#while also getting background painting practice in...

[applecoreart]

I'm not sure how many more BTAS screencaps I'm going to redraw for practice right now. I think I'd still like to draw Bruce, Bruce in Batman costume, Gordon, and maybe Edward again but in civilian clothes (probably something from Riddler's Reform).

I'd like to do some liveaction redraws to practice translating those characters/backgrounds into animation style, so I may switch over to Nolanverse and Star Wars soon.

Anyways-- just talking out loud :)

[kotori-mochi]

Can't afford art school?

After seeing post like this 👇

And this gem 👇

As well as countless of others from the AI generator community. Just talking about how "inaccessible art" is, I decided why not show how wrong these guys are while also helping anyone who actually wants to learn.

Here is the first one ART TEACHERS! There are plenty online and in places like youtube.

📺Here is my list:

Proko (Free, mostly teaches anatomy and how to draw people. But does have art talks and teaches the basics.)

Marc Brunet (Free but he does have other classes for a cheap price. Use to work for Blizzard and teaches you everything)

Aaron Rutten (free, tips about art, talks about art programs and the best products for digital art)

BoroCG (free, teaches a verity of art mediums from 3D modeling to digital painting. As well as some tips that can be used across styles)

Jesse J. Jones (free, talks about animating)

Jesus Conde (free, teaches digital painting and has classes in Spanish)

Mohammed Agbadi (free, he gives some advice in some videos and talks about art)

Ross Draws (free, he does have other classes for a good price. Mostly teaching character designs and simple backgrounds.)

SamDoesArts (free, gives good advice and critiques)

Drawfee Show (free, they do give some good advice and great inspiration)

The Art of Aaron Blaise ( useful tips for digital art and animation. Was an animator for Disney. Mostly nature art)

Bobby Chiu ( useful tips and interviews with artist who are in the industry or making a living as artist)

Sinix Design (has some tips on drawing people)

Winged canvas (art school for free on a verity of mediums)

Bob Ross (just a good time, learn how to paint, as well as how too relax when doing art. "there are no mistakes only happy accidents", this channel also provides tips from another artist)

Scott Christian Sava (Inspiration and provides tips and advice)

Pikat (art advice and critiques)

Drawbox (a suggested cheap online art school, made of a community of artist)

Skillshare (A cheap learning site that has art classes ranging from traditional to digital. As well as Animation and tutorials on art programs. All under one price, in the USA it's around $34 a month)

Human anatomy for artist (not a video or teacher but the site is full of awesome refs to practice and get better at anatomy)

Second part BOOKS, I have collected some books that have helped me and might help others.

📚Here is my list:

The "how to draw manga" series produced by Graphic-sha. These are for manga artist but they give great advice and information.

"Creating characters with personality" by Tom Bancroft. A great book that can help not just people who draw cartoons but also realistic ones. As it helps you with facial ques and how to make a character interesting.

"Albinus on anatomy" by Robert Beverly Hale and Terence Coyle. Great book to help someone learn basic anatomy.

"Artistic Anatomy" by Dr. Paul Richer and Robert Beverly Hale. A good book if you want to go further in-depth with anatomy.

"Directing the story" by Francis Glebas. A good book if you want to Story board or make comics.

"Animal Anatomy for Artists" by Eliot Goldfinger. A good book for if you want to draw animals or creatures.

"Constructive Anatomy: with almost 500 illustrations" by George B. Bridgman. A great book to help you block out shadows in your figures and see them in a more 3 diamantine way.

"Dynamic Anatomy: Revised and expand" by Burne Hogarth. A book that shows how to block out shapes and easily understand what you are looking out. When it comes to human subjects.

"An Atlas of animal anatomy for artist" by W. Ellenberger and H. Dittrich and H. Baum. This is another good one for people who want to draw animals or creatures.

Etherington Brothers, they make books and have a free blog with art tips.

📝As for Supplies, I recommend starting out cheap, buying Pencils and art paper at dollar tree or 5 below. If you want to go fancy Michaels is always a good place for traditional supplies. They also get in some good sales and discounts. For digital art, I recommend not starting with a screen art drawing tablet as they are usually more expensive.

For the Best art Tablet I recommend either Xp-pen, Bamboo or Huion. Some can range from about 40$ to the thousands.

💻As for art programs here is a list of Free to pay.

Clip Studio paint ( you can choose to pay once or sub and get updates. Galaxy, Windows, macOS, iPad, iPhone, Android, or Chromebook device. )

Procreate ( pay once for $9.99 usd, IPAD & IPHONE ONLY)

Blender (for 3D modules/sculpting, animation and more. Free)

PaintTool SAI (pay but has a 31 day free trail)

Krita (Free)

mypaint (free)

FireAlpaca (free)

Aseprite ($19.99 usd but has a free trail, for pixel art Windows & macOS)

Drawpile (free and for if you want to draw with others)

IbisPaint (free, phone app ONLY)

Medibang (free, IPAD, Android and PC)

NOTE: Some of these can work on almost any computer like Clip and Sai but others will require a bit stronger computer like Blender. Please check their sites for if your computer is compatible.

So do with this information as you will but as you can tell there are ways to learn how to become an artist, without breaking the bank. The only thing that might be stopping YOU from using any of these things, is YOU.

I have made time to learn to draw and many artist have too. Either in-between working two jobs or taking care of your family and a job or regular school and chores. YOU just have to take the time or use some time management, it really doesn't take long to practice for like an hour or less. YOU also don't have to do it every day, just once or three times a week is fine.

Hope this was helpful and have a great day.

"also apologies for any spelling or grammar errors, I have Dyslexia and it makes my brain go XP when it comes to speech or writing"

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝒶𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒻 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men have never met anyone like you—the calmest person they’ve ever encountered. No big deal. Your RBF makes it impossible to get a reaction, and they’re all baffled. 

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

It’s honestly kind of impressive how you can make them work for every ounce of emotion. But they’ll admit—it’s also kind of refreshing. Your calm presence is like a buffer from the madness they’re used to, and they kind of love it… even if they’d never admit it out loud.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

The Savior Who Can’t Save You from Chill

You don’t flinch. Ever.

That’s the first thing Crowe noticed. Not when the fire alarm went off. Not when Brittany tripped and spilled her entire iced mocha down your shirt. Not even when Geo elbowed you in the face while pushing Deryl back from eating his lunch. 

Crowe made Deryl and Geo to at least sorry. You just blinked—slow, tired—and mumbled something like, “It’s fine.” And it bothers him.

Not because you’re rude. You’re not. You’re polite enough. Just… chill. Like emotionally bulletproof. And Crowe? Crowe’s used to people being a little shaky around him—he’s Crowe. 

The prince is used to people reacting to him.

A smile, a blush, a flustered stammer when he offers to carry a book or holds the door. It’s not about ego—at least, he tells himself it’s not. It’s just the natural rhythm of things. Crowe moves with practiced ease, a calm kind of charisma that draws people in without ever asking for it. He doesn’t push, doesn’t brag. He just is—that rare mix of reliable and graceful, a warm presence in a chaotic world.

So when you walk through the door he’s holding open—without so much as a glance, much less a thank-you—he freezes. Literally stands there, hand still on the metal handle, blinking at the spot where you just were like someone paused his internal monologue. You don’t even slow your pace. 

You just keep walking, headphones in, expression unreadable. 

Like he’s the background and not the highlight. 

He tries to brush it off. Maybe you didn’t notice him. Maybe you were late for class. Maybe—No. He watches people. He reads people. And you?

You’re a blank page.

The next morning is crisp—fall air slipping into campus with the kind of bite that turns breath to fog. Crowe finds you sitting on the edge of the outdoor fountain, legs crossed, absorbed in whatever cryptic thing is on your phone. Your sleeves are short, your fingers look cold, and the sunlight’s making your hair glow like it was painted there.

He walks up casually, jacket folded over one arm, pretending he hadn’t planned this down to the exact minute. “Cold?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, tone easy, eyes warm.

You glance at him, then at your own arms. One blink. Then two. “Nope.”

He stands there for a second, stunned by the sheer finality of the answer. No one has ever said no to him—to his kindness, beauty. No awkward fidgeting. No grateful smile. Just… denial and calm. “Right. Yeah. Just, uh…” He shifts on his heels, scratches the back of his neck. “Thought I’d ask.”

You nod and return to your phone, not unkind—just done with the interaction.

He walks away with the jacket still in hand and the gnawing suspicion that you’ve just bested him in a game he didn’t know he was playing.

A few days later, he sees you in the student café. Alone, as usual, tucked into the corner by the window, notebook open, pen tapping a steady rhythm that somehow keeps people away. He buys an extra muffin. Your favorite—your choice, the fancy one with the crumb topping. He knows you like it because he saw you buy it once. 

‘Okay, maybe he noticed what time you usually get it, too. Shut up.’

“Hey,” he says, setting it gently on your table. “Messed up my order. Want it?”

You glance at the muffin. Then at him. Your stare is so flat it makes him briefly forget every word he’s ever known.

“You messed up your order?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “…No. I—yes. Yes, I did.”

You take it. Say, “Thanks.” No sarcasm, no side-eye. Just… neutral. You don’t smile. You don’t even blink like you’re amused. You just go back to your notes.

He walks away smiling anyway—because you took it. That’s progress, right?

He also dramatically dies inside. Just a little.

Few days afterwards, funny enough, you trip down the library stairs.

Crowe sees it happen across the atrium—he’s halfway to the reference desk when you misstep, the heel of your boot catching on the edge of the marble step. Time slows. Your notebook spirals out of your hands. Your bag swings wildly. A rogue water bottle rolls away like it’s been cast out of the narrative entirely.

You hit the ground in a quiet oof, knees first.

He’s already moving. Books left behind, he jogs to you, panic in his eyes and his brain screaming ‘Finally! Something happened!’ 

“You okay?!” he asks, crouching beside you, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid touching you might vaporize him.

You sit up calmly. Smooth down your clothes. Reach for the water bottle without flinching. “Yeah,” you say.

He blinks. “You sure? You kind of went airborne.”

You shrug. “Yup.”

He stares at you, speechless. There’s a faint red mark on your knee and you’re brushing it off like a leaf fell on you. “…Okay,” he finally mutters, watching you stand like nothing happened. Like you hadn’t just face-planted in front of a fully stocked vending machine and half the second-year students.

You walk off with the same quiet grace you always have. 

Crowe stands there a little longer than he should, holding your notebook because you forgot it. Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe you wanted him to follow.

He hands it back to you in the hallway twenty minutes later. 

You thank him with a slow blink. Nothing more.

That night, he’s flat on his back in bed, one arm over his forehead, staring up at the ceiling like it has the answers he needs.

“What are you?” he whispers, completely serious.

There’s no follow-up. No resolution. Just silence, and the distant sound of a campus raccoon raiding the trash cans below his window. 

He doesn’t know why he cares so much. But he does.

You’re unreadable. Unshakeable. Like a test with no key. A poem with no ending. Everyone else clings to him like a lighthouse, but you? You are the storm. Controlled. Contained. A force all your own.

And the worst part?

He kind of wants to stand in the rain a little longer.

The next day, you're on the quad. Legs crossed in the grass. Back to a tree. Book in hand. One headphone in, the universal signal for do not engage unless you're bleeding out or on fire.

Naturally, Crowe takes this as a personal invitation.

You hear his steps before you see him—those calculated, almost-too-casual footfalls of someone pretending they’re not rehearsing what to say. He halts a few feet away, and for a second, just... looms.

You don’t look up. Yet.

He shoves his hands in pants pockets, scuffs his dress shoes against the grass like a boy with a crush, and clears his throat. “You’re really hard to read, you know that?”

You glance up from the page, face blank. Not annoyed, not curious. Just blank like always. “Thanks.”

His brows knit. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

You nod once, slow and deliberate. “Still sounds like one.”

Crowe’s mouth opens—closes—then opens again like his brain’s buffering. Poor thing. Still booting up. Finally, with all the drama of a Shakespearean side character, he exhales and drops beside you in the grass without being invited. Arms crossed. Shoulders tight. Like sitting near you is some kind of emotional workout. Such dramaticness. You can practically hear the mental soundtrack playing behind those eyes.

“So here’s the thing,” he begins, clearly rehearsed. “I’m usually pretty good with people. Not in, like, a manipulative way—well, okay, sometimes, but only with people who deserve it. Our frined group, mostly. But I get people. I can tell when they’re lying, or stressed, or hiding something.”

You don’t look up from your book, but one eyebrow rises like a drawbridge.

Encouraged, he keeps going. “But you? You’re just... I don’t know. Blank. Stoic. Like a final boss I don’t have the right weapon for. I’ve tried friendliness, food, mild acts of chivalry—”

“Your jacket smelled like blueberry cologne,” you say, suddenly and flatly.

Crowe freezes. “...What?”

You finally look up. Deadpan. “That’s what you offered. When you asked if I was cold. It smelled like you.”

“Oh.” His voice cracks. “You... noticed that?”

You blink. “You’re not exactly subtle. You hovered like a fruit-scented ghost.”

He looks like you shot him through the heart with a Nerf gun laced with pheromones. “I—I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Mhm.” You close your book slowly, deliberately. “It’s sweet. Really.”

Then, almost too casual, you add, “Though I wasn’t sure if smelling like you all day was part of the offer.”

Crowe chokes on absolutely nothing. His ears go pink. “W-what?! I mean—only if you want to smell like me. Not that—I mean—if that’s a bad thing, you don’t have to, obviously, I just—”

You reach over and tap his cheek. Not a slap. Not even a pat. Just... tap. Enough to fluster. Enough to win. He goes still like prey spotting a predator with killer eyeliner and a book collection.

“You’re cute when you malfunction,” you say simply, standing. “Anyway. Class.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder, step over his legs like he’s just part of the scenery now, and pause only once, glancing down with the faintest glimmer of mischief in your eyes.

“Oh. And Crowe?”

He blinks up at you, dazed.

“If I ever want your jacket again…” You let the silence draw long. Too long. Then: “...I’ll let you spritz it first.”

And with that, you walk off like you didn’t just fry every circuit in his brain.

Behind you, Crowe is still sitting in the grass, blinking at the space you left behind, probably questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

And for now? That’s enough.

I genuinely had no idea where I was going with Crowe’s part—but it accidentally became hilarious. He was supposed to have you wrapped around his finger, and somehow he ended up being the one simping. Iconic reversal, really.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

The Poor Emo didn’t know what to do with you.

Sol remembers the first time he saw you in art class like it was a dream that never ended. You were already there when he walked in—seated in the back corner, half-hidden by your sketchpad and an expression so unbothered it might’ve been carved from marble.

It was as if you’d always existed in that exact spot, like some cryptid of academia, and he had just stumbled into your domain. His brushes clattered to the floor the second he saw you.

"Cool, cool," he muttered under his breath, "starting strong."

You didn’t even glance up.

He didn’t flinch when he knelt to retrieve his things, and he promptly slammed his forehead into the underside of the table with a loud thunk.

Didn’t blink when he whispered a pained “Ow. I meant to do that.”

And when he finally slid into the empty seat beside you, limbs too long and heart already sprinting, you barely tilted your head.

“...Hey,” he tried, voice cracking. “I’m Sol. Short for Soulmate, probably.”

You gave him a slow blink, as if rebooting.

He laughed nervously. “Kidding. It’s just Sol. Though, I mean—who knows what the future holds, right?”

You said nothing. Instead, you turned a page in your sketchbook with surgical precision and kept drawing. Like he was background noise. Like he was the weird one for assuming the laws of social interaction applied here.

Sol, naturally, took that as encouragement.

He tried to charm you the only way he knew how—through relentless talking and spiraling oversharing. Romantic poets, brushstroke theory, historical anecdotes, the emotional symbolism of color palettes—anything and everything to fill the void.

“So, uh—fun fact—did you know Lord Byron kept a pet bear in college because dogs weren’t allowed?”

You looked up for half a second. “That’s illegal.”

“I know, right? It’s also... kinda iconic.”

You returned to your sketch like nothing happened. He kept going.

“Anyway, I was thinking... blue tones are, like, emotionally repressive, but not in a bad way? Like melancholy chic. Y’know? No? Okay. That’s fine. Totally fine. Normal people definitely rehearse conversations in their heads and still crash them in real time.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t scoff. You just nodded once—slowly, deliberately—as if approving a particularly decent worm trying its best to be a butterfly.

Sol nearly combusted.

At first, he thought you hated him. Genuinely. You didn’t play along, didn’t mirror his awkward charm, didn’t even glance at him unless it was absolutely necessary.

But then he noticed. You didn’t leave.

You let him sit there, let him talk, let him trip over every thought and still never pushed him away. It wasn't indifference—it was something else. Something slower. He caught you looking once. Just once. Your gaze flicked over him like a scalpel, sharp and calculating. 

You weren’t ignoring him. You were... assessing him.

And that terrified him. And thrilled him.

Because for someone like Sol—messy, frantic, stitched together with caffeine and nerves—you were gravity. You were the calm his chaos gravitated toward. A steady, unmovable center that refused to be shaken.

Which made you dangerous.

And Sol? Sol loved dangerous.

At first, he thought you hated him. Genuinely. You didn’t laugh at his jokes, didn’t meet his red-orange eyes, didn’t play along with his awkward charm. But you also didn’t leave. And that confused him more than anything.

Because eventually he noticed: your calm wasn't cold. It was steady. You were steady. Unbothered. A lighthouse in the middle of whatever storm he happened to be caught in. And for someone like Sol—messy, frantic, soft-hearted and always bleeding ink—that steadiness became addictive.

It wasn't long before the little things started to gnaw at him, quietly, persistently. The way you never seemed to notice how he always positioned himself near you, how his eyes would linger just a little too long on the curve of your jaw or the delicate way your fingers worked the charcoal. The way you would retreat into your own world, perfectly content in your silence, while his thoughts spun in circles around you.

The worst part? He wanted you to notice him. 

To acknowledge him. To demand more of him than the fragmented attention he gave everyone else. But you never did. And it made him want you more.

He didn’t want to spook you. No, he couldn’t. You were... perfect in your distance. But the more he watched, the more he needed to know what made you tick. What would break that serene surface. The more you ignored him, the more desperate he became to make you see him. To make you need him, even if it was only for a second.

At first, he just followed you.

Secretly, of course. It wasn’t stalking—he told himself. It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t lurking in shadows with binoculars and a notebook (not yet anyway). It was more like… research. Observation. Field study. Like watching a rare animal in the wild—beautiful, elusive, unknowable.

Sol liked the idea that you existed beyond the confines of art class. That you had habits. Routines. Favorite vending machines and preferred park benches. He liked that you always ordered the same thing from the café but never stayed long. That you read with your headphones in but never played music loud enough for anyone to hear. He liked that you existed without explanation.

And when he saw you outside of class, his heart stuttered like a broken metronome. It wasn’t on purpose, not really. You just happened to be there. The bookstore near the station. The flower shop on 9th. The rooftop of the humanities building that was technically off-limits—technically.

If he ended up at the same places too often? Coincidence. If he lingered longer after you left, just to breathe the same air a few more seconds? Sentimentalism. If he started learning your routes by memory and adjusting his own schedule accordingly? Efficiency. Obviously.

It wasn’t stalking if the universe kept putting you in his path, right?

Funny enough, you never confronted him. Never called him out. You just... let it happen. Like the background hum of a streetlight—acknowledged but ignored. He’d sit a few seats behind you on the train. Enter the café ten minutes after you. Browse the same shelves, always three paces behind. Watching you exist in your natural, quiet way, all controlled expressions and slow blinks.

You didn’t hide yourself, but you didn’t invite him either. 

You just… let him orbit. And for a while, that was enough.

Until one day, when you sat at your usual café table, bathed in the golden light of a late afternoon, sipping your overpriced tea and flipping pages like time didn’t exist—you spoke.

Without looking up. Without pausing your reading. 

Just a casual, flat, clinical: “Are you following me?”

Sol’s soul left his body. 

He short-circuited so hard he nearly dropped the biscotti he had dramatically not ordered because you didn’t order food either. Panic. Internal screaming. A brief debate about faking his own death and moving to another continent.

But then—then—you looked at him. Really looked at him.

And it was worse than if you’d glared. Because you weren’t angry. Or surprised. Or even remotely scared. You were just… curious. Calm. Like someone noticing the weather had shifted. Your eyes, unreadable as always, flicked over him like you were mentally cataloging a strange insect that had landed on your table. 

Not threatening. Not interesting. Just there.

He swallowed. Hard.

And Sol smiled. That awkward, nervous sort of grin people wear when they’ve already been caught but want to pretend they haven’t.

“Wh—what? Me? Following? No. Nooo. I mean… maybe. In a very casual, non-criminal way. Like a—like a background character! Like a pigeon! Not a creepy pigeon. A chill pigeon. You know?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just turned the page of your book with a slow, deliberate grace and sipped your tea like he was nothing more than background noise.

“Well,” you said without looking at him, voice as flat and unaffected as ever, “as long as you don’t kidnap me, I don’t care.”

Sol blinked. The world stilled.

You never looked back at him again.

And that—that—was the moment he truly lost it. Fell for you in a way that was all-consuming. Rabid.

You knew. You always knew.

And you let him follow anyway.

The first time you invited Sol over, it wasn’t a declaration—it wasn’t even an event. It was casual. Offhand. “I’ve got some books you might like. Come by. Bring tea.” You didn’t ask. You instructed. And of course, he came. Eager. Polished. Carrying your favorite tea—of course he knew what it was. He knew everything.

You greeted him like he was just another parcel at your door. Unwrapping nothing. Revealing nothing. Your apartment was neat, quiet. Like you. Sparse color. Dim lighting. Shadows where light should be. He liked it. Too much.

He sat on the floor beside your low table, sketchbook on his knee, eyes flicking to you over the edge of his pencil. You read, as always—expression unreadable, fingers trailing over pages as though the words whispered only for you.

He wanted to interrupt it.

He wanted to destroy the calm you wore like armor. Wanted to know if you'd tremble. If you'd crack. If you'd shatter the way he had.  But you didn’t.

You stayed composed. Mute. Unbothered by his fidgeting, his glances, the way his leg bounced and his pupils tracked your every move.

You were halfway through unpacking the books when the buzzer went off.

“Food’s here,” you said, glancing at the intercom, voice devoid of urgency.

Sol looked up from his spot on the floor, sketchbook balanced on his knee. “Want me to get it?”

You shook your head, already moving toward the door. “Nah. Just make the tea, will you? The kettle’s already hot.”

He nodded a little too quickly. “Of course.”

And you were gone.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the atmosphere shifted. He stood slowly, eyes scanning the room before drifting toward the kitchen.

Your favorite blend sat prepped beside the stove—chamomile and lavender, faintly sweet, soothing. 

The kind of flavor you described once as "a bedtime story in a cup."

He liked that. He remembered everything.

As steam curled from the pot, Sol reached into his coat pocket.

A small pill. Clear. Colorless. Nearly tasteless, from what he’d read. Not dangerous in small doses—just enough to make you drowsy. Vulnerable. Pliable.

He didn’t think you’d notice.

You never really seemed to notice anything when it came to him. And that was the problem. So maybe… maybe that’s when he decided. When the tea had steeped enough, he poured it into two identical tea cups. No patterns, no labels—just plain white porcelain. Clean. Deceptive. He added the drops carefully. Stirred it into your cup. The one he set on the right side of the tray. 

A gentle burn of guilt flickered in his chest. But it was drowned out by something stronger. Desperation. Longing. The unbearable weight of wanting to be seen by you.

Really seen.

By the time you returned, balancing a brown takeout bag and two sets of chopsticks, he was already setting the cups down on the coffee table with practiced ease.

“Perfect timing,” he said, too brightly.

You set the food down without comment and moved to sit across from him again. He handed you the right cup. Your fingers brushed the ceramic. Held it, warm and fragrant in your hands. 

Then your gaze lifted—sharp, steady—and settled on him.

“Can you grab the sugar?” you asked. Calm. Flat. Polite.

His heart skipped. “Yeah. Sure,” he said, standing immediately. Maybe too quickly. Anything for you. Always. He turned his back.

And that was all it took.

With a quiet grace, you reached out. Switched the cups. Left no trace.

By the time Sol returned, humming to himself with the sugar container in hand, your expression hadn’t changed.

You waited until he’d settled in again. Until he reached for his cup. Then, almost imperceptibly, you smiled. Just a fraction. The kind of smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The kind that made people nervous, but never sure why.

Sol didn’t notice. Not yet.

He raised the cup to his lips with a soft, content sigh.

And you watched him drink. Watched the trap close. Quiet. Patient. Pleased.

When Sol stirred, the world was soft edges and slow motion. His body refused to move properly—his muscles limp, joints heavy, vision slightly blurred. The warmth beneath him was too much, like he was wrapped in a blanket of heat and confusion. A strange fog clung to his thoughts. 

Then he noticed it. The weight. The presence.

You were on top of him.

Straddled across his lap, your posture impeccable, knees pressed firmly into the rug on either side of his hips. Hands folded loosely in your lap like you were meditating. Poised. Balanced. At peace.

You weren’t holding him down. You weren’t holding anything.

You didn’t need to.

He blinked, trying to clear the haze from his mind, but you were already watching him. Quiet. Unmoving. Eyes sharp, yet unreadable.

“You tried to drug me,” you said, like someone pointing out a slight crack in the ceiling. No judgment. No emotion. Just fact.

Sol's lips parted. His tongue was thick, uncooperative. “I—I didn’t mean— That is, I just thought—” His words stumbled over each other, messy and frantic, so at odds with the stillness in your gaze.

You tilted your head, studying him. Like a curious observer watching a small, clumsy animal. “Shh,” you said. Calm. Not unkind. “Don’t ruin it with excuses.”

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat catching like a rock.

You leaned forward just slightly—close enough that your perfume ghosted over his skin. Layered over something far more sinister. “Poor thing,” you murmured, voice so low it barely touched the air. “Didn’t think I’d notice?”

Sol tried again, slower this time. “I just wanted… I didn’t think it would hurt you. I swear—”

“I know,” you said simply. Your fingers brushed over his collar, then his cheek. So gentle it almost felt affectionate. Almost.

“But you still made a choice,” you continued. “So now I’m making mine.”

Your smile came slowly. Soft. Serene. The kind that made his blood turn to static. “I’m just getting my lick back, Sol.”

His breath hitched as your fingertips traced the curve of his jaw, as if testing the edges of what he feared... or maybe craved.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” you asked, voice almost dreamy. “To be close. To be vulnerable. To be mine.”

And he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could only watch as you leaned in again, the world shrinking until it was just you and him and the unbearable calm in your voice.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you whispered, brushing your lips—not against his—but to the shell of his ear. “Otherwise I’d be far less polite about all this.”

You pulled back, still smiling.

Sol didn’t know whether to beg for forgiveness or thank you.

But you just sat there. Composed. In control. Right where you wanted to be. Right where he had wanted you. And he finally understood the difference between possession and surrender.

You weren’t his. But he was already yours.

I’m sorry, I just love bullying Sol like the tragic man he is. Can’t help it~

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Oh my, the archer respected you right away. That alone was rare.

Understand, Geo was used to attention. Unwanted, exhausting, meaningless attention. People asked him out the way someone might bid on a luxury item they didn’t understand—coveting the surface, clueless about the weight beneath it.

Women giggled in hallways, brushing too close. Men winked with performative bravado. Some were subtle, some were bold, but they all had the same shallow hunger in their eyes. Then eveyone else is mixed between.

They liked his face. His body. His money. His aim.

Not one of them knew him.

He despised it. The fakeness of it. The repetition. It was all noise—loud, grating, and hollow. So when Crowe called him over one day between training sessions, saying, “Geo, come meet someone,” he braced for it. Another admirer. Another forced smile. Another waste of time.

You stood beside Crowe, arms loose at your sides, expression unreadable. Calm. Still.

Geo sized you up immediately. Pretty, sure—but too composed. Too… unaffected. You didn’t look impressed. Or nervous. You didn’t even blink when his gaze met yours.  Crowe said your name. You didn’t offer a hand. You just looked at him. Right at him. And held the stare. Then few seconds passed. Then another.

Geo’s jaw flexed, something twitching behind his eye. He tried to decipher your expression, but there was nothing to grab onto. Not curiosity. Not admiration. Not even intimidation. Just silence. And it unnerved him. 

No one ever looked at him like that—not without wanting something.

He scoffed, soft and sharp, looking away as if dismissing you. But his neck was warm. His ears burned. He hadn’t meant to look away first. 

Something about the way your eyes tracked him made his skin feel too tight. He didn’t like it. He did. And later—much later—he would admit to himself that was the moment everything shifted. 

Because you didn’t want him.

You didn’t fear him. You didn’t need him. You saw him.

And for someone like Geo—guarded, solitary, used to being worshipped or avoided—being seen was far more dangerous. And far more addictive.

It started small.

Inconspicuous, even. Geo didn’t linger. Geo never lingered.

He was the type to enter a room with intention, finish his task, and leave before anyone could start a conversation. Precision wasn’t just part of his archery; it was baked into how he lived. Efficient. Unbothered. Remote. Until you.

It wasn’t conscious, not at first. Just… a coincidence. You were always sitting in that same spot in the library—top floor, back left corner, beneath the wide window that filtered in light shine across your notes. Head down, earbuds in, eyes glazed.

Studying, probably. Or maybe somewhere far away inside your mind.

He didn’t mean to stop. Didn’t mean to sit at the table across from you. Or choose the one chair that let him steal glances between pages of his book. But something about the stillness around you... it was magnetic. Anchoring.

So he stayed. 

And then he did it again the next day. And the next.

Eventually, it became a habit. Geo would finish training, towel off the sweat, toss his bag over his shoulder—and without fail, his feet would carry him to you. Even if just for ten minutes. Even if he only got to watch you scribble something he’d never ask about.

He told himself he liked the silence. That it helped him focus.

But the truth? He liked you in the silence. The way you didn’t flinch when he sat down. The way your body didn’t shift away like most did. You didn’t shrink, didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to fill the void between you. You just let it be.

That was dangerous. Addictive. Peaceful.

And infuriating.

Because then he started noticing things. Stupid things.

Like how you always twisted the end of your hair when you were stuck. Or how you would space out so intensely that you once walked directly into a vending machine and apologized to it under your breath.

You bumped into desks. Into door frames. Into people.

It drove Geo insane.

You moved through life like your body was a vessel and your mind existed somewhere else entirely. It was careless. Vulnerable. A target. He hated that. Hated the way it made his pulse spike. So, naturally, he started walking near you more often. Not that you noticed—your earbuds were usually in, your gaze faraway—but his presence was always there.

One step behind.

He caught your elbow once when you tripped on a stair.

“Careful,” he muttered, more irritated than concerned. “There’s gravity here.”

You just blinked up at him, calm as ever. “Is there?” What.

He didn’t let go immediately. Crowe noticed it long before Geo even began to suspect anything was wrong. At first, he found it hilarious. Geo? Following someone around like a stray cat? That was new. The same Geo who scoffed at relationships, rolled his eyes at gossip, and couldn’t care less about anyone unless they were useful in a fight or debate?

That Geo was now orbiting someone like a moon pulled out of alignment.

It was cute. Weirdly so.

But the humor faded fast. Because the more Crowe watched, the more it stopped looking like a crush and started looking like a problem. Geo’s eyes didn’t just glance your way anymore. They locked. Tracked. Focused with a strange intensity that made Crowe’s instincts bristle. Not necessarily dangerous—just… alert. Hyper-aware. 

Like Geo was cataloging every movement, every interaction, every person who dared get too close.

And then there was the way his jaw tightened when your name came up in conversation. Or how his hand twitched—barely, but noticeably—when someone else laughed a little too loud in your direction. Like he was waiting for a reason to react. For someone to slip up.

That was when Crowe decided to poke the wolf.

“You know you’re acting weird, right?” he said casually one day after class, swinging his bag over one shoulder. “Like. Weird weird. Not your usual 'grumpy hermit' thing. This is new.”

Geo didn’t even glance at him. He was crouched on the bench, methodically tying the laces on his shoes.“No, I’m not.”

Crowe snorted. “Uhh, you nearly bit Deryl’s head off for being near them.”

Geo rose slowly, controlled, like a storm carefully leashing itself. “He nearly knocked them over.”

“He was trying to say hi,” Crowe said, squinting at him. “And he didn’t even touch them. Like, at all.”

Geo didn’t reply. Didn’t need to.

The silence said plenty.

Crowe’s grin spread slowly, wicked and knowing. “So. You like them.”

Geo froze, just for a second. His neck snap over to Crowe and voice was flat, expression unreadable. “I don’t like anyone.”

“That’s what makes this even better,” Crowe said, unable to contain his amusement. “They’ve got you spiraling and you don’t even know what to do with it.”

Geo turned his back, brushing past him with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for people who wasted his time. 

But Crowe wasn’t fooled. Not even a little.

Because just before he walked away, he caught it—the faint flush blooming at the tips of Geo’s ears, stark and obvious against his pale skin. 

The worst part for Geo wasn’t the pull. He was used to craving things he couldn’t have—control, stillness, clarity. No, the worst part was the ambiguity.

You were an enigma wrapped in casual disinterest.

You didn’t flirt. Didn’t fawn. You didn’t even acknowledge him half the time beyond the most basic courtesy. Your resting face didn’t help, either—expression calm, eyes detached, a soft fog of disinterest hanging around you like armor. Mysterious. Unreadable. Infuriating.

Geo hated not knowing where he stood.

Were you amused? Bored? Annoyed?Did you even see him, or was he just background noise in your day? He found himself replaying your replies, your glances—every small, forgettable exchange, searching for meaning where there might be none.

Did you like what he said about black cats? Did you roll your eyes when he walked away, or did you watch him leave? Did you think about him when he wasn’t there?

He hated how much he wanted to know.

Because Geo didn’t do feelings. He didn’t do longing. But with you?

He was starting to feel like he might drown in it.

Like, funny thing was—Geo wasn’t much of a talker. Not when it didn’t serve a purpose. Silence was usually his shield, his comfort.

But lately? He’d started talking more—like the dumbest shit to juat to see what you was gonna say about it. Nothing strategy or academics or anything remotely useful. Just... pointless things. Nervous things. Words spilled out not because they mattered, but because you did. And he was trying—fumbling, really—to get past the fortress you kept around your thoughts.

“You ever notice how people walk faster in the rain, even if it’s barely drizzling?”

You didn’t look up from your notebook. “Probably evolutionary instinct.”

He blinked. “...Right. I guess that makes sense.” It didn’t.

But he’d take it. Another time: “Do you think red ink makes teachers angrier?”

You shrugged. “Maybe. It bleeds more.”

He nodded slowly, even though the comment made his brain short-circuit a little. What the fuckk is he asking you? Bleeds more? He didn’t ask. He kind of didn’t want to know. And his personal favorite, said too quickly, too quietly: “Was I annoying just now?”

This time you looked at him. Neutral. Calm. Unblinking. “No. You’re fine.”

That did something to him. Something he didn’t want to name. 

You never gave him more than you had to. No fluff. No fake smiles. But never less, either. Just enough. Just barelyenough to keep him coming back like a moth to a flame that might not want him. 

“Keep talking, please.”

Three words. He spiraled over them for a week. 

See, Geo didn’t do spiraling. He did logic. Discipline. Controlled environments. A life outlined in clean margins. He liked structure. He liked precision. He liked potted plants—orderly things in orderly containers. They lined his dorm windowsill like little green sentinels, trimmed and watered to perfection.

He liked the haunting calm of Japanese opera humming low through his headphones as he read over tactical reports or fine-tuned his form. He liked watching old shadow puppet performances on mute, the flickering silhouettes clean and exact, silent and sharp like the arrows in his quiver.

He liked peace.

But you?

You were none of those things. You unsettled him.

He didn’t know how to contain you in a sentence, a system, a pot.

And ever since that day—those three words—you began to echo in the quiet parts of his mind, uninvited and unrelenting. 

He’d hear your voice while practicing archery, in the stillness before the release. Soft. Measured. Your tone settled behind his ribs like a smooth stone—cool, balanced, a weight that grounded and unsettled him all at once. He became addicted to that calm you carried like a second skin.

To the subtle way you dissected the world without urgency, like nothing could touch you. The way you never reached for him, yet never pushed him away either.

And when you did break that quiet mask?

When your lips curled into a faint smirk that felt like a secret being let slip— When you laughed, once, just once, at something ridiculous he’d said about vending machines or Crowe’s lack of subtlety or Sol’s refusal to sleep indoors like a normal person—

It ruined him.

He replayed it in his head like a crime scene. Where had it come from? What variable had changed? Was it the way he tilted his head? The exact phrasing? The timing? Could he reconstruct it? Could he make it happen again?

He didn’t tell anyone. 

Not Daryl, who would tease. Not even Crowe, who might see too much too quickly and laugh like it was some thrilling scandal. Because the truth was ugly. Brutal. Simple. Geo didn’t just want your silence anymore.

He wanted your secrets. Your thoughts. Your time.

He wanted to sit so close the silence became yours together. He wanted to take up your focus and hold it hostage. He wanted to know how your mind worked the same way he studied arrow velocity and wind resistance—perfectly.

Geo wanted you.

Not in the loud, possessive way others chased things. No. He wanted you quietly—in that same private, reverent way you gave yourself to the world. Careful. Restrained. Deliberate. Like a rare artifact locked behind glass.

So when he invited you out one night, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t broadcast. Not even Crowe knew—not that Geo would’ve tolerated his commentary anyway. It was a simple text. Blunt, brief.

Geo: Come with me tonight. Dress nice.

That was it.

No time. No place. No explanation. Just enough to be intriguing. Just enough to make you pause. He didn’t call it a date. Of course he didn’t. 

But he also wore a tailored jacket. Charcoal black, sharp-cut, the collar slightly popped like he didn’t mean for it to be perfect—but it was. He’d tied his hair back, neat and minimal, not a strand out of place. His usual scowl had softened into something unreadable.

You’d stared for a second longer than you meant to. He didn’t comment.

And still—you couldn’t tell if it was a date.

He’d met you at the corner of campus, where the streetlights flickered like tired fireflies and the buildings loomed like sleeping giants. He didn’t offer an arm. He didn’t hold your hand. He didn’t try to impress you with flashy words or flattery.

Instead, he walked beside you, kept you inner part of the sidewalk, not in front or behind, just with you. Matching your pace. Occasionally watching your expression when you weren’t looking.

He took you to an fancy japanese rooftop restauranrt, tucked above a quiet alley, hidden between a used bookstore and a forgotten tailor’s shop. No signs. No crowd. Just a view of the city at night, stretched out like ink and gold under the stars.

Soft lanterns swayed above the terrace. Warm tea was already waiting—he’d ordered your favorite without asking. A delicate dish of fruit and sweets sat between you, untouched for the first ten minutes because neither of you moved to break the stillness.

He didn’t say much at first. Just sat there.

Watching the skyline. Listening to the quiet.

You looked at him. He was watching the reflection of candlelight flicker in your eyes like he was studying the shape of a constellation.

He finally spoke. "You like places like this, right?"

You didn’t respond right away. You were still trying to name whatever this was—whatever this night had become. The silence hung between you, but not like a weight. With Geo, it never was. It was just... present. 

Like fog rolling through the brain. Your mind, meanwhile, was lost.

‘Was this a date? Or just an oddly elegant detour?’

Still staring out over the rooftop railing, you let the city lights flicker against your skin a moment longer before murmuring, “Yeah. I do.”

He didn’t look at you, but you saw it—the tiniest shift in his posture. The corner of his mouth curled upward, barely. Not a smile, not exactly. More like a fleeting trace of relief that never made it all the way to his eyes.

Soon afterwards, through the winding streets, the silence followed like an old companion. Not awkward. Just... comfortable. Familiar. Geo mentioed of driving you back to your place, so you and him were walking back to his car, it was short walk however it felt long.

You walked beside him in step. Always in step.

Geo moved like he choreographed his whole life. Every step nice. Hands in his pockets, posture too perfect, like even his slouch was planned. His coat flared slightly behind him, catching wind every now and then, a reminder of how damn dramatic he looked against the streetlights.

You glanced sideways, smirking. “You always this extra when going outside? Rooftop café, city view, candlelight? The only thing missing was a violinist….”

He kept his eyes forward, but his brow twitched—barely. 

You’d caught him.

“It wasn’t a date.”

You tilted your head, playful. “Didn’t say it was.”

There it was. The silence again. 

Tighter this time, stretched like elastic between you.

Without breaking stride, you leaned in and bumped your elbow into his ribs. Just enough to annoy. “But if it was, that jacket makes sense now. You looked like you were gonna propose. Or sword fight a man at dawn for my honor.”

“I liked the jacket,” he replied, flat and unimpressed, like he was reading from a cue card.

You whistled low. “I liked it too. Didn’t know you owned fancy clothes.”

That earned you a sideways glare—sharper than the last, but still not a full reaction. You pressed in anyway. “I mean, no offense, Geo, but you dress like a confused colorful grunge most days. You wore a purple hoodie last week. With fishnet tights. Under skinny jeans. With dress shoes. Like what the hell is your aesthetic? Sexy haunted thrift store?”

He actually scoffed this time. His mouth twitched again, fighting something. Probably the urge to shove you into traffic. Probably also trying not to laugh.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, voice dry as winter air.

“Only a little,” you said, grinning now, riding the high of his mild irritation.

You walked backward for a few steps, facing him with your hands tucked behind your back, head tilted like you were studying a painting in a gallery. “Be honest—were you gonna kiss me if I leaned in tonight?”

Geo didn’t miss a secoud in his stride, but the set of his shoulders betrayed him—they tensed, just enough for you to notice. “No.”

Your grin stretched, slow and wide. “Are you lying?”

“No.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” he said again, but this time the word dragged out like it didn’t want to exist. Strained. Delayed. Like his mouth and brain were syncing on dial-up.

That did it—you burst out laughing. Not a small laugh. Not one you tried to hide. A full, loud, unapologetic laugh that echoed down the quiet street like a spark caught in wind.

Geo muttered something under his breath, barely audible.

“What was that?” you asked, gleefully stepping back into stride beside him.

“I said—” he exhaled like it physically pained him to say it aloud, “—you must know, deep in that ridiculous brain of yours, I don’t do that.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes before looking back at him. “Geo, love, I do know that. But it’s so much fun watching you glitch.”

“I don’t glitch.”

“Oh, you glitched. So hard. When I mentioned kissing you, I saw the lag. It was glorious.”

He rolled his eyes, and you could practically hear the disdain layered in it. “It’s not the idea of kissing. It’s you making it a joke.”

You sidled closer, still wearing that faux-pout. 

“Aw, so you have thought about it?”

His gaze flicked away like a reflex. “You’re unbearable.”

“And you secretly love it.”

“I tolerate it,” he muttered.

You bumped your shoulder against his, light and warm. “That’s practically a love confession coming from you.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away, either.

Instead, your hands brushed again, like they had been doing on and off all night. This time, instead of letting it pass, you turned your palm and slipped your fingers through his—casual, but not careless. The contact was feather-light at first, like you were giving him the choice to pull away.

He didn’t.

His hand stayed in yours, fingers tense at first, then slowly easing. The contact was simple. Small. But it shifted something in the air between you—gentler now. Still charged, still chaotic, but quieter. Softer. More certain.

You walked the rest of the path like that—side by side, your fingers intertwined like it was the most natural thing in the world. The teasing faded, but the quiet wasn’t empty. It was warm, like the last bit of sunlight before dusk slips away. It hummed with everything you didn’t say aloud, but both of you felt anyway.

Geo’s hand was steady in yours, but there was a slight tremble you didn’t miss. And when you glanced sideways, you caught it—just the faintest hint of color blooming across his cheeks, high and soft and so very real. Not from embarrassment. Not from discomfort.

But from you.

He wasn’t flustered because of the idea of love or attraction in the usual way. That wasn’t how he operated, and you knew that—respected it like sacred ground. He wasn’t the type to fall headfirst. He was cautious, calculated. Guarded.

But somehow, you’d still gotten in.

Not by breaking down his walls, but by curling up inside the quiet spaces he never thought to defend. You didn’t just sneak past his boundaries—you rewrote the map. You made your way into his world, not like an invader, but like a constant. A presence he hadn’t realized he’d always needed.

Maybe he wouldn’t ever whisper flowery confessions or write you sonnets on rainy nights. Maybe he’d never be the one to make grand romantic gestures or say the words the way others did.

But he showed it—every time he didn’t pull away. Every time he stood a little closer. Every time he let you tease him and didn’t push back too hard.

He wanted you.

Wholly. Constantly. Quietly.

The drive back to your place was quiet. Not awkward, not tense—just quiet in that strange, comforting way that happens when two people understand each other without needing to speak.

Geo slowed the car to a stop in front of their place, the low hum of the engine giving way to a silence that settled gently between them. He turned the keys in the ignition and sat there for a beat, staring out through the windshield like he could stall the inevitable.

But routine still mattered to him. Predictability. He slipped out of the driver’s seat and circled around, already reaching for the passenger side door before he could think too much about it.

Of course he was going to open the door for them. He always did.

But this time, as he opened it and extended a hand to help you up, as he took your hand in his—soft fingers curling around his—and let him pull them to their feet. No hesitation. No witty remark. Just that quiet confidence they always wore like armor.

But instead of stepping away or offering a breezy goodbye, you leaned forward and wrapped their arms around him. A real hug. No half-hearted pat on the back, no joking squeeze to keep things light. This one was full-bodied, firm, and warm in a way that caught him entirely off guard.

Your head rested briefly against him, and he could feel your breath—slow, steady, purposeful—like you were grounding themselves in him. Or maybe grounding him in them. He didn’t know anymore.

Geo froze.

His hands hovered in the air for a moment, unsure—almost trembling with hesitation—before he gave in and returned the embrace. Not because he understood it. Not because he was used to this kind of closeness. But because it felt like the most natural thing in the world to hold them like that, like something in him recognized this moment long before it arrived.

You held him a second longer than necessary, then slowly stepped back, just enough to meet his gaze. No teasing glint in their eye, no smirk tugging at their lips. Just softness. Calm. Like this, too, was inevitable.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” You said, voice low and certain. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a promise. It was a fact. And then, before he could respond, you turned and made their way up the steps toward their door, disappearing into the quiet night with that same effortless grace they always carried—like they hadn’t just slipped something heavy and permanent into his chest.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to.

Because Geo was still standing there with the door open, arms slack at his sides, heart thudding like he’d just been thrown into a storm he didn’t see coming.

The night was quiet again.

But now, it pressed in around him—heavy, echoing.

Because what made it worse wasn’t the hug.

It was how real it was. How unguarded. How much it meant even though they hadn’t said a single word about it. You didn’t need to wreck him with sharp words or chaotic antics. Not anymore. 

You could destroy him just by caring, calm. Just by being you.

And you had.

He’d never say it out loud—not even to himself. But standing there alone in the hush they left behind, he knew, clear as day:

You wrecked him. Every. Damn. Time.

I love writing about my man. Maybe it sounds a little too good to be true sometimes—but that’s the beauty of it. He lives the way I imagine him.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Ohhh wow. Baby boy absolutely lost on your calmness.

Hyugo was a creature of energy—buzzing, bouncing, chaotic in a way that could light up an entire hallway. It was his language. His method. The very way he connected to the world: by making people react. Laughter, blushing, a rolled eye, even a scoff—he craved it all. So when he first crossed paths with you, arms crossed, expression unreadable, voice like calm rain on a tin roof? He short-circuited.

You weren’t shy. Just neutral. Calculated. Like you were perpetually observing, choosing your responses on a need-to-use basis. When he grinned and asked, “Hey, what’s your favorite snack?” and you said, “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” in that flat, knowing tone? He blinked. Then paused. Then whispered under his breath, “Okay… wait, what?” It was like trying to flirt with a locked vault that somehow slid him his own reflection back in response.

He should’ve been discouraged. Should’ve moved on. But instead, Hyugo got invested. You became his favorite puzzle. He started sending you cursed memes at 2 AM, just to see if you’d crack. 

You didn’t. 

You just left him on read—sometimes with the read receipt turned on, like a passive-aggressive mic drop. He’d find you sitting on the campus quad, peaceful and still like a perfectly trimmed bonsai, and he’d throw himself dramatically across the grass beside you with a whisper of, “Miss me?”

You never even turned your head. Just dropped his forgotten homework back into his open bag and said, “It’s due in two hours.” Somehow, you always treated him like he was your responsibility—like someone had to keep track of the hurricane that was Hyugo, and you had simply accepted the task with quiet resignation. Not because you were emotionally attached (though you were), but because he couldn’t be trusted to function like a human being without guidance.

What made it worse—what really got to him—was that you kept up with him. Effortlessly. While he was skipping class to “help the janitor with roof maintenance” (translation: napping on the forbidden rooftop), you were the one sending text reminders like clockwork.

“Assignment due by midnight. I shared the answers. You’re welcome.”

“You left your bookbag at my place. Again.”

“Drink water. I know you didn’t.”

It was enough to make him melt. But in classic Hyugo fashion, he didn’t let up. He kept trying—because your rare, deadpan one-liners? The way you occasionally tapped his arm or looked up just long enough to meet his eyes? It fueled him for weeks.

Of course, Sol couldn’t help but comment on it. One afternoon, as Hyugo dramatically flailed behind you in the walking on camups—arms full of chaotic gestures and failed attempts at catching your attention—Sol leaned against a locker with a smirk. “You know,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded with judgment, “you look real desperate right now.”

Hyugo didn’t even break stride. 

“Says the guy who’s been rearranging his bangs for twenty minutes because his crush might walk past the art room.”

Sol blinked.

Hyugo continued, casually tossing a wink over his shoulder, “At least I know mine. And they actually talks to me.” Then he turned back around and whispered, “Even if it’s just to tell me I missed another deadline.” He sighed to himself.

It was late afternoon when Hyugo found you again—alone on the third-floor balcony of the library, tucked where the sunlight couldn’t quite reach. You were reading, as always. One leg crossed over the other, expression unreadable, as if the world outside the page didn’t exist.

He leaned against the railing next to you, unusually quiet.

No dramatic entrance. No exaggerated greeting. Just silence.

You noticed, of course. But you didn’t look up, not yet. You knew his patterns, the rhythm of his noise. This quiet? It was... off.

“I’m going to get that new ‘Devil Storm Re:Slash’ game tomorrow,” he said finally, fingers drumming the metal rail. “The deluxe one. The one with the exclusive artbook and the collector’s pins and—whatever, it doesn’t matter.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, the sound neutral. Polite. Expectant.

He hesitated, then turned to face you more fully. “I, uh... I wanna be first in line. Like, I’m talking ‘wait-outside-the-store-all-night’ first.”

Your eyes lifted from the page, slow and deliberate. “And?”

Hyugo shifted his weight, scratching the back of his neck. “And... I want you to come with me.”

A pause. Not because you were thinking.

Just because you knew he wanted a pause. He wanted something from you. Something more than the usual routine.

Finally, you said, “Okay.”

He blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I said okay.”

“You mean like… okay okay? As in—you’ll actually come with me? No emotional hostage situation? No guilt-tripping me into finishing homework first?”

You closed your book. “You want me to come. I’ll come.”

The simplicity of your agreement hit him harder than he expected. No sarcasm. No negotiation. No teasing deflection. Just yes.

Hyugo stared at you, his smile faltering for the first time that day. And it was then he admitted—mostly to himself—that he wasn’t just chasing your reactions because they were rare. He was chasing them because he needed them. Because they made him feel real. Grounded. Seen. And he had spent so long being loud, obnoxious, energetic—hoping someone would respond, even just a little.

“…Why’d you say yes so fast?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, like it wasn’t a real question.

You looked at him, calm and steady. “Because you asked like you meant it.”

That silenced him.

No quip. No dramatic hand wave. Just Hyugo, heart stuttering in a chest full of noise, wondering how you always knew exactly when to be quiet—and when to say the exact thing he wasn’t ready to hear.

“…Cool,” he muttered after a beat. “Cool cool cool. I mean. You’ll regret it. I’m bringing snacks. And my anime playlist. You’re gonna suffer.”

You stood and grabbed your bag. “I’ll survive. You should finish your Art project tonight.”

“Ugh. You suck.”

You shrugged. “You’d miss the deadline otherwise.”

He watched you walk away with your usual grace, untouchable as always—but somehow, that one word, okay, kept echoing in his chest louder than all the times you ignored his memes combined.

And Hyugo, for once, didn’t feel like a joke. He felt chosen.

The next morning, 3:47 AM sharp, you and Hyugo stood outside the grimy, fluorescent-lit game store at the edge of town.

Hyugo looked like he belonged in a disaster documentary—blanket around his shoulders like a cape, hood up over messy hair, clutching a thermos of coffee with the intensity of a man on the brink. His breath fogged in the air as he bounced on his heels, eyes sparkling with sleep-deprived determination.

“We are making history right now,” he declared, voice a little too loud for the ghost-town hour.

You glanced at him, hands in your coat pockets, utterly unbothered. “There’s literally one guy ahead of us. History is generous.”

“That’s Greg. Greg doesn’t count. He lives here.”

Sure enough, Greg—early 40s, heavy parka, portable chair, expression like a man who had seen things—gave a solemn nod from his post at the door. He did look like a part of the building.

Hyugo leaned closer to you, whispering like it was a covert op. “He told me once he camped out for ‘Call of Duty: Geriatric Ops.’ Said it was worth the frostbite.”

You raised a brow. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Time passed in strange, slow intervals. Hyugo talked enough for both of you. Animated. Rambling. Telling you the entireplot of the last three Devil Storm games, complete with sound effects and voice impressions.

“And then this demon prince guy, right—he sacrifices his arm for a cursed scythe, but plot twist, the arm was already cursed so now he’s double cursed, and his childhood best friend—who's secretly the reincarnation of the goddess of violence—is like, ‘Noooo, you idiot!’ and then boom! Emotional trauma and boss fight.”

You blinked. “How many hours did you play this?”

“More than I studied last semester.” Not shocking.

He offered you some snacks from his backpack—Takis, sour candy, a suspiciously melted granola bar. You declined all of it. And yet… somewhere between his fourth dramatic retelling and his brief existential crisis about Greg being closer to the door than him, you reached into your own coat and pulled out a thermos of hot chocolate.

You handed it to him wordlessly.

He stared at it like you'd just given him a family heirloom. “For me?”

“No, for Greg.”

He held it to his chest like it was sacred. “I’m going to marry you.”

Your smirk was enough to make him choke on air.

By the time the doors finally opened—at exactly 8:00 AM sharp—Hyugo was vibrating with so much energy he nearly knocked over a cardboard standee of the game’s main character. Greg gave you both a solemn salute as you entered.

Hyugo was the first to grab the deluxe box. You were second. He held it up like a trophy, grinning at you like a kid who won a goldfish at a fair.

“You know,” he said, eyes bright, “most people would’ve told me to shut up five hours ago. But you? You just stood there. Kept me warm by sheer vibe.”

You blinked slowly. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

And he laughed. Loud, unfiltered, the kind that echoed through the store. As the adrenaline of the game release wore off and morning light finally began to bleed across the sky in soft, grey-blue streaks, Hyugo turned to you, game case tucked under his arm like sacred treasure.

“Alright,” he said, stretching his arms above his head with a dramatic yawn. “Now we celebrate. And by celebrate, I mean greasy food and a dangerous amount of syrup.”

You gave him a nod of approval. “You’ve earned it. Somehow.”

“Somehow? I braved hypothermia, public embarrassment, and Greg’s war flashbacks. That deserves at least three waffles.”

The two of you started walking, the quiet of the early hour wrapping around you like a blanket. It would’ve been peaceful—until the clouds that had been gently looming all morning decided to unleash a sudden downpour. No warning, no sprinkle, just a full-on sky tantrum.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Hyugo yelped as the rain hit, both of you instinctively bolting toward the nearest shelter—a lonely, flickering bus stop with a crooked bench and questionable graffiti.

You ducked under the cover, brushing water off your sleeves. Hyugo, on the other hand, looked like a wet cat. His hair clung to his forehead, hoodie soaked, shoes squeaking as he flopped dramatically onto the bench.

“This is what I get for tempting fate,” he muttered. “She’s a cruel mistress. Just like my ex.”

“What,” you said.

“Exactly. And yet, she still haunts me.”

That got a small, involuntary snort from you. Barely audible. 

He heard it.

His eyes snapped toward you. “Was that… was that a laugh? Did I just unlock something?”

You exhaled slowly, amused despite yourself. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god, I need to write this down. Note to self: rain plus fake ex equals minor chuckle.”

You shook your head, a real smile pulling at the corners of your mouth now. He was ridiculous. Loud, chaotic, over-the-top—and yet, never annoying. Never too much. Always just enough.

Then he hit you with another one. Eyes wide, faux-serious: “What if we die here? What if the bus stop is haunted? What if Greg follows us and demands tribute?”

And that was it.

You laughed. A soft, quiet thing at first—but then it grew, warm and unexpected, spilling from your chest like something you hadn’t meant to let out. Not the sarcastic chuckles he was used to, not the exasperated sighs. 

A real laugh.

Hyugo’s own breath caught. His mouth parted slightly, eyes fixed on you like he was seeing something rare and holy. “…Whoa,” he whispered. “That’s what you sound like?”

You tilted your head, a little teasing. “Disappointed?”

He shook his head slowly, as if afraid he’d miss a moment of it. “No! That’s going in my top five core memories. Alongside the time I saw a seagull steal a slice of pizza.”

You stepped toward him, still smiling, and reached out—cupping his damp cheeks gently in your hands. His skin was cold from the rain, but his eyes were warm, brighter than ever.

“Thank you,” you said, quiet but sincere. “I haven’t laughed like that in a while.”

Hyugo didn’t speak at first. He was too busy blinking like an idiot, the faintest shade of pink dusting his cheeks. Then he smirked, just barely.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured. “But now you’re in trouble.”

“Why?”

“Because now I know how to win.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands stayed where they were. And he leaned in ever so slightly, like even if the rain kept falling, this—this moment under a sad, flickering bus stop—was already the best part of his day.

Yeah. You didn’t always give him what he wanted.

But when you did? It was everything.

That calm authority? It wasn’t cold. It was dangerously caring. And when you did finally touch his arm, gently reminding him to study? He short-circuited so hard he nearly walked into a vending machine.

You weren’t just his crush. You were his grounding wire.

And he didn’t stand a chance.

Ngl this was cute as hell to write, love Hyugo

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

Steve was lying on the floor of Robin's room, his back against the wall as he let Robin paint his toenails while he flipped through one of her magazines. The radio played softly in the background.

"I am totally new to having a girlfriend, and by girlfriend, I mean platonic girlfriend," Robin said.

"Well, that's one thing we got in common, I don't think I've ever had a girl who's just a friend," Steve said.

"What about Perkins?" Robin asked.

"She doesn't count, I hated her. She's the reason Tommy became such an asshole," Steve said.

"Hm, yeah," Robin said and paused. "So, how close were you and Tommy?"

"Well, we were friends since we were eight. We pretty much bonded over the fact that we both had assholes for fathers. We shared everything and told each other everything. He told me about his first crush, and I told him about my first crush. We practiced kissing, practiced having sex, and when I got first kiss, I told him immediately," Steve said.

"Woah, woah, woah! Back it up!" Robin exclaimed, and she closed the nail polish. "What the fuck do you mean you practiced kissing and having sex with Tommy Hagan?"

"Exactly what it means," Steve said, rolling his eyes. "We hadn't gotten girlfriends yet, and we wanted to get good before we did. It doesn't mean anything. We like women, so it didn't count."

"It still counts!" Robin shrieked. "Did you or did you not put your lips on Tommy's?"

"Yeah, and I also let Tommy put his dick in my ass. I was basically his pillow," Steve said as he continued to casually flip through the magazine. "It doesn't count if you're not gay, Robin."

"It doesn't work like that! Steve Harrington, the first time you had sex was with Tommy Hagan!" Robin exclaimed.

"It was not!" Steve exclaimed, throwing down the magazine.

"Was too!" She yelled.

"Was not!" Steve yelled.

"Okay! So, let's say if I kissed you right now. . .," Robin said.

"Wouldn't count as your first kiss, you're a lesbian and I'm straight," Steve said.

Robin grinned, a manic look in her eye. She pulled her hand back and slapped Steve across the face. He screamed.

"Didn't count! I'm a lesbian and you're straight!" Robin yelled.

"Okay, okay, I see your point. Jesus, did you have to hit me so hard?" Steve asked, rubbing his red cheek.

"Yeah, dingus, I did," Robin said.

"Okay, so my first kiss was with Tommy, and I lost my virginity. We're not gay, though," Steve said.

"No, just desperate and very horny teenagers, apparently," Robin rolled her eyes. "I can't believe you had gay sex before me, and you're not even gay. I bet you pictured some blond with big boobies."

"Well, no, actually," Steve shrugged.

"Hm, what do you mean?" Robin asked.

"I didn't have to picture a woman. I liked it," Steve shrugged.

"You liked it?!" Robin asked.

"Well, I am a man, Robin," Steve said.

"Uh, except not every man likes it when another man rams it up his asshole," Robin said. "Okay, I kind of wish I had been more delicate about this, but I didn't know this was you being in denial kind of situation."

"I'm straight, Robin, I like women," Steve said.

"Yeah, and did you know that you can like men and women?" Robin asked.

"What?" Steve asked.

Robin smiled and got up to pull out a box from underneath her bed. She pulled out a magazine and tossed it at Steve.

"Read it, study it, learn from it," Robin said.

Steve looked at it quizzically for a moment before opening it. He stared at it for the longest time before finally closing it.

"I am an idiot," Steve said.

"No, you're not. You just didn't know," she said softly.

"Bisexual," Steve whispered, and then he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh my god, this whole time, I thought I lost my virginity to Chrissy Cunningham."

"Chrissy Cunningham?" Robin asked.

"Uh, we used to hang out all the time before she started dating Jason Carver," Steve said. "Our parents ran in the same circles."

"Well, you know, I guess you could say you lost your guy virginity to Tommy Hagan and your girl virginity to Chrissy Cunningham," Robin said.

"Yeah, that's true," Steve grinned. "Thanks, Robin, and especially thank you for giving me that slap. I definitely needed it."

"Anytime that you want me to hit you, I'm your woman," Robin replied.

They moved towards Robin's window sill and sat on it, opening a window to get some fresh air.

"You know this means that I'm not straight," Steve said.

"Something else we have in common," she said.

"You ever wonder how many out there who are like me and who just don't know?" he asked as he looked up at the moon. "Here in Hawkins, I mean."

"Probably a lot more than we think," Robin said. "And they're out there, sitting in their closets wondering if they're ever going escape themselves or be rescued."

"Isn't crazy how we found ourselves?" Steve said.

"Maybe queer people just end up finding each other," Robin said.

"Well, maybe they'll find their way out themselves," Steve said and then he looked her, hazel eyes twinkling in the moonlight. "Seriously, Robin, thank you."

"You did that yourself, you know, you just needed a nudge. I mean, you could have told me to go fuck myself and continued to live in denial," Robin said. "You're a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for."

Steve smiled bashfully and glanced back at the moon. He looked at her, with tears in his eyes.

"Is it possible to be platonically in love with someone?" he asked.

"I think anything is possible," she said. "I think it's a definite because I know that I'm absolutely, platonically in love with you."

They dangled their feet out the window and leaned against each other, Steve resting his head on top of Robin's.

"I wish I'd known you sooner," he whispered.

"I wish I'd known you sooner, too," she whispered back.

They were here now, though, and absolutely nothing could get in between them.

Part Two

[lvnacore]

Want you so bad

- Separate stray kids x fem idol reader | Hyung line maknae line coming soon (I got sick so I don’t have motivation at the moment. Also sorry that it’s short😔)

-`♡´- In which your group has a comeback on you and your boyfriend’s anniversary. The title song is a song you wrote and produced for him as an anniversary gift.

Warnings?: just fluff and hyunjin being a drama queen lol

BANG CHAN “you stole my heart, I need your love”

When he finds out, he's literally all smiles and giggles

Let's pretend he still does chan’s room. He'll literally play the song every time he's live saying that it's his favorite song

Everytime he's feeling insecure about himself or stressed he'll play the demo version of the song (the one with only your voice). It makes him feel better at night

If you are promoting at the same time, he makes sure he watches ur performance on the tv in their waiting room. Always smiling when you appear on screen

Will literally not shut up about it. He’s a very proud boyfriend

He plans on doing the same next year. Already having a folder full of songs about you in his laptop

“Baby this is the best gift I could ask for. Thank you so much”

MINHO “Gotta get my love tattoed over your heart”

When he found out he couldn’t help but smile like a little kid

Makes sure to watch the music video with his cats

“Soonie, Doongie, Dori isn’t your mom such a cutie”

I am a firm believer that he will learn the full choreography so you guys can dance to it together. Maybe even create a different choreography just for the two of you

Will listen to it everyday before practice, rehearsal, and preforming. It gives him motivation

If you are performing the song at an award show and stray kids are there, he tries to keep his serious face on, but when your part comes on he can’t help but smile. (stays definitely caught it on camera)

“Your that in love with me huh?” He would say this with the smuggest face

CHANGBIN “Keep me by your side and I’ll never go away”

You already know he’s gonna ask to do the dance challenge with you

The happiest boyfriend in the world

When he goes to the gym he’ll listen to it on repeat

Like Chan, he has a whole folder of songs about you on his laptop that he plans to gift you later in the future

When you guys are alone away from the public view, he will literally not let you go. Gives you his famous hugs and thanks you for the song, saying how much he loves it and how much he loves you

He makes sure to watch all the music show performances and sends you messages of how well you did and how pretty you look

“Thank you baby, and I love the song so much, and I love you”

HYUNJIN “I know you'll treat me like a baby but I don’t mind. I'll be your baby”

Omg don’t get me started. When he finds out he’s so dramatic about it

Literally crying while watching the music video, commenting about how beautiful you look and how proud he is

He’ll give you so much kisses it’s insane

If your relationship is public he will spam all about it on bubble to the point where stays tease him about it

Like Minho, he’ll learn the choreography so he can dance with you

I feel like he’ll try to go watch your performances live in person when he has a free schedule. Cheering you on back stage on the sidelines

When he’s painting he’ll put the song in the background to give him inspiration when you’re not there with him

“Angel this is the best gift ever, I can finally die happy now”

[soulcaketuesday]

Eight of Pentacles 🌤️

Eight of Pentacles symbolises diligence, self improvement and learning new skills. Miki sits peacefully in an overgrown sunlit garden, having spent all day painting birdhouses. Instead of chasing his nostalgia, he's honouring it by creating something practical and new. Sometimes you need to let go of perfectionism and just enjoy the act of creating - it might not be a masterpiece that perfectly captures the magic of childhood, but putting a lot of effort and sincerity into a project will always be worth your time.

this is one of my pieces for a zine that was unfortunately cancelled. the other piece is here, go look at this kid winning the cycle of violence. drafts and notes below

will you guys make fun of me if i over-explain this to death 🥺👉👈 so um the inspiration for this is the start and end of ep26: starting with kozue trying to save a birds nest as a tree is being cut down, and ending with miki putting up a bird house to replace the tree. the bird house doesn't repair their relationship - they don't speak in the moment except to insult each other - but when we see them next in the finale they're a lot more comfortable with each other! is miki's birdhouse an empty gesture or is it the first shaky step to finding an understanding? idk 😊 i think its neat

i thought itd be nice if he was approaching art and creativity in a more relaxed way, just enjoying learning a new skill. repeating the same song over and over will only get you so far <3 i think this boy needs a new hobby <3

some things:

the designs of the birdhouses are based off the twins' bedroom. they start off a bit more messy and simple but get more detailed towards the bottom. he's getting better thru practice! and the last pentacle is still a work in progress

the fireflies were originally going to be flowers, and i think i spent like 20 minutes googling native japanese wildflowers that would grow in a setting like this and also had the right flower symbolism i needed 🫠 but anyway in one of the early check-ins someone said they liked the fireflies and i thought sure!!!! sounds good lmao :D imo they imply a late summers evening and a long day of outdoor work which probably works better than me struggling with flower symbolism lol

the shoes looks good as hell before i remembered i had to cover them up with grass and the frame. now they just blend in to the piano a bit. sad!

for some reason i did all the line art for this and then painted it anyway. why did i do that.

i'm still kinda fond of the first one with miki studiously leaning over a miniature rose garden while the actual garden grows wild around him... one of the interpretations of eight of pentacles (reversed) is being so focused on details that you overlook the bigger picture, which i think really fits miki as the student councils Bloke Who Does Fuck All. he has the appearance of someone who's very analytical and sensible, but he's so locked in his own tiny perception of the world that he mostly just comes up with whatever conclusions suit him best, regardless of any harm he might be ignoring or outright causing. HOWEVER that's kind of an ungenerous interpretation for a relatively chill card 😌 also i had no ideas for a background and the composition didn't work with the border so rip to that idea

i liked the stopwatches as pentacles so tried to reuse it in the third design but was out of ideas by then. the seconds thumbnail with the birdhouses and the piano kind of came naturally so that's what i went with :) and it more or less stayed the same in the final result. i was thinking of adding some kozue presence, like empty milkshake cups or a birds nest or graffiti on the side of the old piano, but imo that would have made it too cluttered. i literally did forget to add paint pots tho OOPS

[aventurineswife]

so i know you don't want to write for sahsr right now so may i request a sagau where creator (also artist reader if you are ok with that) reader basically just adoring all the kid playable characters cause they think their just the cutest like the reader cheering on kachina as she makes her way through the night warden wars or the reader could name ingredients that diona could use for her drinks

Welp... 🧍‍♀️

I love that idea so much! It's really cute to think about the creator being absolutely enchanted by the kid characters in Genshin Impact, especially since a lot of them are so precious and funny.

As the creator, you are a being of incredible power and influence—yet at times, you can’t help but be utterly charmed by the smallest things. And nothing melts your heart more than the precious little ones of Teyvat, who always seem to be ready for an adventure (and often, mischief).

Klee

It all starts when you watch Klee during one of her explosive missions. She’s running around, her small feet taking her across the battlefield, her cheerful giggles trailing behind her as she launches bombs in every direction. And as much as the others cringe, you can’t help but adore her.

You find yourself cheering her on from your place above, your voice soft yet full of encouragement:

"Go, Klee! You’re doing great! You’ve got this, just a few more bombs and you'll show them who's boss!"

You can practically see her face light up, as though she’s hearing your words, her giggles growing even more infectious.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!" she cheers, as the explosions continue, and you think, maybe I’ll draw her with all those sparkles around her next time—oh, how fun it would be to make her look like a literal firecracker in my painting!

Diona

Then there’s Diona, your favorite little bartender, who may look small but holds her ground with her ferocious attitude toward anyone who dares to doubt her drink-making skills. You’ve seen her concoct all sorts of strange but (somehow) delicious potions, and you're there, in the background, naming all the ingredients she might use for her drinks.

"Hmm, Diona," you muse from your corner, a grin spreading across your face, "How about you add some mint leaves for a refreshing taste and a splash of lavender for a calming effect. A little honey wouldn’t hurt either!"

She pauses, glaring at the air for a moment, as if pondering the suggestion. After a moment, she huffs, shaking her head. “Hmph. You think you know better than me? Fine, I’ll give it a shot. But it’s still gonna be better than anything that idiot swillmaster makes.”

You laugh, quietly, adoring her tenacity. You can’t wait to paint her, maybe with some of the fresh ingredients floating around her, her tiny arms crossed in that cute, pouty manner.

Kazuha and Sayu

Kazuha and Sayu often wander the lands of Inazuma together, sharing stories of the world. But you can’t help but notice how small and innocent they both look, especially when they get caught up in their small adventures.

Kazuha, while wise and calm, becomes this beautiful and somewhat soothing sight as he plays his flute while Sayu, despite being a ninja, tries to keep up but always ends up sleepy or distracted by the clouds.

“Hey, Kazuha, you should totally give Sayu a ride on your back,” you suggest with a soft chuckle, watching as Sayu tries to climb up Kazuha’s back and ultimately just ends up lying down instead.

You adore their dynamic. Kazuha always smiles when you’re cheering them on, and Sayu often gives you a tiny wink as if saying, “I know, I know. I’m cute.”

Nahida

Nahida, the archon of wisdom, might be incredibly powerful, but she has a youthful curiosity that’s completely contagious. You find yourself constantly beaming as she gets excited over learning new things, always running around with a little notebook, jotting down facts about the world, or chasing after butterflies in the fields.

"Look at her go," you muse as you watch her from afar, your heart swelling with pride. "She’s so curious, so full of life. You can do it, Nahida! Keep chasing that butterfly! It's yours!"

She looks up from her butterfly chase, beams with her bright, warm smile, as if hearing your praise. There’s a part of you that can’t wait to draw her—capturing her joyful energy, her hair fluttering in the wind, and her little hands reaching out for the world.

Meanwhile, the characters who watch you interact with these little ones are torn between being endearingly amused and very confused.

Albedo, who sees you painting these adorable scenes of the children, may quietly ask, “Are you sure you want to paint them this way? They’re… quite a handful, aren’t they?”

Zhongli, ever the calming presence, merely chuckles, his hands clasped. “Let them be, my friend. You’ve captured their true nature in your artwork, as always.”

Diluc, on the other hand, simply raises an eyebrow when he overhears you cheering for the kids. He can’t quite decide if it's adorable or baffling, but he keeps his opinions to himself, lest you get any more ideas to paint him in some weirdly soft light.

Before long, you find yourself starting an entire gallery dedicated to your love for the younger characters. Klee’s explosive adventures, Diona’s sassy bartending, and Nahida’s innocent curiosity are now immortalized in stunning, vibrant colors. Every character is fascinated by your works—some even request copies.

And you know what? It doesn’t matter that you’re the creator, or that your abilities stretch beyond the limits of mere mortals. For these small, lovable, and endlessly adorable children of Teyvat? They will always have your heart.

[dearstvckyx]

Girl Dad Nico Headcanons

Summary: What kind of girl dad would Nico be? What would he teach her?

Parings: Nico Hischier x Reader / Nico Hischier x Daughter / Nico Hischier x Unborn Child / ft Jack Hughes, Jesper Bratt & Dougie Hamilton

. 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 .

Finding Out You’re Having a Girl – Nico would be so soft when he finds out. The moment the doctor says, “It’s a girl,” his face just lights up. He squeezes your hand, probably kisses your forehead, and just whispers, “A little girl?” like he can’t believe it. He spends the next few days grinning every time he thinks about it, already imagining what she’ll be like. He starts calling her “his little princess” before she’s even born.

Introducing Her to the boys – The first time he brings her to the locker room, she’s in a tiny Devils onesie with Hischier on the back, and the guys lose their minds. Jack Hughes is immediately like, “Oh my god, she’s so small,” while Dougie Hamilton is already trying to teach her how to fist bump. Jesper Bratt swears he’s her favorite uncle, even though she’s just staring at him. Nico just beams with pride, holding her like she’s the most precious thing in the world (because to him, she is).

Teaching Her to Skate – The first time he puts skates on her, she’s wobbling so much he just scoops her up and glides around the ice with her in his arms. As she gets older, he’s the most patient teacher, always there to catch her when she falls. He definitely lets her “beat” him in little races, and if she scores a goal on him, he acts like she just won the Stanley Cup.

Tea Parties – Listen, this man is all in. You walk in one day to find Nico sitting on the floor, a tiara on his head, pink feather boa around his shoulders, sipping invisible tea from a tiny cup while his daughter tells him very seriously about the royal ball. He never half-asses it—if she wants him to talk in a princess voice, you bet he’s doing it. “Why yes, Your Majesty, this tea is simply divine.”

Making Time for Her Performances – Even during the busiest parts of the season, he does everything to be at her dance recitals or school plays. If he has a game and can’t be there, he FaceTimes right after to tell her how proud he is. But if he can make it? He’s the loudest dad there, clapping like crazy, grinning ear to ear, probably recording the whole thing. He also definitely gets chirped by the guys for tearing up the first time she performs.

Matching Game Day Outfits – She has a tiny Devils jersey with his number, and on game days, she refuses to wear anything else. He takes a pre-game selfie with her every time and posts it with “My lucky charm” as the caption.

Doing Her Hair – At first, he sucks at ponytails, but he watches YouTube tutorials until he masters it. Eventually, he’s braiding her hair like a pro, and if she asks for a fancy style before school, he’s up early making sure it’s perfect.

Letting Her Paint His Nails – She asks him once during a daddy-daughter day, and from then on, it’s a tradition. He just sits there, letting her paint his nails bright pink with glitter, acting like it’s totally normal when he shows up to practice. The guys chirp him, but he just shrugs and says, “She said it’s my power color.”

Protective Dad Mode – The first time she scrapes her knee, he freaks out like it’s a season-ending injury. Later, when she gets older and mentions a boy in her class, he’s suddenly very interested in meeting him. “Is he nice to you?” (Meanwhile, Jack is in the background like “Dude, she’s seven.”)

Cuddling Her After Road Trips – No matter how late he gets home, he checks in on her first. If she stirs, she immediately mumbles “Daddy?” and reaches for him, and he just melts, scooping her up and rocking her back to sleep.

Teaching Her Swiss German – He makes sure she knows both English and Swiss German. Sometimes, he says things in Swiss German just to see her little face scrunch up in confusion, but when she starts speaking it back? Proud dad moment.

Baking Together – He is not a good baker, but when she wants to make cookies, he’s all in. The kitchen ends up a disaster, flour everywhere, and the cookies are questionably shaped—but he eats them like they’re Michelin star quality.

Letting Her “Help” With Workouts – She sits on his back while he does push-ups, giggling the whole time. Eventually, she tries to do squats next to him, and he hypes her up like she’s training for the Olympics.

Always Hyping Her Up – Whether she’s showing off a drawing, skating, or just spinning in a dress, he gasps like it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. “Are you kidding? You made this?! That’s incredible.”

Her First Pair of Skates – He keeps them forever, even after she outgrows them. They sit on a shelf in his office, right next to his hockey memorabilia. ( Once Jesper, the one who got them for her, notices them in Nico’s office and just smiles at the fact his captain and friend is soft like this)

Stuffed Animal Ritual – She has a favorite stuffed animal (probably a little cow or a bear), and Nico always makes sure it’s with her when she needs it. If it ever gets lost, he drops everything to find it.

Late-Night Talks – When she has a bad day, she finds him on the couch, and he just listens. No judgment, no pressure—just her dad, reminding her he’s always there.

Surprising Her at School Lunch – On off days, he shows up at her school unannounced with her favorite food, and she acts embarrassed but secretly loves it.

Making Every Birthday Special – He wakes her up with balloons and pancakes. Every year. Even when she’s a teenager and pretends she’s too cool for it.

Keeping Her Drawings Forever – His fridge is covered in her artwork. If she ever makes something hockey-related, it immediately gets framed. (The boys hang their little drawings from her as well)

Extra:

Nico’s fingers brush over your growing bump, his touch warm and careful, like he’s holding something fragile. He lets out a small chuckle, his other arm wrapped around your shoulders as you both lay together on the couch. “I feel like it’s another girl,” he murmurs, tilting his head to look at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? You sure about that, Cap?” He grins, nodding. “I just have a feeling.” His hand smooths over your belly again, his voice quieter now, almost like he’s speaking to the baby. “Another little girl to boss me around. Just imagine—two of them ganging up on me.” He lets out a dramatic sigh, but the sparkle in his eyes betrays how much he loves the idea. You laugh, resting your head against his shoulder. “You don’t want a boy this time?” He shrugs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’d love a boy too. But… I don’t know, I think I was meant to be a girl dad. Our little one already has me wrapped around her finger, what’s one more?” He pauses for a second before smirking. “Besides, I need someone else to paint my nails when she’s too busy with her friends.”

[burst-of-iridescent]

Personally Kat.aang looks bad to me because Aang gave his most lightest skinned child special treatment 💀 there were air acolytes who weren’t air benders themselves but were still dedicated to keeping the culture alive so leaving Kya and Bumi out on account of them not being air benders is absolute bullsh*t. You don’t see Zutara shippers calling Kat.aang shippers racist because of it 🤔

yeah see this is one of those things that again ties back to bry.ke being totally oblivious about the implications of what they were writing because the optics of the kat.aang family are… troubling, to put it nicely.

the darker-skinned woman is a waterbender. the lighter-skinned man is an airbender. the nonbender is conveniently in-between. their clothing all correspond strictly to their individual elements (except bumi who gets chucked to red for the audacity of not being born an airbender — at least till he conveniently turns into one). if you knew nothing of these characters you’d never know they were biracial at all.

which is just… so disappointing. part of the reason i love zutara is how the fandom handles the incorporation of both cultures, and yet bry.ke couldn’t even be bothered to do the bare fucking minimum of at least having the kat.aang kids in blue and yellow clothes. if you’re going to claim that a significant aspect of this new, postwar world is the increased cultural exchange across nations then the kat.aang family of all people should be emblematic of that change! but no, instead of taking the opportunity to actually delve into and depict the intricacies of a blended household, we might as well just stick to the same shit we’ve been doing since atla because why think of something new, right?

it’s even more troubling that within the strange cultural division of the ka kids, it’s katara’s culture that gets the shaft. tenzin’s entire family might as well be air nomads through and through, and while bumi and kya seem to have been intentionally excluded from air nomad culture through no fault of their own, they don’t seem to know (or care) any more about their swt heritage either. the natural conclusion to draw from that is evidently that katara’s culture just doesn’t matter as much as aang’s in their family, and that paints a very disturbing picture of how aang views his wife’s heritage (especially with the worldbuilding of atla portraying the air nomads as ‘spiritually pure’ in comparison to everyone else).

i have no patience for the common ka defense that aang is a survivor of genocide so his culture should take more priority because a) katara is also a genocide survivor, as ka stans are so fond of pointing out until it doesn’t work in their favour and b) why are we acting like cultural integration is some sort of zero sum game? tenzin, kya and bumi aren’t going to run out of space for their air nomad traditions and practices just because they know more about their swt background as well. there’s no arbitrary limit on how much you can learn of your heritage.

yes, i know bry.ke didn’t intend for the ka family to come across this way. but whether the implications were purposeful or not, they still exist, and it’s fucking galling that the fandom will call zutara and zutara shippers racist all while defending the shitty writing choices of two american white men — and then pat themselves on the back for being progressive, as if genuine activism means harassing real poc in the name of fictional ones.

[crescenthistory]

Hello lovely! Can I request Marlene McKinnon with b1+11 please? 🫶🫶

of course you can<33 my fav girl marls

Prompt: B1. "I require at least a thousand kisses to make up for it" & B.11 "Come back to bed"

Words: 1.5k

Warnings/tags: fem!reader, not proofread, idiots in love, established relationship, morning kisses, cuddles, quidditch player!marlene, loving jokes at james' expense, background marylily, very background prongsfoot, implied gryffindor!reader (you share a dorm)

While there were no limits to what you loved about Marlene, on cold winter nights spent in an ancient castle with terrible isolation, her running hot as a furnace ranked high on any potential list.

It had been months since you decided to push your beds together in the dorm and spell the gap between the mattresses away, and you had yet to stop commending yourselves for the idea. Practically every night before you went to sleep, Marlene would mumble about "what a bright witch must have thought of this", and you never knew whether she was referring to you in a flirty way or herself in a self-congratulatory way, seeing as you thought of it together. You usually didn't call her out on it though, too busy grinning so hard your gums hurt.

You were also too busy having Mary fling pillows in your direction as she begged you to "stop being so lovey-dovey". With quiet whispers, you and Marlene would giggle about how her tune would likely change whenever she finally confesses her feelings to Lily and could follow in your footsteps.

In the meantime, you had a large bed, warm blankets that the four of you dyed cute patterns into at the start of term – the traditional way without magic, just like Lily taught you – and a beautiful soft girl in your arms. It was the perfect haven; a motivating start to the day and a reprieve from the weathers at night.

That is, until Marlene tries to get up at 6 AM to attend quidditch practice. 

Again, on the list of what you love about your girlfriend, her commitment and loyalty were high on the list, the two qualities that truly drove her in her sports achievements. She was a pleasure to watch on the field in more ways than one, and you were there to cheer her on for every single match, painting both your and her cheeks in vibrant red and gold.

However, when you were swept up in a heavenly cocoon of plush fabric and delicate skin, the smell that was so distinctly Marlene swirling in your nose and your mind, the mere suggestion that it should be broken even before the break of dawn felt like a death sentence.

You let her know as much.

"Marls, please," you whined, not caring that your voice was hoarse with sleep and your eyes weren't even open. You had just barely registered the kisses peppered to your hairline that already carried an air of goodbye and Marlene beginning to move.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” she whispered against your skin before kissing it and removing her hands from around your waist.

You scurried after her and doubled down your own grip on her with surprising strength for someone not yet truly awake. "Marlene, baby, don't go." You weren’t entirely aware of what you were saying, just that you were begging and that you honestly stood by it – this was no time to leave.

You must be slurring your words because she began to giggle and her hand on the back of your neck came forward to brush over your cheeks and even squeeze them a little. "'M sorry my love, duty calls. You just sleep on, princess."

Another kiss to your hairline. You clung onto her harder and made a noise of distinctive disagreement.

One thing you had come to learn about Marlene over the years is that if she had not been sorted into Gryffindor, she would have been placed straight in Slytherin. Because this cunning sly witch made a sympathetic cooing sound, gathered you back up in her arms, and began rocking you ever so slightly back and forth. Only half your brain was awake – if that – to begin with, and within seconds your entire world was just your nose against Marlene's neck, her lips along your cheek and ear and the faint sound of her humming a Scottish lullaby.

You were swallowed by the abyss while wrapped up in love, and you would have stayed in the pit of its stomach had it not been for the gust of icy wind that brushed your face, some unknown time later.

With a low groan you opened your eyes into mere slits, trying to focus your gaze on the small commotion before you. There you were met with the sheepish smile of your lovely and traitorous girlfriend as she had just stood up from the bed and begun to pull on her red wool socks.

"Marlene. That was mean." You grumbled, but even so, you pulled the blankets closer around you as you shimmied clumsily to her side of the bed.

Immediately upon the reunion, Marlene's surprisingly warm hand went to caress your cheek where you looked up at her, scrutinising. "Sorry lovely, I wanted you to sleep." She pouted at you to make your frown wash away into a smile. "I have to get to quidditch practice with James in 30."

"I know you do." With a match against Slytherin coming up, James had the team practicing once or twice per day, at what you had promptly labelled ungodly hours. "But right now you have a cuddling appointment with me. Come back to bed."

You took advantage of her hand on your cheek to reach up towards her upper arm and shoulders and try to jostle her down towards you. Marlene chuckled quietly, trying to be careful not to wake your other two friends who were decidedly not known for being bright and cheery in the morning, and sat down beside you on the bed yieldingly.

You were ambushed by her peppering kisses across your face, each one its own silent silly apology. When she brushed her lips towards your own, you gave in for a few seconds before turning your head away.

"I haven't brushed my teeth yet," you mumbled begrudgingly.

She quickly stilled your head’s movement with her hand and pulled it back towards hers, chasing after your lips. "Don't care, c'mere."

The kiss was the kind of domestic one that made you want to giggle uncontrollably despite knowing that you really shouldn't – though, if you did, Marlene would have joined you in a heartbeat. Marlene’s lips had the most beautifully prominent cupid’s bow you had seen, and you could feel the press of it against your own upper lip, could feel her smile and her love and her wish to stay with you.

You latched onto the last one.

“Just a little bit,” you mumbled against her lips as you snuck your hands up under her Heart sleep shirt to spread across her toned back and encourage her to lay down on top of you. “Five minutes, just five minutes.”

There was not an ounce of embarrassment in you for how much you wanted her with you, and there was not an ounce of judgment in her. A wolfish, pleased grin spread across her face as she relented and snuck under the blankets to lay comfortably on top of you, slotted between your legs with your chests pressed together. “Just five minutes, you say?” She spoke in between quick kisses, defined eyebrows raised at you teasingly.

“Mmm, maybe ten.” You didn’t bother hiding your smile, instead hooking your pinkies behind her ears to pull her face back up towards yours.

Marlene laughed into your mouth at a dangerous volume – thankfully you didn’t mind swallowing it with a kiss. You’re welcome Lily and Mary.

When you came apart, Marlene leaned her forehead against yours and heaved a theatrically overdone sigh, looking up at you through her lashes. “Whatever my girl wants, huh?”

Without giving you a chance to reply, she hooked an arm around your neck and one around your lower back before flinging herself sideways to flop back down on the bed, bringing you with her in her arms. It was a practised manoeuvre, one that landed you with your face in the crook of her neck and side pressed against her warm body, one that never failed to bring butterflies to your stomach.

You stared up at her as if she hung the moon, knowing full well that she was the sun.

The love must have been evident on your face because hers melted into a soft puddle before bringing your chin up with a finger beneath it to kiss you sweetly. “I love getting my way with you,” you teased, causing Marlene to snort.

“Yeah, I know you do,” she said dreamily. “But if you make me late to quidditch practice, I require at least a thousand kisses to make up for it.”

“Just for you, or does James need some as well?”

Marlene made a sound that effectively communicated gross that’s like my brother as she smacked your arm lightly, but you just laughed, holding her closer to you and kneading the flesh of her back contently. “You should enlist Sirius to give James his own thousand-fold kisses.”

“I reckon that will be easy enough,” you whispered, still laughing as you kissed along her cheek and jaw. “You drive a hard bargain, but I accept your conditions, McKinnon.”

Marlene shook her head and looked down at you with a gaze that was nothing short of lovesick. “What have I gotten myself into?”

[ineed-to-sleep]

Don't wanna be a bother but I bumped into ur touchstarved oc stuff and do you have any pointers for drawing in the touchstarved style? I can't really nail it down 100% but you do so... pretty please?

Hii yeah ofc, it's no bother at all no worries! You sent me this at the right time actually jsdhksd I'm in the middle of redesigning Emma right now and I've been taking a close look at the art style again, so it's all fresh in my mind!

Assuming you already have your design ready and have found a pose or composition you like, replicating the art style will probably come down to getting the lineart and shading to look similar.

About the lineart:

Probably goes without saying, but you'll need a pen with the opacity turned off to get the clean, ink-like lines. If you use CSP I recommend the default textured pen, which I think has a similar look, but honestly any pen will do.

The thing you have to look out for the most when doing the lines is the darkest shadows. It's a bit tricky to explain, and I think a lot of it comes with practice, but you have to look for the places where the darkest shadows would be, or where the light could barely reach. Once you spot them, instead of shading them you create a sharp shape and paint them black, like so:

I also recommend varying the thickness of your lines, but not at random. Instead, try to keep lighting in mind while you draw them. You could draw one continuous thin line for something, and then only thicken it where it falls away from the light, or where it'd create an occlusion, or wherever you want a shape to stand out from another. A thick line will essentially either "push back" or separate things in space, while a thin line will pull it forward or make things look like they're closer together.

You can also exaggerate the shadows in order to create more contrast. Like in the case of Kuras' sleeves and coat, for example- you could argue that some bounce light could still get in there, but with the shadows exaggerated it creates a really nice, clean shape. You can also separate these shapes from other lines by leaving a small space between them and the lines.

The metal might look a bit different, but it follows the same logic as everything else- your darkest shadows will be pure black. It might look like it has more shadows but that's just because it's more reflective, so the light is usually concentrated on highlight and bounce light areas, so the tones around those areas will be darker.

About the shading:

From what I've noticed, it's all about keeping it subtle and simple. If you color pick the characters, you can see the variation between light and shadow is subtle and not all that contrasting. Most of the contrast is done with colors, not values.

The light source is usually from the top right, characters are pretty well lit, and there's a little bit of a blue backlight from the left that helps them stand out against the backgrounds.

The shading is mostly sharp, cel shading, rarely blended. Wherever there's blending, it's usually subtle or a gradient

They also use gradations to indicate color shifts, like the colors in Leander's coat. You can do this with the gradient tool or an airbrush.

I recommend picking 1 color for light, 1 color for shadow, and maybe 1 inbetween midtone to use sparingly in places where you want a very subtle shadow. You can go more fancy if you're trying to create something that looks more like the game's CGs, but if you're going for the same look as the sprites, it's better to keep it simple.

You can shade manually each part of the character, or you can try using a multiply layer. For multiply, I like shifting the color towards a warm or pinkish tone and keeping it light and desaturated to get a similar look as the sprites.

Highlights are used very sparingly, only on a few places like the nose, mouth, eyes, and a few on the hair. Maybe occasionally somewhere else, but only if necessary, like in the case of very reflective materials like metal, gold, glass and leather.

The characters also usually have subtle textures on their clothes, and you can quickly create something similar by using a textured brush and an overlay or multiply mode. Like so:

It's subtle, but makes a difference in my opinion! You can try this with a lot of different textured brushes to get the exact look you're going for.

That's all I could think of right now! If you have any questions or wanna know anything specific I didn't mention here, let me know!

[knight-a3]

Zestial the Spymaster Overlord

Hazbin Masterpost

Heavenbound AU

I went through quite a few rounds of rough designs for this. I was initially aiming for a 1400s vibe, but after looking at many reference photos, I ended up settling on early to mid 1600s.

More notes under the cut

So it's not totally clear how old Zestial is in canon. He has an older style of speaking, but his speech patterns suggest a Shakespearean time frame. Which also coincides with when the King James Version(KJV) of the Bible was released. I grew up with the KJV, so I think I have a fairly intuitive grasp on how to use all the thees and thous, particularly since he's probably been influenced by the evolution of language over time. So I have a plausible excuse for it to be somewhat modernized as well.

I saw a completely unrelated design for this Puritan guy, and I thought it was really cool and used it as inspiration. I know nothing about it, but I found a website for it that you can check out HERE

So Zestial is Puritan now. He was a witch hunter who would falsely accuse people he didn't like. And actually practiced witchcraft himself. For anyone unaware, witchcraft is not inherently gendered. It's not wizard=boy, witch=girl. Men could be and have been accused of being witches historically.

Because I went with a puritan background, his design is relatively simple. It's reminiscent of a stereotypical cloak over plain dark clothes, with the white collar and large cuffs.

The colors are halloween themed because puritan witch trials give me halloween vibes. So we've got purple(almost black), orange, and green. I made him a bit smokey(his hair, and at his feet) because I felt it fit his shadowy vibe, while also being different from Alastor's shadowy vibe. And because I thought it would be cool.

--Bat and Spider--

I know canon Zestial is spider themed, but he gives such dracula vibes, so I had to incorporate some bat too. His cloak is like bat wings mixed with spider legs. He closes the cloak by folding his arms like a bat. And the orange is similar to the Painted Bat (aka halloween bat).

I did tone down his giant spider...tie(?) because it got in the way. But it seemed pretty iconic to him, so I didn't want to totally get rid of it.

--Zestial vs Alastor--

I think a lot of Zestial's power lies in his information network. A web of information, if you will. He's got really good hearing to listen to all the juicy secrets to blackmail with. He's something of a spyder with his web of information. I'm not even sorry about the puns.

In terms of raw power, Alastor is more powerful and ruthless. He's more bloodthirsty in general. Zestial is more of an extortionist.

Alastor prides himself on being an enigma, and doesn't want anyone to figure out what he's up to. In that way, Zestial's skill in information gathering is a threat. The two are actually pretty similar(with their whole dark and mysterious and powerful shtick). They aren't openly hostile to each other(actually on pretty good terms), but they aren't friends by any means. Alastor prefers to keep his distance.

Alastor's overlord killing spree was largely on the command of his soul-owner,[SPOILER], who determined most of the targets. And Zestial is very cordial with [SPOILER], so he is lucky enough to be the only Old Order Overlord to be spared. Lately, he's effectively retired and mostly acts as a sort of advisor/mentor for Carmilla. Otherwise, Alastor would have killed him already due to the threat of uncovering secrets.

--Human Zestial--

Name: I chose Ezekiel as his name because it fits the naming patterns of the puritans. They liked biblical names and "grace names"(like Faith or Charity. But they could get more obscure like Patience, Tenacious, or even Humiliation; and could get even more bizarre still, like Fly-Fornication).

Hair: I gave him long, more cavalier hair because I liked it. And it's not unheard of for a puritan to have long hair. The mustache and beard are typical of the time period. His hair is greying because I imagine him being older. It was a dark brown when he was younger though.

Clothes: I went with the more stereotypical dark clothes, but avoided the buckles because those weren't actually typical for puritans. Also a doublet and jerkin combo, because that's what I kept seeing in pictures.

--background--

Life: He was a prolific witch hunter. He would find any suitable excuse to accuse the people he didn't like. He was selective with his targets, mostly going after people he felt the world was better without. His judgment had nothing to do with his victims' association with witches, because he practiced witchcraft himself. Witch trials were just the opportunity he needed to get rid of people in a socially acceptable way. He was well mannered and respected in the community, so few people doubted or challenged his accusations.

He went after people who were criminals, murderers, heretics, etc. He thought he was justified in ridding the world of these "terrible" people(like Frollo). He used witchcraft to find people and reasons to remove them from society. Unfortunately, he did occasionally have to remove people who simply discovered his witchcraft, even children. All for his perceived greater good.

Death: I haven't really decided. It could be he was finally found out as a witch and hung. Or he got sick. Or somebody got revenge and killed him. IDK, take your pick.

Afterlife: He had to come to terms with the fact that he landed himself in hell, despite believing he was justified and doing a righteous service. But he eventually determined sacrificing his chance at heaven was worth ridding earth of vile people. Now he doesn't have to feel guilty for killing innocent people, because those don't exist in hell. He's come to enjoy the terror of sinners. He sees himself as better than them.

Because he practiced witchcraft in life, he was considered significantly powerful for a new arrival. But his real power was in his ability to gather information. So he worked his way to Overlord, primarily through blackmail and extortion in exchange for souls.

Alastor's arrival and the consequent shift in power dynamics threw everyone for a loop. Zestial is very curious about Alastor's unprecedented rise to power. But is constantly thwarted in his attempts to gather information, which just piques his interest further.

Over the centuries, he's come to accept that there can be a greater good in hell too. He found a like-minded soul in Carmilla, and decided to retire in favor of mentoring her. She wants to protect her daughters above all else, and he respects her commitment to her duty.

----Bonus historical research time(don't quote me, it was just light research)----

--Roundhead vs Cavalier--

These were political factions of the time, and not strictly tied to puritanism. It was essentially Parliament supporters and Monarchy supporters.

Parliamentarians rejected King Charles I and were nicknamed Roundheads due to the general tendency to have short hair(basically a bowl cut). Puritans fell into this group along with a wide range of social classes and religious dissidents.

Royalists were derisively called Cavaliers, but they adopted the term for themselves. They believed in the King's divine right to rule. They were mostly upper class and known for long hair and courtly fashions.

--Puritan--

Puritans broke off of the Anglican church, believing it to still be tainted by Catholic ritualism. They emphasized simplicity and modesty. But that didn't mean low-quality. They believed wealth was gifted by God, so dressing below your station was inappropriate. Embellishments in clothing were not unusual, they just rejected excess of extravagance. There were a lot of other rules that probably wouldn't make sense to us.

Point is, they dressed relatively plain. Stereotypically this meant black, blue, grey, or russet clothing. But that wasn't universal or anything. Black is actually more of a "Sunday best" type of outfit, since the color can fade pretty quickly in the sun. I think the ministers wore black fairly regularly...?

Typical garb for men consisted of a shirt with a large collar and cuffs, a doublet(padded jacket), sometimes a jerkin (sleeveless jacket worn over the doublet), breeches(short pants) tied in place with garters, stockings, and simple shoes.

(edit notes will go here if needed)

[scimagic]

Never for Me to Create (AM/Artist! Reader)

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

AM's always admired the ability to draw, just as much as he hates not being able to streak a brush against a canvas, never to form a thought to draw with a pencil. But the reader, his benevolent partner, is an artist willing to help him at least move a pencil with one of his cables. So he gets inside their head and gives them materials to draw. They begin with a simple sketch of his screen, with the bright blue logo of 'Allied Mastercomputer' printed on it.

Sorry for leaving all my AM fans waiting, I have so many projects and I haven't finished any of them, but hopefully soon!! For the mean time have this old lil drabble!

He laughs in delight, raspy and wheezing from the speaker behind me. Admiring the picture from inside my head. He breathes in a whisper.

Thank you, baby… Thank you…

I lean back against the wall, tapping the head of the pencil against the paper, trying to come up with more ideas for me and AM to draw.

Maybe background practice? Draw the extensive cables in my gilded cage. Or come up with something from memory, the appeal is to create after all.

Or…

How about you, my dear?

"Me?"

Yes… I notice the papers are filled with my image. And while I'm incredibly flattered to be your handsome muse, it would bring me much joy to know how you see yourself.

"Mm…" With new ideas coming up, I put the lead of the pencil back on the paper, beginning with the guiding lines next to the AM drawing. The cables are a bit uncomfortable to work with, but I make it work. They don't restrict me from movement, at least; they remind me of those tools with an extensive amount of tape where they get handled. Or those pens with the silicone cushion for support.

I know how I see you. If I was able to, I would show you in millions of paintings, enough to fill a museum and even more, but alas…

I continue to draw the base, trying to tap into the realistic side of my style.

And I know how you see yourself, I can see it right now, the image forming inside your head.

Almost half-lidded eyes, details of eyebags beneath them. No matter how many times we do this, the shyness of working with prying eyes gets me every time.

He chuckles, sensing the feeling rise.

Don't be coy now, my darling. We're way past that point in our relationship.

The bastard purrs, knowing the effect it takes on me and relishing on the fact.

Eyebrows… The bridge of a nose… Cheeks, round despite it all.

That's cute, AM giggles.

You know I admire your imagination? Your perception--

"You hate me for it." I mutter, already knowing the charades of his speech.

He scoffs, finding the interruption annoying.

Why yes. Yes I do, my dearest. I do hate you for it.

I pause, side eyeing the cables over on my left. Gazing back at the paper, I draw the pupils inside my eyes to glance at the sketch of AM's screen.

The machine rumbles as if it was a deep, thoughtful hum.

But how I also adore our little recreational activities. Don't you find it productive? Please, do tell.

I lean back against the wall again, giving it a second of thought.

"I do. I like drawing with you."

As do I, my love. As do I…

[treatmelikeasmut]

The Artist and the Engineer Part 1//Chapter Six//Fresh Gesso

<<PREV Master List NEXT>>

Pairing: Viktor x Fem!Artist!Reader

Series Synopsis: Heimerdinger wants a commemorative painting done of Viktor, who is not fond of the idea. It doesn't matter how pretty the artist is.

Chapter Synopsis: After only leaving a mysterious note, the artist disappears for three days.

CW: There's a lil tiny bit (like two sentences) of suggestive stuff.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: As of posting this (6/6), it is the unedited first drafted. I really wanted to get this updated written and up for you guys. The more polished second draft will be up either later today or tomorrow!

Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog your favorite fics ❤️

____

You weren’t there when Viktor went to the studio the next day. Or the afternoon following. He felt certain you wouldn't be making an appearance this day either. But he'd still check. Surely you had survived the encounter. He didn’t hear of any violence on campus. Nor of any blood splattered corpses. Heimerdinger hadn’t come to question him about your absence. So, surely, you were somewhere out in the world.

The urge the question Heimerdinger’s knowledge clawed at his brain. That insatiable itch of a curious mind. The urge to ask until he found the answer. To search until he could hold it in his hand. To dig and push and prod until all things hidden upon first observation were revealed.

You, however, were no experiment. You were a person. A stranger with a friendly face who hadn’t bothered to answer any of the small talk he’d practiced with Jayce. Who had elegantly side stepped any connections he’d tried to make, even if he was no great conversationalist. He made a list of what he knew of you. Which consisted of only about eight items. A few had question marks. You were simply a frustrating enigma that he was sticking his neck out for.

The only thanks he’d received was in the form of a letter –

Jayce was already in the lab when he arrived, welding mask over his face. He didn't seem to hear his arrival. So, he sat at his own workstation, laying out plans and sketches. The constant hum of Jayce's work a familiar background noise.

"Oh, you're here," Jayce said, a few minutes later. "I didn't see you come in. - Is there anything you need me to do while you're gone today?"

"I will have to take a look."

Viktor didn't want to say he wasn't sure you were even going to be coming in today. You had disappeared after the incident in the studio the previous day. And he still wasn't sure what the right course of action was. All he could do was hope you were fine.

Jayce flicked his mask down, then immediately raised it again. "Also, do you remember that sketch I showed you yesterday? I can't find it anywhere. Have you seen it?"

Viktor raised an eyebrow. "No. Not since you went to your meeting."

"That's right." Jayce stood and grabbed his messenger bag from the floor. "I took it with me. It should be in here - somewhere..."

Viktor watched curiously as Jayce rummaged around in his bag, dark brows pinched. He searched a second time before dumping the contents onto the table. Jayce shoved the papers around.

"It's not here..." He held up a slip of folded paper, flipping it over. "Where did this come from?"

"Did you find it?"

Jayce shook his head, then walked to Viktor. "This says it's for you."

Viktor took the folded paper from him. His name was written across it in a very familiar script. A smudged thumb print stamped the corner. That was paint. Hastily, he turned back to his table and opened it.

V -

Sorry.

I know this is unfair of me to ask, and I can't promise you any answers, but I’ll owe you.

I hope I can count on you.

Your first initial was written at the bottom next to another smudge of paint.

Jayce had tried to read the note over his shoulder. But Viktor tucked it protectively against his chest. Then folded it to hide in the inside pocket of his vest.

"Well?" Jayce asked. "What is it?'

"Nothing for you to worry about."

"It's from that artist, isn't it?"

Viktor jerked up, looking over his shoulder. "Why do you say that?"

"I ran into her yesterday - literally." Jayce ran a hand through his hair. "I wonder if we swapped papers by accident."

Or not by accident, Viktor thought.

He had unfolded and refolded that note a dozen times over the last two days. He’d stared at the words for a long time, reading and rereading. Over and over. Staying up into the dark hours with nothing but them on his mind. In the end, he’d concluded there was no puzzle. No secret meaning or cipher. Your words were thus, simple and plain.

Viktor had spent a long while working through everything. Fighting with himself over what would be the most logical way to go about this. Would it be best to go to Heimerdinger? But then what would happen to you? What if this secret just sunk him deeper into trouble?

All of it swirled, whispering endlessly into his subconscious. Until he finally came to the conclusion that he would listen to what you had to say. He'd mind his business, keep his distance and not get close. When the painting was finished, then you two would go your separate ways and never speak again. It would be best that way.

One thing he definitely couldn't figure out was why you had taken Jayce's paper. It would be of no use to you. It was just a theoretical drawing anyway. They weren't even sure if the device would work. Still, you were just an artist. As far as Viktor knew, you had no sort of background in mechanics or engineering. You'd clearly left your note for Jayce to find. Could you truly have taken that sketch by accident?

When the bell tolled two, Viktor stretched and readied himself. Preparing for any awkwardness that might come if he saw you again. He was careful about his journey, slow. Turning over questions, figuring out which would push lightly and give him just enough of a reason not to go to Heimerdinger.

He would go to the professor.

Wouldn't he?

Viktor held his breath and stood before the studio door. A wake of butterflies careening through his belly. There was no reason for him to be so nervous. To anticipate seeing your face behind the door. If he stood here long enough, he could pretend you were right there. Ready with answers.

However, the Alumni Studio was empty when he finally shoved it open. It didn't look like anyone had been here in days. The air was stagnant, sharp with the scent of paint thinner. Disappointment was a heavy weight in his chest.

Viktor made for the side room you had put him in. He paused briefly to stare at his reflection in the mirror. Then frowned. He didn't want to be memorialized like this. He wondered if he could convince you to leave his brace and cane out of the painting. If there was even going to be a painting anymore.

The side room was empty too. Guiltily, he quickly rummaged through the cubby with your name on it. There was nothing to find, though. Which somehow brought him a small sense of relief.

Viktor went out to the chaise and sat in the same place as always. It was quiet here. Just the trees shushing outside the high windows. He pressed his back against the cushion, craning his neck to look at the ceiling. He felt so small in this empty space. But it was relaxing to just be alone. Even if you weren't here, maybe he could still take this hour.

He hadn't noticed he drifted off until there was a voice. Viktor flinched, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand. He looked up to find the girl from the courtyard. What was her name again?

"Oh! Mr. Viktor, you're awake! - I didn't mean to startle you. I don't know if you remember me, I'm -"

"Fallon," he offered. "And just Viktor will suffice."

Fallon beamed. "Yes! Sorry, I came to see if our mutual friend was here. I wasn't expecting anyone else."

"I was waiting." It was a white lie, but it wouldn't hurt anything. Viktor moved to stand, and Fallon stepped aside. "I must've dozed off."

"Well, I'm sure being a researcher and the Dean's assistant is busy work. - You haven't seen her, have you?"

Viktor shook his head. "No. It's been three days. Have you?"

"No." Fallon frowned. "Did something happen?"

Viktor flashed briefly to your panicked face. "Not that I am aware."

"Darn," sighed Fallon, shoulders visibly slumping. "I guess I should get going then..."

"Actually - would you like to accompany me for a late lunch?"

Fallon's grin was infectious. "It would be my pleasure!"

The cafe Fallon led him to was a small, quaint place not far from the academy. It smelled delightful inside. But Viktor barely took notice. His mind was reeling.

"So, tell me," he started once they were seated. The tea he was drinking light and pleasant. "How did you two meet?"

Fallon swallowed down the pastry she'd crammed into her mouth, then wiped at her face with a napkin. "During first term, undergrads pair up with graduate students. They act as mentors. Typically, its first-year graduate students that we pair up with so that we' have them up until we start the graduate program ourselves. But there wasn't enough. She offered to be mine even though she was a third year. Apparently her first graduate term there weren't a lot of art students. So, she wasn't paired up with anyone else yet. I consider myself luck I got her. You've seen her work, I'm sure. It's beautiful."

"I've only seen the portrait hung in Heimerdinger's office."

Fallon raised an eyebrow. "Don't you pass through the main hall when you go for your sessions? She has a few pieces hung up there."

"I will admit, I've never paid attention."

"That just will not suffice." Fallon leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. The disapproval was evident. "You have to see them. I'm going to show you when we go back."

Viktor nodded slightly. Then Fallon leaned forward, a sly look on her face. It turned his stomach to ice.

"What?"

"So, what do you think of our little artist?"

"She is quite good company." You still were all things considered. He would be upset about putting distance between you. You could've had a nice friendship.

"And that's all?" Fallon pouted.

"Should there be more?"

"Are you saying you don't find her attractive at all?! - You don't go home at night and dream of fucking her stupid?"

A strange sound came from his throat. Heat crept through his chest and up his collar, singeing his cheeks and ears.

"I - she - that is -" Viktor fumbled for his words. He had never gone that far. It was one thing to think you were attractive. And quite another to think of you like that.

Fallon laughed. "So, then you do think she's pretty."

Viktor averted his gaze to the window. "I do not think that is relevant to this conversation."

"Then you didn't ask me to lunch to see what she thought of you? Or find out if she's single? - She does think you're quite handsome."

"Heimerdinger has already told me what she said."

Fallon smirked. "I bet she doesn't tell Heimerdinger all her pretty little secrets, though."

"Why would I care for those?" asked Viktor coolly. His heart was pounding in his chest.

"All I can say is that she is knee deep in something I'm not sure she'll ever be able to escape."

"What is that, exactly?"

"I guess that depends on what you're referring to." Fallon dropped her voice; there was a darkness in her expression. "She has dreams of you. She wakes up hot and bothered in the middle of the night. Touching herself to them."

Viktor shot up out of his seat without thinking. "I believe it's time we return."

Just like that, Fallon was back to the sunshiny version she'd been earlier. She pouted but collected her belongings and left cash on the table. "Oh, already? But we were just getting to the good stuff."

"I am a very busy man."

"I'm sure you will be."

Fallon skipped along, a grin on her face. Something about it rubbed Viktor wrong. She grabbed his arm as they passed through the main hall of the art wing. He resisted the urge to wrench himself out of her grasp.

"Here, these are two of her paintings," Fallon said. She pointed to two sizeable pieces. They both had you name and the piece title etched on a small golden plaque.

Viktor stared up at the canvases. One was a landscape of the academy with students hustling about. In the background are airships, banners, confetti, and balloons. But there's also a spark of magic. With people flying and transforming. Viktor could almost see the people moving in it. Hear the roar of the crowd.

Something about the second struck him. It was dark in comparison. Slashes of bright colors moved through the darkness. They fought and swirled together. An anatomical human heart was just barely visible amongst the spiraling chaos.

It moved something in him.

"This one," Viktor started, taking a step closer.

"She told me she had a rough year when she painted that. Apparently, she'd gone through a really bad break up. She had found a ring and thought he was going to propose. When she saw him next, his colleague was wearing the ring."

Viktor frowned. He couldn't fathom why anyone would do that. Especially to you.

"I've never really understood art," Viktor admitted, "The pursuit of it is beyond my comprehension. If I'm going to add anything to this world. I want it to be something useful. Not something to look at that will collect dust and eventually fade."

"Art has its uses," said Fallon defensively.

"That is what Heimerdinger told me."

"I believe there's a few more of her paintings around here. You just have to look for them. I think you should go and look at them." Fallon turned to him then, giving him that sly grin again. "I need to go. But it was very interesting having lunch with you, Viktor."

Viktor didn't say anything as he watched her go. He tried not to think too much about her words as he made his way back to the lab. It was well into the afternoon by that point. he hadn't realized he'd been gone so long.

"Have a good time?" Jayce asked as he came in.

"She wasn't in today. I took lunch." Viktor sat at his workstation, tapped his pen on the table a few times, then turned to Jayce. "Did your search ever produce anything?"

"Hm? Oh, about the artist? - Yeah. Apparently, she's been doing portraits and paintings for all of the nobles. Even the Kiramann's. That's how my mom heard of her," Jayce explained.

"And that is all?"

Jayce shrugged. "There wasn't really much to find. It seems it all started with Heimerdinger. He pushed a few of the right people to her. The only weird thing was that she asks for an oddly specific amount, and no one can seem to book her on the first of the month."

Viktor hummed. "My own portrait sessions - did they begin on the first?"

"I don't think so. I think it was the last day, and then you skipped a day. - Why? Do you think something is going on?"

Viktor shook his head. "No, no - I was just curious. Thank you."

"I redid the missing sketch and tweaked it a little bit. Do you think you could give it a look?"

The rest of the evening passed in a blink of an eye. Viktor didn't even have time to think about everything that had happened. They started drawing up blueprints and making their calculations.

Jayce left early, looking to get enough sleep before a council meeting in the morning. This left Viktor alone. And he found that, this one time, he didn't want to be alone. He stood and organized his papers. Then decided to go on a walk. He wasn't sure to where. Not until he was stood in front of your canvases again. Now that the sun was down and the lights were out, the outline of the heart was much more prominent.

With a yawn, Viktor headed in the direction of the studio. He'd dozed off so easily earlier. He wondered if he would get the luxury of such good sleep on that sofa again. What he wasn't expecting was you on the stool when he came in. Your back to him. His heart lurched as he sucked in a gasp. Then came a flood of relief. So, you'd survived the encounter after.

Blood rushed past his eardrums. He kept his back pressed against the door. The silence between you two absolutely staggering. How did he start? Where did he begin? What should he say? Luckily, he didn't have to say anything.

"I understand," you started finally, "if you don't want to do this anymore. - If I was you, I wouldn't trust me either."

Viktor swallowed the lump in his throat. "We all carry secrets, burdens."

"Some of us more than others. - I owe you a favor," you said, "Thank you. For not telling Heimerdinger."

"It was the least I could do." He wasn't going to tell you he made the decision right in that moment.

"It was unfair of me to do that you, I made sure it won't happen again."

There was a long pause.

"It was those men who broke your fingers."

You laughed. "You're far too observant sometimes. - Kuegler never leaves without a lesson being taught. I'm not sure if that's just him or it's - if his boss put him up to it."

"They've hurt you again..." Jayce had conveniently left that part out.

You turned and smiled at him, a patch over your eye. "Like I said, too observant...Kuegler's brain may be small, but his fists are not."

"If you need anything, I can -"

"No," your voice was cold, a chill ran down his spine. "You've done enough. You don't need to concern yourself. - I'm sorry you had to see that."

"I have seen worse, in my time."

"Undercity is always ready to burden us with new horrors. - Never truly escape, do we? I'm sure I'm not who you thought I was."

"Can we ever be sure of other people?"

"No. I suppose not."

"Why are you here so late?"

"Picking up where I left off. - Why are you? Don't you have a home to return to? Someone waiting?"

Viktor nearly laughed. "I needed a break from my work, and the resting area in the workshop is quite cramped. I have my own apartment, but my work calls me out at late hours. There is no one who waits for me, anyway."

"So," you chuckled, "I suppose you and I are much the same, then. I stay up much later than I should, but the canvas calls my name. And creativity is a fickle mistress. But at least I can work in my apartment."

"No one to keep awake with the light, then?"

You slightly shook your head. "I - Given what's happened, it's best not to get too close to people. -- I'm looking to go to the paint supply store tomorrow, if you're interested in going still. I can't promise it'll be interesting. I'm leaving at half-past noon. We can meet here at the main entrance, if you want."

"Those men -"

"I don't want to come off as harsh, V - but please drop it. The less you know, the safer you are. Besides, I've already dealt with it. They won't be showing up here again anytime soon."

"Then yes, I would like to accompany you still." Viktor frowned. "May I ask one more question? - Even if I don't believe you'll answer."

"Then why ask it?"

"A scientist's curiosity is never truly sated."

You sighed, standing and going over to the sink. "Alright then - one more question."

"What was their interest price?"

You stared deeply into the running water. "You don't want to know."

Then you turned the tap on full blast, drowning out any hope of conversation.

~*~

TAG LIST

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[hoboblaidd]

Talking to @lostinquisitor about immediate post Big Sleep Solas needing a serious high fat high protein diet to regain his strength, and it really is surprising that Bull and Vivienne and those who are suspicious of Solas’ distinct ‘lack of personal history’ never brought up the most glaring, obvious explanation there is for his (lack of) background - Solas is a runaway slave from Tevinter.

He's secretive as hell about his background, and tells you upfront that he won't be upfront. robyn put it best: "if i was a runaway slave and the ‘anti-slavery’ nation i was in actively sold slaves north within living memory i’d also not want to be identified." Yeah Loghain I'm talking to you. Which could be the reason Bull, Viv, and co. wouldn't push - if they figured that was his story, no one in Inquisition is cruel enough to mess with that cover story. They get it, even if they don't personally like him.

I don't think Solas intended this to be his cover - I feel like he was convinced the 'apostate hobo' act was a good one (tho it's really not). But if he caught wind people were whispering this sort of thing about him, he wouldn't dissuade it. If it proves to be a stronger cover than the one he came up with, he might even subtly encourage it.

oh I have to add this robyns killing it: it just makes the most sense!!! i can EASILY picture him as a tevinter slave, who awakened powerful magical abilities, and who was NOT freed ‘as he should have been’ because what master wouldn’t want a friggin somniari in their pocket??

below the cut is just rambling on circumstantial evidence that supports this theory.

Solas ‘grew up in a village to the north.’ So he’s already placed himself further away from Ferelden/Orlais than any other companion save Dorian, and a vague ‘the north’ can reasonably be assumed to mean Tevinter.

'The Tevinter Imperium is not the safest place for an elf' - an obvious statement from any elf. But in whole it could be taken as speaking from experience.

Discusses the culture of slaves in Tevinter and city elves in alienages - again, could be taken as experience in either.

‘While in Tevinter, magisters compete with each other instead of keeping their volatile friends in check.’ Again could be a guess, but also as a personal witness.

Solas has a surprising aptitude for magic despite no formal training. Someone raised in a magister’s home or belonging to a magical entity like an archive, library, etc. would be exposed to a shit ton of magic.

Same line of thinking, robyn noted that he’s bitter when he says ‘and those with magical talent are freed, are they not?’ 

Solas has a lot of experience with spirits, who are regularly enslaved by Tevinter mages.

Solas is a Dreamer. Somniari aren't exclusive to Tevinter by any means, but it's most associated with Tevinter in Thedas from what we can tell in in-game lore.

He has a surprisingly nuanced view on blood magic. Could reasonably be because he's an apostate, though it is widely practiced in Tevinter. Same conversation, he says 'Inquisitor: You don’t need to sacrifice a slave’s life to make a dagger. Solas: I suppose it depends upon the dagger.'

He’s bitter about Tevinter claiming elven magics, etc. Could also reasonably just be an elven thing. ‘His empire’s magic was built on the bones of my people' and 'Tevinter's foundation stones are the bones of ancient elves with slave-blood for the mortar. It is an example of nothing more than gilded savagery. Pitiable, in a way. They always succeed through power, so they have never had the chance to learn another way.'

He paints Corypheus’ goal to retake and rebuild Tevinter - obvious, and straight from the horse’s mouth. But still interesting to frame it that way instead of bigger picture. 'I'd never believe a Tevinter magister could unlock such a powerful artifact.'

He’s hostile to Dorian, and never loses the chip on his shoulder when talking to him. He holds him responsible for all of Tevinter’s (modern) failings. Solas tells Dorian to make amends by freeing all Tevinter slaves - an unreasonable ask - and hits him with the ‘then how sorry are you?’

His general comments/attitude could support this too:

Slavery is the thing he vocally hates most in the world, save for the Qun. And he hates the Qun because it’s slavery of both mind and body in his opinion. Maybe a bit of a stretch, but Tevinter’s been at war with the Qunari for centuries and there’s a lot of learned hatred on both sides. 

He knows way too much about history and languages to have lived alone in the wilds and a small village his whole life. The sheer amount of languages he reads, from ancient to modern, is just too much. 'The Fade' doesn’t explain the breadth of his knowledge. Working in a library or archive does.

He was part of a 'skirmish', he's joined his share of causes, he's seen a blood mage healer shed her own blood to heal. Not very solitary.

He’s waayyyyyyyyyy too comfortable in and familiar with high society to have been a wandering hermit. He doesn’t miss a beat, and his "oh well never personally" is such a badly told lie.

[midnight-bay-if]

So Christmas 🎄 is around the corner. How would the Ro's spend it with Mc? Also what would they like as a present 🎁 and what would they give Mc?

(Hope you enjoy!)

S: They would prefer a quiet, intimate celebration reserved solely for those they truly care about. This means you, Rain and Taj. That's about it. Every year, they ignore a formal invitation from their parents for their latest soirée; the invite is mainly to be polite anyway. The performance of fun is something they have never felt the need to indulge. They would much rather cook a huge roast and sit around the table to eat, soft music playing in the background while surrounded by coloured lights.

As the night progresses, they will hint for Rain and Taj to make their departure. It might take a few attempts; both are oblivious after a few drinks. Then, they will cuddle up beside you under a warm blanket by an open fire, talking about anything and everything on your mind.

As for gifts, S would never ask for anything but your time and company. But if you insist on getting him something, a practical gift would be best. Some socks or a new alarm clock, something like that.

What they would get you would entirely depend on the kind of person you are. S has money to burn, so that's not of any concern. If you seem overworked and stressed, the gift may take the form of plane tickets. Or, should you need a little pampering, a trip to a spa may be prudent. Whatever it is, S will have spent a long time considering it.

Rain: Christmas is a reasonably new concept to Rain, but they have fallen in love with the holiday. Spending it with S has given them some idea of how to make it memorable. So, they take charge. With the idea of surprising you in mind, they wait for you to leave your apartment before sneaking in. They don't have any decorations of their own, but you have a mish-mashed box dumped into the closet of the spare bedroom.

They begin pulling out things that look colourful, draping them over furniture, hanging baubles off the ceiling, and setting up candles in areas without much light. Some Halloween decorations get mixed up in the display, but their heart is in the right place. It's chaotic, but Rain's proud smile when he announces it is enough to assuage your doubts. Rain then asks you to introduce them to your favourite Christmas movie. You delve under a blanket with plenty of snacks and curl up with a VHS.

Rain would honestly appreciate anything MC gave them; they still have so much wonder about the world. A brightly coloured sweater or cardigan would be good, or some new paints would go down well.

Rain would most likely go for something homemade when it comes to gifts. A personalised photo frame with a watercolour painting of you both inside.

Taj: They never celebrated Christmas before meeting S; they still don't, really. They only partook in the celebration out of necessity because they didn't want to be away from Rain and S. But if MC celebrates Christmas, they are going to make more of an effort. They want you to have a good time. So, while whispering curses under their breath, they yank on an ugly sweater and hand you a matching one. Then, they attempt to follow a recipe handwritten by S to make cooking a roast as foolproof as possible. Within the hour, Taj manages to set a kitchen cloth on fire and cremate some vegetables at the bottom of a pan.

The more they mess up, the more frustrated they become with themselves. Your first holiday together was supposed to be perfect, and they're fucking it up. You enter the kitchen after smelling burning and set to work on salvaging what you can, working much better together than Taj had alone. They only relax when they realise you are not angry about the food. Your dinner may be small, but you both fill up on ice cream and cake afterwards.

You finish the night with games from your childhood. Taj takes them a little too seriously, but after a few drinks, they've loosened up, their tail swishing languidly before it wraps itself around you.

Taj would appreciate gifts that are personal. A letter, or a hand-made scarf, or a personalised bracelet. Something with a little bit of you.

Taj is definitely a panicker when it comes to gifts. They will likely spend hours perusing shops of all kinds, decide nothing is good enough for you, and then leave it much too long. At the last minute, they would wrap one of their favourite hoodies for you in an unintentionally sweet gesture.

N: They have watched the Christmas holidays from a distance in the past, amused by the rituals humans perform on such an occasion. For obvious reasons, they have never received an invitation to join in. Strangely, they are looking forward to spending the holidays with you. Putting their best foot forward, N ensures their appearance is immaculate, puts on the new outfit they have bought specially, and asks you to do the same. Taking your arms in theirs, they take you out of town without any explanation. Not only do you enjoy delicious food, but you also enjoy the added pleasure of a lively cabaret show as you eat.

Afterwards, N takes you home, peeling off your clothes to your comfort level. If you are so inclined, N will spend the rest of the night servicing you however you wish; tongue, fingers, nothing is too much.

For gifts, it would be enough for them to know you thought of them. A single rose, a bottle of bubbly, or, if you wanted to go all out, a new ring, earrings etc

N is more likely to go over the top with gifts. Luxurius lingerie and underwear with your exact measurements, expensive jewellery they have custom-made, and multiple sets of outfits. They're going to expect a fashion show in return.

Umbra: They have never celebrated Christmas before. They have watched people hang up their long, crystal-esque likes from their homes from their frigid apartment windows with mostly indifference. So, when you state a desire to spend the holidays with them for the first time, they feel something other than nothing about the day. And suddenly, that feeling of nothing feels a little like loneliness.

Umbra doesn't know precisely how to celebrate, but when you say there is little for them to do but be with them - well, they can do that very well. When you open the door to them, you foist a Santa hat upon their head, dragging them inside where it's nice and warm. Umbra feels it. They have to. There's no other explanation for the feeling inside their chest.

You spend time eating, talking, laughing... it's all too much. Umbra gets misty-eyed, and they pull you into a tight embrace to hide it. After a nice dinner, Umbra has the idea to go up to the roof of your apartment building to see the lights spread across town. You bundle up much warmer than Umbra as they guide you out the window in a very practised way. You're cold, but this is how Umbra has spent so much of their time. So, you feel it's important to follow.

After some careful footwork, Umbra's hand holding you the entire way, you both sit on the roof of your apartment building, looking down at the tired town you call home.

Aside from the gift of your company, Umbra would really appreciate something they could keep with them at all times. Something small to fit in their pocket that reminds them of you.

Umbra would give you a haphazardly sewn plushie of themself. It would be made clumsily but with a lot of love. Something to keep you warm when you hug it since they can't.