#trying to experiment with brush textures again

[thirstywaffles]

haunted

[slattlicker]

can u write maybe some comfort fluff for reader going trough a depressive episode (totally not projecting wdym)

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * a low spoons sort of day ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: a rough morning, a quiet lunch, and a long-distance boyfriend who shows up on your doorstep—and stays. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: this one’s for you, babe. for the days when it’s hard to cry, hard to eat, hard to answer a text—you’re not broken, you’re just tired. and you deserve love anyway. and remember: you are kind, you are smart, you are loved. don’t let anyone dim your light—not even yourself. ♡ i know the original request was for something fluffy, and i hope the comfort & fluff still shines through even if it leaned a little more hurt/comfort than expected.

warnings: hurt/comfort · long-distance relationship · therapist · y/n has depression · depiction of a depressive episode · executive dysfunction · intrusive thoughts/self-isolation themes · difficulty expressing emotions · eating struggles (not ED-specific) · emotional vulnerability/tough conversation · tenderness, softness, and healing cuddles

✧✧✧

you wake up because the light’s too bright.

not because you’re rested. not because you want to.

the sun’s hitting you directly in the face—low, late morning maybe, and sharp enough to hurt. you squint against it but don’t move. not really. just pull the covers a little higher and let your eyes fall shut again.

the room smells stale. your water bottle’s empty. something vaguely crusty’s on the nightstand from two-days-ago's attempt at dinner—probably takeout. you don’t remember. it doesn’t matter.

your phone buzzed sometime around midnight. schlatt’s name lit up the screen with a message that read:

gonna be real busy tomorrow, babe. not sure i’ll be able to call til later. love you. talk soon <3

you’d typed out “it’s okay, good luck <3” and then erased it.

typed it again. erased it again.

settled on a heart emoji and turned your phone face-down.

it wasn’t that you were mad. you weren’t. it just felt like... too much effort. everything does lately.

you know what this is. it’s the weight. the fog. the numbness and the ache. you’ve been through this before—hell, you’ve even sat in the therapy chair and named it. depression. clinical, cyclical, chemical. you know the words. you’ve done the reading.

it still doesn’t make mornings easier.

still doesn’t make the thought of brushing your teeth any less impossible.

you breathe out, long and quiet. your chest feels heavy. your head feels heavier.

but eventually—because you have to—you sit up.

not all at once. just enough to lean forward, elbows on knees, palms to your face.

you don’t cry. that would take energy. all you do is sit there, eyes open, breathing, trying to find the strength to stand up.

✧✧✧

you’re halfway through your soup when your therapist asks, casually:

“so, how’d the sandwich experiment go?”

you sigh. shrug. pick at the bread crust you’ve been slowly tearing into pieces.

“i stared at it for twenty minutes and then put it back in the fridge.”

she hums. not judging. just listening.

“you still have it?”

“yeah.”

“maybe toast it tomorrow. new texture, new try.”

you nod, knowing damn well it’ll sit untouched for another two days before you throw it out. but it feels nice to be given a gentle solution instead of a lecture.

she’s halfway through her tofu rice bowl—same thing she always gets on tuesdays. she’s always warm about it, too. offers you bites even though you never accept. makes quiet comments about the sauce being better this week, or how someone finally fixed the squeaky door to the front office.

she’s easy to be around. familiar.

“you seem... heavier today,” she says eventually, tearing off a piece of your untouched bread and dipping it in her bowl. “wanna talk about that?”

you stir your soup.

“i think i’m the reason i’m alone.”

she doesn’t flinch. just lets the silence breathe for a moment.

you keep going—slow. hesitant. honest.

“i—i told myself i needed space. from people. from everything. i thought i was doing the right thing, you know? like, letting myself rest. not forcing it.”

“and now?”

you press your spoon down. feel it scrape the bottom of the cup.

“now it feels like i never learned how to come back.”

her eyes soften.

“i push people away,” you admit, voice smaller. “and then i punish myself for it. like—of course no one’s here. you made it this way.”

“self-sabotage is sneaky like that,” she says. “feels like protection at first. then it builds walls you forget how to climb.”

you nod. swallow. stir.

she waits a beat longer, then adds—gently:

“but you’re not trapped. not really. just out of practice.”

you glance up.

she offers a small shrug. “you isolated to survive. that’s not weakness. that’s strategy. now we just need new strategies.”

you blink at that.

she nudges your arm with hers.

“start small. text one person when you think you don’t deserve it. let someone see you before you’re ‘fixed.’ remind yourself—connection isn’t a reward. it’s a need.”

you’re quiet. still chewing.

“hey,” she says softly. “you’re here. that matters.”

you offer a crooked smile.

“only because i was bribed with soup.”

she laughs. “see? new strategy already.”

you huff a laugh—small, but real.

for the rest of the session, she keeps it light. talks about a book she’s reading. mentions how the neighbor’s cat keeps sneaking into the front office. you listen. you sip. you chew.

it helps. it's nice to have a conversation with someone who isn't your boyfriend.

when it’s time to leave, she presses a granola bar into your palm like a secret mission and says, “for post-session blood sugar.”

you thank her. she tells you she’ll see you next week.

you nod.

but your smile fades the second you hit the stairwell.

✧✧✧

you sit in your car with the door still open, keys in your hand, soup-to-go container cooling in your lap.

you don’t start the engine. don’t even close the door.

just sit there—half in, half out—like the drive home is some far-off thing you don’t quite have the energy to reach.

your fingers dig into the steering wheel like it might anchor you. like holding onto something will keep you from dissolving.

your phone is face down in the cupholder. still on do not disturb. you haven’t touched it all day.

you know exactly what’s sitting in there.

a text from your mom, asking if you’re mad at her.

a message from robyn, still unread—from three weeks ago.

a photo in the group chat from an inside joke you weren’t part of anymore.

a voice memo from emily that you said you’d listen to “when you felt better.” you never did.

three emails from work. one of them marked “urgent.”

and schlatt—probably just a little heart in response to yours. maybe an “i love you.” maybe nothing, this time.

you can feel your face tightening, your throat closing. you tell yourself not to cry.

you don’t deserve to cry. crying is for people who still try. you haven’t tried. you haven’t reached out. you haven’t done your dishes. you didn’t even put the soup in the fridge last night, just left it on your desk until it curdled.

you’re disgusting.

your chest starts to heave—quiet, shallow hiccups of air you can’t quite catch.

you grip the wheel harder.

you remember the voicemail from your cousin. the one you deleted without listening to, because she always talks for ten minutes and you couldn’t fake interest for ten minutes.

you remember the birthday party you skipped. the friend you “forgot” to text back.

the way you didn’t answer the door when someone came by to check on you.

you remember schlatt asking “are you sure you're okay?” a few days ago—and how you smiled, tight and fake and practiced, and said, “just tired.”

you feel your lip wobble. you dig your nails into the heel of your palm.

you used to cry all the time. when you were a kid. when you were softer. you used to sob in bathrooms and hallways and curled up on the couch with your mom’s old sweater.

now you just… stare. glassy-eyed. stunned.

your body doesn’t know whether it wants to scream or disappear.

you rest your head on the steering wheel. it’s warm. it smells like your skin.

your vision starts to swim.

you’re a terrible friend.

you’re a terrible daughter.

...probably a terrible girlfriend, too.

you’re lucky anyone even wants to text you.

and still, you ignore them.

still, you disappear.

and then you have the audacity to feel lonely.

your breath catches on a sharp inhale. almost a sob.

but no tears come.

not even that.

your chest tightens, rises, falls—too fast, too shallow—but your eyes stay dry.

you press your palms into your eyes anyway, like you can force it out, like pressure might trigger emotion. like grief is a switch you can flip if you just press hard enough.

nothing happens.

you sit there, hunched over the wheel, trembling—not from sadness, exactly, but from the sheer weight of everything you’ve refused to feel.

you want to scream.

you want anything to break the silence inside your head.

but instead, you just sit.

silent. stiff. breath catching like a misfiring engine.

you used to cry easily.

now?

you can’t even muster that.

and the numbness feels worse than the pain ever did.

eventually, your hands fall back into your lap. your grip loosens on the soup cup. the lid’s a little warped now, thumbprint pushed in from holding too tight.

you stare through the windshield—vacant, blank.

you are not okay.

…but you have to keep going, you guess.

✧✧✧

you unlock your door. red key. black door. drop your bag by the shoe rack. kick off your sneakers, one at a time. brace yourself for the stale quiet, the faint funk of laundry that needs folding, the dirty dishes you left in the sink yesterday because you’d “do them tomorrow”.

you don’t brace for this.

the smell hits first—garlic, roasted something, maybe herbs—and your brain short-circuits.

you freeze in the doorway.

the lights are soft. warm. the overhead one’s off, just the little lamp by the bookshelf on.

and your apartment? clean. 

your throw blanket’s folded. the counter’s wiped. the dishes are gone. the trash has been taken out. your couch even looks fluffed.

and then—

“hey, babe.”

you turn, wide-eyed.

and he’s there. he’s here.

schlatt—real, in your kitchen doorway—grinning like he knows he just turned your whole day upside down.

he’s wearing your apron. the ugly one with the cartoon sheep. holding a wooden spoon in one hand and a potholder in the other.

“don’t freak out,” he says, totally unbothered, “but i made chicken parm and also maybe reorganized your fridge.”

you blink at him. your mouth opens. nothing comes out. you feel like your body is buffering.

“how—what—?”

he shrugs. “caught a flight. figured i’d surprise you. you didn’t really think that i wouldn’t want to talk or even text you all day?”

you should smile. you should run to him. you should fall into his arms and laugh and kiss him and say thank god you’re here.

instead, your eyes blur.

your chest goes tight.

and the inside of your mouth tastes like panic.

he steps closer—tentative now, spoon still in hand.

“hey,” he says again, gentler. “you okay?”

you nod, quickly.

then shake your head.

then nod again.

“i—i’m fine,” you whisper. “i just… it’s a lot.”

he sets the spoon down. crosses the room to you slow, careful.

“too much?”

you shake your head again, even though—yeah. it is. it’s all too much. too clean, too warm, too loving, too good.

he stops in front of you. doesn’t reach for you yet. just looks.

you try to smile. it comes out warped.

“i’ve been barely holding it together all day,” you say, voice wobbly. “and then i come home and it’s clean and it smells good and you’re here and i—i’m not okay, and i should be, and that makes me feel like—like a horrible person—”

he catches you as your voice breaks.

wraps you up without hesitation. presses your face to his shoulder.

“hey, hey,” he murmurs. “stop that. don’t do that to yourself.”

your arms wrap around him slowly. your fingers curl in his shirt.

“you weren’t supposed to come today,” you mumble. “i didn’t get the chance to be… better.”

his hands rub slow circles on your back.

“you don’t have to be better,” he says, voice low and steady. “i'm just glad that you're home...would've been really awkward if you had hid out in your car for a few more hours…i probably would have burned dinner."

“…how did you know that i hide out in my car, schlatt?”

he exhales—quiet and sheepish. “because i do the same thing, baby.”

you blink against his chest. something in your ribcage shudders.

he rubs your back again, slow. “sometimes it’s the only place that feels… silent, y’know? like nothing’s expected of you in there. no dishes. no conversation. just…quiet.”

your throat tightens.

“so yeah,” he murmurs. “when you didn’t come in for a while, i figured you were out there, just… trying to be okay.”

he doesn’t say hiding. doesn’t say stalling.

just trying to be okay.

and for some reason, that’s what does it.

not the dinner. not the clean apartment. not even the smell of roasted garlic that’s still floating in from the kitchen.

it’s the quiet recognition.

the unspoken i get it.

and suddenly, your face crumples.

there’s no lead-up. no gasping breath or dramatic sob. just—release.

your shoulders cave inward. your fingers tighten in his shirt. the first hot tear slides down your cheek, then another, then another, and you just let it happen.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t freeze up.

doesn’t try to shush you or fix it or talk you out of it.

he just holds you.

softly. firmly. like you’re soft and warm and real, not just a rapidly deteriorating body.

his thumb grazes the back of your neck. his other hand cradles your waist, keeping you grounded while your chest shakes and your eyes spill and your words fall apart before they even make it to your mouth.

you’re not even sure what you’re crying about anymore.

it’s not just the depression.

not just the fear or the shame or the aching weight you’ve been dragging around.

it’s the relief too.

that he’s here.

that you don’t have to carry it alone tonight.

eventually, when the tears slow and your body’s less curled up and more leaned in, he presses a kiss to your temple.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “you hear me?”

you nod into his shoulder. he smells like your detergent.

“and hey,” he adds, a little lighter, “i made garlic bread too. with cheese. so i’m basically a five-star restaurant who's also your boyfriend.”

you sniff out a weak laugh. “you’re silly.”

“and you’re underfed. let’s fix that.”

✧✧✧

you eat in comfortable silence.

well—you eat.

he scarfs down two pieces of garlic bread and half his plate in ten minutes flat. you take smaller bites. the chicken’s soft, the sauce a little sweet. he must’ve used your good oregano—the one in the back of the cabinet, the one you keep forgetting you have.

you’re halfway through your food when he leans back in his chair, eyes soft, voice careful.

“can i ask you something?”

you glance up. nod.

“was today one of the bad ones?”

you lower your fork.

“yeah.”

he doesn’t push. just nods. lets you take your time.

you pick at the corner of your napkin.

“i’ve just… felt really alone lately,” you say. “and i keep trying to tell myself it’s temporary. or logical. or earned. but it doesn’t help.”

he nods again—not like he understands everything, but like he’s willing to try.

“i’ve been pulling away from people. even you,” you admit, quieter now. “and i hate it, but it feels like… like i don’t deserve anyone when i’m like this. like, i know it’s messed up thinking, but it’s so loud sometimes, and i just…i believe it.”

“can i say something?”

you nod, cautiously.

“you gotta stop thinking everyone’s gonna leave.”

your stomach twists. not from the food.

you stab at your chicken. “i’m not—i don’t think that, i just... i don’t know. i’ve been left before.”

“i know,” he says gently. “and that sucked. but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen every time.”

you shrug. “it kind of does, though. it’s a pattern.”

“or maybe it’s just fear talking,” he says. “fear has a way of convincing you that it’s a fact.”

"yeah, but...my fears have been confirmed before, schlatt. more than once..."

“i know they have,” his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “but baby... do you ever notice how you stopped giving people the chance to prove you wrong?”

"the only one who proved me wrong...was you, honey."

his mouth quirks—just a little, just for a second.

“then let that count for something.” his thumb keeps tracing, slow and steady. “’cause i’m not the exception. i’m just the start.”

you laugh a bit at that, shaking your head. "schlatt, it's not...it's not going to work like that. so easily..."

“i know,” he says, no hesitation. “i’m not askin’ you to flip a switch. we both know that relationships...romantic and platonic, take a ton of work.”

he squeezes your hand, just enough to ground you. you squeeze back, a little frustrated.

"everything is work, it feels like. i'm just...a huge work in progress. never to be completed. never to be fixed."

“you’re not broken,” he says, without missing a beat.

then, softer—more certain:

“you’re growing, and it is going to be tough to work through,” his fingers curl around yours, gentle but sure. “but you gotta understand something: i’m not here because you earned it. or because you were happy. or easy to deal with. or perfect."

he reaches for your hand. warm. grounding.

“i’m here because i love you.”

your breath catches.

“and yeah, sometimes it’s messy. sometimes you push me away. sometimes i have to step in before you spiral. but that’s not a dealbreaker, baby. that’s just... love.”

you don’t say anything. not yet. you just stare at him like you’re trying to memorize the shape of that sentence.

and he keeps going, quieter:

“i know it’s hard to believe. but people like me? we’re real. and we don’t just leave because things get hard. we stay. we show up. and you need to stop holding your breath waiting for that to change.”

your eyes burn. you try to blink it away, but it’s no use. the tears are already gathering.

“i don’t know how to believe that yet,” you whisper.

"let me ask you a really simple question, y/n. do you want me in your life?"

your voice catches in your throat. it takes a moment before you can answer.

“…yeah,” you say, barely audible. “of course i do.”

"good. because i want you too. and i will always want you in my life."

his forehead tips against yours, eyes closed like he’s sealing a promise.

“no version of you scares me off,” he murmurs. “not the tired one. not the sad one. not even the version that forgets she’s worthy of being loved.”

his hand squeezes yours again—firm, warm, anchoring.

“i’m not going anywhere. you got it? you're my girl.”

your breath catches.

not from the weight of your sadness—but from the warmth of his words. the certainty in them. like there was never a doubt. and it's really hard to try to argue with. because no matter how much your brain starts fishing for the rejection in his tone, you can't find anything.

"schlatt..."

"y/n, you're my girl because you're always there for me too. you're not some parasite, stuck to me, stealing all my energy and love. you're an amazing girlfriend who cares for me too. you're there when i'm having a tough time, you make me smile with all your stupid jokes, and you're always cheering for me on the sidelines."

your lips part—but no words come out.

not because you don’t have anything to say, but because he just said everything you never let yourself hope someone would.

your chest tightens, but not the way it usually does. this time, it’s not panic. it’s pressure—of something cracking open. something soft. something healing.

“you really… think that?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

he huffs a quiet laugh. “baby, i know that.”

he pulls your joined hands to his chest, right over his heart. “you love hard, y’know that? and yeah, sometimes you get scared, and sometimes you spiral—but that love of yours? it’s never been a burden. not once.”

his voice dips. “you’re not hard to love, y/n. you've just got to let people in.”

✧✧✧

the dishes clink quietly in the sink.

you’re not really talking—just standing side by side, sleeves rolled up, warm water running. you wash. he rinses. sometimes your arms bump. sometimes he hums a bit under his breath. it’s not awkward. just soft. simple.

you cried again. of course you did. he didn’t say anything when you did—just handed you a towel, kissed your forehead, and asked if you wanted to help clean up. so you did.

now the plates are stacked, the counters wiped, and your kitchen doesn’t look like a war zone anymore. neither do you.

you let out a long, quiet breath, drying your hands on a dish towel. schlatt leans against the counter, watching you. something fond tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“what?” you ask, self-conscious but curious.

he grins. “i was gonna wait ‘til we were under the blanket, but i’m too proud of myself.”

he crosses the room, crouches by his bag, and—very dramatically—unearths a large, black garbage bag from within.

you stare at him. “what the hell is that?”

“no questions,” he says, tugging the knot loose. “just…have faith.”

and then—

out comes your 1-foot tall, soft-as-sin, midnight-colored rammy plush. a little wrinkled from travel.

you gasp. “you hid him?!”

he looks smug. “had to. no way i was gonna walk through airport security with that thing under my arm.”

“you flew with him??”

“he had his own seat.”

you laugh—one hand to your chest, the other reaching for rammy like he’s a long-lost limb.

“i thought i left him forever…”

“you did,” schlatt says, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, chin on your shoulder. “and i rescued him from the side of my bed. like the brave, selfless man i am.”

you melt back into him, plush squished between your arms, giggling.

“you know,” he says, “he kept fallin’ over on the plane. guy’s got no balance.”

you laugh—real and loud and unexpected. “he’s got noodles for legs.”

“he’s got your sleep habits, too. zero posture. just collapses.”

“shut up,” you snort, cuddling rammy tighter.

you’re quiet a second.

then, softly: “thank you.”

his voice dips. “anytime, baby.”

✧✧✧

you pull your knees up, scoot a little closer to him on the couch, rammy tucked beside you so you can still cuddle with schlatt.

and schlatt—without hesitation—pulls the blanket off the backrest and drapes it over your shoulders like muscle memory. like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“so,” he murmurs, voice dropping low and fond, “you gonna let me watch some stupid reality show with you now? or are we cuddlin’ in complete silence like psychos?”

you laugh. “i mean, you are kind of insane.”

“and you’re emotionally avoidant,” he shoots back, smirking. “we balance each other out.”

you roll your eyes, but it makes your chest feel lighter.

he settles beside you and nudges your arm with his. “hey. got your phone nearby?”

you groan. “schlaaatt…”

“just hear me out,” he says, voice soft. “text one person. just one. someone you miss. even if it’s just ‘hi.’ that’s what your therapist suggested, yeah? you should try it.”

you make a face. “they probably think i’m ignoring them.”

“or,” he says, “they probably think you’re struggling. and they miss you, too.”

you fidget with your sleeve. “what if they don’t want to hear from me?”

“then they won’t answer,” he says simply. “and that’ll suck. but it won’t kill you. and you’ll know how they really feel. but if they do answer?”

he smiles. “you’ll remember how many people don’t want to leave.”

you chew your lip.

then—tentatively—you pick up your phone.

type out a simple message.

hey. i know it’s been a while. i miss you. hope you’re doing okay.

your thumb hovers.

he watches you, patient.

you hit send.

“okay,” you mutter. “done. no turning back.”

“atta girl,” he grins, kissing your temple. “now pick a show with at least one toxic relationship in it. i need to feel morally superior.”

you scroll through a few options, then pause on one. “this one has people getting engaged after like… thirty-six hours.”

“perfect,” he says. “set the bar low. i’ll look amazing by comparison.”

you nudge your shoulder into his. “you already do.”

he quiets at that. just for a second. but it’s a warm kind of quiet. like he heard it. like he’s storing it somewhere safe.

you hit play.

and for a while, it’s just easy. the couch is soft, the blanket is warm, rammy’s squished between your hip and the cushion like he’s always belonged there, and schlatt’s laugh rumbles low against your side every time someone says something outrageous.

you don’t even notice how relaxed you’ve gotten until he reaches for your hand again—and this time, you meet him halfway.

thumbs brushing. fingers interlocked.

no big speeches. no heavy moments.

just… ease.

and then your phone buzzes.

you glance over, expecting maybe a news alert or spam—

but it’s a reply.

from robyn, who you texted earlier.

you blink.

then read the message again.

hey! i’ve missed you. i’m really glad you reached out. wanna get lunch this weekend? my treat :)

your stomach swoops.

you stare.

schlatt notices. “what’s up?”

you show him the screen.

“well,” his whole face lights up. “would you look at that!”

you’re quiet a second—biting your lip, trying not to cry for the fourth time tonight.

“i guess… maybe i don’t have to start over,” you murmur. “maybe i just have to start again.”

“babe,” he says, pulling you in tight, “that was poetic as shit.”

you snort. “shut up.”

“no, no, keep going,” he grins, smothering your face in kissy pecks now. “say something else profound. i’m in the mood for growth and domesticity.”

you giggle, swatting at him, squirming under the affection.

he doesn’t stop. not until you’re laughing again—like really laughing.

and then he pulls you in, settles the both of you under the blanket again, and murmurs:

“see? not so hard to let people in.”

and this time, you don’t argue.

you just squeeze his hand. and let yourself feel loved.

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * end notes ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ thank you for being here. if you saw yourself in this piece, i hope you also saw the care you deserve. you are not a burden. your softness is not a flaw. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

[indigo6f00ff]

i think what's been putting me off of digital art for a while is that the way i was doing it just took like too long and was too tedious for my brain to want to focus on so i'm trying out New Ways Of Doing Things that have similar results to my old style (imo) and this is a result of Practice Arting. anyway here's the guy with the same name as the character from cloudy with a chance of meatballs

[chiropteracupola]

The flower!!

lavender's a good plant for bees!

[arolesbianism]

Another quick drawing from last night

[texeoghea]

i think my quest for the next year might be to try and learn to replicate multiple styles better, because i want to use all sorts of different tools and textures and techniques but theres only a few things that i feel look good with the style that i have. and its a good style that i like! but i want to be able to experiment more efficiently, because i think that will help me learn better. i wont figure out how to use a tool if im using it for the wrong thing u know

[muletia]

Oh my heart! ;u; I simply love your fics!

Imagine first time when obsessed!Optimus receives physical contact with reader. It wouldn't even be that big thing, just mere touch of hand when reader gives/receives something to/from Optimus.

thank you <3333

imagine being the first human he’s ever touched

word count: 420

When your phone slips from your hands, optimus reacts instantly. With a speed unnatural for a being of his size, he catches the falling device in his servo before it can hit the ground and be lost forever. It looks ridiculous—the phone is microscopic compared to him—but you’re not laughing. After all, he just saved you from a massive and unnecessary expense.

"Oh my gosh, thank you so much," you exhale in relief. The conversation with him had absorbed you so completely that you momentarily forgot you were even holding your phone. A big mistake, especially when leaning your forearms against a railing several meters above the ground.

Optimus returns the device to you, satisfied to have been of help. As you take it back into your hands, your skin brushes against his metal ever so slightly. The contact is brief, less than a second, but it’s enough to leave a significant impression on him. You’re warm and so incredibly soft. He has never encountered a texture like yours before— so pleasant, so delicate. It’s unfamiliar, unknown, but addictive. Electric. He could swear he felt sparks when you touched him, igniting something uncontrollable, a fire that would burn within him for a long time — untamed, wild, fierce.

He wonders if your entire body is this soft. Does the rest of your arm match the velvet of your hand? Or perhaps your hand isn’t the right measure — perhaps there’s a way to be even softer. He longs to feel it, to experience it for himself. He wants to touch you again. But he shouldn’t, he can’t. That fleeting moment must suffice, even though he knows it’s impossible. No amount of contact with you would ever be enough.

He already knows he’ll keep thinking back to this moment, trying to recreate the sensation of your skin on his servo. He knows he’ll find himself staring at that exact spot where the contact occurred; feels that the sparks gave life to desire and passion, a force he won’t be able to control. He thought you had already laid all your cards on the table, that nothing about you could surprise him anymore, that it would end with him merely fantasizing about being in your presence. He thought he could live with that, or at least grow accustomed to it. Oh, how gravely mistaken he was.

"You are most welcome, but, please, be careful in the future."

You smile, and his spark glows brighter.

The sparks still dance across his servo.

[inzuinzudesu]

Please zoom in to see small Kakashi! 😭 He kinda disappeared 😭😭😭

Text translation: "Infinite Tsukuyomi" (無限月読)

Drew these in mid-July - when I started doing digital again actually 🤔

Took inspo from the Balut - a street food in my country; I hear a lot of people are grossed out by it?? Don't know if this is controversial, but I personally love the dish. Essentially grew up with it after all!

Wanted to draw something that feels a bit creepy but still has a sense of mysticality to it???

Meh, don't know if the feeling got across or not

I thought since Halloween is coming up, might as well post this haha

About the process of drawing these!

These were very fun to draw! I messed around a lot with photoshop to achieve this glowy dusty effect?? From the brushes to the blending options, and maaan the filter gallery 😭😭 Such fun tools to play with.

The main brush I used to achieve the dusty effect is called "KYLE Bonus Chunky Charcoal", in the Kyle Dry Media brush set. If you can, I recommend checking it out! There are definitely other ways to achieve this sort of effect, though. You can probably just use some sort of scatter texture brush and it'd work just fine. Studying is all about trying things out, right? This is like my first experiment with this type of effect, and I was happy at the time. Now looking back, these could most definitely turn out better, no? I really went overboard with just the effect and forgot everything else. The blood and the plate looks horrible man. If you look closely, you can see the sketch lines haha! I got lazy!

Also, for Obito's pose, I relied heavily on a reference I found on pinterest 😭 I wish I'd changed the pose more tbh, it looks really boring.

And I gotta say, these just look underwhelming in this smaller size. Like reaaaaaally underwhelming. Would love to show you the big version, but oh well! 😭😭😭

Brain vomit time!

I love the prospect (??? is that the right word) of Obito being all god-like and powerful after Tsukuyomi, having control over everybody's dream worlds?? And like he jumps from dream to dream, but stops at Kakashi's and picks it apart???? Observing and tormenting Kakashi with his childhood form that has both sharingan???????

Kakashi would probably be confused with Obito's appearance at first, asking questions like "What are you up to this time, Obito?", but then wouldn't receive any answers??? Like little man would just stare at him creepily, and Kakashi would push this to the back of his mind for a while???

Umm below is the technical stuff, I guess??

My headcanon is that the time span in the dream world is the same as the real world. Meaning, 30 years in the dream world feel incredibly real, with no gap of memories. It's essentially a different timeline. Whether this makes sense or not, who knows haha!

Let's talk about the dream events and how they affect Kakashi! Due to Sakumo and team Minato still living, this Kakashi probably wouldn't be as lax nor sad as in canon?? The relationships and personalities would be different huh???? I'm having a headache thinking about this, so let's just say that: 1. Sakumo lived because the villagers weren't as harsh, but the animosity still remained. Kakashi still developed this obsession with rules, but he doesn't blame his dad as much. 2. Kannabi happened, Kakashi was given the sharingan, along with Obito's ninja way. Team Minato thought that Obito died for a while, but Obito is 'rescued' by Madara, same as canon. 3. Rin would still be targeted by Madara, but Obito came in time to help with the situation, blocking Kakashi's chidori from connecting with Rin's chest, but also knocking Kakashi away. Then, a Mist enemy took advantage of the situation to attack Kakashi, injuring him gravely, to the point where everybody thought he died. With this, Obito activated his Mangekyou and exploded on the Mist enemies, killing them all. Meanwhile, Rin tried to heal Kakashi, just barely saving him. As Obito had dealt with the enemies, there was no need to rush back to the village, and the Sanbi wouldn't be released till then. And so, they waited for Minato to come and help with Rin's seal. (About Obito's Mangekyou activating with Kakashi's death - would that be too far-fetched? My reasoning is that Obito would think that it was his fault Kakashi died, because it was Obito who knocked Kakashi away into the enemy, no?) 4. Because there's no one to become 'Madara' now that Obito came back to the village, Naruto is born, Minato and Kushina live.

5. The Uchiha massacre doesn't happen.

(Everything is incredibly convenient, because I don't have the brain power to make it otherwise, please help 😭😭) -> In conclusion, this Kakashi resembles the Kakashi of the real world, but less depressed and self-destructive??? He loves his living comrades. My man still has a massive obsession (more like crush lol) with Obito by the way, just like in canon. He just doesn't show it.

-> About Obito of the dream world (I'mma call him Dreambito), he is all sunshine and brightness, but he exhibits some dark thoughts and deep rage from time to time due to the residual effects of Madara's seal on his heart. The seal has been removed though. And he has this obsession with Kakashi's safety, as he almost pushed him to his death once, albeit accidentally.

-> I was debating whether to just start this dream world at the point where Obito got crushed, or to start it at the beginning of Kakashi's life. In the end, I went with the latter, cuz ya know, I like the idea of Kakashi living through a whole life all over again, just to finally come to the realization that it's all a dream. Does that make any sense at all??

Obito (child form - 13) first appears in front of Kakashi at the start of the Naruto series, when Kakashi has officially become the teacher of team 7. (Let's not change this okay, my brain would fry haha I'm not gonna deny that the idea of Obito and Kakashi becoming co-teachers of team 7 isn't incredibly fun though)

After the first encounter with this child Obito, Kakashi begins to have flashes of memories from the real world, and he hallucinates about people's deaths - mostly about the members of team Minato. This young Obito is always in the corner of his vision, most of the time silent, sometimes saying things like "You trash" to Kakashi whenever he encounters Rin, who is whole and grown up in this world.

Kakashi exhibits more destructive behaviors as this goes on, the line between the dream events and the real events slowly blurring. He takes more dangerous solo missions out of the village, and shows strong signs of PTSD, just like in canon.

The two Obitos would contrast each other?? Like Dreambito would be all concerned with Kakashi's decline in health (both mental and physical) and goes to confront and comfort him, many times over because that's how it is with them??? Dreambito might even move in with Kakashi, being the obsessive and protective Uchiha that he is. Meanwhile young Obito would be an absolute asshole, saying all these horrible things to poison Kakashi's mind haha

At this point, Dreambito'd be in the last stage on the journey of becoming Hokage, gaining the all the trust from the Uchiha clan, the village elders and the villagers as a whole. I don't know about Rin, though? Should she be romantically involved with Dreambito or no? Would Kakashi dream that??

I think Kakashi's dream would somewhat focus more on Dreambito being happy and satisfied, to be honest. I know there's Sakumo and team Minato as a whole, but as a degenerate shipper, I love the obsession between them🥺

I don't think Obito would directly interfere with what Kakashi is dreaming about, i.e. changing Dreambito's behavior, or like the political situation of the villages (?). But he would most definitely insert himself in Kakashi's psyche, no? Mess it up real good.

Kakashi would slowly realize that he is living a dream world, after all the flashes of memories that Obito generates in his mind. He would most definitely deny it at first though, I think? And then it would reach a point where Kakashi remembers everything from the real world, but he has also lived through 30 something years of the dream world, meaning he'd be in his 60s?? Does that make sense or no?

And so, while Kakashi now knows that everything is a dream, his feelings for everybody in the dream are real. If that's the case, is it really that important anymore that he escapes the Tsukuyomi? Can this dream world really be called fake at this point? Is there even anything in the real world for him to return to?

What's to say 'the real world' isn't a dream at this point?

-> Kakashi would completely close in on himself after this. He still does things that he would normally do, but it'd be all an act. He would feel completely isolated.

-> Dreambito would notice and confront him again, now that they live in the same house??? Kakashi would like say everything is fine and try to act more convincingly, but Dreambito would still know something's wrong????

-> Obito is observing from afar, who knows what his motivation is at this point.

Because this is Kakashi's dream world, I suppose he would have the power to change this world to his will, now that he's aware? This is like a lucid dream situation???

The people in the dream have their own will up until this point, but Kakashi can somewhat change their behavior if he really wants to, whether it's subconsciously or not??? Example: He can probably will Dreambito to kiss him or something lol

So on and so forth!

Man, I'm having waaay too much fun imagining the pain. There are probably like a thousand things that doesn't make sense haha! I do wonder how this sort of storyline should end though, does anybody have any ideas? Personally, I prefer slow burn with a (sort of) happy ending, but ya know, angst all the way is good too! I can't write, but I love thinking about all the things that could happen 😭😭 English isn't my first language, so this might have felt weird to read at some point haha

If anybody wants to develop this, please feel free to do so! And if you've read this far, thank you for reading this absolute brain vomit of mine! I love to yap, as you can tell haha Have a good day!

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Think I'm gonna paint something after finishing this.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Wally teaching the reader to paint

★ It started with him handing you a canvas and brush. Placing various bottles of acrylic paint next to you. “What should I paint?” you ask “Whatever you see. Or what's on your mind." Wally says. Giving you the creative freedom to paint what you want.

★ Wally teaches you slowly. Like how he paints. His calm voice never rushes you. And he doesn’t mind repeating things over and over again until you get it right. Wally just watches, listens, then continues. Guiding you through the process.

★ He shows you how to mix the colors just right. How to make something feel bright or soft with the shades you choose. Showing you how to add texture, making something you made seem more realistic.

★ “It’s all part of the process, mistakes make it interesting.” You experiment. Try new brushes, mix colors you haven't before, paint over parts that don't seem quite right. And soon, the mistakes becomes part of your piece. “See?” he hums out. “It’s more interesting now.”

★ Wally loves whatever you've created. Doesn’t matter if you think its bad. “It's lovely! A perfect piece.” Home creaks loudly in the background. "They agree with me." Wally translates for you. Somehow, that makes you feel like a real artist.

★ He frames it and puts it on display inside his Home. So he gets to see it every day. Hanging it where all his friends can see. “Now it’s where it belongs.” He declares. Only the best spot for your masterpiece!

[arabellasleopardcoat]

The girl with the pearl necklace (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You marry Daemon to secure an alliance. But surprisingly, you find a haven in him.

Warnings: Fluff. Smut. Oral (F receiving) Talks of race, colorism, racism, and self-esteem issues.

A/N: This has to be my most personal fic. It might not be as universal because it is part of my personal experience with race as a mixed person living in what is essentially a mixed region. I hope I do not get a bad response, but I will remind you what the title of my blog says.

“YOUR HAIR IS ugly.” The girl says, displeased. She is trying to comb through your hair with some coconut oil, but instead of curling prettily, your hair just falls flat. She has been at it for at least half an hour, her tugs to your hair getting increasingly more painful.

This time, you cannot hide the flinch. Pain, you had excused with being her first day. Making a mess, with her being unused to your hair. But calling you ugly? She was but a serving girl, she had no right.

The girl looks horrified at what she has just said. She is barely fourteen. But yet again, you are too. You have never called anyone ugly to their faces. You keep those kinds of thoughts to yourself.

“She is young, milady.” The older maid, the one that is supposed to supervise her, says. She smooths your hair back, trying to fix it. Her touch gets more and more desperate the more she tries. Your hair will simply not obey. The younger one has put so much product on your hair, it looks greasy and unwashed.

You stare at your features in the mirror. The lighter skin, the shock of unruly hair, not quite a wave, not quite a coil, but rather something in the middle. Bad hair, your previous maids called it. You wonder why you bothered trying with maids again.

It is your cousin’s wedding. A lovely young woman, with beautiful dark hair that you bet never reacts this way.

“I am sorry, milady.” The younger maid offers.

Your eyes are still fixated on your mirror. You wonder if your mother ever has these troubles too. With her sleek hair, and foreign features, you doubt anyone dares call her ugly. She may not have a title, as you do, but she was once regarded as the most beautiful woman in Lys.

But you. Oh, you. With your too wide nose, but too upturned to be a dornish one. With your high cheekbones in a short face. With dark eyelashes, purple eyes, and hair that is not quite right.

It screams outsider. It screams, not here, not there. Not a famed beauty in Lys, not quite the Sword of the Morning.

“Get out.” You say, to the serving girl. “Get out, both of you.”

You need to wash your hair three times for all the product to come out. You are late to the wedding.

The serving girl is relocated to the kitchens, where no one needs to talk to her. The older one is sent to tend to your father. You pass her sometimes, in the hallways of Starfall, and wonder if she is thinking your hair is ugly too.

You wonder the same thing on the day your fate changes. You are getting dressed when you see her, an ill omen in the middle of Starfall. Prince Qoren has summoned all the unwed noble ladies of Dorne to Sunspear, wishing to announce something. You think it can’t be anything good, considering he has refused to use a royal proclamation to do so.

The travel to Sunspear is taxing. You travel to the capital accompanied by your mother, a day before the actual meeting is set to take place. It allows the two of you to spend the night in a manse before having to meet the royal family.

She doesn’t know how to fix your hair. Your mother’s hair is pale silver, easy to manage and twist in the ways women up north prefer. She had tried hard to tame yours as a child, spraying it with water and stretching the curls with a brush so it laid flat. It never seemed to work as it did in hers.

You pin your hair up, a clip made of pearls and amethysts keeping it up. You do not have the same texture most women here have, that ensures gorgeous volume, so you play to your strengths, showcasing the deep color you have and using it as a backdrop for gorgeous accessories.

Your dress is chosen with great care. A deep lavender, with a tasteful cleavage, held at your shoulders by twin brooches of falling stars. Not even hearing your mother say you look beautiful eases your anxiety. You had seen her, the servant. She only appeared in your life when something was about to happen.

You are not the superstitious kind, but when you stand in a line in front of Prince Qoren’s throne with all the noble maidens of Dorne, you know you were right. That woman was a bad omen.

Prince Qoren smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I am glad all of you chose to accept my invitation.” He stands. All the women in the room drop into a curtsy. “When I look at you, I see the best this Kingdom has to offer. It makes me proud. And it makes me confident enough to know I can ask this of you.”

You tense. Whatever he is going to ask is something bad, you can already tell. Some of the more clueless girls in the room look flattered by the delicate compliment, but it is a tactic you know well. You have been mocked enough to know that when someone compliments you so elaborately, a but usually follows. And it tends to be devastating.

His kind demeanor isn’t fooling you. Not in the least.

“We have never coddled our women, as the other Kingdoms do. War is coming for us, and we need strong allies. The Iron Throne offers us their support, but as always, it comes with a price.”

War. Of course it comes down to it. You have heard your parents whispering about it when they think you cannot hear. How Prince Qoren is thinking of sending his troops, instead of his money. How he expects your brother or father to lead them, sometimes against the Triarchy, sometimes against the Iron Throne.

It seems he has made his choice. Against the Triarchy. Your heart is seized by the sudden terror of the thought of your father going to war and not coming home. His sword, Prince Qoren called him.

Your house has been Dorne’s sword for decades. Ever since the first Dayne picked up their sword from the heart of a flaming star, you have defended the Kingdom against their enemies. Your very home once burned because of it.

Amongst the tales of flaming swords and fallen stars, you had never thought war would touch your home. Your brother was the current wielder of Dawn. Your father the head of your house. They would have to fight.

“A marriage pact. From a daughter of Dorne, to a Targaryen Prince. To bind our kingdoms, to ensure peace in this new alliance we embark. Dorne must remain unbowed, unbent, unbroken. House Martell has no daughters of their own to offer, so we ask one of you to go on our stead. It’s us who will pay your dowry, and you shall always have a home here.”

His words barely register as you brood about the upcoming war. You have heard of the Crabfeeder, and his brutality. You think of your kind, kind brother, and his sweet smile. He is a few years younger than you, untested in battle yet.

Some girls cheer. You look at your mother and notice she has the same stricken look you must be sporting. Some of the other parents talk animatedly between themselves, calculating the potential such a match offers their daughters. None seem to realize what it means.

War. War will come for Dorne, and the situation might turn out so bad, proud Prince Qoren will need the dragons’ help. The once unbowed man is being made to bow so low his forehead is touching the floor.

Prince Qoren raises a hand, quieting the hall.

“I am not asking for volunteers. I simply wished to gaze upon you myself, and decide who will marry Daemon Targaryen.”

Mumbles start again, some girls sounding disgruntled. Others preen and titter, trying to attract the Prince’s gaze. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the wall in front of you.

You would rather not marry this Daemon Targaryen. The politics in the other kingdoms are not your forte, but you have a vague notion of him being the brother to the current King. He must have a dragon, of course. And you think he is the one who has been in the conflict at the Stepstones, so he must be some sort of warrior.

No matter how much of a catch he might be, you wish to stay. If war is truly coming, you cannot bear to think of being separated from your family. Your mother will need you, when your father and brother are called away. And you don’t imagine yourself in a foreign land, waiting for news about them on your own.

Prince Qoren makes his way down the line of maidens. You barely spare him a glance, your mind thousands of miles away. But he pauses in front of you, looking at the shooting stars in your shoulders, the deep lavender of your dress.

“I hear Daemon Targaryen likes his women fair.” He comments. “And you are the fairest of us all.”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. It takes all of your willpower not to fidget under his gaze. You give him an awkward smile.

Prince Qoren reaches to touch the brooch. His hands are elegant, fingers long and lean. He is about your mother’s age, and wears it just as well.

“Lady Dayne, is it?”

“Yes, my Prince.” You say, meeting his eyes. You may not be a classic dornish beauty, but you were still raised by the most charming woman in Lys. There are hardly any other women with manners as refined as yours, and you know all about the games men in power enjoy playing.

You cannot fawn over him. You cannot show him weakness. Because if you do, you will be common in his eyes, unespecial. It is not about beauty. It never is. That thought has given you great comfort during the years.

“How fitting. My dearest sword will be the one to defend her kingdom.”

Your hands begin to sweat. His choice is predictable. It is the same thing you had been thinking about your father and brother, House Dayne is the sword of Dorne. And swords, even more feminine ones, are only useful when war comes.

It doesn’t make it easier, that you should have expected it. It only makes your chest hurt. You do not dare look at your mother.

Instead, you drop into a curtsy and look at Qoren Martell as if he has made you the happiest woman in the world.

“I will be honored, my Prince.”

He smiles.

“Please, call me Qoren. We are to be family now.”

You look at your mother, insides turning to ice. You wonder how long until he takes you away from her.

In the end, it only takes a month. Qoren had been eager to depart and fix the realm’s issues. You now know plenty about the war in the Stepstones. Apparently, your future husband had secured the victory, giving the killing blow to the leader of the opposing army. But while won, the threat to your Kingdom remains. The Triarchy shall always reform, and not even the death of the Crabfeeder can stop them. Like one of those awful serpents from myth, you cut off its head and two more appear.

Pulling your support as the Triarchy was losing had been a bad move. They blamed Dorne for their defeat, and the Iron Throne thought the dornish were cowardly, only making their choice when it was clear who would lose. To avoid petty revenges and more bloodshed, Dorne needed new allies. And you needed them fast.

“We negotiated a new title for you.” Qoren tells you, as the carriage takes you from the docks and towards the Red Keep. “When you marry, you will become a Princess too, instead of remaining a Lady.”

“That sounds exciting.” You give him a bright smile. It's a very genuine one. Hearing yourself announced in such a manner would please you. “It will be strange, of course, changing it.”

“Nonsense.” Qoren laughs. “Only the best for my daughter.”

You falter, and decide to peer out of the window to hide your expression from him. You do not want him to think you are ungrateful.

The night is awfully cold, but you barely feel it. You are dressed in a purple velvet dress, still amazed by the material. You had never worn something so expensive, or made of such a warm fabric. It has the traditional dornish cut, with a plunging cleavage, but you find the added long sleeves fascinating.

The royal family had spared no expense in preparing your trousseau. As a daughter of House Martell, only the best would do. Obviously, all in their colors. This purple velvet gown was one of the few purple items you had been allowed to bring. It saddened you, having to forsake the color. You had always felt pretty in purple, since it matched your eyes.

You weren’t too sure how you felt about everything. Being sent to protect your kingdom and, by extension, your family from war was a great thing. But you were also being asked to leave your identity behind.

Never having left Dorne before, the journey had excited you, but also made you feel acutely lonely. And the thought of having to let behind your family, your colors, and even your name, only served to make you feel worse.

Your father would not be the one giving you away during your wedding, nor would your maiden cloak be the one of House Dayne. Instead, you would wear the sun and spear of House Martell.

But at this moment, as Qoren gets out of the carriage and extends you a hand, you are a Dayne. The purple dress acts a beacon, attracting the gaze of every servant in the vicinity. You stand tall, a star pendant hanging between your breasts.

You will enter decked on your colors. You will greet your future husband as you are, dressed in royal purple. Be a Dayne one last time, before war takes even that from you.

You breathe in and out, the polluted night sky so different from the beautiful stars in Dorne. This is it, you think, a chance to start over. To be whoever you wish to be. These people do not know what a dornishwoman should look like, or how she should behave. They do not know your hair is odd, and so are your eyes. They will only know what you want them to know.

“Go change, my sword. Your maids have selected a dress.” Qoren places his hand between your shoulder blades, pushing you towards the Red Keep. Your smile falls. For a second, you had thought you could attend the feast as you were, draped in your familiar purple and silver. “Make us all proud.”

You should have known better. But it is no matter now. A new life awaits you. Not even Qoren can sour your mood. You square your shoulders and smile.

So focused you are on your inner motivational speech, you do not notice the man watching you, his features covered by a black hood.

The day of your marriage, Daemon presents you with a beautiful pearl necklace. It is made of the purest pearls, with the biggest one you have ever seen right in the middle. It is bigger than the fingertip of your thumb, a perfect circle, roughly the size of a gold dragon.

“My cousin helped me commission this.” He says, during the wedding feast. He presents it to you in a small box, insides lined with velvet. As you reach for it, Daemon closes it, nearly catching your fingers with it. You laugh, startled. He grins at you. “Ah, I want to help you put it on.”

Your fingers fiddle with the simple silver chain you wear, star pendant hanging between your breasts. The hesitation must show on your face because Qoren, at your side, answers for you.

“She is honored, I am sure. Such a gorgeous jewel, to sit in the neck of the greatest beauty Dorne has to offer.”

You smile, trying not to let the sudden flare up of bad memories the words bring you. You remember a young girl, calling your hair ugly. Your grandmother’s face, sneering as you passed her in the hallways. Half-breed, she says, after having too much wine. Not quite right.

The subtle, more hidden, cruelties of girlhood that made your heart ache. When you did not make the list of the most beautiful girls some page was making. How much of a late bloomer you were, by dornish standards. How you had to wait so long for your first kiss, when it seemed like all the other girls were having them already.

Will this be all your life will ever be? Looking for the poison dripping from each word? Doubting every compliment?

You give Daemon what you hope is a seductive look, from beneath dark lashes. You are not good at seduction, having been an observer most of your life. But you are good at pretending.

It has worked, so far. Your arrival, on Qoren’s arm and with an honor guard fit for a Queen, had made people look at you differently. Men, specially, look at you as something exotic. They whisper about your Lyseni mother, and the tricks you must know how to perform. It fills you with dread because once again your looks set you apart, and you don’t quite feel like a person. You had hoped things would be different here.

And they are. Their attention is different, but it’s still wrong and you don’t quite believe them. They only want you because of the novelty, because of rumors about dornishwomen, about how your mother trapped your father. Not because you are beautiful or desirable. It’s sickening.

“Come, husband. Take my necklace off.” And Daemon obeys you, coming to stand behind you. Before he can begin to fumble with your hair, you reach for your hair on your own and lift it to expose your nape. You twist it into a pretend up do, holding it up with your hand.

The gesture is as languid as you can make it, highlighting the curve of your arm, and the elegance of your movements. The cold air hits your neck, making the hairs there stand up.

You both feel and hear Daemon’s sigh. He blows a soft puff of air against your hair, the noise very loud in the small table that seats only Qoren, Daemon, and you. The Queen has already retired, her sickly husband in tow. The Princess and her husband are dancing merrily between the tables.

When you had met Daemon, your first impression of him had been that he was very Valyrian looking and surprisingly whole for someone fresh out of war. And then, he had looked at Princess Rhaenyra and you had understood what Qoren meant when he said he liked his women fair.

Your stomach had turned, back then. Valyrian indeed. Rhaenyra was all milk white skin, light lashes and soft features. You couldn’t compete, you had thought. But then, you had noticed how his eyes followed little Laena Velaryon and you had known there was a chance for you to succeed too. It wasn’t skin color, but Valyrian heritage.

You have been trying to seduce him, with various degrees of success. The attention men pay you is helping you, and so are your purple eyes. You hope tonight goes well. You think you have just about enough Lyseni blood in you to keep him hooked.

His hands gently unclasp your pendant. He pockets it, you think. A memento or because he intends to give it back to you? You feel as his fingers whisper against your collarbones, and this time it’s you who sighs.

You are dramatic about it. Your lips part, as if about to be kissed. Your head tilts back.

“Beautiful.” Daemon whispers, in your ear. He kisses the shell of it.

“It is a gorgeous necklace.” You reply, feeling your face heating up. You feel drunk already, and you have not drank a single goblet of wine yet.

“No. You.” And the kiss against your ear becomes open-mouthed, his heavy breath filling your hearing. His hips brush against the backrest of the chair, searching for closeness. This is something that cannot be faked, you think. Not this kind of desire.

He wants you. He wants you, and you only wish to close your eyes and let him take you right here at this table. You are no blushing maiden, for sure, but you still are new to intimacy. Too many hang-ups about your body and not quite pleasing attempts have not contributed to building a vast knowledge of it. The fact that he wants you so badly makes you wild.

“I think that is my cue.” Qoren says, breaking you out of your stupor. He drains his cup, clearly in preparation for leaving. You had never felt such a connection with someone, not even in Dorne, where pleasure was loud and open. You press your hands to your face, ashamed of having forgotten he was there. Daemon simply chuckles.

“You don’t have…”

“Dearest sword.” He says, as he plants a kiss to your forehead. “You are as tempting as your husband is selfish. He doesn’t seem in the mood to share you.”

“I am not.” Daemon agrees, squeezing your shoulder. He exchanges a look with Qoren over your head. You can only see Qoren’s answering smirk.

“I think I should call for the mummers early.”

You and Daemon slip away as a company of puppet masters from Dorne make their grand entrance, throwing colorful powders in the air.

Later that night, as he sleeps in your shared rooms, you slip on a robe and stand in front of the mirror. Daemon has a massive one, right at the foot of the bed. Mirrors have always scared you, and sleeping so comfortably as he does with one reflecting him is unfathomable. You only intend to cover it.

Mirrors are supposed to be portals to other worlds, your mother used to say. The thought is stuck in your head, so you have grabbed a linen and are ready to place it over it when something catches your attention.

Your reflection. She is glowing, barefoot and in a simple robe, but still wearing the necklace your husband has given you. It should look gauche. It should look too much. But somehow, the necklace looks just right in your neck. You remember Daemon’s eyes, filled with desire when you had bared your neck to him. The sensual way he had touched you tonight, cradling you in his arms, rolling around in his bed. The necklace on the nightstand.

You look at the way the pearls light up your face. For the first time, you feel beautiful.

You make your first mistake a few days after.

It’s the first day of the week, and the Queen has asked you to have tea with her. You go, happily. After Qoren’s and the guards left, you began to feel lonely. There is not much to do here, either. Most of your usual entertainments are considered too sinful or crass. You can not even go for a walk around the city because they deem it too dangerous.

The meeting with the Queen is sour. She is trying, you can tell, but you still hear the disdain in her voice when she talks about your customs, or your people. She eyes the necklace you wear with distaste.

You get the feeling she buys the tales about you. That you are some dornish beauty, exotic and trained in the arts of seducing men. She comments on your mother, on her luck for marrying up, and you have to remember yourself to bite your tongue.

From what Daemon tells you, she is very lucky herself. Going from Lady to Queen is almost as impressive as going from merchant’s daughter to Lady, and you know which one of them did not need to spread her legs for it, and it’s not her. Not if you judge by her plain face.

You look at her, scandalized and pious as she is, ranting about acceptance of bastards of all things, and you surprise yourself at your own cruelty. You should not have thought that. But you are just so angry…

You take a deep breath and look away, trying to calm down. It is then you notice. In the door of the solar, standing to attention, is a man who looks like you.

He has inky dark hair, and olive skin. His eyes are dark, and he has a light stubble, probably because when you have hair as dark as he does, it is difficult to hide body hair. He wears armor and a white cloak. Kingsguard, you think. Why hasn’t anyone told you there was someone else from Dorne here, too? How could you not know?

Queen Alicent follows your eyes, suddenly noticing you are not paying attention. Your eyes are glued to the knight. She frowns in disapproval.

“That’s Ser Criston Cole. My sworn shield.” She stresses the word my. You grab your teacup and take a sip, to hide your smile. Is the pious Queen in love with her knight? “And a member of the Kingsguard.”

She is reminding you of his vow of celibacy. You almost laugh. If she wasn’t so repressed, she would realize she is the one who wants to jump his bones. The only interest you have in him is the fact that he might become a friend.

“Do your guards always stand inside your rooms?” You ask her, doing your best to sound puzzled. “The King’s guards stand outside his, and so does the sworn shield of the Princess.”

“…” Queen Alicent blushes, and averts her gaze. There are no further invitations to have tea with her.

You spend a lot of time staring at Ser Criston. He never returns your gaze. You seek him at mealtimes, you greet him in the corridors, but he always manages to evade you before you can properly start a conversation.

Daemon notices. He always does. He is finely attuned to you, his perfect wife. His prize after the war, his star. A study in contradictions, brazen and bold one moment, shy the next. He seems to like you even more for it. What he doesn’t seem to like is your sudden fixation on Criston Cole.

“You should stay away from him, star.” Daemon whispers, when he catches you staring at him once more. His voice sounds irritated. Accusing. As if you have done something wrong. It makes you bristle immediately.

“I am doing nothing wrong.”

“No one said you are. But Cole is….” Daemon shakes his head. “It is unwise. That’s all I mean to say.”

“What is unwise?” You scowl. You are glad that the table is long enough that no one else overhears you. Knowing Daemon, things are about to get nasty. He will throw in so many insults, Ser Criston would beat him into a pulp if he heard. No matter how competent your husband is, you still worry. “Trying to talk to him?”

“He is a cunt.” He says, cutting your meat for you as if you were a child. From your place in the dais, you seek him once more. Ser Criston is standing on the entrance of the hall, watching carefully as his Queen dines with the King and the two of you.

As if sensing your gaze, he looks towards you. Then, he quickly averts his eyes.

“I merely wish to speak with him.” You say. “He is like me. Dornish.”

“Ser Crispin will only disappoint you. Both in personality and in prowess.” Daemon warns. He pushes his goblet closer to you. “Here, try this. Arbor gold. How does it compare to the swill you like to drink?”

You take a sip of his goblet. You scrunch up your nose, The wine is cloyingly sweet, lacking the strong notes Dornish Reds always have.

“Ugh.” Your lips pucker up in disgust. Daemon laughs, and steals a kiss from you, licking into your mouth for good measure. But before you can begin to properly enjoy it, Queen Alicent coughs. You push Daemon away, even though you are doing nothing scandalous. “You taste like it too.”

“And you taste of that swill you dornish call wine. Yet, I am not complaining.” He takes a sip of his goblet.

“Are you jealous of him?” You ask, suddenly. You have heard about the rivalry between the two of them. Everyone knew of how Cole had obtained his position. He had been a simple knight, until Daemon had lost to him during a tourney. The act had caught Princess Rhaenyra’s attention, and secured him a white cloak. “Ser Criston?”

The thought of Daemon thinking you want to invite Cole to your bed is enough to amuse you. While in Dorne, paramours are more common than here, you are finding monogamy pleasant. You had never been much for sex without love, after all. Only one taste had been enough to satiate your curiosity.

“You shouldn’t toy with fire.” He growls, perhaps confusing your amusement with a deliberate attempt to tease him. It only makes your smile widen.

“Did you know…?” You begin, with an airy tone. Daemon sets down his cutlery. He turns to look at you, licking his lips. “My ancestor, Ser Joffrey Dayne, crossed paths with Queen Visenya. She burned Starfall, after he attacked Oldtown.”

“House Targaryen has always defended the Highcunts, it seems.” Daemon’s brows furrow together. It is no surprise he knows about it. One of the things that have bonded the two of you together is the fact that both of you are obsessed with family history. What he doesn’t know is why you are referencing it now.

You smile. One of your hands goes to toy with the necklace he has given you and that has become your constant accessory, bringing attention to your neck. It is a deliberate move. You intend to be ravished tonight

“I do not fear fire. We Daynes got Dawn from the heart of a falling star. “

Daemon kisses your temple.

“Oh? And I cannot wait to see you burn.” And he is pulling you to your feet, and you are slipping outside with a hurried curtsy.

Despite Daemon’s warnings, you still decide to approach Criston Cole. It takes you almost a week to build up the courage to do it, and another more to mention it to Daemon.

You do not want him to feel blindsided, so you include him in your planning. It is only when he shows up at the Sept that you realize Daemon intends to go with you.

Even the Septon pauses when he sees the two of you enter the Sept. Considering the court thinks you a temptress, and him a rogue, you are not surprised.

You are not particularly pious. While you had been educated on the Faith of the Seven, Dorne practiced a much diluted version. You had not attended a service in quite some time, but you try to focus on it to keep your nervousness at bay.

The plan is to intercept Ser Criston when the service ends. Daemon is under strict instruction to remain sitting, as to not unnerve the other man. But of course, things do not go according to plan.

As soon as the Septon gives his last blessing, you sprung up and step closer to the knight.

“Ser Criston, a word?” You ask him, your voice soft and nonthreatening. It is not as if you want to impose your presence on him, but you are unsure of why he flees rooms when he sees you. Perhaps he is shy, or perhaps you have offended him, but you will never know if he doesn’t speak to you.

“Do not talk to me!” He snarls, getting up from the bench. You try to reach for his arm, but Cole is quicker than you, grabbing your wrist tightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Daemon getting up from the bench where he was waiting for you.

“Ser… I only wished you to invite you to have tea with me.”

“I will not get into your bed, Lady Targaryen.” The man snarls at you. “Perhaps it is allowed in Dorne, but I assure you, here we do things differently than your people. Propositioning a man is…”

“I am not propositioning you!” You say, hotly. The words he is spewing at you leave you bewildered. You have never heard another dornishman speak so. “What do you even mean by that? Your people! You are dornish too.”

“I am not.” But before he can give you an explanation, Daemon is stepping in, and unsheathing his sword. He places his body between Ser Criston and you.

“I would suggest you unhand my wife.” His voice is cold. “Or you will lose the hand.”

“And you! You support her… Her… She should be sent back to Dorne, but she doesn’t even belong there, does she?” And Ser Criston stomps off, clearly unwilling to engage Daemon in what would probably end up as a fight to death.

Daemon looks willing to go after him, but you make a pitiful noise that is a cross between a sob and a whine. The rejection hurt more than usual, having grown unused to cruelness during your stay on King’s Landing. And the remark about you not belonging in Dorne?

It stung. You had not heard that insult in ages. It made you think of the serving girl, and your grandmother muttering you had bad hair, of your odd little features and strange coloring. Not quite Andal, not quite Rhoynar, not quite Lyseni.

Ser Criston looked like you. Of everyone, you would have expected him to understand. To see you.

You had only wanted a reminder of home. Careful with what you wish for, indeed. Your eyes feel suspiciously wet.

“Oh, that cunt. I’ll cut off his dick and feed him to Caraxes…” Daemon mutters, a thunderous look in his purple eyes. He then presses his forehead to yours, giving you an impish grin. “Not that it would be much food, would it? Like a worm, I bet.”

It makes you laugh, despite yourself.

“There you are.” Daemon smiles, brushing your tears away. “Come. I need you to see something.”

He takes your hand and leads you towards your shared rooms. You frown, slightly. Does he have some sort of present to give you? It’s unusual to be going there so early in the morning.

When Daemon opens the door, a maid is still sweeping the room. He barely spares her a glance, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. The girl looks disgruntled. You offer her a silver dragon for her troubles as she leaves, noticeably cheering her up.

The bed is freshly made, and the room smells of lavender. Outside the windows, the birds chirp. You see nothing unusual.

“What was I supposed to see? You interrupting the maid? Poor girl.” You mutter, kicking off your shoes. “Do try to make her life easier.”

But he doesn’t answer, choosing instead to pull out the chair in your vanity. It is a rarity, the whole set a gift from Qoren to furnish your new rooms. It has a beautiful mirror attached that reflects you from the waist up when you sit in front of it.

“Come.” Daemon says, simply. So you do. You know better by now than to disagree with him when he is in one of his moods.

You sit in the chair, dutifully. Your reflection looks a fright, so you try to avoid looking at yourself too much. He stands behind you, hands caressing your shoulders lighty, prompting you to look up.

“I have noticed.” Daemon starts, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “That you are always self-conscious when I look at you for too long. Or when I take your clothes off.”

You avert your eyes. It is true. You feel strange when Daemon looks at your body. The awe he holds in his gaze is both exciting and humbling. You never feel worthy of such worship.

“I would say we are past the maiden’s modesty.” He chuckles. “We made sure of that, didn’t we?”

“I…”

Daemon begins to unlace your gown. The presence of the mirror is making you self-conscious, so you reach for your bodice, and hold it up with one hand.

He pauses. He studies your expression, before dropping a kiss to your curls.

“Don’t cover yourself, wife. I love looking at you.”

You take a deep breath. You want to tell him the truth, for once. Daemon has started to suspect that despite how much you enjoy intercourse with him, something is wrong with your self-esteem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have staged this intervention.

“I just don’t like how I look much.” You keep your voice low. Shame begins to freeze you up, making you tense and unable to speak. Your heart beats loudly in your ears.

“Madness.” Daemon laughs. He kisses you, slow and sweet. His lips move tenderly against yours, coaxing you out of your shell. You wonder how such an impatient man can have such infinite patience when it comes to you.

The thought makes you melt. Daemon smiles against your mouth and pulls back. He comes back to standing behind you.

“Look.” He orders. And you, helpless under his spell, cannot disobey.

You look at your reflection. Your hair is in even more disarray than before. Your lips are red and kiss swollen. And your eyes… You look dazed.

“We are just getting started.” Daemon promises, his hand coming to caress your collarbones. This time, when he pulls down the bodice, you do not fight it.

He kisses your head.

“You asked me once, if I was jealous.” You turn towards him, confused at the sudden change of topic. Daemon shushes you, squeezing the back of your neck as if you were a misbehaving pup. You look at yourself again, knowing there is no point in disobeying. Daemon always gets his way.

“I am jealous.” His voice is firm. He leans in, and kisses the top of your hair. His talented, skilled hands, take the pins off from it, so it frames your face once more. You fight the urge to fix it, to give more volume to your roots. You don’t like how limp it falls sometimes. Daemon presses a kiss to your earlobe, and whispers. “Of the very breeze against your hair.

Your eyes widen. You do not dare take them away from the mirror. On it, you watch as he presses a kiss behind your ear, as he mouths at your neck, just barely reaching the necklace that sits there.

“Of the pearls you wear, for holding on to your neck. “ You feel his words against your skin, making you shiver. He wraps it around one of his fingers, the pearls tensing just so to feel more restrictive against your neck.

Your lips part in a sigh. The tension of the pearls makes you think of a collar, and his deft handling of them a leash. Ownership.

“Sometimes, when I see you around court, I imagine this.” He tugs the pearls upwards, placing them between your lips. You watch, in a daze, as your reflection parts her lips more, welcoming him in.

He places the biggest pearl between your teeth. You find yourself mesmerized by this stranger you are watching, being turned into an artwork in front of your very eyes.

“You are exquisite.” Daemon gives the pearls a tug, pulling them slightly up. They catch on your hair, contrasting beautifully with the dark curls. There is something haunting about the image, something that tugs at you and makes you see yourself from his eyes.

Like this, with him calling you exquisite, pearls adorning your face and hair, you can almost believe it.

“Do you know what I think of more, when I see these pearls?” Daemon chuckles. It’s a dark, masculine sound. You are unable to form a word. “Hm. Perhaps I should show you.”

He finishes pulling the necklace from you. Over your head and out they go. Suddenly able to speak, you find yourself at a loss for words.

Daemon kneels behind you. He meets your eyes in the mirror, again.

“I am jealous of the moon, and the sky, and this damn mirror even.” It sounds like nonsense. It should sound like nonsense, but somehow, it is disarming, this newfound honesty of his. The one where he stumbles over words in his eagerness, in his need to call you beautiful, to call you his. “Because you want to gaze at them. Your eyes should be only for me.”

He cradles your face in his palm, forcing you to keep eye contact with your reflection. His thumb brushes over your lips. You just stare.

“And even of the wine you drink, when you wet your lips.”

You kiss his thumb. Your eyes sting. This is quickly turning unbearable.

“Daemon… Please…”

“Oh, but your eyes.” He praises, sounding almost drunk. He begins to kiss a path down your collarbones and towards your breasts. “I love your eyes. They are maddening to me.”

He continues to kiss your skin, inhaling deeply. The closer he gets to your breasts, the hungrier he becomes. Daemon is gorging himself on you, biting and nipping at your bosom, sucking at your nipples until you cannot help the moans coming out from your mouth.

Liquid, molten pleasure, begins accumulating at the base of your spine. Warming up your body, making you sweat with the exertion of keeping still.

“You are so beautiful, I fear anyone will want to steal you away.” Daemon whispers, grabbing your hips in an almost bruising grip. “And I fear if I don’t hold tight, it will be my fault.”

You look at yourself. At the half lidded eyes, the softness of your chest. At the attitude of surrender, as your thighs part, and you feel him bury his nose on the roses of your mound. As he inhales, trying to memorize your touch, your smell, your sounds. As he decides to drink from you, making your face go slack, brows pinched together, eyes glassy and absent.

Beautiful, you think, as you reach your peak with a scream so loud you fear the rest of the Red Keep might have heard.

Daemon laughs, doing his best attempt to suck a bruise on your thigh.

“And you haven’t even seen what I plan on doing with the pearls.”

[cherrypikkins]

Thank you everyone who participated in the fe3h portrait request this year, whether by making requests, liking, reblogging or leaving nice comments :3

Here is the full compilation of all the works I managed to finish! For certain characters I went back and did some very minor touch-ups, just so they look a bit more consistent. That said, you can see how my style changed quite over time :3;;; Which is fine! I wanted to experiment with the soft texture brushes and try to come up with a style that would look crisp when zoomed out, but also look interesting close up. I hope I managed to achieve that, and that it looks good!!

Don't forget to vote for the final character portrait here!

Hope I can get a chance to do this again one day, it was super fun!!! And, I hope you guys had fun too~

[e-vay]

Heyo! Do you have any tips for making comics? :)

I've been meaning to get back into the swing of it, but concentrating on such a commitment that takes so much time is tough sometimes haha.

How do you make it work? Are there things you avoid/make easier for yourself just to make the process more fun and do-able?

First of all, I’m very happy for you! I think it’s very exciting whenever we return to a craft we were once passionate about. I wish you the best of luck!

This is a big question and I don’t think there’s really one simple answer since all artists are different and have their own strengths and weaknesses.

One of the biggest issues I face is that I have a million ideas but I simply don’t have the time to do them all. I want to share all these ideas but if I gave each and every idea the same amount of attention and detail, I’d hardly get anything done. So here are some things I've learned through my own comic-making experience, but keep in mind it may not be what you're looking for. Also remember this is NOT career advice. I make comics for fun, not for a living. If you’re looking for professional advice I would suggest looking elsewhere 👍

1 - A comic doesn't have to be fully rendered to be entertaining. Although I love to draw and line and color my work, it’s not always necessary. If I feel a punchline is strong enough to stand on its own, I’ll just make it into a doodle comic. In fact, I’ve found that some of my doodle comics perform better than the fully rendered ones! The doodle comics are still very fun for me to draw and they also serve as gestural drawing practice, so in the end it doesn’t feel like I'm making a sacrifice. I'm still getting my ideas out there and I'm still drawing, I'm just prioritizing what gets more attention so I can better manage my time.

2 - Not every panel needs an illustrated background. You definitely need to show backgrounds for establishing shots and when characters are interacting with the scene. But sometimes the focus needs to be entirely on the character and/or what they’re saying. You can choose to have a solid color background and maybe add a few textures to keep it visually interesting. You're still putting in the effort to make your art pop, but you aren’t losing a ton of time by drawing dozens of backgrounds. Color is also a good way to convey mood. I do that a lot in my comics, like this bit from “My Gal”:

^ I was trying to show a progression in excitement here, so having the colors change from cool to warm does a better job portraying that than if I just had a standard, scenic forest background for all the panels.

3 - Use resources: That's what they're there for! Because I make all these comics by myself, I have had to find resources to help me get through some of the steps faster so I can focus more on the story writing and the artwork. For example, to help me save time on lettering, I use the Onomatopedia font and the Manero Panels, SFX and Bubbles brush set for Procreate. I’m still selecting the sound effects and choosing the appropriate bubbles and tails to suit the mood and scale of the text, but this has saved me a ton of time because I’m not drawing each individual element by hand over and over again. Personally, I purchased these resources but I'm sure there are plenty of free tools out there that you can use.

As far as making it more fun... Honestly, I just love comics as an art form so much that learning about all the 'rules' and techniques and 'SOP's behind comics makes it more fun for me to make them. I recommend checking out tutorials and tips (even if you think you already know it all) and you might be surprised at how much it might ignite more of your comic-making passion. For example, I've spent hours on Blambot's "How-To" page and on ComicDevices.com just to try and soak up as much as I can. They're full of fascinating reads that make me want to try out different things!

I hope this helps! Good luck with your comics!

[technically-human]

Sorry to bother you but i’m doing digital art right now and I’m really not used to it. Lineart how???

No bother at all, though maybe I'm not the right person to ask! It might look like I know what I'm doing but I really, really don't.

First thing first though, make sure your stabilizer is not on 0

I have it on 8 but I'd suggest trying many options and seeing which one feels more comfortable! This will make your lines less shaky and... well, unstable. Very high numbers will make it go slow though, so find the one you like.

That being said, it really depends on what you want your lineart to look like! I really like messy lineart, so I can go over the same section many times (which is the same I do when making traditional art to get that effect) , or sometimes I just clean the sketch a bit instead of doing lineart. This also means I get to use different brushes to get cool effects! Let's use this drawing of Alice Dyer as an example

See, I use a brush with a fuzzy texture, and I don't try to make it look neat at all. I really like how this look, but it's not for everyone. Some people prefer very clean lines, even thin ones.

I tried this style around 2020. This is a drawing from then, though it's still not the cleanest of lineart. These are the guys from Guardian

For this type of lineart, you want to make long, quick strokes, so they won't come our shaky. You will be making the same line over and over again until you get it just right, at least in my experience (ctrl+z is your best friend in that case, to get rid of what you just did quicker)

You can try to make some lines thicker than others, maybe playing with the shadows and light, just to make it look more interesting.

When I was just starting, I watched a lot of YouTube videos to get an idea, so that's always a good first step! But it all depends on what you want as a result and a bit on what program you're using!

I hope some of this helps!

[w4ndal0ver]

The Art of Submission (3)

[minors don't interact, 18+]

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

chapter summary: You go to dinner at Wanda's apartment and you have a tension filled conversation about your wants and limits, and she lays down her rules for you.

whole summary: As a growing author, you're grappling with a frustrating writer's block while trying to craft your next lesbian erotic novel. With a lack of personal experience holding you back, inspiration seems just out of reach. But when a captivating neighbour steps in, offering unexpected support and a tantalizing invitation to explore the depths of desire, you find yourself on a journey that blurs the lines between reality and fiction, leading to a discovery that you definitely weren't expecting.

content warnings: continuing the insane amount of sexual tension, mentions of: edging, orgasm denial, bondage, wax play, temperature play, chastity, gagging, clothing control, praise, degradation, threesomes, role reversal, safewords, time control.

note: So this is the third instalment and I managed to bulk this chapter out, so finally everything begins in the next instalment. enjoy <3

The Art of Submission - Chapter 3

You sit alone in your apartment, the stillness of the room doing nothing to settle the arousal inside of you. The aftereffects of your time with Wanda cling to you like a second skin, every touch she left on your body burning like a golden tattoo, haunting the most sensitive parts of you. It’s impossible to focus on anything else, but her presence is everywhere. You hadn’t even dared go to your kitchen after the scene that played out in there the previous night. 

The memory of her fingers brushing your skin, the weight of her eyes on you, plays over and over in your mind. The way she took control so effortlessly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Yet, the thing eating you up inside was how quickly you surrendered to it, willingly offering yourself up with barely a second thought. It was like she made your body respond before your mind had a chance to catch up. 

You replay the moment continuously in your mind. The memory of her eyes, those captivating depths of emotion etched in your thoughts. You can almost see her now, the smile against her lips and the way her hair cascades in waves, framing her face perfectly. 

You try to shake it off, to distract yourself, but your thoughts keep looping back to those moments. You’re caught in the aftermath of her power over you and you can’t escape it. You don’t want to. Your phone sits beside you on the bed, a looming presence in the silence, as heavy as the tension in the air. You’re waiting. There’s a knot of dread in your stomach yet beneath it lingers an electric current of anticipation. You’re torn between desperately wanting to hear from her, and dreading what she might say. What more she could demand of you. 

Time drags on, but every second feels stretched, each one heavier than the last. You glance at your phone again, chewing your lip, fingers brushing over the screen as though you could summon a message from her. Then, at last, it buzzes. The screen lights up and there it is, a text from Wanda. 

You were even easier to break than I imagined, maybe I should take it easier on you next time.

 Dinner tonight, my place, 8pm.

W x 

Your breath hitches at the message, even her teasing over text could make your arousal pool between your legs and you felt so insanely vulnerable, a feeling that was driving you up the walls. You looked at the message again, but your eyes darted to the time. 6:30pm. Now your heart was racing, she’d barely given you any notice and you had no idea what to wear or how to prepare for this. 

You dart to your wardrobe, sifting through your options, fingers brushing over soft fabrics and cool textures, each piece pulling you in different directions. Part of you craves something casual, comfortable enough to ease the tension bubbling beneath your skin. However, another part yearns for something subtly alluring, a way to communicate your excitement. 

Your gaze lands on a sleek, short black dress hanging elegantly in the corner of the closet. It’s simple yet enticing, with its deep neckline and fitted silhouette that hugs your curves just right. The thought of slipping it on sends a thrill through you, the way it would accentuate your figure and showcase the confidence you’d failed to convey before. 

As you take the dress from the hanger, laying it out on your bed you recall the lingerie you recently bought. The image of the intricate patterns crafted from a soft and delicate scarlet lace dancing across your body sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You wonder if Wanda would appreciate the effort, if she’d see through the fabric. Would she smile that knowing smirk, her eyes sparkling with approval? 

The clock ticks steadily, each second a reminder of the approaching dinner. You can feel your nerves creeping up, coiling tighter around your neck. You rush to the mirror, brushing your hair away from your face, analysing every inch of your reflection. You change into both the lingerie and the dress, taking a deep breath to try and calm the fluttering in your stomach. 

As you step back, fully dressed and finally feeling the allure of the ensemble. The black dress hugs your body perfectly, the lace edging of your lingerie peeking through. You bundle your hair into a bun, pulling a few strands and purposefully messing the tight grip of the hairband so you look slightly unravelled already. You thread the silver hooped earrings through your lobes, matching it with a small pendant necklace, a small heart that sat against your chest. Finally, you add a touch of red lipstick to complete the look, imagining the insides of Wanda’s thighs painted in red kisses. 

With one more final look, you shake your head trying to get out of it before heading towards the door and crossing the hall. You approach her apartment door, your pulse beating loudly inside your head. With a deep breath, you knock on the door, the sound echoing softly in the dimly lit hallway. The moment stretches out, each second laden with expectation, until the door swings open, revealing Wanda with a radiant smile, quickly turning into a flushed and unexpected look. You looked completely different to how you’d been caught out last night, and finally you gained the satisfaction you’d been longing for. 

As you step into Wanda’s apartment, she takes a moment to assess your outfit, her eyes lingering appreciatively over your figure. A slow, sultry smile spreads across her lips and you notice the way her eyes familiarly darken. 

“Wow.” She breathes, leaning casually against the door frame, her arms crossed over her chest. You feel your cheeks redden at the arch of her eyebrow and the way her bottom lip catches itself between her teeth. She was wearing a white silk blouse that gleams softly under the warm light, the fabric draping elegantly over her form. The buttons are casually undone, teasingly revealing a hint of her cleavage, drawing your gaze and setting your pulse racing. Her fitted black trousers hug her curves perfectly, accentuating the shape of her hips and the subtle arch of her ass which you couldn’t help but glance at as she walks past you. 

As Wanda welcomes you, her presence adds an extra layer of warmth to the space. The combination of her vibrant red hair and the sleek, modern furnishings creates an enticing contrast that draws you in further, making you feel both at home and a little breathless. The entire apartment radiates a sense of luxury and comfort, an ideal backdrop for the evening that lies ahead.

“You look incredible.” You say as Wanda grabs a bottle of wine from the rack on her kitchen counter, she turns her head over her shoulder, her eyes dropping from your lips all the way down to your ankles before reaching back up to meet your stare. 

“You want to be careful princess; I could get used to you dressing up like this.” The lust behind her voice wasn’t even disguised by flirtation anymore. “Come on pretty girl, I’ve made you dinner.” She leads you to the dining table, perfectly laid by Wanda, a few candles scattered atop the surface, plates of spaghetti bolognese already plated up and placed opposite each other. 

She follows you around the table, pulling out the chair for you before you reach to do it yourself. The soft clink of the plates only sound for a moment, the food smells incredible, but you mind it elsewhere. If you thought you were distracted before, now with Wanda sitting opposite you, there was no way you were going to be able to get through this dinner. 

Wanda takes a sip of wine, her eyes casually tracing over your face as she sets the glass down. “You seem distracted,” she says, her tone light but the smirk playing at her lips tells you she already knows why. Taking a bite of her food, Wanda doesn’t break eye contact, the intensity making it impossible for you to focus on your meal. She chews slowly, deliberately. “You’re still thinking about it.” she states, “How you crumbled so easily.” 

Her words hit you with the same impact as the moment itself and it’s like you’re right back there, on edge, waiting for her permission. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing coherent comes out at first. Wanda chuckles, a slow, indulgent sound, “I knew you would be,” She adds, eyes never leaving yours. 

You fidget slightly in your seat, feeling the flush rise in your cheeks. It’s like she can read your mind. You finally manage to speak, your voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, about you.” 

Wanda’s smirk widens, her eyes darkening with satisfaction. She leans back in her chair, her posture relaced, but you can feel the control she has over the room, over you. “I thought so,” She murmurs, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. “It’s written all over your face.” 

After a long, purposeful sip of her wine, Wanda finally sets the glass down and rests her hands on the table, her fingers lightly drumming against the wood. Her expression softens, but the intensity in her gaze remains. “I’ve done this before,” she admits, her tone shifting to something quieter, more serious. “But this isn’t just about me. This is going to be about what you want, your needs, your desires, and your limits.”

She lets the words hang between you for a moment, letting you absorb their weight. “I need to know what you want from this, what you’re ready to give, and what you can’t. Because if we’re going to do this... I need your full trust.”

You swallow hard, her words wrapping around you like a promise. There’s a steadiness in her voice that makes your pulse quicken—Wanda knows exactly what she’s doing, but she’s asking for your consent, your trust. You feel your heart race as you nod, realising just how much you want to give that trust to her.

Wanda leans forward slightly, her eyes locked with yours. “It’s important you understand that, no matter how far we go, you can always stop. That’s where the safeword comes in. And I’ll ask you to use the traffic light system,” she explains and even with the seriousness of the conversation you couldn’t help but feel how wet you were becoming. Her authoritative pose, the command in her voice, and you were her muse, she wanted to do this with you. 

Her gaze doesn’t waver as she continues. “So, tell me,” she says, her voice soft but unyielding, “what do you want, tonight? What’s your limit? What’s that one thing you want to explore?”

Your hands tremble slightly as you take a deep breath. You’ve thought about this moment for hours, but saying it out loud is different. You hesitate for a heartbeat too long, and Wanda’s eyes narrow slightly, a warning glint in them. “No holding back,” she murmurs, her voice dipping low. “Tell me what you want. All of it.”

The weight of the moment presses on you, but her calm gaze feels like a lifeline. You swallow nervously before nodding. “I want to explore everything,” you admit, voice low, but clear.

Wanda’s lips quirk up in a teasing smile. “Everything?” Her tone is soft, but there’s a sharpness beneath it. “Be specific for me.” She leans forward slightly, one elbow resting on the table, her chin perched on her hand, her eyes locked with yours.

You take a breath and dive in, feeling the heat in your cheeks. “Edging, I want to explore orgasm denial,” you say, each word feeling bolder than the last.

Wanda’s smile deepens. “Good,” she murmurs, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass as her eyes darken slightly. “There’s nothing quite like having that power—to make you beg for it, only to hold you just on the edge, desperate.” She tilts her head, the teasing tone back in her voice. “You think you can handle being denied?”

You shift in your seat, the tension rising. “I... I want to try.”

Wanda’s gaze sharpens, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “I’ll enjoy testing your limits on that one.”

You take another deep breath. “Impact play,” you continue, barely believing you’re saying this out loud, but something about the way Wanda watches encourages you to continue. “Spanking, hair pulling, physical stimulation.”

Wanda’s eyes flash, and she bites her bottom lip slightly. She straightens up, her voice carrying an undercurrent of heat. “You like the idea of me making you feel it? Leaving a mark?” Her eyes flicker with excitement. “I’ll make sure you feel every moment of it. But it’ll be on my terms, at my pace.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a second, then, as if to emphasise her control, she casually reaches over and brushes a lock of your hair behind your ear, her fingers grazing your neck ever so lightly. The touch sends shivers through you.

“Bondage,” you say next, your voice softening. “I want to feel restrained.”

Wanda’s hand stills, her eyes locking onto yours. “I could tie you up, I have a lot of stuff I can use” she says, her voice dropping even lower, more deliberate. “Make you helpless. You won’t be able to move, won’t be able to stop me from doing whatever I want.” She leans forward, her voice a low purr. “How does that make you feel? Knowing you’ll have no control at all?”

Your pulse quickens as you nod, barely able to speak, and Wanda’s lips curl up in satisfaction, clearly enjoying your nervous excitement.

“Praise,” you continue, but your breath catches as you add, “and degradation.”

Wanda’s eyebrow arches, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it’s quickly replaced by a pleased smirk. “Interesting,” she says, her voice laced with approval. “You want me to call you my good girl, shower you in praise for obeying me... but then you want me to turn around and tell you how desperate you are for it?” She leans closer, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous kind of delight. “I’ll give you both and you’ll love every second of it.”

Her words make your stomach flip with a mix of nerves and excitement, and you find yourself nodding again, almost breathless. You hesitate, but then add, “And breath play, I want to try that.”

Wanda’s smile falters for just a moment, replaced with a look of seriousness. She sits up straighter, her gaze sharp. “That’s a lot of trust you’re giving me,” she says, her voice more measured. “You know how dangerous that can be, right?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I trust you.”

Her expression softens slightly, and she nods, her eyes never leaving yours. “Good girl, you’ll always be safe with me.”

You can feel your body trembling slightly as you push forward. “I want to try wax play, you know, temperature play.”

Wanda chuckles softly, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “So you want me to drip hot wax on your skin... make you squirm beneath me as I play with the heat?” she asks, her voice low and teasing. “I can make sure you feel the contrast, the cold right after the burn.”

You shift in your seat, and finally admit, “I’m curious about chastity, and gagging.”

Wanda’s lips curve into a slow, satisfied smile. “Of course you are,” she says teasingly, her voice rich with approval. “I could make you wait, make you ache for days without any relief. And when you finally get it, you’ll be begging.” Her smile widens. “As for gagging... you’ll learn to communicate without words. But don’t worry, I'll understand exactly what you want.”

You nod, feeling your pulse quicken, the tension between you growing unbearable.

“And,” you add hesitantly, “what about involving other people?”

Wanda’s fingers tighten slightly around her wine glass, a flush creeping into her cheeks for the first time. Her eyes flicker with something unreadable, her smirk growing as her expression turns serious. “We’ll see,” she says, her voice softer now, her control wavering for just a moment. “We’ll talk about that when the time comes.”

You take a steadying breath, feeling the weight of the next words. “Role reversal,” you admit, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

Wanda’s smile falters for just a moment, surprise flickering in her eyes before she regains her composure. “You want to take control?” she muses, her voice low, almost considering. “Even just for a moment?” She pauses, her gaze sharpening. “I might allow it, if you earn it.”

Her reaction makes your heart race, a thrill running down your spine. Wanda is sitting completely back in her chair, her food resting on her chair, her arm crossed over her knee as she watches you spill everything that you wanted to do with her. She couldn’t deny how intrigued she was by your willingness to talk about everything, and be so vulnerable in her presence. 

“What about limits honey?” Wanda continues, knowing there can’t be much left that you hadn’t admitted you wanted to do. 

You look down, your heart racing. “I don’t really know my limits,” you confess quietly, “I just want to try everything. No blood, but everything else.”

For the first time, Wanda’s calm, teasing exterior falters. Her cheeks flush, and she squirms slightly in her seat, her fingers tightening around her glass. Her lips part as if to say something, but she pauses, taking a deep breath. “Everything?” she repeats, her voice lower, more breathless than before.

You nod, feeling a surge of confidence as you watch her try to maintain control.

Wanda’s eyes darken, and she leans in slightly, her voice soft but filled with promise. “I’ll make sure we explore everything... but remember,” she murmurs, her lips curving into a dangerous smile, “I decide when and how.”

Wanda leans back in her chair, her eyes locked on you, her tone steady but charged with authority. “First, let’s set some rules. For now, everything stays in this room.” She glances around the space, making the limits clear, her gaze landing back on you. “Whatever we explore, whatever we try, it stays between these walls. This is where you’re mine.”

You swallow, a nervous excitement building in your chest. “Just in here?” you ask softly, almost unsure, though something about the confinement feels safe.

Wanda nods, leaning forward slightly, the intensity in her eyes unwavering. “Yes. Just in here. I want to see how you handle things before we take it any further. Think of this room as our world. Here, I’m in control, and you” her lips quirk up into a teasing smile “you’ll follow my lead.”

Your pulse quickens at her words, and you can’t help but shift slightly in your seat. Wanda doesn’t miss it, her eyes narrowing with amusement as she continues.

“I’ll set a few ground rules.” Her voice is firm, and the weight of what she’s about to say lingers in the air. “First, you don’t touch yourself without my permission. You don’t come unless I say so. Understood?”

Your breath catches. The idea sends a shiver through you, and you nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Understood.”

Wanda tilts her head, her gaze softening just slightly. “Good girl. You’ll ask for permission every time, and if you don’t, there will be consequences.” She pauses, her expression growing even more serious. “Do you understand the power I’m giving you here? You have control, too. If something is too much, you say ‘yellow’ or ‘red.’ I want you to be honest with me, always.”

“I will,” you murmur, feeling both nervous and reassured by the clear boundaries.

Wanda’s expression softens just slightly, her eyes narrowing as she explains, “There will be no hesitation or questioning when I give you a command,” She continues, her voice firm, “When I tell you to do something, you obey. No second guessing.” 

Your breath hitches as you take it all in, Wanda watches you closely, her fingers drumming softly on the table, waiting for you to confirm. 

“I understand,” You say, your voice soft but steady. 

Wanda has a playful glint in her eye. “When you’re here, I decide what you wear or if you wear anything at all. Sometimes you’ll be completely exposed to me, other times I might want to keep you dressed for my pleasure. But it’s never up to you. Understood?”

The thought sends a thrill through you, and you agree softly, “Yes.”

Wanda’s smile turns darker. “Time is mine to control. I’ll decide when we’re done, not you. You won’t be allowed to leave until I say so. Whether you’re pleading for more or begging me to stop, the final decision is mine.”

You feel a knot tighten in your stomach, the mixture of anticipation and submission making your skin prickle. “Okay.”

“And finally,” Wanda leans back in her chair, her eyes smouldering as she watches your every move, “you’re not allowed to touch me unless I allow it. You want to touch me? You ask first, and only if I give you permission do you get to. There will be no crossing boundaries I haven’t set.”

She watches you carefully, waiting for the weight of her words to sink in. The idea of not being allowed to touch her unless she says so makes your heart race.

You swallow, feeling a flush creep over your skin as you whisper, “I understand.”

Wanda watches you for a moment, satisfied with your responses. “Do you think you can handle all of that?” she asks, her tone teasing but with a dangerous edge.

You meet her gaze, the air between you crackling with unspoken energy. “Yes.”

Wanda’s smile deepens, and she leans back, clearly enjoying how easily you’re falling into place. “Good. Then we’ll see just how well you follow those rules, won’t we?” At this point, the carefully made dinner had been completely disregarded. Both of you having a handful of mouthfuls between you, your wine basically untouched. You needed her and she wanted you, there was no way you were going to continue eating after that conversation. 

Wanda leans back in her chair, her eyes flickering over you like she’s considering her next move. The soft glow of the lamps casts long shadows over her face, making her look both dangerous and mesmerising. “Come here,” she says, the command laced with promise. The air in the room feels thicker, like it’s holding a collective breath. You stand, and your legs feel unsteady, but you obey, moving toward her.

Wanda doesn’t touch you yet. She just looks up at you, her lips curling into that knowing smile. “You’re going to wait,” she murmurs, her voice like silk wrapping around your nerves. “You don’t get what you want right away. Not here.”

Wanda's eyes never leave you as she sits perfectly still, just watching you. The silence between you is deafening, but it speaks volumes. Her gaze drops down, flicking over your body as though she's calculating every inch. It makes your skin feel hypersensitive, like she’s already touching you without laying a hand on you yet.

“Strip,” she says, the word so calm yet utterly commanding. Your heart pounds at the simple instruction, and your fingers fumble as you reach to unzip your dress, but you can’t quite reach the zip. You turn your back and Wanda takes the zip between her fingers, slowly unzipping the length of the dress, revealing more of the scarlet laced lingerie that you picked for this moment. As you turn back to face her before pulling the lengths of the dress down, she leans further back in her chair, sucking her tongue against her teeth as you reveal your figure tied in lace. 

“You’re learning, already,” she says, almost purring. “This is gorgeous, all for me hm?” You nod, instead of being the same levels of shy that you thought you’d be, you found confidence in your willing submission to the redhead. “What do you want to explore first, let’s start as easy as you want to.”

You hesitate, feeling a rush of nervous energy at the thought of saying it out loud. Wanda catches it immediately, her eyebrow lifting. “Don’t hesitate,” she says, her voice sharper now. “If you want me to give you what you crave, you’re going to have to ask for it. Say it.”

Your breath quickens, and you meet her eyes, knowing there’s no way out but forward. "I want you to make me wait," you say with an unexpected amount of confidence. 

Wanda’s smirk deepens, her approval radiating from her. “Good. You’re finally starting to listen. But not just that.” She stands now, slow and deliberate, stepping toward you, close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from her body.

She’s not touching you yet, but it’s like she doesn’t need to. She leans in close, her lips brushing your ear as she speaks, “You don’t get to come unless I give you permission. I’m going to take you to the edge, and you’re going to beg for it. If you do it right, maybe I’ll let you have it.”

Wanda’s fingertips graze your shoulder, and the lightest contact sends a shiver racing down your spine. She moves behind you, slowly circling like a predator, her touch just skimming your skin, enough to make your breath catch but not enough to satisfy the ache building inside of you.

“You’re already shaking,” Wanda whispers, her breath warm against the back of your neck. “And I haven’t even started.”

Your pulse races, heat spreading through you like wildfire as she steps back in front of you, her eyes dark and commanding. Wanda steps back, her eyes glittering with satisfaction. “On your knees,” she orders, and you drop immediately, your heart pounding in anticipation. She stands over you, looking down, clearly in complete control.

“You’re going to be good for me,” she murmurs, her voice firm but laced with a dangerous softness. “And remember, you only come when I say you can.”

Your breath hitches as you nod, your skin burning under her intense gaze. She smirks, the power in her stare making you feel like you’re already completely hers. “Good,” she says. “Now, let’s see how well you really listen.”

[cardo-de-comer]

Currently in game dev as a student and I’ve been looking over your art and concepts for a little bit now—I’m FLOORED. I haven’t checked on your art in a while and had forgotten just how much it inspires me.

Your style holds so much identity, and your skill bleeds through every brushstroke! The way you do silhouettes, the insanely unique and beautiful choice of colors, the ferocity in some of the expressions, the quality of your brushwork, again the USE OF SILHOUETTE AND FORM OH MY GOODNESS!!!

You have SUCH a striking visual style and the way you incorporate similar themes to tie character designs together in your world is incredible! I was able to pick out what I believed to be symbolism and understand it a few seconds after asking the question (it may have been explained in the text and I missed it, but the fact that I was able to draw a conclusion that quickly says a lot about your skills as a designer and artist!).

Please forgive me if this has been asked before by the way, but what program do you use? I have a number of them and am trying to work out how you managed to get the line quality that you do on the brushstrokes (they’re like. Creamy looking??? Does that make sense? They blend together very nicely but don’t blend so much that it muddies the contrasting colors you put on top.)

Anyways as I was reading the game idea you have, I was actively trying to envision how it would look and was immediately feeling a 3D-2D mixed style, especially since your artwork has a very clear visual identity that would benefit from being the focus rather than something like plain or simplistic 3D models.

And then I immediately stumbled onto the low poly model you made and fell in love. I had already thought a Disco-Elysium inspired + low poly (less development time, plus requires less budget for an indie project) would look amazing especially considering how your brushwork means that high-poly models might not benefit nearly as much from it. And I think it might be the right call to continue with that!

What perspective (2D/platformer, 2D platformer with depth [Ex. “Paper Mario”] top down, isometric, 3rd person, 1st person, etc.) do you envision when you think of your game idea?

Personally I feel like it’d work as a 3rd person perspective 3D game, but using extremely low poly buildings and set pieces that let the textures do the work. But keeping in mind that if every character is 3D and rigged, it can and will still take monumentally more time to make.

I could also see it going the direction of having flat 2D characters in a 3D environment (Like “Smile For Me”) which would take less development time and save more energy to focus on good gameplay.

I’d love to hear more about your ideas, and think that you should definitely give more thought to making that game a reality!

Just as a word of advice though, start small. ;^^ Don’t begin with your dream project, make some goofy little games first to get your feet in the water, then dive in once you have that experience. And don’t get too wrapped up in it either, take breaks and divert from the project every so often to regather your creative energy. Like doing game jams for example!

o7

first of all thank you for such a LONG text oh my god T_T I cannot express in words how much this means to me and even if I knew English well, I still wouldn't be able to tell you... I use drawpile a lot for sketches and light stuff like doodles! And Photoshop for more complicated works and render. If you need brushes I have them in this post on my side acc. As for ynstbh, well... Here goes the rambling haha. I was thinking about it being either 2d platfomer /LISA was my main inspiration at the start/ or isometric 3D thing. Isometric still wins in my head because it gives some space for movement in different planes, if that makes sense, my favorite example of it being player is walking through the City and at some point you see a tower on a foreground plane just getting up and running off the screen to ambush you later haha (yes, the City is like that. nothing unusual here). When this game idea first appeared in my head, I also wanted it to have some kind of frame, medieval-inspired, around the gameplay, that would change drawings depending on the location. But now I think that's gonna be too much visual noise. And I would love to make cutscenes because I like my 3d models and I like to animate stuff, although it would take an abysmal about of time to make backgrounds.. Also ynstbh would probably have a lot of dialogues, since I really love to show characters through their interactions with each other. Notably the Devil, who loves to break the 4th wall and look right at the player in his portraits.

Either way yeah, I know about starting small. Right now I only have experience in drawing, 3d, just a little bit of code (I think I forgot everything actually lol) and I'm just really good at googling problems. I hope somewhere in the future I will have enough energy to start. My lore and characters became really important and dear to me so I really hope to make sth with them. :) If game doesn't work out, I'm thinking to give an animated short a chance, I need to put this world somewhere or I'll probably go insane. Once again thank you and good luck with your studies! thanks for letting me ramble about ynstbh haha <3

[burekforsatoru]

boyfriend baji headcanons part 3 | fluff

♡ masterlist | ♡ part 2 | ♡ ao3

boyfriend baji asks you to paint his nails black every so often. he lies on the couch after classes or general toman shit, one arm over his forehead and the other extended so you can hold his hand on your lap and meticulously paint his nails black. he won't admit it outright, but he enjoys being pampered like this, having his fingers massaged, his cuticles tidied up, the gentle touches you give him and the care that you show. he will also paint your nails if you let him. just like he lets you do his, he'll put your hand on his lap and focus really hard on getting the polish to be tidy, even, focusing on the edge of each nail like he's doing a lab assignment for university. he takes it so seriously, if he's going to do it, it's not gonna be half-assed, you're gonna have a salon experience with him.

boyfriend baji wakes up ready to fight someone when you wake up from a nightmare. he hears your huffs and maybe even sobs, he hears you gasp as you wake up, feels the shake of your shoulders as you're trying to calm yourself down. and just like that, the fight in him mellows, his instinctive reaction is to punch a potential intruder, but when the intruder is a night terror, the only way to chase it away is to wrap his arm around you and let you feel his presence. his hair tickles your face, but he doesn't move it, his big toe gently tickles your foot, but you don't pull away, his hand slowly moves in circles on your belly, you don't wince. you feel him right there, already halfway to sleep again, breathing slowly against the back of your head, but the light snores that begin don't bother you. in fact, it's soothing, paired with his scent, the texture of his callused palms on your skin, the warmth of his body on yours, whatever happened in your dream wasn't real. but he sure as hell is.

boyfriend baji learns how to braid your hair. he says it's therapeutic, doing something with his fingers other than closing them into fists and punching someone's cheek. and to him, it's a little bit of a heaven hearing your satisfied hums when he starts off by massaging your scalp and brushing your hair through. at first he told you to calm down, it can't be that good, despite him being the very same way when you do his hair. his hands are so gentle at first, almost worrying he's going to pull too hard, not that it would matter, but then he relaxes, separating strands to braid them into whatever he's been thinking about doing. baji loves that you trust him to do this, sitting between his knees on the floor while he takes the couch, leaning forward to see better as you've got your favourite show playing on the tv. every time you sigh, every time you chuckle, wince, shift, he pauses and observes you. he takes note of how you react to his fingers gently carding through your hair, to his own hair tickling your forehead as he bends down to tie the end of your braid with a small hair tie that he's been holding between his teeth.

boyfriend baji takes you out to feed stray cats with him. it's almost incredible how he remembers most of them, and how they remember him. he barely steps foot in the area with makeshift shelters from the rain, something you suspect he made the entire first division take part in making, when you hear impatient meows from all around. he's quick to crouch down and do a cute little pspspsps so the first few cats come and rub against his shins. there's a wide smile on his face, canines poking out so adorably that you can't help but stare. and he catches you, so he waves you over so crouch next to him. baji shows you his favourites, though he whispers the words so the cats don't hear him and you hold out your hand for them to sniff and decide to cuddle into your palm. it's late by the time you two leave, reluctantly turning your back to the cats that are very invested in their now full bowls, but the evening sky has given way to night and it's getting cold. you wrap your arms around baji's back and he starts his motorbike, giving you the routine order to hold on tight as you weave through the traffic to hurry up and get to your comfy home where you can cuddle up on the couch and exchange little kisses as you inevitably fall asleep on his chest.

♡ if you enjoyed this, consider leaving a like, reblog, or a comment. interaction helps keep your writers motivated! also if you don't agree with some of these that's okay, this is just my opinion and it's hella self-indulgent!