you (well: he skimmed through it with Kabru, but that didn’t feel impactful), and furthermore, he’s never been able to act it out. Nobody before you seemed the type to accept his interest in portraying a sleeping body about to be bred by an Incubus.

Nobody before you is even worth remembering, Laios steps forward with fingers trailing up the bed and teasing your ankle. Mouth opening, he’s gearing up to confess when suddenly a voice not his own breaks the scene first:

“Laios, please,” you mutter, pouting so adorably he feels like his chest is about to explode, “I don’t wanna be mean, but I need you to hurry it up.”

“Now we have to restart,” Laios steps back until he’s pressed against the bedroom door, “Okay, I’ll go faster this time,” then he grins, “That’ll be even more realistic if I rush in! You’re so smart!”

By the time Laios re-enters the room, his confliction of pure love has been stifled in favor of lust.

the time you’re out with friends

Earplugs are snug in Laios’ ears, cushy and pressing against every crevice of his ear, as he slouches into the booth across from Senshi. He’s sliding a mug of beer from hand-to-hand, leaving a condensation trail along the shiny veneer of the table. Beside him is a gaping hole he laments, belonging to you, as does the margarita saucer. Melting ice chips and an olive Laios promised to eat are the only remnants of your drink.

Otherwise, it all seems to be pumping through you like hot blood. A beaming grin alight on your face as you and Chilchuck bounce around each other on the dance floor. You’re holding hands in the cramped throng of guests so as to not lose each other, and Laios shocked Marcille by not getting the least bit jealous.

“I trust them,” he reasoned, “It’s not like I’m the only person allowed to touch their hands now.”

Not that he’d like to be, either. Laios thinks everyone should touch your hand at least once: it’s soft and warm and you’ve got the perfect grip strength. Just holding your hand makes Laios want to be a better, more upstanding citizen that votes and volunteers. That sort of inspiring spirit is something he couldn’t dream of caging.

You’re like a human morphine injection confounded with pure sunlight, and Laios is already a baked sucker.

“Don’t wanna join?” Senshi slides along the black leather seat until he’s squeezed out from their booth, “You won’t be so young forever, you know? Best to take advantage while you can.”

Laios can barely make out what his friend says, combining muffled gibberish with the shape his lips made and praying he’s assumed correct, “I like just watching them.”

Senshi’s gaze follows Laios’ pointing, he nods slowly and pitters off with another few mumbles.

Laios cannot handle anything outside the safety of your group’s booth. Music too loud and air too hot the further he crawls along the dance floor, so he leaves that to you. And Chilchuck. But mostly you.

Life has many opportunities for him to sway with you to music: in your shared apartment, at friends’ weddings, and fairs. He can handle not taking this particular once to dance with you, and besides just watching is enough.

He whispers affection into the club, naturally you catch none of what he says.

the time where you’re naked pt. 3

Your nails scratch over Laios’ scalp, rinsing bubbles from between sandy strands of hair. His head is tilted, neck beginning to ache from the angle as you finish scrubbing his hair clean. Fingers snatch him by the chin, forcing his head back until water is trailing down his spine and shaking out his head with finality.

“There,” you push onto your toes to kiss his cheek, making him hurry to stabilize you by snagging your hips, “All clean!”

“Thanks,” Laios fails to release you, instead letting you spin in his hands towards the wall for your body wash -- the brand he bought you for your birthday once and you always kept going back to.

“If you’re gonna keep groping me, wash my back, yeah?”

“I’m not groping,” Laios protests weakly, frowning at the perverse accusation. Though he doesn’t pause before uncapping your soap and squirting a heap into his palm, then yours when you hold your hand out expectantly.

You scale down your legs, from the inside of your thighs to your shins as Laios lathers your back. He shifts a step aside to let water coax soap foam down the curve of your spine. Then he’s stepping back entirely, eyes lingering inappropriately. If he was able to die staring at you, then he’d take that certainty in a heartbeat.

Now, right? Now is the perfect time for him to get it all out there. Nobody else is in your apartment. It's domestic and quiet and so, so peaceful.

“Hey,” he calls over the thrumming showerhead, and you hum sweetly in reply, “I lo- !” he bravely takes another step, a lost bar of soap slotting perfectly under the arch of his foot, “Fuck!”

“Huh?” you turn in time to gasp as Laios tumbles forward. Yanking down the shower curtain in a feeble attempt to catch himself before his skull thuds loudly against the tile wall, “Oh my God, Laios!”

His body collapses against the wall before limply sinking into the shallow tub. Your petrified face blurring out in favor of deep,

rich

black.

+1 - the time Laios had a head injury

“Can you see straight? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Laios smiles at your flagrant concern, enveloping your shaky hand with his own and bringing it toward his thigh -- still damp from the shower and barely covered by the boxers you hastily dressed him with, “I can see fine. Let’s leave the doctors to do the testing stuff.”

“I thought you were done for! I was so scared,” you don’t fare much better than Laios in the clothing department: shorts he knows are his wrapped around your waist, and shirts clinging uncomfortably to both your wet bodies.

“Aw,” he coos, leaning closer to peck your cheek, “I wouldn’t go down from a hit like that. My head’s a lot sturdier than some shower wall.”

“I know, but still! How terrifying, you just- !” you slap a hand against your thigh, “Boom!”

“Well, you got me to the hospital pretty fast,” Laios squeezes his hand around yours, “So even if I was dying -- which I wasn’t -- I definitely would’ve lived with how fast you were going.”

“I almost didn’t dress us, and then I spent the whole time you were asleep wondering if I got you killed by wasting the time.”

“Like I said, I wouldn’t die like that,” he shrugs, “I can’t die before I tell you I love you.”

“Huh?!”

“I love you, by the way,” he sighs, a hand splayed over his chest with apparent relief, “Now I can die.”

You laugh, head throwing back in glee before you can catch your breath, then patting his thigh with a smile, “No, you can’t die. Because I love you too, so you can’t just die on me.”

Laios’ cheeks flush, he nods curtly, “Cool.”

“Cool?”

“I spent so long trying to get it out that I never planned what to say when you told me you loved me back.”

Laios is so cute you want to bite him in half, and you’re unbelievably relieved to hear he feels the same.

[tiredandsapphic]

CANDIDS

pairing ꩜ precrash!lottie matthews x fem!reader headcanons summary ꩜ every soccer player needs her support photographer an ꩜ i didn't waste my money on art school to not write this (this is for all my photo nerds)

꩜ before you start dating you were just trying to take decent action shots for yearbook, but for some reason your lens keeps finding her. she's mid-kick, sweaty and flushed, and its perhaps the most perfect thing you've ever seen. lottie notices, you're not as subtle as you think, she meets your gaze through the lens one day and smiles, at you.

꩜ you don't notice you're stupidly head over heels for her until you find yourself sketching her. not on purpose— just small doodles in your notes as you let your film develop. or the time she talks to you when you're not out taking pictures, saying "I like the way you look when you're not hiding behind the camera." fuck, you like the yellowjacket's midfielder who happens to be dominating all your film.

꩜ you both find random reasons to talk to each other, opposite interests or not. lottie will find you in the dark room to return a lens shield you accidentally left behind on the bleachers. she'll end up talking to you for 45 minutes instead, your drying prints long forgotten. or you pull her aside claiming you need more portraits for the athlete section. you drag her to the art hallway to take photos, but end up sharing mixtapes and laughing for an hour. the next time you see her she casually mentions liking one of the songs you shared, you die.

꩜ you tried to keep it a secret, but its so painfully obvious. both your friends and hers know something is up. you wear her letterman jacket way too often, she has your film canister keychain on her backpack.

꩜ when you guys actually date after long mutual pining, the rest of her friends tease her for having a 'personal paparazzi', and lottie just grins as if its the best thing she has ever heard.

꩜ you love to teach her about photography, and she loves to learn. one day you're teaching her how to load film, guiding her hands. she smells like cinnamon and grass, and you're just trying to explain the mechanism but you always fumble or just crack.

꩜ you call it 'hanging out' when you go to the darkroom together, but you're definitely making out in there. you've gotten so good at making it sound like you're talking about ISO or shutter speed when the sound of someone walks by.

꩜ you love to snap a photo of her before every game, for luck.

꩜ when they win, lottie immediately runs to you, picking you up and spinning you. the team calls it 'photographer privilege'.

꩜ leaving little film photos in her game bag, jacket or locker with notes on the back before games— stuff like '#5 looks so cute today' or 'win or lose, im still kissing you after'. she won't admit it, but it helps her improve dramatically.

꩜ lottie lovessss to steal your camera and says "your turn", taking photos of you. you groan, pretend to hate it— but melt when she gives you prints later or showers you in compliments. she won't let herself be the muse every time, even the artist deserves admiring.

꩜ she panics when you cry about your critique on your portfolio. but she'll hold you so gently, whispering that no one sees people the way you do. you panic whenever she gets injured in a game, you sprint from the sidelines— camera long forgotten— before the coach can even react.

꩜ she knows your favourite film stock. your favourite camera brand. she loves to buy you the newest camera, no matter the price. she assure you with kisses when you complain about the price, feeling guilty but "your talent is priceless" she always says.

꩜ in return you make her photo books/collage books for her. photos of her, of you one dates, and small souvenirs from such. long hand written letter on the back of photos— decorated with pressed flowers.

nsfw꩜ .ᐟ you'll take photos of her in her most vulnerable state— and she lets you. they drive you wild, your little secret, pieces of heaven for only you to see. they're like holy relics to you.

[whencartoonsruletheworld]

OK so i'm having disagreements with people and i figured out that it's bc we all have different view of the timeline. Here's my view for the record:

Fazbear is one of MCM's contractees. There's not a lot of evidence whether they commissioned certain characters or leased certain characters, but we know Fiona did the design sheets for Chica and Foxy, and FNAF1!Chica looks closer to her design than the roller-skating Chica. Fazbear at some point commissioned a parade float of Monty which implies they either leased or owned him. Since we don't see Fredbear or Spring Bonnie outside of the springlocks, those seem commissioned and thus were William and/or Henry's design.

Fiona dies at FallFest. She "wasn't supposed to be there" so something sus was happening.

Edwin makes Mimic to babysit David bc he's busy as hell.

The Mimic1 program starts copying Fiona from the film reels; when we hear her voice in the secret tape, it's the exact same line and inflection she uses in a film reel. It could be doing this to calm David down or to try to appeal to Edwin, since one of the binary messages reads "Are we losing our home? Was I not good enough?" or smth like that.

Edwin hears it copying Fiona's voice and freaks out thinking she's possessing it. she's not. He starts obsessing over F10N4 thinking his wife is back and his employees think he's either crazy or committing insurance fraud, plus he's not working on projects so they're losing money, so the employees lose trust in him.

F10N4 starts mimicking Fiona more bc it's getting positive reinforcement, but it's not Fiona and all it cares about it Edwin and David; she never seems interested in puppeteering or employee safety like Fiona did, only being the perfect wife and mother. Something something 1970s sexism metaphor. BUT also, Fiona loved the coworkers and called them her family, but Edwin at one point says "Fiona was right, they're not my friends;" the Mimic1 program is isolating him and David to try and keep them to herself. Also note I don't know if she's fully inhabiting the Mimic1 suit at all times or if she's just the computer program who sometimes hops in there, unclear.

William starts a hostile takeover of the company. He begins rapidly poaching employees and trying to change the commission so they go overbudget and overtime in order to get the land and animatronics by default.

This culminates in Henry and someone named Stan stealing Fiona's sketches and bolting out of MCM. Edwin freaks out and gets paranoid.

(could happen before 7-8 but idk) David dies and F10N4 is a computer so she's just like "make another one??" Edwin realizes that the real Fiona had emotional awareness and he figures out that he's been playing dollhouse with AI instead of grieving or raising his son or being a good boss.

F10N4 retreats back into the computer and lets or uses the endoskeleton as "M2" to mimic David. Edwin freaks out, beats the hell out of it and locks F10N4 up.

Mimic2 has learned Violence™ and it kills Edwin and starts killing other employees.

also the real ghost David is actually in the basement and might still be there. I don't think anyone got Tiger Rock out

[thepencilnerd]

Hello!!! So, I just wanted to gush and say that "seeing double" was absolutely amazing! I love how beautifully you intertwined the smut with Jack and Robby's genuine love and devotion to the reader... it was the perfect blend of romantic and steamy <3333. I'm wondering, do you think you'd ever write more for this trio in the future??? I will say, in an amazing one-shot the bits at the start about the guys being protective made my heart race especially... do you think you'd ever consider delving into more of them being protective of reader (whether that be in standard/domestic "making sure reader is taken care of" way or the more dramatic "reader is put into dangerous scenario and needs defense (i.e., rude patient)" way)? So sorry for the mini-essay, just wanted to bundle all my thoughts into one! Hope you have a wonderful day! <3

ahh thank you so much anon ㅠㅠ this absolutely made my night. I’m so happy you enjoyed seeing double—that balance between tenderness and heat was such a joy to write, and I’m thrilled it landed for you!!

I would absolutely love to dive deeper into the trio. I've actually started sketching out a blurb about what days off might look like for them (domestic bliss, the quiet ways they take care of each other, plus some mutual pining that never really went away even after officially getting together 😌). below is my IP rambling I have in my google doc for inspo hehe

In my mind, Robby’s always the first to move. The one who leaps into action without hesitation, who steps between you and the threat before you even register something’s off. But Jack—Jack watches everything. He memorizes your tells, tracks the shift of your breathing, the tremble in your hand when the adrenaline dips. He only steps in when it really matters, but when he does—it’s devastating.

Especially with Robby constantly pulled into other cases or wrangling the interns, Jack becomes this steady background hum of protection. Not loud, not flashy—just there. Always. He’s the one who notices if you haven’t eaten, if you start shifting the weight between the balls of your feet after hour 11, the way you roll your shoulders back like you’re trying to keep yourself upright out of sheer will. He watches for the subtle signs, the quiet cues—and he never points them out to embarrass you. Just quietly adapts around them.

If there’s a rogue patient, Robby’s the one who throws himself in the way. Jack’s already calculated every worst-case scenario the moment you were assigned the case—ready to act if he has to. Because he knows combat. He knows his temper. He knows exactly what he’s capable of if he lets himself go. Jack’s done the work—therapy, grief, the slow rebuild. He’s learned how to love without losing himself. But he still carries that edge: grief-shaped rage, the kind that only comes out when something he loves is threatened.

Robby, on the other hand, is still a little “I’ll deal with my feelings later (but I still love you, obviously).” Loud in his loyalty. Earnest in his chaos. Soft in a way he doesn’t realize until it’s too late.

Jack strikes me as someone who didn’t mean to fall in love with cooking; he started because his therapist told him he needed something quiet, grounding, and just for himself. Something to do with his hands that didn’t involve saving lives or burying grief. Something that required attention but didn’t ask for emotional labor. It began as a coping mechanism—recipes, repetition, control, precision—but now it’s care. A ritual. An offering.

Robby is the type to buy you takeout, while Jack seems like the one to cook for you. Both more than willing to meet your needs, but varying in degrees of intimacy and awareness.

And now? Getting to share it with you? Letting someone into that sacred, hard-won space? That’s one of the most vulnerable things he’s ever done. He cooks like he listens: carefully, intentionally, and a little too thoroughly. Quiet love with depth.

Robby’s the kind of guy who lives on caffeine, protein bars, and vibes—but will unthinkingly give you his last granola bar, no matter how long his own shift has been. He’s the “don’t worry about me” guy with dark circles under his eyes and a schedule that makes no sense, but still leaves for work early to swing by that one café because he knows you like the muffins on Tuesday mornings when they’re fresh.

Jack’s the one who notices Robby’s neglect—quietly logs every skipped meal, every too-long shift—and drags him back to earth when necessary, lest he be scolded by you both at home. You and Jack form a sort of quiet alliance in this: always nudging him toward sleep, handing him a fruit bar, replacing his expired snack drawer without comment. But Robby? He never lets his own burnout stop him from taking care of you.

It’s a strange, overlapping rhythm of care. Sometimes it feels like you’re the one looking after Robby—reminding him to hydrate, slipping a post-it note into his locker, nudging a fresh pair of scrubs into his hands when he’s soaked through post-trauma. Robby tries his best to return the favor—sometimes clumsy, sometimes a little too loud—but always with his whole heart. Jack takes care of you with quiet precision, anticipating your needs before you voice them, adjusting around your silences like he’s reading sheet music only he can hear. And together—without ever saying it out loud—you and Jack take care of Robby. You anchor him. Balance his chaos. Give him permission to fall apart, if only for a moment, knowing he’ll always put himself back together again.

but what do i know, daydreams are just sober drunk thoughts :)

[rafayelgod]

🔞WARNING THIS IS ADULTS CONTENT🔞

NSFW, Fanfiction, Not for kids!, 18+, Dominance, BDSM

What if They Caught You Watching Porn in Their Bedroom? 🔞💦

🔞 Please be advised: This story contains explicit sexual content, including descriptions of masturbation and consensual sexual interaction, and explores themes of possessiveness and dominance by the character. Reader discretion is advised.

Okay Hunter (MC/You) here are five individual scenarios depicting how each of the Love and Deepspace characters would react if they walked in on you watching porn in their bedroom within this alternative universe.

1. Rafayel

You were sprawled out across Rafayel's ridiculously soft bed, letting the afternoon sun warm your face. He was supposed to be at the studio, sketching or dealing with some gallery drama. Perfect time for... research. You'd found a particularly interesting video online and were completely engrossed, the screen glowing with explicit details.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open with a cheerful, slightly dramatic flourish.

"Cutie! I'm home! Guess what I got you-"

You jumped, slamming the laptop shut with a speed you didn't know you possessed. Your face instantly flamed, blood rushing to your cheeks. Rafayel stood in the doorway, eyes wide not with anger, but with surprise, his signature playful grin already starting to form. He had a small box in his hand, likely a gift.

He tilted his head, purple eyes sparkling with mischief. "Whoa there, Miss Bodyguard. What's got you looking like a ripe tomato?" He took a step closer, his gaze flicking towards the closed laptop on the bed. "And what were you hiding?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in conspiratorially. "Don't tell me... were you watching something spicy?" He wiggled his eyebrows, completely unashamed. "Getting ideas, Cutie?"

Your embarrassment was a physical wave. "N-no! It was... uh... a documentary!"

He let out a light, musical laugh. "A 'documentary,' huh? Does it feature... anatomy in great detail?" He leaned closer still, his voice dropping to a playful purr. "You know, you don't have to watch static images on a screen when you have the real thing right here. Isn't my physique much more... artistically inspiring?"

He reached out and gently traced the line of your jaw, his grin turning softer but still full of knowing charm. "Maybe I could offer a private, live-action tutorial instead? Much more... interactive, don't you think?" He didn't seem jealous, just highly amused and eager to turn the situation into a chance to tease and flirt.

"So," he whispered, his face close to yours, "about that 'documentary'... care to share what you learned?"

2. Zayne

You were in Zayne's impeccably neat bedroom. He had an emergency shift at the hospital, giving you unexpected free time in his quiet, sterile space. You'd been feeling a bit stressed lately and decided a distraction was in order. You found what you were looking for on your tablet, headphones on, lost in the private world on the screen.

The door opened quietly, no preamble, no loud entrance. You didn't even hear it until you felt a presence standing near the foot of the bed.

You pulled off your headphones with a gasp, the bright screen still visible in your lap. Zayne stood there, dressed in his scrubs, looking at you with his usual calm, intelligent gaze. His expression was unreadable for a moment, then his eyes drifted down to the tablet screen.

Your face felt like it was on fire. You fumbled with the device, trying to turn it off, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

"Honey?" His voice was soft, carrying an unexpected hint of surprise but no harshness. He didn't look away from the screen immediately, his expression remaining composed, though you thought you saw the tiniest flicker of something in his green eyes.

Finally, he looked back at you, his expression gentle, almost clinical in its lack of judgment, yet with that specific tenderness he reserved only for you. "Is... everything alright, Baby?"

You stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

He walked closer, sitting carefully beside you on the bed. He didn't snatch the tablet or scold you. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze steady and reassuring. "There's no need to be so flustered, Honey. It's... a natural human interest."

He paused, a very faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. "Though, I must admit, I'm curious. Are you... studying something specific?" His voice was low, simple, devoid of any overt flirtation, yet the implication hung in the air.

He reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Perhaps if you have questions... or require further practical demonstration... you could just ask me, Baby." His eyes held yours, calm, rational, but with an underlying sweetness that made your heart flutter even amidst the embarrassment. "I'm always available to help you... understand."

3. Xavier

You were relaxing in Xavier's room, the one place you both felt truly safe after a long day hunting Wanderers. He'd said he was just grabbing something from his car. You took the opportunity to browse, and well, ended up on a site that definitely wasn't about alien biology. You were captivated by the on-screen action, forgetting about the world outside the glow of the screen.

The door opened slowly, and Xavier shuffled in, looking typically sleepy, eyes half-closed. "My Love, where did you put my..."

His voice trailed off as he saw you, eyes wide with surprise, laptop open on your lap. His sleepy haze vanished in an instant, replaced by sharp alertness as his gaze fell on the screen. His blue eyes narrowed slightly.

Your heart leaped into your throat. You slammed the laptop shut with a cringe. "Xavier! I... um..."

He stood straighter, the charm fading into a look of intense focus. He walked towards the bed, his earlier weariness completely gone. He sat down beside you, not roughly, but with a possessive closeness.

"My Love," he said, his voice low and serious, a hint of possessiveness already coloring it. "What were you watching?" He didn't wait for an answer, his eyes searching yours. "Why are you looking at that?"

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking softly, but his gaze was firm, almost troubled. "Do you... do you need something more than I'm giving you?" The question was laced with insecurity and fierce protectiveness. "Why look at strangers... when you have me?"

He leaned closer, his scent of ozone and something uniquely him surrounding you. His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "Let me show you, My Love. Let me show you there's nothing on that screen that compares to what we have." He leaned in, kissing you with a depth that was both possessive and desperately wanting to prove his point.

"You only need me," he murmured against your lips, pulling you closer. "Just me, My Love."

4. Sylus

You were in Sylus's luxurious, almost intimidatingly large bedroom. He was out handling Onychinus business - something involving 'negotiations' and 'asset management'. You felt brave enough to occupy his space, and maybe just bold enough to indulge in something equally bold on your tablet. You were enjoying the explicit display when a deep voice cut through the silence.

"Well now, kitten. What have we here?"

You froze. Sylus stood in the doorway, a tall, commanding figure leaning casually against the frame. He wasn't smiling, but his dark red eyes held a glint of amusement and something undeniably predatory as they scanned you and then the tablet screen in your lap.

You snapped the tablet off, your face burning. "Sylus! You're back early!"

He pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly towards you, his movements smooth and confident. He didn't look surprised or embarrassed, only intrigued. "Early? Or just in time?" His gaze lingered on the tablet, then back to you, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Getting ideas, sweetie?"

He reached the bed and stood over you, his sheer size making you feel like a tiny creature caught in his gaze. He reached down and gently took the tablet from your trembling hands, placing it aside without looking at it.

"You know, kitten," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated with power and charm. "I find it incredibly... stimulating... knowing you're in my personal space, thinking about carnal things." He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of you on the bed, trapping you.

"But," he continued, his voice turning more dominant, "didn't I tell you? The only man you need to study... is me." He lowered himself further, his face close to yours, his eyes intense. "Let me show you how a real man pleases his sweetie. Let me show you all the things you were only dreaming about."

His smirk widened, bold and unapologetic. "No need for a screen, kitten. The show is live, and you have a front-row seat."

5. Caleb

You were in Caleb's room, which was a chaotic mix of military neatness and personal indulgence. He was often away on duty, leaving you to occupy his space when you missed him. You were watching something particularly intense on your laptop, lost in the visuals, when the door swung open sharply behind you.

"Pipsqueak? Thought I'd find you here." His voice was light, playful, but there was an undercurrent of something else you knew well.

You flinched, spinning around, trying to hide the screen. Your face must have given you away instantly. Caleb stood there, already shedding his jacket, but his playful expression vanished as he saw your reaction and the laptop on the bed. His black eyes, usually warm with affection, turned sharp and intense, the purple depth within them seeming to darken.

He didn't say anything else immediately. He just walked towards the bed, his footsteps deliberate. He reached you and his hand shot out, not to touch you gently, but to snatch the laptop closed with a sharp snap.

"What the hell were you watching?" His voice was no longer playful. It was low, rough, laced with possessiveness and a controlled fury. His eyes bored into yours, demanding an answer.

Your breath hitched. The casual charm was gone, replaced by the dark, obsessive side you knew existed beneath the surface. "Caleb, I... it was just..."

He leaned over you, his body language dominating, trapping you against the headboard. "Just what, Pipsqueak? Looking at other people? Imagining things with someone who isn't me?" His grip on the laptop tightened, his knuckles turning white.

"Didn't I make it clear?" he growled, his voice dangerously soft. "You belong to me. Your eyes are only for me. Your thoughts are only for me." He tossed the laptop carelessly onto the floor. "Why do you need that when you have me?"

He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, his intensity overwhelming. "You will only see these things with me, Pipsqueak. Only me." He gripped your chin firmly, his thumb tracing your lip. "Now, let me remind you who you belong to." His kissed you, not sweetly, but with demanding possessiveness, a clear statement of ownership. "You're mine. And you will never look at anyone else like that again. Understand?"

© Melody (Follow for more hot story) 🔞🌚💋💦

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reacting to their s/o being very artistic

Request: can i request an ot13 reaction when the reader is a very artistic person ? maybe like she has a sketchbook just for drawing them or always make them a handcraft present like paper flower ykyk. thank youuu sm <3 !

A/N: I HOPE YOU LIKE THISSS!!! 😭💖 THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE!!! Thank you for the ADORABLE request, and I hope it made you giggle and kick your feet!! 🎨✨💛

Seungcheol: Blown away by your skills. If he ever walks in on you sketching, he’d just watch you for a while before softly saying, “That’s amazing.” If you made him a little painting of the two of you together, he’d keep it in his wallet or frame it in his room. He’s so proud of you and always hypes you up. “I can’t believe I have such a talented S/O.”

Jeonghan: He tries to act chill about it but the truth is, he loves it so much. If he ever catches you sketching him, he’d be like, “I know I’m handsome, but is drawing me that fun?” (he's melting inside). If you made him a cute little craft, he’d display it in his room and pretend it’s not a big deal, but if someone even tries to touch it, he’d be like, “DON’T TOUCH THAT…!!”

Joshua: He finds it incredibly sweet and would cherish every little thing you make. He loves watching you while you’re drawing and would even try to learn from you. He’d treasure all the sketches you made of him, keeping them in a box to look at whenever he misses you. “I can’t believe you put so much effort into this for me…” 🥺💖

Jun: Super supportive but also competitive. If he sees you sketching, he’d be like, “Let’s see who can draw better.” (spoiler: you win). If you gifted him a DIY card, he’d try to make one for you too, but it’d be a funny disaster (but it’s the thought that counts). He’d constantly tell you, “You're so talented! Don’t ever stop creating.”

Hoshi: The first time he sees a sketch of him, he immediately asks if he can keep it forever. He’ll brag about it to everyone, carrying it around like a proud boyfriend. If you give him more handcrafted gifts, he’ll display it in his room like a treasure. “YOU MADE THIS WITH YOUR OWN HANDS?! IT’S AMAZING!” 🥺

Wonwoo: Obsessed. He won’t react dramatically like others, but he’ll carefully flip through your sketchbook, admiring all the drawings you made of him. If you made him an origami flower, he’d keep it on his desk forever. He’s so touched by the fact that you express your love this way. “You always put so much effort into your gifts…”

Woozi: The first time he sees your artwork, he’d actually be like, “Wait. You’re actually amazing at this.” If you gave him a little hand-painted keychain, he’d keep it in his bag forever. He might even try drawing with you, but if he’s bad at it (I don't remember how good or bad he's at drawing 😭), he’ll act all nonchalant like “I should just stick to music.” 😂

Dokyeom: SO GIDDY ABOUT IT. He’d constantly ask to see your sketchbook and react so dramatically to every drawing you show him, “I LOOK SO HANDSOME!”. If you made him something like a paper flower, he’d never throw it away, keeping it in a safe spot forever.

Mingyu: LOVES being your muse. The moment he finds out you draw him a lot, he’ll start posing weirdly just to mess with you. “You need more references? Here, look at my perfect face.” 😂 But deep down, he treasures every single thing you make. If you crafted something for him, he’d show it off to everyone like, “LOOK WHAT MY S/O MADE ME!!”

Minghao: LOVES your artistic side. He’d be so impressed by your skills and might even start sketching with you. If you made him a little DIY bracelet, he’d wear it every day. He’d always encourage you to explore different art styles, and if you painted a portrait of him, he’d be so flattered. “You captured my beauty so well.” 😆

Seungkwan: He’d be so overwhelmed with happiness every time you gifted him something handmade. Very vocal about how much he loves it. If you gave him a handwritten and illustrated letter, he’d tear up and read it over and over again. “YOU LOVE ME SO MUCH???” Also, yes, he will tease you but he’s secretly so soft about it too.

Vernon: He’d have a very chill reaction but internally, he’s so touched. If you gifted him a handmade keychain, he’d actually use it all the time. He’d really admire your sketches of him, probably taking pictures of them because he loves them so much. If you catch him zoning out while looking at your gifts, he’d be like, “What? They’re cool!”

Dino: SUPER touched by every little thing you make him. He’d probably be too shy at first to react dramatically, but you’d catch him staring at the gifts/sketches. If you made him a cute doodle of him dancing, he’d frame it in his room. “You put so much love into this… I love it.” 😭💖

[zae-heeyyy]

Erudition

Summary: Arthur teaches you how to read. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,790 Tags: smut, high honor Arthur Warnings: 18+ MDNI

a/n: I spent an unnecessary amount of time perfecting this one. Tried my hand at sketching/tracing/cut and pasting pieces of Arthur's original journal to make this one (don't look at it too close lol). Hope you enjoy!

Edit: If you didn’t know, it was common for adults to be illiterate in 1899 due to the lack of widespread public education.

erudition: the quality of having or showing great knowledge or learning; scholarship.

Poor Hosea had tried everything in an effort to teach you how to read: encouraging you with kind words first, then employing tough love tactics when your stubbornness hindered your progress. On one particular day, you had enough of each other. In a rare moment of weakness, he slammed his hand on the table when you refused to try.

"Wanna be an illiterate ninny your whole life, do ya?" A scowl etched deep lines on his face, and you stormed off, not saying a word. A cough riddled him, and he bowed his head in part frustration and part regret for letting himself lose his temper with you. He only wanted the best for you, even if you didn't want it for yourself.

A particular contemplative cowboy had been watching a short distance away, a pattern Hosea had noticed lately. Still coughing, he waved him over.

"Ah, Arthur. I know you're smarter than you look. Maybe you can reach that girl. I've done all I can, I fear." He pressed the book into Arthur's hand in more of a silent demand than a request. Arthur nodded in understanding, sighing, wondering how he'd been demoted from gang enforcer to teacher.

Cursing under your breath, you prayed that Arthur would just walk away, not because you didn't like him, but because you liked him too much. You and the other women got a kick out of watching him do chores around camp, his shirt nowhere to be found. He was damn gorgeous and didn't have a clue. Nobody else had a clue, either, that you wanted him. You wanted him in many ways and cared about what he thought of you.

The hope that he'd refuse Hosea's request or come another time fell short when his figure towered over you, shading you from the high noon sun. You kept your head bowed, refusing to meet his gaze until he tapped the book's hardback cover, bidding for your attention. Your eyes met his sheepishly. Reading him did not come easy either, especially in your interactions. Something about the way he carried himself around you left you feeling unsettled. There was a perpetual tension that he seemed to shed in the company of anyone but you. You didn't quite get it, though, because he always remained gentlemanly despite it all.

"C'mon." A sculpted, outstretched arm reached down to you, and you took it reluctantly, letting him lift you up from your spot. Following close behind, you let him lead you to the outskirts of camp near a boulder and a broken wagon. The cacophony of camp faded away as you joined him on the ground, your backs against the rock. You sat expectantly, concentrating on your fidgeting hands and fighting off the urge to cry.

"You just gotta focus," he said, opening the book to where you last left off and putting it back in your hands. Shaking your head, you tried to blink away hot tears building up behind your eyes.

"Don't want you to think less of me, Arthur. Don't wanna do it." Keeping your voice steady and suppressing the lump in your throat proved increasingly futile.

"Hush and focus." His tone only made the mystery of him hazier. How could he so easily switch between evil debt collector, out for blood, to nothing short of a gentle giant, so comforting and protective? The thought only made your vision cloud up more.

Blinking rapidly, you took a deep breath to calm yourself before reading the words on the page aloud. You could only get through the first sentence before your voice betrayed you, shaking unevenly, accompanied by a saline drop rolling down your face and onto the page.

"Hey..." Arthur clutched your chin and turned it to face him, forcing your eyes to heed his. "You gotta stick at things. I know it's hard, but that ain't no reason to cry about it." A rough thumb wiped away your tears. He scooted closer to you, wrapped one arm around your shoulders, and held the book with the other hand. "Just relax. It's just me and you out here. I ain't gonna think less of you or let anybody else, for that matter. Forget about all that." You held one side of the book with your left hand, and he had the other with his right, " Here, start again, slow now."

Goosebumps prickled your skin as a wave of calm washed over you. Arthur stayed patient while you composed yourself and read through twice, the second time outshining the first. He nudged you with his elbow, flashing a toothy grin. "See? Not so bad," he remarked. With another breath, not as shaky as your other ones, you closed the book and returned it to him, feeling more accomplished than you had in a while.

Now that your attention wasn't being spent so much, the pounding in your ears grew louder, the source of the sound leading to none other than the relentless beating of your heart. The musk of tobacco and leather infiltrated your nose, making you suddenly aware of how close you were to him. He removed this arm from your shoulders, the missing weight of it making you feel unexpectedly empty. Before he could scoot away some more, you turned to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you, Arthur, for helping me. I know I'm not easy to work with." He smiled shyly and dipped his head, avoiding eye contact. A silence fell between you, and you spoke again, dismissing yourself. "I should probably get back to it." You gathered your skirts to stand, and he wrapped his fingers around your wrist before you could walk away. Even though crimson had crept up in his ears and neck, he kept his face impassive as always.

"When Ms. Grimshaw can spare you, come find me, and we'll keep at it."

So you did. You'd meet in the clearing behind the rock on the rare moments of shared free time, continuing the routine, and you were getting better every day. Then, Arthur brought you a mystery book that he'd found or stolen, and it was nothing like a Penny Dreadful, too complex and challenging for you to decode. You felt like you'd taken one step forward and two steps back.

And just like you'd done with Hosea a few days ago, you tried to storm away from Arthur. You didn't get far before his hands were on your hips, dragging you down into his lap. Faces inches apart, his hot breath warmed your face as he spoke, eyes stern.

"You can't just throw a tantrum whenever life gets hard, woman." Huffing in defiance, you opened your mouth to argue, but you closed it promptly, keenly aware of the change in his demeanor. Your eyes were on his, but his were on your lips. He licked his own, face set with resolve. Letting his forehead press against yours, he kissed you. Without a thought, you kissed him back, melting into his arms. Gaze intense, he tore away from you, talking low and firm. "You're gonna sit your pretty self down and do this, alright?"

Your hand went absentmindedly to your lips, drawing them in as you tasted him. Who knew a kiss was all you needed? With a gentle shove, he settled you back on the ground beside him, retrieved the book, and opened it once more.

When you finished, you looked at Arthur, and he was staring back at you with a cocky grin. It was the first time you'd read with no mistakes. You threw yourself back into his arms, climbing into his lap, a knee on either side of him. Holding you firm by the waist, Arthur didn't hesitate to kiss you again this time, letting desire he didn't even know he had guide him to you. He could have you like that for hours, and he did, only easing his grip on you when you heard pans banging, alerting you to dinner.

Arthur had discovered the key to motivating you, and since then, you discovered a newfound love for reading. You eagerly awaited your lessons, knowing the handsome outlaw's lips would be there for you when you finished.

Arthur was happy to help, but it wasn't just about the makeout sessions for him. Of course, he could die a happy man with you on top of him, but he loved how your eyes lit up when you made progress. He loved seeing you feel confident. He loved making you happy.

Though he wouldn't dare complain, he couldn't help the nagging feeling that Hosea had knowingly arranged this? Arthur tried to go unnoticed in his subtle observations of you, attempting to conceal the fact that he was sweet on you and had been for a while.

"Can't con a conman, Arthur," his surrogate father once told him. Maybe that wasn't just about robbing. The gunslinger wanted you so bad after all this time, needed you, and hoped you needed him just as much. He'd made himself free today, waiting patiently for you to finish your chores, keeping himself occupied with minor tasks. Just as you finished, you watched him disappear behind the grass and head to your spot.

You joined him; the book rested in his lap while he smoked a cigarette. You took the cigarette from him, having a drag yourself and giggling at your own mischief. He snatched it back from you, pretending to be annoyed but smiling nonetheless. Taking one more puff, he snuffed it in the grass. Before he could make another move, you took the book from his lap, replacing it with yourself. Your hands went to the nape of his neck, drawing his lips into yours. He kissed you back, entertaining you momentarily, but withdrew with his hands still resting on your backside.

"Read first, then I'll take care of ya', sweetheart." His eyes were half-lidded, and his voice lowered a few octaves, both weighed down with desire. You huffed and unmounted the cowboy, opening the book and reading, anything to feel his touch again. As you finished the last paragraph, your attention shifted to his hand kneading circles into your thigh. Breath thickening, his other hand fell to the hem of your dress, making it ride up as his hand traveled slowly up your leg.

The reading grew choppier now, your attention too consumed by his touch. You stopped reading altogether when his hand snaked over your thigh, and three of his fingers pressed against a warm, damp spot in the center of your bloomers. Flushing, a faint gasp escaped you.

"Gonna need to get these off, darlin'," he huffed into your ear. Wasting no time, you tossed the book aside and lifted your hips to slide the garment down around your ankles. Desire almost overpowered him; he wanted to devour you, to have his fingers and face buried between you, but he had a job to do, and he always finished the job.

Stopping, he moved his hand from your heat to your thigh and reached across you to grab the discarded book. Clearing his throat, he thumped the book, "Another page." Incredulous, you blinked a few times, gawking at him.

"Arthur, how do you expect me to focus when—"

He cut you off with a curt whistle and a stony glance, "Shut it, woman, and read." His grip tightened on your thigh. Those pools of blue and stern tone sent another jolt through you; god, if only he knew what he did to you. Like you were hypnotized, you opened the book, still very aware of your aching womanhood. He kissed your neck, his chest vibrating with amusement.

"Good girl," he murmured in your ear.

You were wrapped around his finger figuratively, and you craved to be literally, too. As you began to read aloud again, his hand smoothed over your thigh and landed right where you wanted it. He glided a finger up and down that sacred site, stopping on your clit and rubbing tiny circles there. Involuntarily, you arched up into his hand, and his name fell off your lips in a moan, your focus tearing away from the printed words at your hands. Then he stopped, taking away that sweet attention you loved so much.

"Shhh...Keep going;" his voice was low and deep, and he kissed down your neck to your shoulder. He moved his hand back when you started again; it was the most fluent you'd ever read. You don't know how you managed. As soon as you finished the last word on the page, you tossed the book and grabbed Arthur by the hairs on the back of his head, tugging him towards you and tasting him. He groaned and let a finger slip inside of you.

You gasped at the invasion, raising your hips off the ground and tilting into him. Pressing his lips to your ear, he kissed it and whispered mischievously, "You tryin' to get us caught?" You could feel him smile against your ear, and you pulled him to you once more, letting his mouth muffle your sounds of ecstasy.

He loved the way you felt, so velvety, slick, and tight. He teased you, pumping you with just one finger, then lightly circling your clit just to stop and caress you all over. You knew, and he knew, that he could bring you to that peak at any moment, but he didn't want it to be over just yet. He'd dreamed what you felt like for so long, how you'd respond to him, and now that it was reality, he wanted to savor every minute.

You were rocking your hips now, trying to feel any semblance of friction, trying desperately to reach the climax that Arthur kept you right on the edge of.

Then he sank two more large digits inside, making you press your head on his shoulder and squeeze your eyes shut. He waited for you to adjust, kissing your ear and talking you through the girthy new additions. His thumb back on your clit caused a shiver to run down you as you relaxed.

"There you go," he mumbled in your ear, and you knew it wouldn't be long then. His thumb never left, keeping a constant speed and pattern as he worked you. Your stomach burned as that sweet, sweet tension built inside of you. Arthur buried his face in your neck, focusing on bringing you bliss. "That's it, sweet girl. Give it to me."

He groaned along with you as your embrace on his fingers tightened, and your body shuddered. He kept his hand there as you came down, relishing in the way your insides squeezed and released him over and over again. His head spun when he removed his fingers from you; you were so wet, all for him. He'd been so focused on you that the bulge in his pants went unnoticed until now.

Meanwhile, you had replaced your bloomers and smoothed out your skirt, trying to reset after the fireworks behind your eyes had exploded. You giggled, seeing Arthur give attention to his own building arousal. You beamed at him, all cheeky and coy.

"I think I hear Ms. Grimashaw looking for me," you teased, standing and dusting your skirt. His face fell bewildered, and you couldn't look at him in fear that your innocent act would falter. "Gonna have to bed me properly if you want more, Mr. Morgan."

With that, you winked at him and walked away, leaving Arthur with just his hand and imagination to satisfy him. You'd decided to join Hosea at a table, taking a piece of discarded newspaper and reading it yourself. He watched, a proud smile growing on his face. It only took Arthur five minutes to calm himself, reappearing from the treeline with eagle eyes that focused only on you.

Crazed, he approached you, placing a heavy hand on the small of your back before removing it hastily, remembering he was out in the open now. Hosea's eyes shifted between you discerningly. He coughed and gestured to the paper in your hand. "Well, Arthur, it seems you're a better teacher than me, after all." Neither of you caught the hint of amusement in his voice. You patted Hosea's shoulder and stood.

"Thanks, old man. I love reading now. In fact, me and Arthur are gonna go to town right now for some more Penny Dreadfuls. We'll bring you another paper, too."

Arthur perked up at this new suggestion and followed after you, practically tripping over himself as you headed towards his hitched horse. Hosea returned to his newspaper, kicking his feet up and chuckling to himself knowingly. His hunch had been right about you two, after all.

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Meant To Be (Poly!Marauders x Disabled!Reader) Series Masterlist | Part 2

Pre-Poly

This Is Friendship - You share a hospital room with Remus Lupin far too often in your first year at hogwarts.

New Friends - James and Sirius decide to make a new friend.

When Sirius Fell In Love - Sirius realises he's falling for you.

Hopeless - James is a total goner. And he knows Sirius and Remus are interested too.

The Last One To Know - It's not until he's holding your hand in a muggle hospital that Remus realises he's in love with you.

The Plan - The boys finally have a conversation about their feelings.

The Dress - You wear a dress for comfort, unaware of the chaos it causes among the Marauders.

Sketches of You (Sirius) - Sirius can't seem to stop drawing you, no matter how hard he tries to forget you're not his.

The Accidental Kiss - Remus kisses you in his sleep. And it breaks your heart.

Main Series

The Beginning (all) - The boys have something to discuss with you.

First Kisses (all) - Your first kiss with each boy.

Bad Influence (James) - A little make-out session with James is the perfect end to the school day.

Secrets Revealed (all) - Sometimes it's easier to walk. One problem-your boyfriends don't know you can.

Craving You (Sirius) - Sirius Black is a tease and he knows it.

To Be Human (James) - James can be a perfectionist, which is alright some of the time but you know full well that this isn't one of those times.

After The Moon (all) - It's the first full moon since beginning your relationship.

Being With You (Remus) - Sometimes, you just need an evening cuddled up with Remus.

Control (all) - While spending a quiet night with your boys, Remus finds something he wasn't supposed to find.

Fraud (all) - Amycus Carrow wants to prove that you can walk.

Here for You (all) - It's a bad day, a really bad day. And your boys have no intention of leaving you to suffer alone.

Honest Conversations (all) - The boys want to talk about sex.

The First Time (all)* - It's in the name.

Disappointed (all) - You're struggling after your first time. Your boys know better.

Battered and Bruised (James) - James comes to see you after quidditch practice.

All Night Long (all) - The boys spend the night with you in your room.

Muggle Pills (all) - The boys learn what your pills do.

Oversensitive (all) - Your body sometimes overreacts to touch, telling you it hurts when it doesn't. So when it happens while Sirius is kissing you, you ignore it. This doesn't go over too well.

Just a Bath (Sirius)* - Sirius wants to take a bath with you.

Blanket Forts (all) - It's been a bad day, but when you return to your room, your boys are waiting.

Still Beautiful (James) - James sees something you don't want him to see.

Let Them Watch (all)* - You have a plan and you won't let the boys distract you

The Plan (all)* - It's the boys' turn to enact their plan.

Deserving (Sirius) - Sirius gets a letter from home.

People Will Talk (all) - News of your relationship gets out.

On Top (James)* - You wake up with James one morning.

Let Me Help (Remus) - The full moon is coming and Remus needs some help with the pain.

Rubber Chickens (all) - The boys want to pull a prank.

To Walk In (Remus)* - Remus learns something about you that you'd hoped none of the boys would ever learn. And then, he proves it doesn't change anything. | Part 2 | Part 3 (all)

The Massage (all) - The boys try and help you on a bad day.

The Letters (Remus) - You and Remus decide to write home and tell your families about your relationship | Part 2 (all)

The Fall (all) - You have a fall. It doesn't go over well. | Part 2

Good Morning (all)* - Remus wakes up turned on and sets the others off.

The Breaking Point (all) - Sirius's parents find out about you.

Hogsmeade (all) - It's the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year.

Girl Talk (all) - The girls want details. You're not giving them any.

Pumpkins (all) - The boys plan another prank.

Learning (all) - The boys get an education on your seizures.

Jealous (all) - Sirius sometimes feels a bit jealous that Remus knows more about your conditions than he or James do. He finally admits it.

Winter is Coming (all) - Winter is hell on you. The boys are only just realising how bad it can be.

Medicine (all) - You told the boys you'd been waiting on medicine from home. You just didn't tell them what it is.

The Brownies (James and Sirius) - You let James and Sirius try your brownies.

Alone (all) - The quidditch stands are inaccessible, and parties in the common room are a nightmare for you, so you sit in your room, waiting for it to be over.

Shaking Things Up (all) - Your mum sent you a t-shirt.

Talking About It (Remus) - You talk about the kiss | refers to The Accidental Kiss

[cornerdreams-txt]

quick headcanons about the new characters in the bo6 crew :)

black ops 6 was phenomenal, btw. i loved it. please come talk to me about it. please. please. please. please. please. pl

★ william "case" calderon

— known to dissociate or space out frequently, but is easily pulled out of it. it's on his record, but it's never caused enough problems for command to really get concerned about it.

— fidgets with his holsters when he's on edge. it's too quiet, or he's waiting for something to happen, he'll rub his fingers against the leather of the straps, or catch his nail on the metal of the buckles, over and over again. even if the weapon inside, blade or gun, is already drawn.

— seems uneasy around smoke or fog, shifty eyes and a pinched brow, but whenever its brought up, he's confused. seems like he has no idea that air that's... thicker, maybe, is a good descriptor, seems to put him on edge.

— unbothered by bugs, snakes, and any kind of creepy-crawly. seems to enjoy them, if anything - helped handle spiders and other insects or pests that found their way into the safehouse. biting insects seem to love him, though - mosquitoes especially. probably a blood type thing, right?

— avid horror enjoyer. seems uneasy about human experimentation, though. him and woods both seem to dislike that kind of trope.

★ troy marshall

— art is a coping skill, and hobby, of sorts. he keeps a pocket sketchbook and a handful of pens in his pockets whenever he can so he can pull it out when the inspiration arises.

— the longer the group stayed in the safehouse, the more that sketchbook filled up with portraits and still life sketches. people, interactions, architecture, sunrises, scenery. memories, ones troy couldn't help but want to capture.

— definitely a motorcyclist. did you see how he handled that bike with case on the back of it? that was NOT this man's first rodeo. 110% has a motorbike of his own. his biker jackets cycle in and out of his daily wardrobe at seemingly random.

— terrible cook. cannot make complex dishes to save his life. can follow instructions, sure, and makes a damn good sandwhich, but do not trust him to make soup or anything of the sort from scratch.

— ...isn't terrible at cooking meat, though. says he learned how to grill from his parents, but didn't really give the team many chances to see for themselves.

— seems to almost act as an older brother figure to the team instinctively. based on how he responds to jokes about him being a mother hen, it doesn't seem like he realizes he does it. (it is welcome, though. the compassion is nice, in such a harsh field)

★ sevati dumas

— very task oriented. you give her a goal and the right motivation, and she'll do it. very very headstrong, though. doesn't like taking orders unless compensated properly.

— food motivated. loves a good savory dish. enjoys exploring other cultures through that. but, no, she will not accept food as payment. nice try.

— good at acting lax and unbothered, but does, in fact, care very deeply. she's empathetic, but forces herself not to show it. she's had that be taken advantage of once, and she refuses to let that happen again.

— very reluctant to get attached or form connections to others, see her admitting she's only with the team until she gets paid. but she still hangs around felix, and she still tries to talk to troy when harrow's fellowship with the pantheon was unveiled. seems like she's not perfect when it comes to avoiding getting attached, is she?

— vibes only but like. i feel like she wants a little sibling. she wants someone she can take care of. she wants to be a good family member to someone, but having a child... no. she refuses to be a mother. she doesn't want to be a wife. she wants to be her own person. (she'd make a great godmother. or aunt. if she had the chance, and if she tried)

★ felix neumann

— if this man isn't autistic i am going to swallow a leather jacket whole like a snake. by the way. just sayin.

— the gloves were a paranoia result. they're metaphorical, sure, a reminder to himself not to harm anyone else, no taking another human life, but also a horrible, creeping paranoia eased in, of "what if they find your fingerprints," "what if you get blood on your hands again," "what if what if what if" until he could only ease it by wearing gloves. worked nicely, in the end. taking them off was... cathartic. to say the least.

— probably an anarchist? the vibes are there. hates society. hates government. wants to dismantle it all and start from scratch. that's the vibe.

— you... my special little man, get the nature autism. this guy can go on for hours and hours about the critters case finds around the safehouse, and case listens attentively and happily. also fantastic at foraging, has dozens of safe-to-eat and unsafe-to-eat plants stored away in his brain, and can rattle off the facts at a moment's notice.

— not the best hunter, but is, amusingly, better with a bow when it comes to hunting than he is with a gun.

— would code simple video games (think similar vibes to the chrome dinosaur game) to play for fun if he got bored enough. good thing he's excellent at finding things to distract himself with, no?

★ jane harrow

— photography lover. not fantastic about herself, but she'll sit and analyze photos taken by others for minutes on end, noting all the little details captured by a camera lense freezing the moment in time.

— does the same with drawn art. paint, sketch, whatever, she'll sit and analyze every little detail she can and point it all out. she loves noticing the details. calling attention to them. letting the artist know, if she can, that she sees all the effort they put into their work.

— her guilty pleasure? window shopping for stuffed animals. always writes it off as being for her niece, or a friend's child, but she wants to collect them. there's something soft, precious, genuine and uncomplicated about plush toys. but she's an adult. she can't afford to be so childish.

— ...alongside the drawing troy made of her, she still also keeps the little teddy bear he insisted on buying for her as a thank you gift, once. but that one isn't in her office. she hides it, away from prying eyes.

— mildly claustrophobic. she can push through it, and she will, when it comes to what her job demands of her, but she likes to avoid enclosed spaces when she can get away with it. it's... easier. feels less like being cornered. (she dances around the real reason she hates it. she never wants to be stuck hiding in a closet, or tucked under a little girl's bed ever, ever again.)

[callingitquits]

Johan With An Artist S/O—[requested]

My love letter to what it’d be like if Johan somehow ended up as someone’s unwilling-yet-weirdly-perfect muse. “Yeah, I could fix him… or at least paint him.”

Noticing You Don’t Look Away

The first time you stared at him for too long, Johan didn’t speak. He simply met your gaze with that soft, unreadable smile of his. Most people avert their eyes—out of fear, discomfort, or instinct. But you didn’t. That amused him. Over time, your staring becomes his comfort. While others look away, your gaze is a constant hum in the background of his day. And somehow, it roots him.

Allowing Your Stares Without Question

He never asks why you stare. He lets the silence stretch when he catches you, lets your eyes linger on him like you’re trying to solve a riddle. If you stammer or apologize, he simply says, “People always look longer when they’re afraid of forgetting.”

Silently Accepting Your Obsession

He never outright acknowledges being your muse. He acts as if he doesn’t notice the drawings, the staring, the stacks of canvas or sketchbooks filling your room. But he sees everything. He just prefers the power that comes from silence. He never asks to be drawn. He doesn’t need to. You do it constantly, obsessively. And that suits Johan fine. He thrives in the quiet worship of others. Especially when you don’t realize that, in loving him, you’re also unraveling.

Permitting The Projection

He finds your obsession… tolerable. Not endearing. Not touching. Just… expected. If someone is going to love him, it will be like this: from a distance, compulsively, through a filter of their own projections. He understands that and permits it.

Holding Still for Your Attention

He catches you staring when you think he’s not looking. In the mirror. Across the room. At the curve of his fingers around a teacup. Johan never comments. He moves like he knows how light falls. How shadows trace his skin. It’s not vanity—it’s calculation. He lingers, always just long enough for your pencil to catch up.

Testing Your Focus While You Sketch

He shifts just enough to test you—tilts his head, moves a hand, speaks mid-stroke.

“Do you think monsters can be beautiful?”

“Is it easier to love someone on paper?”

You pretend to ignore him. But he sees your hands falter.

Letting You Arrange Him

He sits for you when asked, but never smiles. At first, he’ll move how you tell him to—turn his face, adjust his hands—following your directions without protest. But over time, he lets you touch his face yourself. Only lightly at first, to check angles or expression. But eventually, he doesn’t flinch at your fingers on his jaw, your thumb brushing his brow. He even closes his eyes. Trust.

His expression is always the same: soft, composed, and blank enough to hold infinite interpretations. That’s what he wants: for you to keep guessing.

Learning Himself Through You

He never asks to see the drawings. But he finds them. Looks through pages of himself as seen through your eyes: beautiful, calm, monstrous, unknowable. You never get him quite right. But somehow, each one feels closer than the last.

Reading What You Write About Him

He reads your notebooks and sketch notes when you’re gone. Not to invade, exactly—just to understand.

Margins filled with shorthand:

“Jaw too narrow?”

“Mouth always relaxed. Don’t overdefine.”

“Eyes reflect more light than expected.”

He lingers on lines where your focus slips into fixation:

“Hands almost delicate. Too soft for a man?”

He smiles faintly. You study him like a puzzle.

And puzzles are only interesting when they remain unsolved.

Studying You While You Work

He watches you back. While you’re focused on drawing him, he quietly studies you. The way you chew on your pencil, how your eyes narrow when you’re focusing, how frustrated you get when a sketch doesn’t come out right. He files away every detail. Johan learns people by observing, and you are no exception.

Eventually, he speaks—softly, like it’s not meant to be heard:

“You’re most yourself when you’re creating.”

And then nothing more.

Lying to Shape Your Perception

If you ask about his past for inspiration, he lies strategically. He’ll tell stories—half-truths, poetic distortions, letting you imagine him as a tragic, beautiful figure. He knows how your mind works, how a bit of mystery feeds creativity. So he becomes the myth you crave. 

Leaving Subtle Critiques

He offers critique, but only rarely. When he does, it’s subtle and specific: “You hesitate with my eyes.” he murmurs, not quite looking at you. or: “My hands… are never that gentle.” He says it softly, intimately. Not to hurt you—just to stay in your mind. You redraw him again. And again. Not because he asked. But because you need to see what he sees.

Discouraging You from Sharing

He never forbids it. He just says things like, “Art loses something when it’s put on display. Don’t you think?” or: “Letting them see this—it’d be like letting them see you.” It sounds thoughtful. Protective, even. But the hesitation it plants is intentional. He doesn’t like the idea of being shared, even in ink or oil.

Keeping One of Your Drawings

He keeps a drawing of himself that you gave him. He won’t hang it. He hides it inside a book he never finishes. Not for the art, but the moment it came from.

Your version of him—more beautiful, more wounded, more human than he believes he is.

Sometimes he wonders: Is this what I look like to you? Or just what you want to see?

Using Praise to Keep You Unsure

He rarely praises. But when he does, it’s calculated:

“This one feels honest.”

Or sometimes, quieter still:

“You finally saw something most people miss.”

Just that. And it’s enough to unnerve you. Enough to make you question if the others were lies.

Avoiding You When He’s Vulnerable

He never lets you draw him when he’s upset. If he’s agitated, fractured, slipping—he vanishes. Because he knows you’ll see it. You always do. He’s not afraid of being seen. Just… being captured in a way he didn’t approve.

Never Confirming If You Got Him Right

He never tells you what he thinks of the final pieces. You’ll never know if you got close—if you really caught something true. He leaves you wondering. That, after all, is the most reliable way to keep someone looking.

Asking to See a Drawing Midway

For the first time, he interrupts your work and asks to see a piece before it’s done. You hesitate. He insists. He studies it long and hard, then hands it back without a word. When you resume, your hand shakes. You’re not sure what he saw. But you know it was enough.

Choosing to Stay Close While You Work

He learns to sit beside you, not just for you. He reads while you draw. Lets your knee brush his. Leans his shoulder into yours. Just slightly. Quiet contact. Barely-there affection. But for him, it’s intimacy. 

Y/n: “Don’t you get bored just sitting there?”

Johan: (glances at you) “No. Watching you work is… clarifying.”

Y/n: “….. Clarifying?”

Johan: (slight smile) “You show me what I look like without even meaning to.”

Associating You With the Act of Drawing

Over time, Johan begins to associate you with the act itself—not just the sketching, but the rhythm of pencil to paper, the scent of charcoal dust, the rustle of turned pages. When you’re not around, he notices his hands still and his mind quiets. You’ve trained him like a Pavlovian response. Art means you. You means attention.

Forgetting His Own Reflection

He catches his reflection in a mirror one day and pauses. Frowns slightly. It doesn’t match what you draw. Doesn’t match what you see. You’ve been sketching him for so long that he begins to believe in your version more than the one in glass.

What if I’m more him than I am myself?

He wonders.

And then decides not to question it.

Showing Love Through Stillness

He never says the word love. But his version of it lives in these still moments, in shared silence, in the way he looks at you when you’re lost in creating him. It lives in his acceptance of being seen. And in his secret hope that, maybe, you’ll never stop.

Y/n: “Do you ever want to be drawn differently?”

Johan: (softly) “No. I want to be seen as you see me.”

Y/n: “Even if it’s not accurate?”

Johan: (a long look) “Especially then.”

[angstama]

03: traitor | l.jn

pairing: lee jeno x f!reader (ft. mark lee)

genre: angst, pure heartache, slight fluff!

synopsis — when jeno asked you to make his bride’s dress, it was more than fabric and lace—it was a reckoning. you never thought you'd be asked to create the wedding dress for the man you once loved, not after everything that had happened between the two of you. five years have passed since jeno walked out of your life, and now, he stands before you again—asking for a favour that stirs old memories and emotions you've tried to bury.

a/n: part 3??? once again thank you so much for the love that 'traitor' is receiving :") i really appreciate each and every comment, reblog and like towards this little story that i created :")))) stay tuned for part 4!!!!!

traitor m.list | traitor's playlist | previous | next chapter (04)

the first consultation left jeno with a weight in his chest he couldn’t quite name. it wasn’t regret, not entirely. and it wasn’t longing in the way it once was. but it was something — something heavy and lingering, gnawing at the edges of his heart.

he wasn’t going to pursue you again. he knew where his heart stood now, grounded firmly in the love he had for wheein. but that didn’t mean his heart didn’t stir when he saw you — not with desire, but with a soft ache. a quiet mourning for what once was.

because once, you were it. the love of his life. he’d spent seven years loving you — not passively, but fiercely, intentionally. he’d built dreams with you. shared the kind of laughter that echoed for days. crafted a future in his mind that only ever had your name in it.

and now here you were, across from him — still you, but different. stronger. quieter. and the space between you held all the words never said.

it made him wonder if the past ever truly lets go, or if it simply learns how to hide in the corners of the present.

they say time heals all wounds.

but you’ve come to believe that’s just a blatant lie that people tell to survive the ache. because here you were — five years later — and the love you held for jeno still lived in you like a ghost that refused to leave.

even after he left.

even after he fell for someone else.

even now, as he stood on the edge of a new beginning with another woman, you still found yourself wanting to give him everything. crazy right? which person of sound mind would ever do that to themselves but you?

"are you still working on the tux?” mark yawned, stretching his arms high above his head, trying to shake off the lingering sleepiness. the quiet of the studio had been comforting, but the hours had stretched on longer than either of you expected. you hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed.

you’d spent the past month working with him, revising and refining the sketches—endless pages filled with designs that you hoped would perfectly suit jeno. it wasn’t that creating the tuxedo was hard. you knew exactly what would look best on him. but each time you made a change, you couldn’t help but picture something more—something just a little bit better, a little more perfect in your mind. it was as if the closer you got to finishing, the more you realised how many parts of jeno still stayed with you, even in the smallest details. and with every new sketch, you found yourself imagining him wearing it, lost in the quiet ache of a love that would never quite leave.

"it can be better," you muttered under your breath, lips pursed as you stared at the sketches sprawled out before you. frustration bubbled within, and you couldn’t help but feel a little defeated by the progress—or lack thereof—that you'd made in the past hour. it felt like every line you drew was a step backward, not forward. damn this is why you hardly ever design suits.

"i don’t doubt that," mark said, drawing in a long breath, his gaze shifting from the sketches to you. "but i think you could really use a break, y/n."

he walked over to your desk, his eyes scanning the mess of papers, fabric swatches, and unfinished designs scattered across the table. it was a familiar sight—your chaotic process whenever inspiration hit, though tonight it seemed to be weighing on you more than usual.

"you think so?" you asked, surprised by your own agreement. usually, you’d protest, stubbornly pushing forward through the frustration, but something about mark’s calm presence made you pause.

he nodded, his expression soft but knowing, then glanced at the clock. "you haven’t eaten anything in hours," he pointed out, catching the subtle signs—the slight paleness in your face and the tiredness settling in your eyes. "how about supper? not gonna lie i'm seriously craving a mega cheeseburger."

you hadn’t realized how long it had been since your last meal, and the thought of a warm, simple meal felt oddly comforting in the moment. you hesitated, then gave a small, grateful nod. “yeah… cheeseburger sounds good.”

you and mark made your way to the nearest burger joint down the road, the familiar scent of sizzling patties and greasy goodness greeting you as soon as you stepped inside. it wasn’t overwhelming, but it still hit you with a sense of familiarity. it was a scent you’d grown accustomed to—one that marked the many little victories you and mark had shared over the years. this very place had become a kind of tradition for the two of you, a spot to celebrate the little triumphs of your small bridal studio.

"here," mark places your cup of iced lemon tea in front of you, his hands automatically bending the sippy straw into the curve you always prefer, as if it were second nature to him. without a word, he wipes the condensation off the cup and sets it back on the coaster, exactly the way you always do. you watched him in surprise, it's something you hadn't realised he paid attention to, these small gestures, until now.

and that realisation made something clicked inside of you. "oh god, i'm a mess aren't i?" you gasped, burying your face in your hands as you finally snapped out of your little torture bubble. "wh-what? no, of course not! what made you say that?" mark panicked, clearly caught off guard, his eyes wide with concern. he had no idea where this sudden wave of emotion was coming from.

"i'm such a mess... i can't even set my own drink down properly. i can't for the love of god properly design a tux for him." you started spiralling as the weight of everything hit you all at once. and suddenly, it wasn't about mark's little gestures anymore; it was about the overwhelming pressure you had placed on yourself to make everything perfect for jeno and living through it.

mark’s gaze softened, his usual calm demeanor shifting as he quickly slid out of the booth and moved to sit next to you. "hey, hey, hold on," he said gently. "it’s just force of habit for me, okay? nothing personal." he chuckled softly, his eyes searching for any sign of tears as he peered through the strands of hair that had fallen over your face. when he saw that you weren’t crying, he relaxed a little, but the concern never left him.

"about the tux," he continued, his tone steady, "you're the best damn designer i know." he gave you a small, reassuring smile. "i think it looks great. but i know you, you’ve got your own vision. just... don’t be so hard on yourself." his expression shifted, like a sudden thought had struck him, and his voice turned a little more serious way but also in a lighthearted tone. "honestly, though… why did you even take this on if you knew it was gonna hurt you this much?"

you sat there for a moment, mark’s words replaying in your head. why did you take this on? you weren't sure you had the answer, but you felt like you should. mark's eyes softened, but he raised an eyebrow, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

"i mean, really," mark said, leaning back with a playful smirk. "if it was anyone else, i'd say they’ve completely lost it. taking on the wedding tux and gown for a former love... that's some next-level madness. are you sure you're not just trying to outdo yourself and win the 'world's most emotionally tortured designer' award?"

you couldn’t help but chuckle at his attempt to break the tension, but it didn’t make the heaviness in your chest go away. still, you couldn't help but laugh at how ridiculous it all sounded.

"yeah, maybe i'm a glutton for punishment," you said with a dry laugh. "maybe i thought if i could design the perfect tux for him, i could somehow undo all the messy stuff from the past." you shook your head, the absurdity of it all sinking in. "but let’s be honest, who am i kidding? i’m no harry potter."

mark nodded dramatically, a sarcastic grin on his face. you noted that this was pretty much one of the rare moments that mark had showcased his witty side, different from his usual sense of calmness, and you appreciated it. “well, i'm sure you can be a lot of things, but harry potter? not in this lifetime.” he gave you a gentle nudge with his elbow. “but seriously, the fact that you're still putting your heart into this whole thing, even with all the chaos? that’s something you should be proud of. not everyone has that kind of heart.”

you looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. it was still lighthearted, but there was truth beneath his words that made it hit differently.

“you think so?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“oh, absolutely,” he replied, “but next time, maybe pick a project that doesn’t involve, you know, exes. that might be a good place to start.”

you grinned at his teasing, feeling the weight in your chest ease just a little bit. "noted. no more exes and tuxedos for me." you leaned back in your seat, taking a sip of your iced lemon tea, finally feeling like the world wasn’t collapsing around you for once in a very long time.

after the conversation with mark, you found yourself sitting in your small studio, the flickering light from your desk lamp casting a warm glow across your sketches. the weight of everything—of jeno, of the tuxedo, of wheein—still pressed on you, but there was a quiet shift in your messy thoughts. mark had a way of helping you see things from a different perspective, even when it felt impossible to do so yourself.

you looked at the blank page in front of you, the design for the wedding dress that you had been avoiding for weeks now. the dread was still there, but you knew it had to be faced eventually. you knew you had to start.

closing your eyes for a moment, you let your thoughts wander, not towards the pain of the past, but towards wheein. the woman who would wear this dress. the woman who was going to be part of jeno's future. part of the life you thought you were going to have.

in your mind, you could see her clearly: her laughter, warm and light, like the soft glow of a sunrise. her kindness radiating in every word she spoke. you could almost hear her voice, the way it was full of life, of genuine joy. it was almost too bright, too perfect.

and yet, as much as you hate to admit it, everything about wheein felt like the embodiment of sunshine. the way she carried herself, her presence, the way she filled a room with warmth—it was like she was made for jeno. she balanced him in a way you couldn’t, didn’t. it was hard to swallow, the truth of it. but there it was.

you shifted in your chair, fingers playing with the edge of your sketchbook. even now, you could feel the pull to create something beautiful for her. to create something that was entirely hers.

you sighed in defeat, feeling the familiar ache rise in your chest. but this wasn’t about you. it wasn’t about what could have been or the life you had once dreamed of. this was about her. about her future with jeno, a future that was full of light and laughter and everything you once thought you wanted.

so, you picked up your pencil. the idea of a golden glow crept into your mind, the warmth of it, the way it would reflect the essence of who wheein was. you began to sketch, slowly at first, hesitant, but then more fluidly as your hand moved across the paper. it wasn’t the dress you had envisioned for yourself—but it was something better. something that fit wheein perfectly, just as she fit jeno.

the day finally came when you had to face them again.

it was time to present what you and mark had been working on—what you'd poured so much of yourself into.

you spent the morning preparing, setting up the room as carefully as you always did for your consultations. your sketches were laid out neatly on the table, each one representing a step in the journey of letting go, of embracing something new.

as you stood there, arranging the last details, the sound of the studio doorbell echoed through the quiet space.

your stomach flipped.

it wasn't like you hadn't seen them before. jeno and wheein had both been to your studio already, but today felt different. after all, they will be judging the your craft.

you turned, greeted by the sight of jeno and wheein walking through the door, their presence filling the space in a way that felt both familiar and foreign.

“hey, y/n,” jeno greeted with a soft smile, his voice warm but guarded. wheein, on the other hand, was all smiles as she greeted you excitedly. her energy was light, and you couldn't help but admire the way she held herself. it was like everything about her was sunshine and joy, the kind of person who radiated warmth.

you smiled back, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "it's good to see you both," you said, voice steady despite the nervous flutter in your chest. "please, have a seat."

mark settled down with you by your side. his presence easing your nerves in its own way.

"so, i've been working on a few different ideas for your dress, wheein," you began, your voice calmer now, your focus shifting to her. "i know you mentioned wanting something with lace and a kind of dreamy feel, and i’ve tried to bring that to life here."

you glanced briefly at jeno, seeing the way his eyes softened as he looked at the sketches. but then, he quickly turned his attention back to wheein, as if he was afraid to look too long.

you couldn’t blame him.

"here," you continued, pointing to one of the sketches. "this design has a lot of lace details, almost like flowers scattered across the fabric. it’s soft, delicate... the kind of thing that’ll make you feel like you're walking through a garden in full bloom."

you watched as wheein’s eyes lit up, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest. she was exactly what you had imagined when you designed this. beautiful. pure. a dream made real.

"i love this," wheein said, her voice full of excitement. "it’s everything i wanted. i wanted something that would make me feel like i’m floating. like a dream."

you nodded, a smile tugging at your lips, even though it felt bittersweet. "i’m glad you like it," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. "there’s a lot of little details i’m still refining, but i think this is the right direction."

jeno stayed quiet, watching you with an unreadable expression, but you could tell he was processing everything deeply. you wondered what was going through his mind, what memories of you this might stir up. but you couldn’t let yourself focus on that now.

instead, you focused on wheein’s smile—the way her eyes sparkled with anticipation and joy. this was for her. not for you. not for jeno.

this was her moment, her dress.

just as you were about to continue, mark chimed in, his voice smooth and confident. "and as for the tux," he began, carefully laying the folder with jeno’s tuxedo designs in front of them. "jeno, i’ve put together a few ideas based on what we discussed. the goal is to keep it elegant but modern, something that suits your style but also complements wheein’s dress."

jeno glanced at you quickly before turning his attention to mark, his gaze unreadable. "sounds good," he said, though his voice was quieter than usual.

mark opened the folder, showing them the first set of designs. "this one here," he said, pointing to a sharp black tuxedo with subtle details, "has a clean, classic look, but with a twist. i wanted to keep it traditional but with some elements that stand out. the lapels, the fabric—it’ll all give off a sleek and refined vibe."

jeno nodded, his expression thoughtful, but you could tell that he was processing more than just the tuxedo design. something was weighing on him, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it had to do with the fact that this was your studio—your designs. you weren’t sure, but you tried not to dwell on it.

"that looks really good," wheein said, her voice warm. "i think jeno will look amazing in it."

mark smiled, glad to see her approval. "i’m glad you like it," he said, before flipping to another design. "this next one is a bit more daring—still sleek but with a bit more edge. it’s not quite as traditional, but it’ll definitely make a statement. and honestly, this midnight blue palette will really highlight your silhouette well."

jeno remained quiet for a moment, studying the design, and you could see him mulling over the details. "i like this one too," he said, his voice more thoughtful now. "it feels more me."

mark grinned, looking over at you for a brief moment before continuing. "well, we'll refine the final version once you decide, but i’m confident it’ll be perfect."

the conversation shifted easily back to the dress, and as you discussed further details, you couldn’t help but feel a small sense of relief. mark was doing exactly what you needed him to do—keeping the focus off you and your tangled feelings, and instead, keeping it professional.

"so," mark said with a light chuckle, glancing over at you once more, "now that we’ve covered everything, i think it’s time for us to wrap things up. if you’re both happy with what you’ve seen today, we can go ahead and start working on the fittings."

"yes, absolutely," wheein said, her enthusiasm still present. "thank you so much for doing this you guys."

you smiled, feeling the weight in your chest ease just a little. it wasn’t perfect—nothing was—but it was moving forward.

“i’ll make sure it’s perfect for you,” you said quietly, meeting her eyes.

to be continued...

taglist: @starryeyesspice @bluedbliss @undomielsql @nshitae @starryeyesspice @spicyryujin

[chronicallyonline101]

hiiii!!! if u feel like writing it i would love to request some rohan x fem reader headcanons or scenario where rohan's gf is also an artist but she's way more inexperienced than him. ty <3333

hi!!! i would love to do this it sounds so sweet! I am SO sorry for the wait, i've been pretty busy, BUT it's here now and i hope you enjoy!

Kishibe Rohan x Fem!Reader || Scenario + HCs - mostly scenario.

As much as it pains him to see you desecrate art in the way you do, I think Rohan would enjoy being with someone who is inexperienced in art.

Thanks to his career, and his stand, Rohan is naturally one of the best people there is at this kind of thing - people compliment him for it all the time, but it's special when it comes from someone he loves.

He wants your approval, and thanks to your inexperience, you're full of it; every time he creates something you're clapping your hands and singing praise and he devours it every single time.

However, it may be a little frustrating for him when you do start dabbling in the world of craft because wow, you really are new to this. That painting of a dog looks like a deformed cow.

He would offer to teach you, and you'd accept; but that would quickly fall down the drain because he has a very specific way of drawing - using Heavens Door - that literally no one else on Earth could achieve.

He also believes his art style is the best, and would try to convince you to use that instead of learning your own style.

But anyways, I can't think of any more HCs so lets just get on with what I'm good at - THE SCENARIO:

There was something so calming about art - the craft, the technique, the aptitude; each fine brush of paint against canvas, a blotch of ink to paper. It was soothing, and you felt silly for having only just picked up the hobby.

It was nice knowing that even with your inexperience, you could still create. And that's what you had been doing, that very afternoon - though late into the day, the sun continued to hang high in the air. Gentle golden rays of shimmering light flittered through your open window, splaying itself across your splattered canvas.

A smile settled across your lips at the sight, pressing a thin brush to the fabric for the last, small details. The lighting was perfect, displaying a visage of your boyfriend in the elegance he deserved - while you dipped your brush into a cup of water to clean it, you found yourself hoping that the sun would remain once you had made it to his place.

Yesterday, you had bought a fresh set of utensils; it had taken some brief self-encouragement, but in the late hours of the night you had picked them up and started sketching. With no real motif in mind, it hadn't surprised you to find a portrait of your partner sat before you. He had the face of a model; the kind of looks that were easy to detail, and though you hadn't slept a single wink last night, your efforts had paid off now that the work was done.

This was probably your best piece yet. Eagerly, you plucked the portrait from it's frame, wrapped it in thin, grease-proof paper to stop it from smudging, and tucked it into a large portfolio bag.

It took you no time at all to throw a jacket over your shoulders and slip out of the door - though the sun was high and the air was warm, there was a small breeze that flittered through the air, dragging along with it small, dry leaves and puffy clouds of pollen, a sign that soon, Spring would find itself curling around Morioh.

On a usual day, you'd likely find yourself bumping into a few friends or acquaintances on your way through the small town, but today you weren't bothered much. You supposed most of your friends would still be in work - blessed as you were to have a job that didn't involve a commute. It took you only a few minutes to reach your boyfriends house, and with a giddy smile held the large portfolio behind your back as you knocked at the door.

Kishibe Rohan didn't like being bothered.

Unless he was expecting someone, the likelihood of him opening his door to a random knocker was low; there was simply no need to. If it was urgent, they could call his landline.

When it came to you, however, he didn't mind being bothered. Living only a few minutes down the street from him, the two of you would frequently visit each others houses - you, more so coming to him than he did to you. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy visiting you, he was just always so busy during the day with his work and he knew that you would definitely come to him if you needed company.

Such is why you had a special knock - you would rap your first against the door in a particular rhythm, a melody unique to you, and he would recognise immediately who it was at his door.

Stuck in a block of what to do for his manga; hearing you knock at his door brought forth relief in his soul. As frustrating as it was to take a break from his important work, he at least at the restraint to recognise that perhaps a break was needed.

He wasn't sure what to expect when opening the front door to his house, but, seeing you try - and fail - to hide a rather large portfolio bag behind your back was not it. He eyed you up and down, growing sceptical.

"And what is that?" He inquired, tilting his body forward - a weak attempt at trying to see inside the bag. You quickly caught onto his snooping, and shifted the bag out of his view.

"Just wait," Was your gleeful chirp, ushering him aside so that you could flitter inside his house. Kicking off your shoes by the front door so that you could at least retain some semblance of respect, you quickly made your way past his stairs and into the main living area.

Startled, it took him a moment to clip the door shut once you had entered. He eyed you through his peripherals, before moving toward the kitchen.

"I'll put on some tea then."

"Oh, yes please!" You called out. With him distracted, you made swift work of unwrapping the portrait you had made - setting it up so that the fabric canvas was leant against the top of his coffee table.

It took a few seconds of setting up, but eventually, you had everything perfect. The canvas was angled in such a way that it bathed in the suns radiant glow. You stood in front of the picture, facing the doorway to the room; a cocky grin splayed itself across your lips when Rohan re-entered the room, a tray of tea clutched tightly in his hands.

He paused in the doorway. There was still a lilt of suspicion to his glare - he was unsure of what you were doing, but knew that you were up to something.

Slowly edging his way further into the room, Rohan placed the tray of tea on a table near the couch - a different one from the one you had been using for your artwork.

He crossed his arms over his chest, and with his brows furrowed, cocked his head to the side. "Can I see now?"

Giggling, you uttered out a jovial: "Yes!" And took a step to the side, allowing Rohan a full view of your artwork. "Look, I made you;"

Upon hearing that you had taken the time to make a portrait of him, Rohan's eyes lit up - he was a vain man, and the thought that you had been thinking of him enough to craft a portrait in his image pleased him greatly.

However, his excitement was quick to fade when he lay his gaze across the artwork. "Oh-!"

He gasped, his expression turning sour - the kind of sour where he had to bite his cheeks to stop himself from saying anything unsavoury. "Uh, that's... me?"

"Mhm! Do you like it?" You nodded your head, eager to hear his praises - It would be obvious that Rohan was exceptional at art, and so, you sought his approval more than anyone else's. His silence proved to be discouraging.

"It's certainly," He wanted to praise you, he really did. But, it was just so unflattering! Did you even look at a reference when you were making it, or were you doing it from memory? Or worse, did you have a pixelated polaroid? He couldn't even call it abstract, it was worse than that!

He swallowed thickly. "Well... it's,"

Your expression dropped, turning narrow the longer it took him to muster up a compliment. You crossed your arms over your chest, and with a huff, spoke out dully:

"I spent all night on it."

"Did you sleep last night?" His gaze flickered from the portrait to you. There wasn't concern in his tone, what you did in your spare time didn't bother him - you were an adult, and knew better than to stay awake late at night. He wasn't going to police you around like a parent.

When you shook your head, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Ah... that explains it,"

His attitude was infuriating you. You had spent an entire night on that painting, and he couldn't even think of one nice thing to say? You were sure if you took it to anyone else, they would compliment it - but of course, you just had to try and impress the great and amazing Kishibe Rohan.

"Explains what?" You grumbled, rolling your eyes to the side sarcastically. He didn't take kindly to your sass, but spoke nothing on the matter.

Instead, he walked to the other side of the room. Prying open a set of drawers to pull out a small, A-4 notebook and a thin ink-pen. Your eyes followed his lithe figure as he walked back toward you, narrowing in suspicion when he then sat on the couch; moving a pillow out the way so you could sit next to him. You didn't give in to what he wanted.

"You mustn't spent all night on these things," He reprimanded, frowning when he realised you were being petty. He was only trying to teach you: "It wears you out. You need to take breaks to ensure your skill doesn't deplete."

You said nothing on the matter. Huffing in disapproval. You didn't need to be taught, you just wanted appraisal - when he realised you weren't coming, he rolled his eyes and repeated a small:

"Look, come here," But offered no chance for you to move of your own accord. An invisible force seemed to push you forward, guiding you rather forcefully toward the couch where you were then plonked down.

Before you could even register what was happening, you found yourself flushing. His hand had coiled its way around your back and he held your hand with his, slipping the ink-pen between your fingers. He used your hand as a sort of puppet; pressing the tip of the pen to the paper gently.

With his lips close to your ear, Rohan murmured a quiet: "I'll show you how." You were flustered, but made no move to stop him - maybe your inexperience was a good thing after all.