#(so you can see all the eraser smudges)

[foobars-cool-car]

da skrunkly of all time⁉️ (credit to @sunnydiet for the reference)

[ennabear]

loser! sev getting all whiny and pathetic when she eats you out, rutting her hips against the mattress, cumming in her pants, accidentally overstimulating you like crazy because she's just loves it so much.

accidentally overstimulating HERSELF from eating you out?????? GODDDDDDD

HEHEHEH i said i was gonna respond to these as small little thoughts but i wanna write a real blurb about this because. wow. so true and real it brought tears to my eyes. THANK U FOR THISSSS i wish i could keep it in my asks forever hehehe… 18+

your wife has had one of the worst weeks of her life. the undercity has just completely gone rogue ever since silco has passed, and every effort she’s made to have everyone band together against topside is just worthless. nobody wants to listen to her, too obsessed with their own personal drama to see the bigger picture.

to make matters worse, she’s had to keep jinx under control too. when sevika imagined silco’s death, she didn’t imagine him leaving jinx in the will. and as if the sudden addition of jinx into her life wasn’t enough to stir the pot, jinx has found her own stray now too.

she’s exhausted. sick of sleepless nights spent erasing and rewriting silco’s mistakes, the bitter frost lingering in the streets leaving everyone in a tense and irritable mood. of fucking course she’s the one who has to deal with it, nobody else wants to take a stand or set things straight.

seeing her this way breaks your heart. she barely comes home anymore, usually to be found slumped over silco’s desk with a half empty bottle of whiskey at her side. her arm thrown across the table, an empty promise of getting it fixed and reattached hanging over her head. what she really needs is a new arm, but she refuses to take smeech up on his offer.

god damn it, your wife is so fucking stubborn. it turns you on immensely. because she’s loyal. she’s offered a brand new arm with all of the bells and whistles she could ever ask for, as long as she turns in jinx. easiest job ever, and she’s never liked the blue haired kid anyways. yet, she stands her ground. instead she’s been taking insults like “a bird without wings is just a funny lookin’ rat.” and trying to navigate her life with only one half of herself.

but tonight, she’s gonna make her absence up to you. she wanders home through the dark streets and alleys of zaun, straight to your shared doorstep. one could barely call it a house, as there weren’t really any dwellings that have survived this long in the undercity without being overtaken by moss and vines or crumbled to pieces— but it certainly was a home. especially when she gets to walk in and see you looking cozy and domestic.

you stare up at her when she saunters through the door, a crease between her brows and wet, red eyes painting her face as usual. she sighs, walking over to you and joining you on the couch. in an instant, she’s in your arms again. just the way you like it. without a word, you massage her temples as she nuzzles her face deeper into your hold. your touch is magic, she can feel the month long migraine she’s had suddenly disintegrating.

before she can stop it, before she even realizes what’s happening, hot streams of tears leak out of her eyes and roll down her cheeks. you coo at her and swipe them all away, kissing the top of her head repeatedly as a reminder of your love. yeah, it’s been a day or two since you’ve seen her, and sure, it’s been even longer since you’ve been on a date or had any sort of alone time, but you know that it isn’t personal. she’s trying her best, even if that means stumbling over her words and tripping over her feet.

“bad day, huh?” you ask, another kiss to the top of her head.

“bad week, bad month, bad year…” she responds with a sniffle. “i just wanna be close to you.”

she peeks up at you though her wet eyelashes, some of her black eye makeup smudged around her eyes. you giggle at her, she’s so fucking adorable. and so sweet, so hardworking, so gentle. before you can muster out an ‘i love you’, she bolts forward and catches your lips in a sweet kiss, pinning you to the couch.

“sev, god, you’re so needy.” you pant when she finally releases your lips to catch her breath.

“i’ve missed you, shit. wanna taste you so bad.”

with that, she shoves your pants down, already eagerly sucking bruises into your neck. you groan, you’ve forgotten how good your wife’s touch feels. a big, warm hand wraps around your own, and although they’re rough and cracked, you’ve never felt anything softer. tears threaten to spill out of your own eyes with the amount of love and adrenaline pumping through your veins, but sevika grounds you by shuffling on top of you.

you think she’s about to sit her cunt on top of yours as she strips herself of her pants, but you’re mistaken, and you realize this when she whimpers out a little “hand me that” and nods toward one of the pillows behind you.

confused and turned on as you are, you do as she asks and hand her a throw pillow which instantly gets shoved between her thighs. she wastes no time in diving forward to lick up all of your arousal, her eyes growing starry as a little string of white connects itself from your clit to the tip of her nose. you almost faint. fuck, you’ve missed her face, even more what it can do to you. so you buck your hips up and slowly grind yourself against her face, sevika matching your pace with her own hips.

in an instant, she’s lost in the pleasure— more specifically the taste of you and the slow grind of her cunt against the pillow. moans vibrate through your folds as she buries her face between your spread legs, and you whimper, already embarrassingly close to the finish line.

surprisingly, sevika cums first, the pillow cradling her wet cunt as she humps against it in time with her licks and sucks. that doesn’t stop her, and she doesn’t even stop after you cum and start yanking her head away out of intense pleasure. she can’t stop, though, not now. she’s in too deep. literally. her tongue is buried inside of you and her nose runs over your clit with every thrust, her mind absolutely racing with emotional thoughts and horny feelings.

“sevika, please!” you grunt, her grip on your hips is relentless. “babe, i already came, that’s enough.” but judging by the way she completely ignores you, you wonder if she even heard you at all.

she whines when you tug on her hair or push her shoulders away with the heels of you feet, her face completely melted to your cunt. she never stops fucking her pillow, and now her clit is red and rubbed raw by the cloth. she doesn’t know how many orgasms she’s had, it could range between three and twenty. she lost count when she came for the umpteenth time after you pulled her hair and moaned her name at the same time.

tears spill from her eyes again, but this time they’re happy tears. god, she’s missed you, and she doesn’t ever wanna stop. you take her face in your hands when you notice the sobs and sniffles she’s letting out, along with more whimpers and groans. this time, she relents, slowing her own hips first and then licking up the rest of the cum and spit between your thighs.

“sev, baby, what’s wrong?” you ask, concerned that maybe you hurt her or she hurt herself.

“i just missed you…” she starts. “and i love you so much.” she crawls up your body and lays her head on your stomach while you both catch your breath, the pillow being discarded on the floor. your fingers work wonders on her scalp, and she almost falls asleep after half an hour of matching her breathing to yours.

“don’t fall asleep yet.” you warn, although you’ve been yawning more than she has. “you still need to carry me to bed and tuck me in like a gentleman.”

“you might have to be the gentleman tonight,” she giggles. “i don’t think my legs are sturdy enough to carry us to the bedroom right now.”

[aidansloth]

Late Nights On Kitchen Floors Sometimes Lead To Confessions

Summary: You come home late one night to find your roommate Jason sobbing on the kitchen floor.

Warnings and A/N: some negative self-thoughts on Jason’s side. In this fic Jason is feeling a lot of feelings :) because we love our men crying and traumatized. Pre-relationship! This is my first time writing for Jason so I hope I did him justice. Written in the second person, gender neutral reader, I tried to make reader as inclusive as possible so if I missed something please let me know! JUSTKNOW that my heart broke while writing this. (final note, I wrote this at 4am so don’t judge me)

Words: 0.9k

I also posted this on ao3 if you want!!

Click

You secure the last of the locks on your door as you start to take your boots off along with your coat. Immediately as you stepped in your mind went into autopilot, following your routine so effortlessly that only after what was definitely too many seconds do you notice a heaving sound coming from your kitchen. 

“Jason?”

The words leave your mouth with a tinge of hope that it was just him and not a break-in you’d have to deal with at this ungodly hour in the morning. You check the time with a flick of your phone. 2:14am. 

You receive no response and reach for the bat Jason insisted you left hidden in the umbrella stand. You can never be too safe were his exact words and you’d honestly have to thank him if you made it out tonight. It’s only when you cross the door that you see him: Jason and all of his 6 feet of muscles are scrunched up into a wavering ball, his hands clutching his clothes and his head planted into his knees. All this time you’ve known him and yet he has never looked as vulnerable as he does now, on your dusty crumble-covered floor with tears in his eyes. 

At first no words come out of your mouth, how could they? You’ve talked to Jason just a couple of hours ago on your phone, he called saying he just wanted to hear your voice. He was fine earlier. He was. He asked how your day was. He listened, hanging off your every word. But now here he was in front of you, a broken shell of a man.

Trying to not startle him you get closer and call out his name again. This time he hears you.

He lifts his head and you can see smudged tear stains all over his face probably from an attempt to erase them. An hiccup escapes him and your heart breaks. 

“Oh baby,” you scooch in front of him and take his face in your hands. 

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

He can’t speak. The words are jabbed in his throat, threatening to suffocate him. He opens his mouth but nothing other than a strangled sound comes out. You start petting his hair.

“Hey, hey, it’s fine, you don’t have to say anything alright?” 

You settle on the floor and try to maneuver his body onto yours, his head on your shoulder. His body adapts to yours, his arms wrap around you and he feels like everything is going to be alright. One of your hands runs up and down his spine in a soothing manner while the other is nestled in his hair. 

A couple of minutes pass and you’re still holding him. Jason thinks he likes it. Being held, that is. 

After some more time his head lifts from your shoulder and your hands move to his forearms, caressing the skin there. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before speaking.

“I, ehm…” Jason’s gaze lays low and his hands start to play with yours. “I have to tell you something.” 

You nod and tell him to take his time. He bites his lip, still looking down. 

“I- Fuck, I messed this up. I really did. This was gonna be so much more romantic I swear. I was gonna- I was gonna invite you to that one bookstore we always go to, I was going buy you all the books you set your eyes on and- and I planned a walk through the park- the one- the one you like-” his voice keeps breaking and hiccuping, “-and walk through the flowerbeds and maybe if the day had gone well I would have had the courage to hold your hand.” he wipes a tear off his face with the palm of his hand. 

You try to speak but he speaks first.

“I like you. I really really like you. I wanted to do this well, tomorrow, but- I don’t know. I got too much in my own head and I’m-” Jason bites his lip and tears fill his eyes again, “I’m really sorry this is how I confess, you deserve so much better, so much better and I’m a mess and, and-” you grab his face and force him to look at you. 

“Jason Peter Todd, you listen to me carefully.” his big teary eyes look at your stern ones, “The only reason I’m not kissing you right now is because you deserve a beautifully romantic first kiss because you like beautifully romantic things. You deserve all the wonderful things this world has to offer.”

Jason thinks his heart has never felt so warm. 

“Wha-what?”

His words make you giggle and now he thinks his heart might actually implode. 

“I like you.”

“I like you too.”

Now your giggle turned into a proper laugh which made Jason smile. 

“Yeah, that was pretty obvious from the earlier declaration of love.” Now he’s giggling too. 

“Does that ehm- does that mean you want to be my girlfriend?” You giggle again at the innocence in his voice and Jason thinks he’d die all over again just for a chance to hear you laugh one more time.

“Yes, yes it does. Only if you take me to that date you were talking about though.”

He smiles. “We could go now.”

Your eyes widen. “Now? At 2am?”

He shrugs. “I’m Red Hood. Nothing bad is gonna happen.”

You scoff. “Yeah alright, but I think the bookstore might be closed.”

“Ah. Right. Tomorrow then.”

“Eager?”

His smile only gets bigger. “Duh, I have a girlfriend to take out.”

Thank you for reading!! Constructive criticism/advice is always welcome!

[chleem]

request idea? thinking about how Drew would drop everything for his girl ❤️‍🔥 like if she showed up at his house crying because she needs him (something with her parents or something? maybe they forgot something important to her)

and Drew is with his roommates or friends (who love the reader) but as soon as he sees his girl sad, he has a soft spot for her and for taking care of her 🫶🏼

⋆.˚ Warnings: none, pure fluff (still, read at own caution

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: enjoy! sry i haven't replied for so long, i was spending cny w/my family.

word count: 2.2k

──── 𝜗𝜚 ─────

The sound of the basketball game is practically vibrating through the walls—close to the end, with the score tied and everyone on edge. 

Drew’s lounging on the couch, leaning back, eyes glued to the screen. 

The room is full of his friends, all hyped up, throwing out their commentary and joking around. It’s guys’ night, and it’s a vibe they’re all soaking in.

Then the doorbell rings for the second time tonight, and Drew’s eyes flicker to the door.

"Did we order pizza? Again?" Drew asks. 

“Dunno, man, check,” his friend says, not looking up from the game, clearly too invested. 

Drew sighs, a little annoyed at the interruption, but his feet move automatically toward the door.

When Drew opens the door, he doesn’t see pizza. 

He sees you.

His expression shifts instantly—his confusion giving way to something deeper. 

Drew notices the smudge of mascara under your eyes first—the dark lines trailing down your cheeks. The rest of your makeup isn’t much better: foundation starting to fade where the tears have blurred it, the eyeliner long gone from where it used to frame your eyes.

His heart skips a beat. The noise from the game and his friends’ laughter suddenly feel miles away, as if the room has gone quiet in an instant.

Then, through your teary eyes and blushed cheeks, you give him a smile. It’s weak, almost forced, but you try. You shrug your shoulders, like you're attempting to downplay whatever’s hurting you.

“Hey, Joseph,” you say, your voice cracking just enough that Drew hears it. Your smile fades, and the act you’re trying to put on crumbles just a little.

Drew’s heart sinks. He knows you too well. The moment you said his name like that—broken and vulnerable—he realizes just how much you’re holding back.

Without a word, Drew steps closer.

The easy-going grin he had on earlier is gone. His brows furrowed with concern as he reaches for you, hands cupping your cheeks. 

He holds you gently, but firmly—like he's grounding you, keeping you steady.

His gaze softens, and he watches, helpless for a second, as the first tear escapes and trails down your cheek. His heart aches seeing you like this.

His eyes never leave yours, and there’s an unspoken promise in them—I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

When you speak again, the apology slips out almost before you can stop it. “I’m sorry…” you start, feeling bad for interrupting his night with his friends.

“Don’t. Don’t apologize.” He says, as if he’s trying to erase that sense of guilt before it can settle in. 

He gives you a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, “don’t ever apologize for needing me.”

He takes a moment, watching your eyes carefully, making sure you understand that he means it. There’s no disappointment in his gaze—only warmth, care, and an overwhelming need to protect you from whatever’s hurting.

Your eyes flicker away, sparkling with unshed tears as you struggle to catch your breath, trying to muffle the cries threatening to break free.

“It’s just- it’s just my parents-“

Your words falter as his friends cheer loudly in the background, their excitement rising with each point scored in the game. 

Drew notices immediately—your discomfort, the way you're struggling to open up in this moment—and it hits him: you’re still standing out in the hallway, exposed to everything.

“Let’s, let’s get inside,” he murmurs. He doesn’t need to say more than that—his hands move to your shoulders, guiding you toward his room, tell you everything.

His friends, too absorbed in the game, don’t notice the subtle shift in the air. They’re still yelling at the screen, completely oblivious to the fact that his girlfriend has showed up crying. 

As he leads you down the hall, you finally feel the air change—calmer, quieter. 

The second the door of Drew’s room closes behind you, the outside world fades.

Unknowingly, you’ve sat down at the edge of his bed, the soft mattress dipping under your weight. 

Drew quietly moves around his room, as he finds a box of tissues on his dresser. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, though—watching the way you sit, the way your shoulders shake with each breath, how your chest rises and falls, unevenly.

Once he hands it to you, Drew settles beside you. His arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you closer but not forcing you.

He listens carefully to the soft hiccups that escape from you, tiny gasps caught in the air. 

He just continues to rub gentle circles on your back, his touch light and comforting. 

Finally, Drew speaks, but it is barely above a whisper, “what’s wrong?”

You grab a tissue, dabbing your cheeks where the mascara has ran down. 

When you see the dark spots on the tissue, your chest tightens. The tears come faster now, and you let out a shaky breath between sobs, “now my makeup’s ruined!” 

Drew can’t help but chuckle lightly at your reaction, the sound soft and gentle. His hand, still resting around your shoulders, takes the tissue from your trembling fingers.

With a small, reassuring smile, he dabs at your cheeks, wiping away the smudged makeup with care. 

“Don’t, don’t worry about that,” he says quietly. 

The tenderness in his words feels like a balm to your frayed nerves, and for a moment, it’s the only thing grounding you.

As you look up at him, your breath catching in your throat, you notice how close he is. 

His face is inches from yours, and his eyes hold nothing but softness, nothing but a promise of comfort. His hand lingers at your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I…i had dinner with my parents,” you start. 

“I know,” he murmurs softly, his gaze never leaving yours. He'd seen the date marked on his calendar weeks ago, the reminder of your private dinner with your parents, and he had known it might be a tough night for you.

It was a dinner just for you and them—an attempt to reconnect, to have a moment where things might feel normal again. But Drew knew, from the way you’d talked about it in passing, that it wasn’t going to be easy.

“They still think, I made a huge mistake,” your voice cracks once again, and you swallow hard, as if trying to force the pain down, but it’s no use. It bubbles up too quickly.

Drew knows exactly what you mean. He remembers you telling him about dropping out in the middle of your final year. How it had been a decision made for yourself, even if your parents couldn’t understand it.

Drew watches you quietly for a moment, then speaks softly, “You did what was right for you. If they don’t get it, that’s on them, not you. Who cares what they think?”

He gives you a small, reassuring smile, before adding on, “you should see yourself through my eyes. You’re beautiful, smart, and more than enough as you are. You don't need a...certificate to prove that.”

His words settle over you, and for a moment, you feel your heart soften at the quiet sincerity in his voice. But you quickly look away, feeling a bit shy under his gaze. 

“Yeah, well…” you mutter, “we got into this huge fight, and I just stormed out- and look where I am. Ruining your - your guys’ night.”

“No, no,” Drew immediately interrupts, “you’re not ruining anything.”

Then, unexpectedly, without missing a beat, Drew throws the tissue in his hand toward the trash can in the far corner, and you watch, distracted by the sudden movement. 

You can’t help but let out a small chuckle when he makes a perfect shot, the tissue landing neatly inside with a satisfying swish.

Drew turns toward you, his smile both confused and amused, clearly unsure of what exactly made you laugh but happy to see you smile. “What?” he asks, his voice still holding that easy charm.

You stare at him for a moment, your eyes catching on his lips, the way they curve just slightly in that grin, and for a fleeting second, the urge to kiss him overwhelms you. 

It’s like everything else in the room fades away, and it’s just the two of you in this small, quiet moment.

Your breath catches in your chest, and before you can even think, the space between you seems to vanish.

Without a word, you lean in, your eyes fluttering shut, letting instinct take over. His hand gently cups your cheek, warm against your skin, as he tilts your head just slightly.

And then, you feel it—his lips against yours, and everything feels…right.

The kiss is calming, full of quiet affection—comforting in a way that eases all the tension, like a safe place where nothing else matters.

You could taste your own tears, salty on your lips, but somehow they only make the moment feel more real—more human. There’s something about the way Drew holds you, his lips soft and patient, as if he's absorbing all your hurt without needing to speak.

You pull away just briefly, catching your breath, but before you can even fully regain yourself, Drew leans in again, this time with urgency, as if he needs this kiss more than you.

His lips press against yours, deeper this time, gentle but insistent. His hand moves to your back, pulling you closer as if he’s anchoring himself to you, or to this moment.

You smile against his lips, hands wrapping around his neck. 

You want to push him against his bed, take him right there, show him how appreciative you are of him, but seems like, the rest of the world wants him too.  

The sound of his friends cheering from outside breaks through the moment, reminding you that Drew has guests over, and this isn't just your time with him.

You pull away, resting your forehead against his, closing your eyes for just a moment to catch your breath. 

When you reopen your eyes, you find Drew’s gaze already on you—soft, steady, and full of something unspoken. There’s a quiet intensity in the way he looks at you, like he’s taking in every detail, as if he’s memorizing this moment, just as you are.

“You have- you have people, in the other room,” to your own surprise, you’re stuttering. You pull your head away slightly, finding the fun in tracing the line of his jaw. 

“I wanna stay here,” he murmurs, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place, but you feel it in your chest, a quiet certainty. 

He doesn’t break his stare, and in that moment, it’s like he’s asking you to stay with him too—not just in this room, but in everything he’s feeling, everything you’re both sharing.

“Ask them to leave,” you whisper back, a small smile tugging at your lips, though the words are more playful than serious.

You both know it’s not that simple. 

“Join me,” he says, referring to his guys' night, to his friends in the living room. 

“Well, at least let me... change, and redo my makeup.”

“I don’t know…” he lets his words trail off, his eyes scanning your features with mischief lurking in them, “they might like- like having a panda around.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch, unable to hide the small smile. You hear Drew’s throaty laugh escape his lips, a sound that makes your heart skip.

“Alright, just… take your time,” he says, his playful tone softening as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering just a moment longer than expected, like he wants to make sure you feel it.

You watch him, your chest warming at the gesture, as he moves across the room to his dresser. 

He pulls it open, rummaging through his clothes, and then, almost casually, he grabs the hoodie you recognize to be 'yours'. It’s his, but with how often you wear it, it’s practically yours now. 

Then, in one smooth motion, he opens the top drawer and takes out your shorts, underwear, and bra. He places them beside you, not even needing to say anything—just a small, thoughtful gesture that tells you he knows exactly what you need, even before you ask for it.

You look up at him, surprised by the simplicity of it, but somehow it feels even more intimate than words could say. It’s the way he just gets you, without needing to make a big deal of it.

And because it felt right, you whisper, “I love you.”

Drew’s gaze softens, the teasing smile melting away into something more sincere. His eyes hold yours as he says, “I love you more,” his voice quiet but filled with warmth. 

There’s no playfulness now—just honesty, raw and real.

“…now get out of here,” you tease, the corners of your lips lifting into a smirk.

He leans forward, his finger lightly tapping your forehead in a playful push, “so eager to get rid of me?”

“Yes,” you whisper back, and he smiles, shaking his head. 

With one last glance, he turns and walks to the door.

And once the door closes behind him, you’re left with a warm feeling in your chest—safe, loved, and entirely at peace.

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

happy cny! angpao for everyone <3

i apologize in advance if this isn't good and has mistakes- i wrote it in a rush! (also, i realized there was a sudden pov switch- tf

other

[writing-mlm]

Hiii, can we please have more college!damian x male reader? Like a scenario where damian loves to draw reader but reader doesn't know this? Maybe friends to lovers? Idk your pick. The artist and his muse type of thing. Also, i LIVE for soft damian on this blog ong.

Forever my Muse

Summary: Damian has his finals coming up and he wants you to join-- at least that's his excuse to get you into the art venue. An artist needs their muse and for some reason, most of Damian's drawings include you in, naturally, he could fill museums with drawings of you. Pairing: Damian Wayne x Male reader WC: 5.8k

Dust-covered fingers were always something you had associated with Damian. Graphite, charcoal, pastels— anything he used to draw or even paint would inevitably stain his hands. It wasn’t intentional, and neither were the fingerprints he left on your stuff, or the paint you could never remove from your favorite sweater, but that didn’t stop him from apologizing. From buying you cleaning products and a new sweater; never mind it has never been worn in the year you’ve had it, Damian felt terribly sorry whenever he felt he’d stained something of yours. 

But never sorry enough to show you his drawings. 

You’d ask, you’d beg, but he would never give in. He’d show you when he was done, sure. You’d see the finished still-life drawings of whatever object had been in the line of sight, the paintings he’d done of his pets whenever he missed them, and the random sketches he did to loosen his wrist. But, damn, sometimes you wanted to see an unfinished drawing that wasn’t a warm-up. 

Even now, as the two of you are on the campus bus heading towards the music hall, he’s drawing. Sitting across from you on the bus, Damian easily adjusts himself to the movements of the bus as it jerks to a stop. He’s nice like that, you’ve never caught him off guard, he’s never fallen or stumbled in the time you’ve known him. 

Studying him, you wonder if he’s naturally so agile. You’ve seen him in your dorm's gym, during all-nighters you can sometimes see him running around campus, and once you had caught him doing one of those athletic challenges for some guy's video. He won. Of course. 

The bus comes to a complete stop and you look away, double-checking that it wasn’t your stop. It wasn’t. You knew that. But still. The need to check was far too great and you slipped back into a conversation with Damian. Only this time, you’re looking down at your phone to double-check the event and his eyes switch from staring at his sketch to staring at you. 

His eyes flicker between you and his drawing, erasing and adding lines where needed. He catches your eyes traveling up and he looks back down, working from memory as you start up a new conversation. 

Eventually, the bus reaches your stop and he carefully closes his book; he always worries he’d smudge his art, while he follows you out of the bus. 

It’s the end of the semester, ergo, it’s finals week. And for one of your music finals, everyone was to prepare a song and perform it. Truthfully, Damian doesn’t understand why you’d picked him to accompany you. He knows he’s not the best comfort, his demeanor often being the reason people don’t stick around too long. 

But, you reassured him. Telling him that his presence was more than enough for you. Knowing that he was somewhere in the crowd calms you down more than you ever cared to admit. 

The walk to the music hall isn’t short, but you can see the large building in the distance. The size is daunting on you as you see the crowd forming at the entrance. People aren’t allowed inside yet, but performers and their guests can head inside before anyone else. 

“I’m nervous,” You admit, wiping your hands on your shirt. “What if I fail?” You mutter, your eyes desperately searching to find solace in his green eyes. 

“You’ll do as you’ve always done,” He nods, looking ahead as you approach the building. “Exceptionally.” His sketchbook bumps against your folder of sheet music and you sigh through your nose, trying to calm down. 

“I’m so gonna choke,” Seeing your reflection in the glass, you feel as if you’d forgotten everything you learned. Every lesson, every mistake you fixed and learned from, the late-night practice performances with your friends. The song you’d composed nearly slips from your mind as you see yourself, walking in that suit and tie you’d worn several years ago. All of it left your mind and you felt like a beginner again. What even was a solfège?

“I'm trained in CPR.” He opens the door for you and gently encourages you inside, his fingers grazing your back. “You weren’t nearly as nervous for your accounting finals.” He notes, falling back into step with you. 

That’s another thing. Maybe that’s why you were so stressed. Double majoring was hellish. Twice the finals, quadruple the headaches. 

“Those were tests,” You scowl, showing the security your campus ID. “I’m going to be performing a live concert in front of nearly a thousand people. I cannot fuck this up, Damian. This is going to be posted for everyone to watch, too,” You ramble on. 

“Which you’ve done before, no?” He presses the elevator button and your heart hammers. You swear you’re going to pass out. He notices, of course, he does, and digs in his bag to find the fidget cube he keeps in there. 

“I have— thank you,” Taking the cube, he nods. “It’s just… I don’t know. Tests suck.” Rolling your thumb along the metal ball on one side of the cube, you stare at the numbers as they slowly tick down to the first floor. 

“That’s true,” He steps inside the elevator and you follow suit. “But you’ve made it thus far, you can go further.” He squeezes your shoulder as the doors close. There’s a silence in the elevator as it goes up to the second floor where you see your teacher waiting at the door to the waiting room, talking to a pair of students. 

“I can,” You affirm, dipping your head down as you smile. 

“You will.” 

—

You’re fifth in line to perform, watching a singer, dancer, another other pianist, and an opera singer go on before you go on did absolutely jack shit to help you. As you’re announced, you step onto the stage and try your best not to accept that there were thousands of eyes on you. Instead, you smile and wave as you walk across that large stage. Desperately looking for Damian in the sea of people. 

He’s in the front, right in front of where you could see when you glance up from the piano, you find out as you’re standing next to the piano seat. 

Damian’s eyes don’t leave yours, making eye contact with you as you fiddle with the buttons of your coat. He motions for you to stop and then does a breathe in breathe out motion with the same hand. Nodding, you blink away from him and hold your hands behind your back. Focusing on your breathing, you listen to the teacher as you’re done being introduced. 

The applause settles as you bow in, take a seat, and flip the page where your music sheet is. Slowly, you start. As a general music major, you weren’t restricted to just playing the piano. As emphasized by the microphone taped to your cheek. 

You aren’t the strongest singer by any means, you’re good for singing in the shower or on drives but you doubt you’d actually make a career off of your voice. What you hope will carry you is the piano, as you press each key your eyes flicker to Damian. He’s attentive, a smile on his face as you perform. 

Testing the waters, you glance at the people around him and they seem… pleased. Happy. Moved, even. You grin and return to staring at the sheet music. All of the notes flood back to you as you reach the last bit of the song, your eyes closing as your voice reaches a peak, holding a note. Then it’s just the piano, your voice echoing in everyone’s mind as the notes get slower and slower until you end it. 

Applause fills the hall and you stand up, taking a bow. Standing there, even if only for a moment, you can’t imagine why you’d been so nervous.

Collecting your sheet music, you exit the stage and hand the mic to the stage tech before leaving. 

When you’re nearing the exit, you spot Damian holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“When did you have the time to get these?” You laugh as he hands them to you. His eyes merely twinkle, refusing to give up one of his many secrets. “Thank you, they’re dope.” 

“You did it,” Damian reminds you as the two of you exit the building. 

“I did! Ugh!” Grabbing his shoulder with your free hand, you give him a little shake. “Thank you so much, you’re honestly the best. Was it good?” Falling into step with him, Damian doesn’t bother to fix his shirt. It’s hardly even moved, but you know he was detail-oriented in stuff like that. Hell, he hates it when he messes with his clothes. 

“It was mesmerizing.” He promises. “I do believe the woman behind me was crying.” Grinning, you stand at the bus stop, suddenly buzzing with excitement. Wanting to do it again, you start to imagine creating your own side business. Wedding musician, you can see it now. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” He avoids looking at you as he’s speaking. A rare occurrence on his part. But he does his best to look at you after building the courage. “I have an art showing next week. I understand the notice is short and you’re—“

“Send me the details.” You grin. His shoulders drop and he nods, clearly more relaxed. “I hope the attire is fancy. I got this fancy turtleneck I’ve been wanting to wear and slacks from my high school graduation just waiting to be worn!” 

—

With all of your finals out of the way, you finally had time to start removing the items from your dorm. One by one you removed posters and trinkets scattered across your end of the room. Pack your clothes into boxes, and save for enough outfits to get you through your two weeks left on campus. 

Damian was held up from finishing his art showing, unable to see you in person but he was more than happy with a Facetime call. With both your laptops placed in a space away from disturbing you, the two of you worked on your tasks. 

“I do need to be at the showing two hours early,” He tells you as you’re dragging the anti-suicide chairs to the closet, trying to see the top shelf. “But I’ll have arrangements to bring you to the venue.” 

“And my outfit is okay?” You ask, the chair wobbling as you stand on it. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. But hey, you’re not the one who installed a closet tall enough that only Shaq could see the top. “Because I can always swap out the turtle neck for a green button down— the silk one that Maddison made,” Always gave a fashion designer friend. She had used you as a model for of her projects a couple of months ago and with your measurements being unique to you, let you have it after she’d gotten her grade. 

“The button-down would be better suited,” He nods, leaning close to his painting before adding a tiny stroke. “The turtleneck is a little… on the nose.” Leaning back, he checks his reference picture before frowning. It goes away quickly as he picks up a bit of white and dabs it onto a dry brush. 

“I was afraid it was,” You laugh, grabbing a first aid kit from the shelf. Listening to him lightly brush the paint over the canvas, you toss the kit onto the bed and grab what little items are scattered up there. “Holy shit! Do you remember when that frat dude lost his frat ring?” 

“Unfortunately,” Damian glances at his screen, watching as you haphazardly get down from the chair. Nearly tripping, he wonders how you've made it this far in life without breaking a bone. 

“I think I did take it! Look!” Showing the screen, Damian looks almost impressed as you hold up a fraternity ring. It’s a shiny gold, likely fake but engraved with the initials of the Frat house. The two of you remember the guy had been going around to every single campus building with a missing ring poster. 

“What a thief,” He chides, setting his brush down and taking a physical step back from the painting. Harsh glares scan over brush strokes, ripping apart his painting bit by bit before he nods to himself. His glare morphs into a soft sort of gaze and he signs the back of it. 

“Is that your final painting for the semester?” You ask, the ring forgotten about as it’s tossed in a box of trinkets and you’ve moved on to ordering food. Probably Panda Express. Or maybe Chipotle…. really it’s whatever is closer and cheaper. 

“Hopefully,” He sighs through his nose, his paint box clicking shut. “I’ve been drawing and painting these past couple of days. My canvases take up an entire section of the art studio. I’m sure my professor cannot wait for them to dry and get glossed. Which I should probably start doing.” 

“How does that taste?” Setting your phone down, Damian’s face goes sour as he looks at you. “Personally, I think the gloss would taste tarty.” You add. “Or maybe like the frosting for Toaster Strudel.” Picking your phone back up, you continue your order. 

“Neither is correct.” He blinks. “It’s a toxin and filled with chemicals, it most likely tastes as good as acetone does, Hab—“ He pauses, and you look at him wondering what the issue is. “Habits of tasting chemicals shouldn’t be one you pick up.” He finishes his sentence with a bit of force. 

“I just love chemicals. Violin resin is my favorite.” Making a chomping noise Damian huffs. As you’re finishing up your order, you look at him. He’s halfway across campus and judging by the rack of canvases he wheeled over, he won’t be back until well into the night. Eh, it doesn’t hurt to ask. “I’m ordering some food, do you want something?” 

“No, thank you, though.” He shakes his head. “I have food from the court in case I get hungry.” He quickly adds. Humming, you place the order and scan over your room. The only things that need to get packed are things you’re still using. Now it’s just a matter of organizing the boxes and bins so you can still move around your room. 

“After the glossing, what’re you doing?”

“I have to write short summaries for each painting. No less than one hundred words,” He explains as he’s putting on a pair of latex gloves. 

“So, a breeze?” He laughs and nods. 

“I’m afraid I’ll go over the word limit,” He admits, sparing you a glance as you’re lugging a box to a corner of your room. “My paintings harbor a lot of my emotions and they’re far from short.”

“Real as fuck.”

— 

On the day of his art exhibition, you spend extra time in the bathroom. Making sure your hair is neat, and presentable, fixing your outfit, making sure you don’t stink. Anything and everything you could check over, you did. 

This nervous feeling was different from your pre-show nerves. Especially since you don’t even know why you’re nervous. Probably because you’d never actually gotten to see his paintings, at least the ones he was showing. He’d been ultra allusive about those, citing the exhibition would be the best place to view them. But even he was nervous and that’s a lot considering he’s Damian fucking Wayne. 

He texted you two minutes ago saying that the car was going to arrive within the next ten minutes and you rushed out to the front of the dorms. No need to lock the door behind you, since your roommate was busy sleeping and would stay in there until you came back. Plucking at your shirt, you watch a sleek black car pull up in front of you, and Damian texts you that the car is there. 

The ride is long, far too long for your liking anyway. But considering it’s in the middle of the city, it’s not unwarranted. 

The art… museum? What should you call it? The space where the exhibition was being held was a well-known art gallery— that’s the word! The gallery was well respected, talked about within art circles, and incredibly high-brow. Thank fuck you didn’t go with that turtleneck. 

There’s a woman in front of the gallery, greeting everyone who enters. She sees you and there’s a flash of recognition across her face. 

“It’s great to finally meet Damian’s muse,” She smiles as she shakes your hand. 

“His what?” You ask but Damian pulls you inside. 

“How was the ride?” He asks, his eyes darting between his professor and you. 

“Good but what did she mean?” You ask, looking around to see the other people around. Like your performance, it was open to the public and with Bruce Wayne’s son being in attendance, many people had showed up. Including his family. “Bruce Wayne is here?” Your head whips to Damian as you spot him in the crowd. 

“He is my father…” He trails. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Fuck no!” You gasp. “The knowledge of his wealth is burying me as we speak— but this is about you,” Turning to him, you smile. “Where’s your paintings? Those don’t look like your style,” Eyes flicker across the paintings and you can’t see Damian’s strokes, his colors or his lighting in any of them. A sort of pride swells within him, knowing that you’ve looked— studied his art enough to know that the ones around you weren’t his. 

“It has its own section,” He tells you, guiding you through groups of people and halls. “It’s going to be revealed in around half an hour. My professor insisted,” He stops at a section of the gallery covered by a curtain and two security guards. You never knew it was that serious, but damn. 

“Mr Fancy. Why don’t you catch up with your family? I’ll look around?” In truth, you were going to the nearest bathroom and making sure you didn't look stupid. 

“I’m more than certain they’d be more pleased if you accompanied me.” He shakes his head as you raise your eyebrows. “If that’s something you’d be comfortable with, of course.” 

“Sure,” Once more, he guides you past people until he spots his father and brother talking in a corner. 

“Father, Richard.” He calls as the two of you approach. “This is (Y/n).” Richard’s lips twitch as he fights back a smile, the smile only furthered curbed by his brother's glare. 

“Hello,” Waving at the two men, they reach to shake your hand instead. Bruce has a firm grip, probably tighter than it really needed to be but Richard is more than welcoming. He’s more than excited to meet you, although you can’t imagine why. 

“My other siblings are still in Gotham,” Damian explains, physically taking Dick’s hand from yours with a pointed look. “Although I’m surprised you didn’t bring Cassandra, father.”

“She’s here,” He shakes his head, glancing around for the mop of black hair. “In the bathroom, probably.” 

“Is that her?” You ask, looking at the woman in the corner. She’s standing there, downing a glass of champagne before returning to a conversation with a man. She looks like how Damian had described her, although he downplayed how intimidating she seemed. 

“Oh boy,” Dick huffs. “Let me go help her,” Excusing himself, you’re left with Damian and his father. The two of them talking with their eyes. 

“So, Damian’s told me you’re a double major,” Bruce breaks the silence and their weird eye conversation. He talks about you? Glancing at Damian, he’s making a point to look anywhere but you. That’s sorta cute— totally not in a romantic way, totally. 

“I am,” You nod, wishing a man with drinks would walk past you. “Accounting and a performing arts major.” He hums and there’s another beat of awkward silence. 

“From what he tells me, you’re excelling at both. That’s incredibly hard. Do you have any job prospects lined up for when you graduate?” He asks and you shake your head. 

“Not yet,” You admit, picking at your hands. “Since I'm not sure where I’d like to settle after I graduate it’s difficult finding places.” Bruce nods, quickly making sure Dick and Cassandra are okay. 

“Well, if your grades continue to stay or improve, Wayne Enterprises is always looking for accountants, especially one so esteemed.” He smiles at you, that sort of small smile that makes you feel more relaxed in his presence. A fatherly smile. 

“Yeah, praise from Damian is a lot.” Dick grins, leaning his weight on his younger brother. Cassandra agrees, leaning against the wall Bruce was standing in front of. “And he talks about you a ton!” 

“That’s enough.” Damian huffs, pushing himself away from Dick who frowns. “Let’s look at some of the artwork,” 

“You talk to your family about me?” You grin as he’s hauling you away from his family. He looks at you, clearly licking the inside of his mouth before he blinks and gives one strong nod. 

“Of course I do, it would be a shame to hide someone so talented.” He explains and then looks forward, his eyes swimming across the faces around him. “I do believe in your talents and my father is someone who can help them flourish; it would seem awfully cruel if I didn’t at least try.” You go to speak; to thank him but his attention is pulled away by the director of the show. 

“It’s time!” She gleams, ushering the two of you after her. 

There are already people gathered in front of his top secret exhibit, cameras and people wearing PRESS lanyards like the front and sides. Much like a moth drawn to a flame, they find Damian walking and try to hound him, only to be stopped by his family. They’re far more intimidating now but Damian pulls your attention from them and towards him. 

The two of you are in front of the whole crowd, the two guards holding one piece of the curtain and waiting for a cue to open them. 

“We welcome everyone to Damian Wayne’s very first art show,” The director says, her hand ghosting over his shoulder. He takes that as a sign to step forward, barely leaving your side as he explains his art. 

“Through My Eyes is a collection of various pieces I’ve created over the course of two years,” He explains. “The music that accompanies the art are pieces composed by my muse.” His eyes find yours as the curtains are pulled aside and for the first time, you notice the way he looks at you. The way his eyes never seem to want to leave yours, how he takes you in the same way he takes in the art around him. 

Then you hear it. More specifically you hear yourself. 

You hear the piece you’d played during your final, hearing your voice fill the spaces where people aren’t talking. Each key, and each note floods your ears as you turn to see his art. 

It’s you.

All of it. Each painting, each frame has something of you in it. 

“Holy shit.” You breathe, moving to the closest one. It’s a painting of you, wearing clothes you’d only seen in shows like Merlin, holding onto a statue of an angel. It’s almost impossible to not know where the inspiration had come from. After convincing Damian to go exploring with you and some friends, you’d come across a newly abandoned church with a large angel statue. On a dare, you pretended to dance with it. 

Sure, you’d seen the picture before but it was nothing compared to the painting. It looked amazing, you had never looked better. Your features were captured in the best way possible, you’d been posed in a way that made it seem as if you were guiding the angel in a dance. 

The description catches your eye next. 

One Last Dance wasn’t the first drawing of Muse, but it was the first drawing of him that I truly loved. He’d resparked a passion for painting for me. The painting had been on my mind for two weeks before I finally started to work on it, having it become my only focus for the two days that I worked on it became the norm for the next two years of my life. 

Muse doesn’t personally care for the Renaissance era, but it seemed fitting for such a painting. The feeling of dressing Muse in modern clothes didn’t ruin the drawing but it didn’t make sense, in my head their dance is accompanied by the sounds of the wings and their feet gliding across the floor. Just outside is probably a mob, unbelievable of a true angel. Muse would probably say that he was dancing to the sounds of Sleep Token and outside was a bunch of ‘angel fuckers’, but who knows. 

D.W

The next painting was smaller than the first, but it’s a close-up of your face. Your eyes are wide and you’re desperately pulling at your eyelids as a light twinkles inside of it. 

Blinding Gaze came about when Muse had gone to the eye doctor, fearing he was going blind. Turns out he was just extremely stressed to the point of temporary blindness. When we spoke about it, he joked that he was developing powers from that time he drank a sports drink mixed with a crushed-up Tylenol and he could shoot lasers from his eyes. While Blinding Gaze doesn’t follow his original plan of lasers, I imagine developing eye lights could be frightening. 

Blinding Gaze isn’t body horror, although I had intended it to be but I couldn’t bring myself to put Muse into that position. Even if it was completely fake. I did eventually remake the painting how I truly envisioned it, but I still prefer my Muse to the remake. 

Drifting to the next painting, you see yourself, dressed in your favorite smudged hoodie, dancing amongst the crowd. The people are drowned out in the colors of the background, nearly blending in meanwhile you’re ever so present. The light shone down on you in a way that made you seem like the main character in some movie, all eyes meant to be on you. 

A Night To Remember was undoubtedly one of the best moments of college thus far. Muse had been invited to a friend's party and insisted I come instead of remaining in the art room, drowning myself in oils and pastels. Although I’ve put his words in a more friendly manner. I hadn’t wanted to go, the noises and being pressed against unfamiliar faces was hardly something I ever enjoyed. But for Muse, I’d do anything he’d asked of me. 

Glued to him for the night, I found myself unreasonably drawn to him. I do not remember the song, in truth, I don’t remember much from that night aside from him. The way he danced, how he looked at me. How he looked in the room. I resented not bringing my sketchbook, but I would’ve been more out of place than I originally had been. 

Smoothening your shirt, you take a nervous glance around you. You’re unsure about how you feel, it’s a lot. You’ve never truly thought about Damian in such a light before, at least not to your knowledge. Sure, you’ve written compositions about him and sure, if you read between the lines in some songs they’re definitely about him. You and Him. 

Perhaps, without realizing it, you had made him your muse just as he had made you his. 

“I want you to see this one,” Damian says as he walks up behind you, finally free of people asking him questions. The music loops as he does and you count that there’s five songs on the set playlist. Each and every song was one you had created. Your song from the previous week plays again as you stare at him, smiling. 

“I’m your muse?” You softly ask, unable to remove yourself from the spot until you have gotten your words out. Damian dips his head down for a moment and wipes his nose. “You’re nervous,” The small tease makes his eyes roll and he clears his throat, the red settling from his tanned ears. 

“I want you to see this one,” He repeats and grabs your hand, gently guiding you past the people surrounding the room. They look at the two of you, watching as you walk up to a large painting in the center of the room. Clearly a last-minute addition but it seemed to be the focus. 

“Woah,” Is all you can say when you see the painting of you during your final. It’s painted in the same style as your favorite art era. The romantic era where colors were soft, even if they were dark. The painting itself had you in the center, a sea of people at the bottom and there are several ghostly figures of yourself, dancing across the stage leaving streaks of yourself at the top. The floor of the stage was covered in candles. 

“How long did this take you?” You ask, eyes darting between details and finding new ones each time you look. 

“Two days,” He shrugs. Slowly, you look at him and he looks back at you, confused. “I couldn’t sleep until I finished the painting. The way you looked during your final.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “It’s truly beautiful— you’re truly beautiful,” He adds, looking at you. 

“When you paint me like that I definitely am,” You laugh, looking back at the painting. 

“I only painted you through my lens. Perhaps your eyes aren’t as good as you think they are because the paintings truly do not live up to their references. You’re captivating and the way you’ve consumed my thoughts is honestly intoxicating.” His eyes twinkle as you look at each other. You don’t know what to say, honestly. You can stroke your ego a little, you could crack a joke, or you could bear yourself completely to him. But definitely not in a room filled with people. 

“Ah,” Dick breaks the silence. “You know he used to be a junior poet?” Grumbling, Damian looks over at Richard as he’s staring at the painting, sipping sparkling champagne from a flute glass while holding a cracker with cheese and jelly. Gross. Probably, you’ve never had it before. 

“I do believe I asked for a moment alone,” Damian gives a half-snarky grin and Dick shrugs. 

“A whole lotta people here, doubt you’d be alone.” With a sweeping motion, he gestures to the crowd around you. It’s not elbow-to-elbow crowded but you can hear at least seven conversations happening around you. 

“I suppose you’re correct,” He nods, following his brother's line of thinking. “Fresh air?” He asks you and you nod. 

There’s a park in front of the exhibit and it’s mostly empty, save for two kids and their parents but they’re clearly about to leave. Damian heads towards the benches but you pull him to the swings. There are three but one of them is tossed over the bar and you don’t feel like fixing it. 

Sitting with your back to the exhibit, you look over the trees and the playground. The sandpit with someone’s lost doll sitting down, a bucket behind it. 

“What did you think?” He spoke up after a minute had passed. The entire time he watched as you gently rocked back and forth on the swings, tempting yourself to actually swing. 

“You’re amazingly talented,” You hum, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Although, I already knew that. You’re like Michelangelo with everything you pick up.” Glancing at him, you smile when you see his hands. “You still haven’t cleaned the charcoal from your nails.” 

“No,” He blinks, his eyes staying closed for a beat longer than a blink. “Not of my skill level, (Y/n). Of the drawings. That you’re Muse.” He looks down at his fingertips and starts to pick at the bits of charcoal. “That you’re my muse.”

Softly you sigh before looking back to the trees. 

“What is there to think about? You’re my muse, I'm yours.” 

“You’ve written songs about me?” He asks and you sheepishly nod, refusing to look at him. “Which? If you don’t mind me asking,”

“Birds of a feather, I wanna be yours, and Golden hour. There’s more but they’re too embarrassing to admit,” Hearing him take a deep breath, you pick at your fingernails and slowly stop swinging.

“What now?” You ask, finally looking at him. He shrugs and starts to slowly swing. He thinks for a moment before he checks his phone. 

“When are you free? I can make reservations to—“

“Applebees or Red Lobster,” You cut him off and he looks at you, confused. “Applebees is once every so often, birthdays or celebrations. But Red Lobster? That’s graduation or date.” 

“You could’ve gone for a five-star restaurant, you know that, right?” He laughs and you shrug. 

“I heard they’re pretty shit. And I want to fuck up a seafood boil. Oh wait,” Blinking, you try to remember the Red Lobster menu. “Never mind, I don’t think they have vegetarian options. We could do Olive Garden or whatever vegetarian places you like. I’m not picky,” 

“And I am?” He teases and you roll your eyes. “Friday, at five. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to Olive Garden. And then to the movies to watch that new horror movie you’ve been wanting to watch.”

“That sounds perfect,” You nod and nudge your swing into his. 

“Can I admit something?” He slowly asks. “Forgive me if I’m being too forward but…” Watching as he licks his lip, you stop swinging. “May I kiss you?” 

“Yes.” You nod. Trying not to seem too eager, the both of you stand up and you watch as he raises his hands to cup your face. His fingers are warm, gliding across your skin as you hook one arm around his waist while the other holds his shoulder. “Do you want to lead?” You whisper as he looks at you, unmoving. His eyes dart down to your lips and he nods before closing the distance. 

His hands drag a little down your face, his pinky curving under your jaw before moving up into your hair. Slowly the kiss breaks and he dips back down for one quick kiss. 

“He’s been waiting months to do that,” Dick announces and Damian groans. You snicker and look behind Damian. Dick isn’t even looking, looking off into the distance before he’s sure that you’re done kissing before looking at the two of you. 

“Must he ruin everything?” He whispers to you before facing his brother. “I understand you have no concept of privacy, but this warrants that.” Dick frowns at the rudeness before he shrugs and points his thumb towards the venue. 

“They’re asking for you, thought I should come and get you before they spot you.” He explains through a sigh. “Would hate for our little demon’s kiss to end up on the front page. But, yeah,” He sighs and looks over at you. He stares at your face for a moment before he chuckles. 

“Take him to the bathroom, you got dust on his face.”

“It’s charcoal.”

[favefandomimagines]

Peter (a.b)

Summary: the past has a funny way of ruining the greatest things

AN: I really hope this made sense 😂 I was all over the place

Request: @talkativecarnation hi! omg i looove ur Anthony Bridgerton fics SO MUCH! can i request 10, 9, 13, 12 from your angst prompt list. preferably in that sequence in an arranged courtship/marriage scenario but it's all up to you if you have a better vision for it 🤍 can't wait for this!! TYSM!!!

The estate of Aubrey Hall shimmered in the soft light of dawn, the golden hues of sunrise spilling across the sprawling grounds. The chirping of birds and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze brought a sense of serenity to the outside world, but within the grand manor, an air of tension lingered.

Anthony Bridgerton sat at the edge of his massive mahogany desk, his head bowed and his hands gripping the edges as though they might anchor him. His study, a room that had always served as his sanctuary, now felt oppressive.

The neatly organized stacks of correspondence and ledgers stood as a testament to the responsibilities he carried as Viscount, yet today, those duties paled in comparison to the turmoil in his heart.

His gaze lingered on the letter before him, the ink slightly smudged from the number of times his fingers had traced its words. Y/N had written it weeks ago, with no intention of it seeing the light of day. A heartfelt plea for understanding, for connection, for something more than the strained coexistence they had settled into since their wedding.

Anthony found the letter in between two large books he had never opened until that day.

Her words were full of vulnerability, and that was what made them so unbearable. She deserved better than the coldness he had offered her.

A marriage born of duty was nothing unusual among the ton. Anthony had entered the arrangement with the pragmatic mindset he applied to all aspects of his life—an advantageous match, one that would bolster both families and secure his legacy.

Y/N was everything he could have hoped for in a wife: poised, intelligent, and well-matched to the demands of her new station. Yet for all her perfection, he felt the weight of failure pressing down on him, a failure to be the husband she deserved.

The truth gnawed at him, an ache he couldn’t ignore. His heart, traitorous and stubborn, remained tethered to a past he could not undo. A past named Siena Russo.

He had loved Siena with a passion he had not known he was capable of. The fiery opera singer had consumed his every thought, her voice and presence filling every corner of his being.

But their love, as wild and all-encompassing as it had been, was doomed from the start. Siena could never fit into his world, and Anthony’s duty to his family had forced him to end it.

Or so he told himself.

The reality was far less simple. The end of his relationship with Siena had not been entirely his decision, and the bitterness of that unresolved goodbye haunted him.

He told himself he had done the right thing, the only thing he could do, but the weight of her absence still lingered, like a ghost he could not exorcise. And now, it threatened to destroy the fragile bond he might have had with Y/N.

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. How could he move forward with Y/N when Siena’s shadow still loomed so large? How could he pretend to be the devoted husband she longed for when his heart was so fractured?

Every time he thought he had steeled himself to let the past go, a memory of Siena would creep in—a laugh, a touch, the sound of her voice. It was as if she were etched into his soul, an indelible mark he could not erase.

The creak of the study door startled him, and he quickly folded the letter, tucking it into the drawer as though hiding it could also conceal his guilt. Turning, he saw Benedict standing in the doorway, a cup of tea in hand and a knowing look in his eyes.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, brother,” Benedict said, stepping into the room and setting the cup down on the desk.

Anthony forced a tight smile. “Just tired. The estate requires more attention than usual this time of year.”

Benedict snorted, crossing his arms. “You might fool the rest of the family with that excuse, but not me. What’s troubling you?”

Anthony hesitated. He and Benedict had always shared an unspoken bond, a willingness to confide in one another when the burdens of their respective roles became too much. But this—this was a vulnerability he wasn’t sure he could voice.

“Nothing of importance,” Anthony said finally, turning away.

Benedict studied him for a moment before shaking his head. “You know, Anthony, ignoring a problem doesn’t make it disappear. Whatever it is, you should deal with it before it festers. For your sake. And hers.”

Anthony stiffened at the mention of Y/N, but he said nothing. Benedict left without another word, his parting advice hanging in the air like a challenge Anthony wasn’t ready to face.

Alone again, Anthony let out a long sigh. His brother was right, of course. Avoidance would solve nothing. But how could he face Y/N when he couldn’t even face himself? How could he explain the tangled mess of emotions inside him when he barely understood them?

Anthony leaned back in his chair, staring up at the high ceiling of his study as if searching for answers in its ornate design. He had married Y/N with the intention of fulfilling his duty, of honoring his family’s expectations.

But somewhere along the way, he had begun to see her as more than just his wife in name. She was kind, perceptive, and endlessly patient with him—a patience he knew he had done nothing to deserve.

And that only made it worse.

Because the more he came to admire her, the more he realized how much he was failing her. And every time he looked at her, he couldn’t help but wonder if she already knew. If she could sense the part of him that still belonged to someone else.

He clenched his fists, the guilt and frustration bubbling to the surface. He couldn’t keep living like this, caught between the woman he had lost and the woman he was supposed to love. But no matter how much he tried to convince himself to move forward, Siena’s voice echoed in his mind, whispering reminders of what they had shared and what he had given up.

Anthony closed his eyes, a single thought running through his mind.

How can I give Y/N my heart when it still belongs to someone else?

And in that moment, he realized the answer was one he wasn’t ready to face.

||

The glow of twilight bathed the grounds of Aubrey Hall in hues of amber and rose, casting long, soft shadows across the manicured gardens. Inside the grand estate, Y/N stood by the window of the bedroom she and Anthony now shared, her hands loosely clasped before her.

Her gaze wandered over the sprawling fields and dense woods beyond, but her thoughts were far from the picturesque view.

She had spent much of the afternoon in quiet solitude, walking the gardens to clear her mind and steady her heart. The beauty of the estate, though breathtaking, did little to soothe the ache that had grown within her since her marriage to Anthony Bridgerton.

Theirs had been a union forged not by love, but by expectation. Duty. Obligation. At the time, she had told herself it would be enough. She would fulfill her role as Viscountess, and in time, affection would blossom between them, as it often did in such arrangements.

But now, months into their marriage, Y/N found herself yearning for more—more than the polite exchanges and careful civility that defined their interactions. She had entered this union willing to give her heart, yet Anthony seemed unwilling—or perhaps unable—to meet her halfway.

The truth of it cut deeply. Anthony was a good man, of that she had no doubt. He was protective, devoted to his family, and carried the weight of his responsibilities with a strength that few could rival. But there was a distance in him, a wall he had built around himself that she couldn’t seem to breach. And worse still, she knew why.

Siena Russo.

The name was never spoken between them, but it lingered in the spaces where silence stretched too long. Y/N had heard whispers of Anthony’s past with the opera singer before their engagement, though she had dismissed them at the time. After all, many men of Anthony’s station had dalliances before settling into respectable marriages. It was a truth of their world, one she had prepared herself to accept.

But this was different. Siena wasn’t merely a part of Anthony’s past—she was still a part of his heart. Y/N could feel it in the way his gaze sometimes drifted when he thought she wasn’t watching, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes when they were alone. She could see it in the way his body tensed whenever a mention of the opera or a familiar tune from the stage drifted through a drawing room.

It wasn’t the existence of Siena that hurt Y/N; it was the hold the other woman still had over Anthony. A hold that no amount of duty or propriety could seem to sever.

Y/N’s thoughts were interrupted by the soft creak of the door opening behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Anthony—she had memorized the rhythm of his footsteps, the sound of his breath when he was near. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment before stepping fully inside, the tension in his posture palpable.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice tentative.

She turned to face him, her expression carefully composed, though the effort of keeping her emotions at bay felt exhausting. “Anthony.”

He lingered by the door, as if debating whether to stay or retreat. Finally, he crossed the room, stopping a few paces away from her. His dark eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something vulnerable in his gaze. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“I owe you an apology,” he began, his voice low. “For how I’ve been—how I’ve treated you.”

Y/N’s heart ached at his words, at the sincerity she could hear beneath the surface. But apologies, however genuine, wouldn’t erase the months of loneliness and doubt. “You’ve been distant,” she said quietly, her tone steady despite the emotions swirling inside her. “I’ve tried to understand, to give you time, but it feels as though no matter what I do, you keep me at arm’s length.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, unable to hold her gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice breaking slightly. “I wish I could be the person you want me to be. But I’m not. And I don’t think I ever will be.”

The words hit her like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. She had suspected as much, had felt it in the coldness of his touch and the distance in his eyes, but hearing him admit it was a pain she hadn’t prepared for.

“Why?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Why won’t you let me in?”

He hesitated, the battle within him playing out across his features. When he finally spoke, his words came in a rush, raw and unfiltered. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t see how much I’m hurting you by staying? But I don’t know how to let go.”

“Let go of what?” Y/N pressed, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “Your past? Siena?”

Her words hung in the air like a challenge, and the way Anthony flinched told her all she needed to know. She had tried to avoid speaking Siena’s name, tried to be patient and understanding, but she could no longer ignore the truth.

“You loved her,” Y/N said, her voice soft but steady. “I know you did. And I know that love doesn’t simply vanish. But Anthony, you’re married now. To me. I cannot be a shadow in my own marriage.”

Anthony’s shoulders slumped, and he raked a hand through his hair, his composure unraveling before her eyes. “Every time I think I’ve moved on, you pull me back in,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “But every time, you leave again. I can’t keep doing this.”

Y/N felt tears pricking at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She had cried enough in the solitude of her room, in the quiet hours of the night when Anthony lay beside her but felt a thousand miles away. Now, she needed answers.

“Do you think it’s fair to punish me for what you lost with her?” she asked, her voice rising slightly. “Do you think I don’t feel it every day, the way your heart isn’t truly here? The way it belongs to someone else?”

Anthony didn’t respond, his silence speaking volumes. And as Y/N stared at him, her heart breaking anew, she realized she was at a crossroads. She could continue to fight for a man who seemed determined to hold onto his past, or she could let him go and preserve what little of herself remained.

But deep down, she knew she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet..

||

The Bridgerton family was known for its lively breakfasts, a time when the entire household gathered to share stories, tease one another, and strategize for the day ahead. But this morning, Y/N had no desire to face the endless chatter of the Bridgerton siblings, nor the weight of Anthony’s brooding presence. She lingered in the garden instead, letting the cool morning air soothe her frayed nerves.

She hadn’t slept. The argument with Anthony had replayed in her mind endlessly, his words like daggers carving into her chest. The rawness of it left her feeling unsteady, as though the ground beneath her feet might crumble at any moment.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the soft footsteps approaching until Eloise’s voice broke through the stillness.

“There you are. I was starting to think you’d run away.”

Y/N turned to find Eloise standing a few feet away, her arms crossed and an eyebrow quirked in that familiar, no-nonsense way of hers. Dressed in a casual morning frock with her hair only half-pinned, Eloise looked as though she’d just rolled out of bed—but her sharp eyes and quick tongue betrayed that she was, as always, entirely alert.

“Good morning, Eloise,” Y/N said, her voice betraying none of the turmoil she felt inside.

Eloise tilted her head, studying Y/N with a perceptiveness that was both comforting and unsettling. “Don’t ‘good morning’ me. You look as though you’ve been crying, which is entirely out of character for you. What’s he done this time?”

Y/N’s lips parted in surprise, and Eloise smirked. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. I may not spend my days gossiping like the rest of the ton, but I have eyes. And I’ve known Anthony far too long to be fooled by his brooding act.”

Y/N hesitated, unsure how to respond. She and Eloise had grown close in the months since the wedding, their shared disdain for the more superficial aspects of high society fostering an easy camaraderie. But there were certain things Y/N had never discussed with her sister-in-law, and the state of her marriage was at the top of that list.

“It’s nothing,” Y/N said finally, attempting a weak smile. “Really.”

Eloise scoffed, stepping closer and plopping unceremoniously onto the stone bench beside her. “That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard plenty. Come on, then. Out with it. I promise not to repeat a word, unless it’s to berate my dear brother for being an insufferable idiot.”

Despite herself, Y/N let out a soft laugh, the sound surprising her as much as it seemed to please Eloise.

“That’s better,” Eloise said, giving her a small smile. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but you do realize you’re allowed to be angry with him, don’t you? Anthony has a way of making everyone believe he knows best, but trust me—he’s as clueless as the rest of us, especially when it comes to feelings.”

Y/N sighed, running a hand over the folds of her skirt. “It’s not just that. I… I knew what I was getting into when I married him. Or at least I thought I did. But he’s so—he’s so closed off, Eloise. It’s like he’s locked himself away, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t reach him.”

Eloise frowned, her expression softening. “And let me guess—he’s too busy wallowing in his own guilt to notice how much it’s hurting you.”

Y/N looked at her, startled by the accuracy of the statement. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen him do it before,” Eloise said simply. “With our family, with himself, with anyone who gets too close. Anthony carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he refuses to ask for help because he thinks it’s his job to handle everything alone. It’s infuriating, really.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, and she looked down at her lap. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep trying, Eloise. I want to love him, but I don’t know if he’ll ever let me.”

Eloise was quiet for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. Then she reached over and placed a hand over Y/N’s. “You don’t have to do it alone, you know. Loving someone like Anthony is exhausting—believe me, I’ve tried for years as his sister. But you’re not the only one who can knock some sense into him. If you need help, I’m more than happy to remind him that he’s being a complete fool.”

Y/N let out another laugh, this one tinged with relief. “Thank you, Eloise. Truly.”

“Of course,” Eloise said with a grin. “Now, let’s go inside before breakfast is over. If we’re lucky, we might catch Anthony before he disappears into his study to brood. And if he looks even slightly smug, I’ll spill tea on him.”

Y/N smiled, the tension in her chest easing slightly. For the first time in days, she felt a glimmer of hope. Eloise was right—she didn’t have to face this alone. And perhaps, with a little help, she could find a way to reach Anthony after all.

||

The parlor was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth reduced to glowing embers. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and lingering tension. Anthony sat on the edge of a high-backed chair, elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands. Across the room, Y/N stood by the fireplace, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if warding off a chill that wasn’t there.

Neither of them spoke for what felt like an eternity. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the distant ticking of the clock. Y/N’s mind raced with fragments of their earlier argument, the pain of Anthony’s words still fresh and raw.

"I wish I could be the person you want me to be."

"But I’m not. And I don’t think I ever will be."

How was she supposed to move forward after hearing that? How was she supposed to reconcile the man she had vowed to love and honor with the man who now admitted he might never be able to give her his heart?

“I can’t do this anymore,” Y/N said finally, her voice trembling but firm. “I can’t keep pretending everything is fine when it’s not.”

Anthony’s head snapped up at her words, his dark eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, he looked almost startled, as though her declaration had caught him off guard. But then his expression softened, and he let out a long, weary sigh.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’ve been selfish, Y/N. I’ve been holding onto something I shouldn’t, and in doing so, I’ve hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Y/N’s lips pressed into a thin line as she fought to keep her composure. “You say that, Anthony, but do you realize what it feels like? To share a life with someone who won’t share themselves in return? I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve tried to understand. But every time I think we’re moving forward, you pull away again.”

Anthony rose from his chair, crossing the room in a few long strides. He stopped a few paces away from her, his hands hanging limply at his sides as if unsure whether he had the right to reach out. “It’s not because of you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “It’s because of me. I don’t know how to let go of the past, Y/N. I don’t know how to let go of her.”

There it was. The truth they had danced around for months, laid bare in the dim light of the fire. Her name wasn’t spoken, but it didn’t need to be. Y/N had always known she was competing with a ghost, but hearing Anthony admit it aloud was a different kind of pain—a sharp, searing ache that stole her breath.

“Then why did you marry me?” she asked, her voice breaking. “If you’re still in love with her, why didn’t you fight to be with her?”

Anthony’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. “Because I couldn’t,” he said after a long pause. “She made her choice, and I made mine. I thought… I thought I could move on. That I could be the man my family needed me to be. The man you deserved.”

“But you can’t,” Y/N said bitterly. “Can you?”

His silence was answer enough.

Y/N turned away, tears stinging her eyes as she stared into the fire. “Do you think I don’t see how much this is hurting me? How much it’s breaking me to stay in a marriage where I’ll never be enough for you?”

Anthony’s head snapped up at her words, and he took a step closer, desperation etched into every line of his face. “You are enough,” he said fiercely. “You’re more than enough, Y/N. This isn’t about you.”

“Isn’t it?” she demanded, turning to face him. “I’ve given you everything I have, Anthony. My love, my trust, my patience. And what have you given me in return? A shadow of a husband who’s still in love with someone else.”

His shoulders slumped, and he raked a hand through his hair, his composure unraveling before her eyes. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he said, his voice breaking. “I need to fix this.”

Y/N stared at him, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. She wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that he truly wanted to make things work. But how could she, when he hadn’t yet let go of the woman who still held his heart?

“I don’t know if you can,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Not until you decide what you really want. Do you want to stay in the past, clinging to something that’s already gone? Or do you want to build a future with me?”

Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. For the first time in his life, he was truly lost, torn between the ghost of what once was and the promise of what could be. And as Y/N turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the flickering light of the fire, he realized he might not have much time to decide

||

The door closed softly behind her, but to Anthony, the sound was deafening. It echoed in the empty room, a final punctuation to her words that left him rooted in place. His chest felt tight, constricted, as though the air had been sucked out of the room. For the first time in years, Anthony Bridgerton—the Viscount, the eldest son, the steadfast leader—felt utterly powerless.

He sank back into the chair by the fireplace, his head falling into his hands. The warmth of the embers did little to thaw the chill settling deep in his bones. Y/N’s words replayed in his mind, each one sharp and piercing, cutting deeper than any wound he had ever endured.

"Do you want to stay in the past, clinging to something that’s already gone? Or do you want to build a future with me?"

It was a question he didn’t know how to answer. He had spent so long building walls around himself, convincing everyone—including himself—that he was fine, that he had moved on from Siena, that his marriage to Y/N was enough. But tonight, those walls had come crashing down, and he was left exposed, vulnerable, and unmoored.

The truth was, Anthony didn’t know how to let go of Siena. He had loved her once with a reckless passion that consumed him entirely. But it wasn’t just the loss of Siena that haunted him—it was the idea of love itself. He had seen what it could do, how it could destroy a person. He had watched his mother fall apart after his father’s death, her grief so overwhelming it had nearly crushed her. Anthony had sworn he would never allow himself to feel that kind of pain.

And yet, here he was, on the brink of losing the one person who had dared to love him despite all his flaws, his scars, his mistakes. Y/N had given him her heart, and he had squandered it, too afraid to truly let her in.

His jaw clenched as he stared into the dying fire, frustration and guilt warring within him. He had married Y/N because it was the logical choice, the responsible choice. She was everything a viscountess should be—graceful, intelligent, kind. But somewhere along the way, she had become more than just his wife. She had become his anchor, his light in the darkness he had long resigned himself to. And he was losing her.

The sound of the clock striking midnight jolted him from his thoughts. He couldn’t sit here any longer, wallowing in self-pity and indecision. He had to do something, to find a way to fix the mess he had made. Rising to his feet, he left the parlor and made his way to Y/N’s room, his footsteps echoing in the quiet halls.

When he reached her door, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob. What could he possibly say to her? How could he make her believe that she was enough, that she was everything, when he hadn’t even been able to admit it to himself until now?

Steeling himself, Anthony knocked softly. “Y/N,” he called, his voice low but steady. “It’s me.”

There was no response. For a moment, he considered walking away, giving her the space she clearly needed. But then the door creaked open, and Y/N stood before him, her expression guarded. She was still in the same dress she had worn earlier, though her hair was loose now, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. Her eyes, red-rimmed from crying, met his, and the sight of her broke something inside him.

“What do you want, Anthony?” she asked, her voice tired.

He swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted, his voice raw. “But I can’t lose you. Please… tell me how to make it right.”

Her lips parted in surprise, but she quickly schooled her expression, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not that simple,” she said. “You can’t just say you don’t want to lose me and expect everything to change. You have to mean it, Anthony. You have to show me.”

“I do mean it,” he said, taking a step closer. “I’ve been a coward, Y/N. I’ve been so afraid of opening myself up, of losing someone I care about, that I didn’t realize I was pushing you away. But I see it now. I see how much I’ve hurt you, and I hate myself for it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m begging you—give me a chance to prove that I can be the man you deserve.”

Her eyes searched his, as though trying to determine if his words were genuine. “And what about her?” she asked quietly. “What about Siena?”

Anthony’s heart clenched at the mention of her name. He had spent so long holding onto the memory of Siena, convincing himself that he could never feel that kind of love again. But standing here, looking at Y/N, he realized how wrong he had been. His feelings for Siena had been fleeting, intense but ultimately unsustainable. What he felt for Y/N was different—it was steady, grounding, and terrifying in its depth.

“Siena was my past,” he said, his voice steady. “You’re my future, Y/N. If you’ll let me, I want to build that future with you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and for a moment, Anthony feared he had said too little, too late. But then she stepped aside, opening the door wider, and he knew she was giving him a chance—a chance to prove that he could be the husband she needed, the man she deserved.

And Anthony vowed to himself that he would not squander it.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Right With You (Part 2)

Captain John Price x Reader

wc: 2.8k words

warnings/tags: fluff, mutual pining

“Any time you’re ready lass, would be real convenient!”

“Well you’re kidding me right?” You shout back to the Scot stood on the other side of the door. “This isn’t actually the dress you expect me to wear??”

“Laswell wanted something where they wouldn’t suspect you’d be able to hide any weapons on you.” Gaz, equally waiting for you in the hallway, attempts to interject some logic into the situation. “Sorry if it’s a bit small…”

“A bit small? I don’t suspect I can hide myself in this thing! Let alone a gun.” You mumble to yourself, begrudgingly pulling the zipper as high as you can manage in the garment. Admittedly, it’s not the worst dress that could’ve been picked out for you.

It is your size, and it’s certainly not constricting enough that you worry it’ll compromise your ability to perform the mission tonight. It definitely is much more form fitting than anything you’ve worn in a long time, and certainly hugs your figure in a way the 141 hasn’t seen before, leaving you feeling apprehensive.

But Soap is right, unfortunately. You don’t have time to waste feeling self-conscious about your outfit, you’re here to play a role tonight. And part of that role is going to have to be coming across as much more confident than you currently feel.

Taking a deep breath, you smooth the fabric of the skin tight dress down, definitely not trying to dry the nervous sweat off of your hands. Deciding to just get it over with, you swing the door open, stepping out in the hallway to meet the waiting Sergeants, pointedly avoiding their eyes. At least, until Soap lets out a wolf whistle.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph… look at you bon…” Soap murmurs under his breath, heavy gaze looking you up and down.

“Shut up, Soap.” You grumble, adjusting the hem of the dress, feeling a blush spread across your face.

“Nah, he’s right, love. You look proper stunnin’.” Gaz adds, doing a better job of keeping his eyes on your face, a kind smile plastered on his own. You offer him a meek smile in return, brushing your hair over your shoulder.

A part of you feels silly. You’re got makeup on, your hair is done, you’re wearing a pair of modest but still fancier-than-you’d-ever-really-wear heels, and a dress that leaves little to the imagination. In comparison to the intimidating, fully geared-up, macho Sergeants stood before you, you look like you belong in different worlds, let alone the same task force.

But even you cannot deny, this get up of yours will certainly catch the attention of your target, which is the whole point of this operation. It doesn’t feel like it right now, still smelling of hairspray and remembering not to accidentally smudge your lipstick, but you are contributing the team, which is all you ever really want.

Any doubts that still linger in your mind are immediately squashed however, the moment your Captain turns the corner and locks eyes with you.

“Ah Cap! Finally got this one out of her cave.” Soap teases, having spotted Price. His elbow playfully nudges your side, and though you’d usually get him back with as much vigour, you cannot avert your gaze from the pair of sea glass orbs that slowly, oh so slowly, move away from your own and take in the sight before him.

You can see his throat bob as he swallows harshly, heady gaze travelling from your heel strapped feet, up your legs, perhaps straying a fraction of a second too long on your chest, before landing on your face again. Any feelings of self consciousness have been completely erased, your cheeks feeling as though they might be catching fire with how warm they’ve become.

“Everything in order?” He asks, slowly slinking his way closer to the three of you, a hand reaching up to scratch through his beard. You notice your Captain is fully geared up as well, and you hope you haven’t been making everyone wait for you as you got ready.

“Aye, sir.” Gaz confirms with a nod, hands grabbing ahold of his tactical vest. “Do we know which vehicle I’ll be takin’ her in?”

The plan was for Gaz to act as your driver, taking you as close to the gates as he would be allowed to go. The rest of the lads would be approaching from a different direction, finding their own opportunities to get as near as they can without drawing attention. The goal was still for you to distract the target, and hopefully lure him to a secluded spot where your men would be waiting for him.

In theory, it should be straight-forward enough. You’d memorized photographs of your target to be able to pick him out of the crowd more easily, there were a handful of other operatives that would be lingering throughout the party, ready to interfere should something go wrong. Really, all bases had been covered and accounted for, which is why you were genuinely surprised to hear the Captain say:

“Slight change o’ plans. I’ll be takin’ her myself.” His deep voice sent shivers down your spine, something you hoped wasn’t noticeable to the two men who were now glancing at their superior in confusion. “I want you on with Ghost and Soap. We’ll rendezvous once I’ve seen her in.” He reaches into one of his pockets, pulling out a pair of keys.

You can tell the Sergeants want to ask questions, glancing between each other and Price, but the Captain’s voice holds a certainly finality to it, that they choose instead to nod in agreement.

“Sure thing, Cap.” Gaz says to him, before turning to face you. He offers your upper arm a gentle squeeze of encouragement. “You’ve got this.”

“Aye, yer right she does! We’ll see ya on the other side, aye lass?” Soap forgoes the gentleness of his colleague and instead gives you a firm but loving punch to the bicep. The men offer their Captain nods of acknowledgement, before they’re slinking their way past him and down the hall, leaving the two of you alone.

With a few feet still separating you, you poke the floor with the tip of your shows, suddenly finding his gaze too heavy to meet.

“I know. I must look like one of those beauty pageant toddlers they ha-”

“Beautiful.” Price cuts you off instantly. Your head snaps up, finding him to be stepping closer, shortening the distance between your bodies. “You’re … so beautiful.”

Okay, now you’re certain that it has to look as though you’ve applied an absurd amount of blush to your cheeks, feeling your face grow impossibly warmer at this compliment.

“Don’t even try an’ call yourself anything else, love, because you won’t be convincing me.” He’s now stood in front of you, only a foot apart, so similar to how close he’d been just a few nights previous, as he taught you to dance. His hands claps and unclamp at his sides, as though he’s unsure of what to do with them suddenly.

He knows what he wants to do. When you’re shyly smiling up at him like this, sweet blush painted across your soft skin, wearing something like that, all he wants to do is hold you as close as he once dared to, to feel your heart beating rapidly against his own, to slide his hands up to your face and pull your lips to his once more, just once more.

However, he knows he has to be a Captain right now. The two of you aren’t hidden in the privacy of his office late at night, where the consequences of your actions feel inconsequential in comparison to the heat building between a man and a woman. You’re in a public hallway on base, where anyone could walk by and see you, not as two individuals with raging, undeniable chemistry, but as a soldier and her superior.

Price knows how hard you’ve worked to get to where you are now, and how much pride you take in everything you do. He would never want to risk putting you in any position where someone could question how you earned your way up the ranks. He is still your Captain, and as new and exciting as whatever has begun to build between the two of you is, in addition to how tight the front of his slacks have suddenly become, he has to remember that fact.

“Thank you,” you whisper softly to him, equally aware of your surroundings. “You’re driving me now? Something happen?” You can’t help but to ask with a raise of your brow.

“Nah,” he informs you, jutting his chin in the direction where he’d come from, indicating you’d best start heading to the garage. He permits himself to spread a palm between your shoulder blades as he walks alongside you, a perfectly respectful, appropriate touch, but still an excuse to get his hands on you. “You’ll have to forgive me love, but I’m not lettin’ any of these other muppets alone with you while you’re lookin’ like this.” He tilts his head down enough so that only you can hear him, giving you a quick wink when he sees your eyes widen slightly.

“I think I’ll be a little more forgiving when I’m not wearing these heels anymore.” You tease, trying to not let his comments get to your head. This is the first time you’re alone with John since he’d kissed you in his office those few nights ago. From such a large, intimidating, burly man, you might have expected his kiss to have been rough, commanding, assertive.

But the way John Price had held your face in his large palms, gaze scanning your expression for any hint of reluctance, groan of desperation rumbling in the back of his throat, he was nothing short of reverent. When your lashes had fluttered shut, his lips met yours in the softest, gentlest caress, as though he were still waiting for you to change your mind. Realizing that you weren’t going anywhere, he allowed himself to release a deep breath of relief though his nostrils, warm breath fanning across your features, as his lips more insistently pressed against yours.

His stubble grazed your skin and you both stood there for what might have been a minute or an hour, the rest of the world long forgotten as you held one another close. Truly, John could not recall the last time he’d felt so at peace. Everything just felt so right with you.

When he had eventually pulled away, lungs desperate for air, your gasping breaths met in the middle as satisfied smiles tugged at the corners of your mouths. Still holding onto you, John had pressed one final kiss to your forehead, before declaring that it was well past time you made your way to bed, watching as you practically floated out of the room, both of your hearts still threatening to leap out of your chests.

“They hurtin’ ya?” He asks in concern, glancing down at the heels in question.

“They’re alright. Don’t think heels are meant to be comfortable honestly. You oughta start making recruits wear ‘em as punishments.” You joke, earning you a small scoff and a sideways smile from him.

“Well, m’afraid you’ve still got a long night ahead of you yet, pretty.” You’ve finally made it to the garage, and he opens the door for you, letting you walk in first. If you catch him looking at your bum it’s only because he’s making sure his soldier is ready for a mission, definitely nothing else. “How’re you feeling?”

“Good. I’m ready. I feel ready.” You’re surprised at how confident your voice sounds as you answer him. It’s true, you do feel as ready as you can be for this mission. You’d all gone over every aspect of the mission again in that morning’s briefing. The impromptu dance lesson from John put your only real concern at ease. But a small part of you isn’t being so truthful. Yes, you’re ready for the mission and you’ll do whatever has to be done to ensure its success. However another part of you, a part that been lying dormant until only recently, doesn’t feel so ready to dance. At least, not with someone who isn’t John. You don’t feel ready to put your hands on someone else, and to in turn feel their hands on your body.

But this is what the mission calls for this time. Hell, maybe if you’re really good at your job you can sweet talk the target and get him alone without ever having to get him on the dance floor. The sooner the job is done, the sooner you’re out of these heels, and back with your boys (because you definitely love them all equally and don’t favour any superior at all, nope).

“That’s good.” He says, eyes scanning the garage for the vehicle he plans to lead you to. Noticing a distinct absence of anyone else present, Price allows the hand between your shoulder blades to slowly slip down more towards the small of your back. “We’ve already got eyes covering nearly every inch of that place. We’ll be closer than you realize.” His reassurance is welcome, as is the heat that his wide palm spreads to your skin through the thin fabric of your dress.

You walk up to a black armoured vehicle, one of the bases more civilian resembling ones. Price leads you to the side door, where you presume he’s going to open the door for you again, but instead he leans his shoulder against it, turning to face your front.

“Grabbed this for ya.” He says, reaching into another pocket before extending his palm out to you. The tiny earpiece almost looks comically small in his massive hand, but that’s the point. The device is small enough that no one should notice it, and it’ll allow you to stay in contact with the rest of the team while you’re inside. You take it from him, ignoring the spark that shoots through your nerve endings at the feeling of your skin touching his for a brief moment. Slipping the device in your ear, you wait for him to move from the door, but he still remains in his spot.

“Anything else?” You question, brows scrunching in confusion, noticing that he’s not exactly meeting your gaze anymore. His eyes meet your once more, almost as if he hadn’t himself noticed his distraction.

“Right, yes. Um-” He’s reaching into his back pocket, appearing as though he’s more reluctant this time around. What he pulls out, steals your breath away. A shimmering, simple jewel the size of your thumbnail hangs from a delicate chain. This item clearly didn’t come from the armoury nor the technology sector of the base. “Wanted to give you this as well. Wanted you to have it.” His fingers delicately wrap around your wrist, gently pulling your hand up to slip the jewelry into your palm, closing your fingers around it.

“John…” You say, taking the time to admire the necklace, and how each angle catches and reflects the light so stunningly.

“It’s a panic alarm as well.” He explains after clearing his throat. “You press on it and I’ll come runnin’, love. No matter what.”

“It goes to everyone?” You question, holding the necklace up to the light.

“No. Just me.” At that, you lower your hand, gaze shifting back to his eyes, which haven’t left your face for a moment. “Want you to feel as safe as possible on this one. You feel hesitant about anything, you press it, and I’ll be there.” He steps closer now, reach to hold both your hands in his own, attempting to get across how serious he is. Mission be damned, you are your safety is his priority.

“Just you, huh?” You whisper, gazing up at him with a look on your face that if you could see, you’d probably want to smack off. But right now, you can’t feel anything but grateful towards the man in front of you.

“Just me.” He whispers back. You stand there for a while, holding each others hands, gazing into your eyes as though the answers to the universe are hidden in them, if only you can search far enough. But you know that time is ticking. Wordlessly, you slip your hands from his, holding the necklace up for him to see. With a lift of your brow, you tell him everything he needs to know, turning around so that he may slip the dainty jewelry around your neck.

As he fastens the clasp securely, his hands rest atop your shoulders, spinning you back around to face him.

“I’ll be with you the whole time.” He says. “Right with you.”

Part 3

[wing-ed-thing]

Late Night Study Session (Trafalgar Law x Reader)

Synopsis: You've been studying day and night all week. You can't help but goof off a little.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns, College AU, Suggestive Language

Notes: I didn't think it'd be here but it's here

“Are you an appendix? Because I have a gut feeling I should take you out.”

”Jesus Christ.”

You thought you just about broke him, your hysterical laugh turning into a wheeze as Law buried his face in his hands. You sat in the study room together. Just about the size of a large closet, the walls of the room were covered in whiteboards. A table, now littered with your laptops and hand-written papers, sat in the center with a large, fancy power strip. 

Law’s coffee sat amongst the empty take-out containers. The caffeinated drinks you had imbibed only contributed to the chaotic table. A warm light glowed overhead, glaring at Law’s scribbles on the whiteboard walls. It glowed a bit brighter than the light panels on the ceiling outside, the motion-activated sensors having dimmed when the new, expensive science building vacated long ago. 

You and Law had your last final together, which unfortunately fell on the last day of finals before move-out. A more advanced anatomy class, your test would encompass all the material you had covered since week one. Of course, this didn’t include the online modules that weren’t covered in class but would also be on the test. Even more, unfortunately, your final exam would make up forty percent of your overall grade. 

Quizzes, notes, and study guides from previous tests sat in a haphazard order across the table, over your empty seats, and pinned to the whiteboards like a detective’s evidence board. Pen ink smudged across the crinkled pages, and a patch of eraser dust lived on the table no matter how many times you tried to brush it away.

You were sure you were the only ones occupying a study room at the hour it was. You had practically been living out of it for the past week in preparation for finals. 

“Are you a heart surgeon? Because I get tachycardia whenever I see you.”

”It’s probably that abomination you’ve been sipping on all night.” Law gestured to one in your small army of drinks. You conjured up a concoction that contained just too much caffeine and sugar. “That stuff will kill you someday.” 

“If it gets me a passing grade, I’ll take ten,” you sighed, perusing a stapled packet of printed questions. You stopped at a page in the middle of the thick collection, taking a moment to think. “You can fill my… caudate nucleus with dopamine anytime.” 

You grinned, looking up at Law, whose already hooded gaze appeared even more narrow. His hand ran across his face, massaging the skin around his eyes. 

“You’ve officially lost it.”

”I lost it a few hours ago; let’s be real.” 

Law paid you little mind, shuffling around his notes before rearranging them in reverse order. For as rapidly as his eyes glanced over them, you knew Law was at his limit. There were only so many times you could look at the same collection of letters scrambled together before your brain fried, and frankly, you and Law had likely overstayed your time in the study room trying to push yourselves. 

You just weren’t afraid to know when it was time to give up.

”Are you a femur? Because you’re… you’re the largest bone in the human body.”

”That one doesn’t even make sense,” Law mumbled, still not entirely focusing on his notes despite his unmoving gaze. “The brachial plexus is formed by the anterior rami of the spinal nerves C5 to T1,” Law recited, a bit of forced certainty laced in his voice. 

“Yeah,” you hummed, playing with a pen and an empty coffee cup. 

“And the median nerve innervates the flexor muscles and the thenar muscles in the hand,” Law spoke definitively, crossing off a point of your massive study guide.

”And?”

Law glanced up at you.

”What do you mean ‘and’?” 

“Forearm. It’s mostly the median nerve you’re gonna lose points if you don’t also mention—”

“Ulnar. Fuck.”

Law threw his packet on the table. He hadn’t been this sloppy when you started that afternoon. But since you took a break to eat dinner— you were sure dinners with you in the study room were the only full meals Law had since the finals crunch began— studying had been futile. 

You had about eighty percent of the material sort of under your belt, but even that was shaky, considering the doomed format of your exams. No one in your class (or any of the other sections) received a passing grade during the midterm, and you were more than sure that even the study guide was a rough basis for what would actually be on the exam. 

“Maybe it’s about time we’ve turned in for the night,” you said quietly. 

Law had thrown his head back as he slumped over the table. A hand covered his eyes. His chest heaved a deep breath. 

The final was a lot of material, almost an impossible amount. You were on your own when it came to studying— the study guide (if you could even call it that)— was a miracle in and of itself. 

You knew that no matter how much you studied, you were bound to come across some curveball question about some obscure minutia you read about once. But Law, on the other hand, Mr. 52/100 on the midterm himself, was as stressed as ever. It didn’t matter that 52 was the highest score across all three sections; he was absolutely beside himself.

“Maybe,” he affirmed. Law would never tell you outright if you were right, even as he began to gather his things. 

You also began gathering your things, discarding your trash in the can, and sweeping your written notes unceremoniously back into plopped binders in your backpack. You finished moments before Law and waited by the door.

The bags under his eyes were more severe than usual, and he carried himself like his body was heavy. Law slouched a bit under the weight of his backpack but ultimately joined you at the door, grabbing it from your grasp to head out together.

You weren’t entirely sure why Law insisted on your study sessions to begin with. As serious and studious as he was, you were sure he had some rigorous study strategy he’d want to do alone. But ultimately, Law insisted that you study together and hardly gave you a choice in the matter. Given how much he talked to himself, you assumed he just wanted a warm body to bounce things off of. 

“Are you an ulnar nerve? Because you’ve got me feeling all the right sensations in my hands and my heart.” You placed your hands over the left side of your chest as you made your way out of the building. 

As you anticipated, the halls were quiet, and your voice bounced off the tiles. The motion-activated lights took a moment to flicker as the two of you passed. The sky outside the windows you walked by was pitch black, and the paths were illuminated only by the campus street lights. 

Law shook his head as the most subtle snort of amusement left his nose. His mouth scrunched together to contain his subtle laugh, but the motion was just enough to brighten his demeanor. The energy around you rose like a breath of fresh air had just wafted through. 

“You’re terrible at those,” Law said, holding the door for you as you stepped outside. 

The night air was cool when you left the building, being just chilly enough to prickle your skin. The streetlights lit up a fair amount of campus, illuminating your path back to the dorms. The door to the science building shut behind you, officially locking you out of the building. 

“Like you could do any better!” you laughed, clutching your backpack straps as you stepped out in front of Law. You pivoted on your heel, only to notice he hadn’t moved. You met his dark eyes with a crinkle of your forehead. 

Your face fell in confusion, which only mounted as Law took two wide strides to close the gap between you. Without warning, his hand found the underside of your face, cupping it firmly to tilt toward his. His other hand was shoved in the pocket of his coat. Your breath hitched as he leaned in.

“Wanna exchange genetic material?”

“Law!” you gasped, nearly shrieking his name in surprise, as your first instinct was to roughly shove him away as heat rose under your skin. You stumbled a few steps down the path, trying desperately to hide the embarrassing expression that graced your face. And when you did turn back to look at him— in sheer astonishment— Law was proudly wearing a pursed-lipped smirk.

“You’re the one who challenged me,” Law hummed with an amused bounce of his brows. He followed as you began in the direction of the dorms. 

“I’d hardly call that an anatomy-themed pickup line!” you exclaimed, your voice a pitch higher than usual. Law reached for your sleeve, a shine in his eyes as he slowed your pace. You kept backing up down the path, playfully tugging him along. Law rolled his eyes.

“Is too. You’re just embarrassed that I made you all flustered—”

“You’re just embarrassed that I trounce you at anatomy-themed pickup lines!”

You hardly finished your sentence before Law used the grip on your hand to his advantage, twirling you around into his arms, backpack and all. The movement felt bulky and heavy to you, but Law kept control over your movements, once again trapping you in proximity.

You lost your voice in your throat as you stared into his dark irises. They appeared even darker in the dim lighting, like the glinting gaze of a leopard as nocturnal bugs chirped around you. He raised a brow, his face swiveling cockily as he delivered his line.

“You wanna learn some real anatomy?” 

“Get outta here!” 

You pressed your palm to his forehead, playfully shoving his head back as Law relinquished you as you covered your hand with your face. Law grabbed your sleeve again, moving in front of you to tug you back to the dorms. 

Maybe he won that round after all, but you’d never tell him that. 

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

"I was pretty sure you'd sleep in and forget to meet me this morning" “Wouldn't have forgotten if I was sleeping with you" “But look at this.. Jesus.. look at this outfit" vibes

[raphaerolo]

Last Line Challenge

Rules: In a new post, put the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as you have words (or as many as you feel like)

Tagged by just so many people (some from a while ago but it's okay): @anxiousotters @chiliger @bladelei @nobie @vytels

I'm once again doing the double wip, drawing and writing. First, drawing!

They're everything to me.

I don't have much explanation for this one, iykyk (and it's pretty obvious). My last line was shading on Cody's face. They're just—

Yeah.

And writingggg. I just finished changing this 5k wip from past to present tense, but I did add a line to this scene. I love putting accurate math into my codywan teacher au fic. Precalc is so fun.

“So the inverse of this function, if we swap out x and y and solve for x, comes out to be 2x plus four. Is that all making sense so far?”

He sees a variety of nods and decides to move on.

“Now, if we loop back to transformations,” he says as he grabs a whiteboard eraser. He swipes at the orange marker and it - doesn’t erase. He scrubs at the marks and they just smudge, but don’t vanish. “This marker doesn’t erase.” He chucks it into the trash can by the door.

“What, no, don't throw it out,” Waxer cries. “You could give it to Mr Kenobi.” Other students begin calling out their agreement.

Cody glares at his students. “If I give that marker to Mr Kenobi, when he discovers it doesn’t erase, he will just write over it and it won’t be good for anyone.” Cody should know; Obi-Wan had accidentally written on a whiteboard at home with a permanent marker and, well. Trying to read three layers of his handwriting overlapped was a challenge to say the least.

Tagging.... okay, first of all, everyone who tagged me, uno reverse flip flop I'm tagging you all back. And also. @smoosey @chickengodnoodle @why-cant-turtles-fly @friendlyneighbourhoodelf @ferretrade @merlyn-bane consider yourselves all tagged

[pedge-page]

Imagine baby Sarah getting paint all over the house and marker all over the walls and paint stains of her foot prints everywhere and reader gets emotional about the “art” and tries to convince Joel to keep the mess

Joel Dealing with Sarah - Art

- - - -

Joel never realized just how much damage and unsupervised 2 year old year old can do in 5 minutes. He was used to an immobile Sarah, whether that be needing carried everyone or just seeing how far she can crawl. But when she grew new able bodied lightening legs? It was a new level of parenting he didn’t fully think through.

 Art and colors were all the rage at this age. He has so many squiggly, scratched out, vomitous “art” pieces hanging on the fridge. And it didn’t matter what you wanted her to draw. her uncoordinated hands could only stab and streak across paper. And thus, Yellow streak was Spoon, blue streak was mom, and stabbed holes were Dad.

He had grabbed something very quickly in the kitchen before coming back to supervise the kid who was coloring with her fist and an upside down crayon on a very large sheet of paper. Only now, she was nowhere to be found. There were crayons and pencils and paper scattered all over the floor, but no baby. 

More horrifically, he did notice the box with all her art supplies was left opened, and the vacant spot that held her child-safe paint tubes were missing.

“Oh Shit.”

He’s checking behind the couch and then back into the kitchen in case he didn’t notice maybe she had followed her in there.

“Sarah,” he announces cautiously, but his voice echoes in the house.

He contines into the entry way when the first clue emerges: a bitty pink paint foot print.

“Oh Shit. Sarah!”

He runs up stairs, following the ever growing number of painted footprints left in her trail, and then splotches on the newly painted walls, fingers and smudged handprints like a multicolored serial killer following its injured victim up the stairs. 

“Shitshitshit,” he mumbles, putting his thumb to his tongue and trying to blotch it out quick. The paint was pretty damn un-eraseable with saliva alone.

“SARAH,” he booms more angrily. Nice daddy was on his way out, damned be your soft Mommy reaction.

The girl was getting spanked.

Finally rounding the corner to the master bedroom, he sees the little monster happily squiggling on his walls and she dances side to side. Her hair and face and clothes and skin were covered in paint, as if rolling her whole body along ever possible surface.

Hands on his hips, puffing steam through his ears, he opens his mouth.

The front door clicks open, and both Joel and Sarah’s ears perk up as your familiar footsteps enter the home.

“Oh my god!” You shout, undoubtedly noticing the horrendous streaks of paint all over your walls.

Sarah gets to her feet and barrels past Joel, hoping to see her Momma because FUCK this boring guy.

He smirks, knowing you’re gonna throw a fit. That THIS time Sarah and her behavior won’t slide, and you’ll take the fury out on her.

“Did you make art baby!” You shout excitedly as you finally see her waddle towards you. She coos giddily as you scoop her up. 

Joel frowns and makes his way to you. “Excuse me??”

“Oh hi Daddy.” You wave him off casually with a barely-kiss to the cheek. “Aww honey you got paint all over your hair little bean.” You kiss her forehead, all wrapped up in your arms and hanging off your hip. “Show momma what you made.”

You put her down and the two of you make your way past a very bewildered and near exploding Joel.

On your knees, Sarah directs you to her “artwork” all over the walls like an art gallery. She goes on with her gibberish words and you listen as intently as if it were English. 

He clears his throat. 

“Hmm?”

“I’m spanking her, right?”

You narrow your brows. “What?”

“Are you kidding me? What do you mean ‘what’.” He gestures to the destroyed walls. “I gotta repaint the whole house!”

“WHAT! Why would you do that???? We’re keeping it like this.”

He’s so ready to dunk you in time out too. 

“Joel its art—“

“This aint art—it’s a god damn mess! All over the walls? Baby, she can’t just do this.”

“But its her self expression, its probably one of the few ways we can try to understand her beauty— she could be a picasso when she grows up--"

“ITS SCRIBBLES. And she’s got it out for me,” he narrows his eyes to Sarah, scowling. “If you won’t let me discipline her—“

“She’s two--“

“Then at least let me make this house right.”

You cross your arms over your chest. Sarah looks up and does the same, minicking the disappointment on your face. 

“You never let us do anything fun,” you pout. “Always destroying things that make us happy.”

“Don’t you start on that,” he growls with a pointed finger. “She painted the walls, and she’s not allowed to do that.”

“If I painted the walls, would you tell me I can’t?”

He’s very tempted to say yes because you’d make a mess, but prevents the words from leaving his mouth. “No…”

Dignified, you announce: “Then I say my baby can paint the walls the way she wants.” 

He lets out a long, defeated sigh. “Staircase. Starcaise is only place she can have paint. I’m painting over everything else.”

You think it through, but nod. “Fine. And We will make it beautiful.”

He closes his eyes ask you and mini-boss version of you Sarah make your way, baby finger in your hand, out of the bedroom.

He lies down face forward in bed, and bites down on the pillow to muffle his shout.

-

The next day is Saturday. He had a project in the morning that helped distract him from the mess of his own home.

When he walks in, he’s immediately greeted with your bear hug.

He smiles and kisses your forehead. You’re covered in streaks of paint, some of which clearly wiped on your hair and lips without you realizing. 

“Keeping busy I see?” He chuckles.

“I think it’s coming along.”

True to your word, he’s impressed with the transformation. Once a plain beige, then a hodgepodge of paint, you had gone over and added creative detailing to the colors and mishap that Sarah had splotched over and made a unique design of flowers, suns, meadows and rivers, free flowing patterns and shapes that felt full of life and artistic workmanship, making the whole thing look intentional.

He wraps his arm around your shoulders and admires the work. “You really know how to save that kid, don’t you?”

You nuzzle your face into his sweaty chest.

‘Speaking of, where is…?”

You widen your eyes and look around, forgetting that Sarah had abandoned her post of watching you. 

“Oh SHIT!” You shout, running down towards the living room.

Sarah had somehow gotten a fresh coating of paint all over the new dress you bought, and her poor victim today was helpless Spoon, who stares at you remorsefully. She is sitting quite obediently as Sarah splotches her little pink handprints on the dog’s head and back.

“Ankles weights,” Joel says plainly, observing with a little nod at the scene as you go to yell at Sarah about painting the damn dog. “How about baby ankle weights?”

"Order them now," you seethe, grabbing her hand and Spoon's collar and stomping off the the bath tub to get them clean.

Joel rolls his lips in circle motion, trying not to smile to himself.

- - - -

Taglist

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrsoharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee @cassiecasluciluce @loohoop @himboelover @callsignwidow

[swiftsalad]

Thought experiment, just hear me out:

So Daniel “I don’t remember, that’s why I’m asking” Molloy could be remembering bits and pieces of 70’s-80’s Devil’s minion now that he’s remembered the majority of what happened in San Fran. BUT instead of it being memories that make sense, it’s all out of order and they don’t make any sense similar to how he remembered San Fran.(this is usually how memory loss works, but not how it’s often represented in media) so what if he’s remembering Devil’s minion except for the important stuff. Then you layer on the fact that his memory has been erased so what if, even with all his will power he can’t remember Armand’s face while all the dm stuff is happening. And I can imagine the horrifying feeling of trying to explore these memories and seeing the soiled sheets, feeling the bite on his neck, feeling his hands tangled into someone’s hair and telling himself “turn your head, look at him, all you have to do is turn your head, he’s right there!” But he can’t because the man’s face is just a black hole, an erased memory, an identity he can never confirm on his own. UGH it’s violating, it’s horrifying, and yearning for more all at once.

I’m theorizing that erasing a “whole” memory(multiple events, faces, feeling, actions, etc.) is a lot harder than erasing one persons face from someone’s memory. So what if that’s why there were so many cracks in Daniel’s false memory that allowed him to recover what was lost PLUS this was made easier because Louis was helping with his own memories. I really think that if Armand just tweaked Daniel’s memory to forget his face, it would hold longer since Daniel would still remember fucking up his life, all the lows, all the highs(literally) and of course he would attribute any lapse in memory to “well I remember being high so I was probably on another bender” when in reality there is a nightmare twink standing behind him the whole time but he’s just so perfectly out of frame so Daniel doesn’t see his face. And it’s everywhere he looks, a picture has a perfect smudge to cover this man’s face, his memory has literal black spots over this man’s face, and then none of his friends remember this strange man. Like could you imagine being haunted by a faceless man that you feel a magnetic pull towards. AND even when you can’t remember, you still feel him there, he’s in every corner, every room, every bed, every lover, every town, every city, every state and every country. So it’s so real when Louis says, “You were there, Daniel.” And all he can say is “I don’t remember, that’s why I’m asking.” Cause he’s so painfully aware that he was there, he just can’t shake the feeling that someone else was also there.

[sunr1seblvd]

- red.

'cause loving him was red.

this is apart of my taylor swift-inspired series. click here to read more stories!

summary: a summation of you and rafe's relationship. a/n: merry christmas! (its november 1st when i'm writing this) warnings: bad relationships, drugs (what else is new), drinking/alcohol, lowk toxic!rafe wc: 742

you were watching netflix on your laptop when you got the call.

the call that would inevitably change your life.

"rafe? what's up?"

"who is this?" a female voice asked.

oh no.

"this is his girlfriend, who are you?"

"i'm his girlfriend, what ar-" you hung up the call.

when you were younger, you promised yourself that you wouldn't the type of person this would happen to. you'd have the man of your dreams, who'd be an amazing father, who'd be an amazing husband. you should've known that rafe was none of those things.

you shut off your laptop and plopped it on the floor, not caring how it fell. curled in the fetal position under the covers of your bed, your eyes burned as you cried and cried and cried.

you thought you and rafe had a good thing going. you were a senior at UNC and were probably going to get your doctorate, too. you met your sophomore year, the blonde enticing you.

you should've known.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

"ready to go, babe?"

rafe turned towards you and looked you up. "what are you wearing?"

you looked down at your outfit. it wasn't necessarily revealing, it was mid-july, for christ's sake.

"a tank top and shorts, rafe? want do you want me to wear? temple clothing?"

"no, but if your gonna be my girl, cover up. nobody wants to see all that," he said while grabbing his keys and leaned in the doorway. "just do it."

you felt a fiery pit of anger in your heart. who was he to say what you can wear?

"no rafe, it's almost 95 degrees outside! i'm not putting jeans on or a jacket."

rafe shrugged. "okay then." he then went downstairs.

"rafe? where are you going?" you followed him downstairs to the foyer,

"out."

"where is 'out'? why are you leaving?"

"probably topper's or the country club. it's exhausting to be in the same house as you sometimes."

you stood there, shellshocked. you tried to move your legs, to run to walk, to sprint, to do something.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

you woke straight up. no longer fully under the covers up your bed, you rolled over to look at your phone.

2:30 am

ten missed calls from rafe <3

2 text messages from Mom

you got up to go to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. jeez, you looked rough. your mascara smudged, chapped lips almost bleeding...

you need to think.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

"y/n?"

"come in."

your mom walked in to see you pouring over your notebook, computer, and guitar. you wrote and wrote and wrote, then erased and erased.

"what's this?"

"i needed to think. sometime last night i realized that i couldn't stay sad about me and rafe, so here i am."

"okay, just wanted to check up on you. your dad and i are having dinner in an hour, are you coming?"

"yep," you replied, not looking away from your computer.

your mom sighed. "okay...love you."

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

"AHHH!! i got the audition!"

cleo, sarah, and kie whipped their head towards you and crowded around you and your computer.

"congrats!"

"good job!"

"what are you going to call the song?"

you got up and looked out the window in your room.

"i'm not sure."

then it dawned on you.

the relationship you had with rafe with rafe was passionate. the relationship you had with rafe was painful. the relationship you had with rafe was red.

burning red.

"it's gonna be called red."

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

you were in the green room for your SNL slot. your audition went perfectly, and they offered you a record deal. so here you are, two years later, about to make your SNL debut.

"y/n?" one of the crew poked their head in "you're on in five, okay?"

"thanks!"

you turned back to the mirror, taking in your features. you think back to that last night two years ago, the smudged mascara and chapped lips juxtaposing your perfect eyeliner and perfect foundation.

your phone got a notification.

you didn't see a name.

who is this?

y/n. it's rafe. i'm sorry.

you rolled your eyes.

rafe, don't do this. don't come crawling back to me knowing full well you're the reason this relationship ended. you made this bed, lie in it. goodbye, rafe.

the same crew member poked their head in again.

"y/n? it's time."

you turned off you phone and shoved it in your purse.

younger you was right.

loving him was red.

[pien-art]

-FAQ-

Hello! I've gained a whole bunch of followers lately and I've been getting a lot of questions about commissions, what my setup is, what brushes I use, etc, so I thought I'd make a post about it to answer everyone's questions at once !

Putting them under the cut <3

Commissions:

Commission prices are listed in my pinned post. You can send me a private message about your commission idea and we can get to talking :) It is helpful to have enough references handy (character, outfit, descriptions etc)

I am generally a fast drawer but I also have a job and a physical disability so there might be moments I can't work on your commission. But that is never longer than a few days at most.

Payment is upfront, the full amount and via paypal only. I know this might seem a bit scary but unfortunately there are a lot of people who end up not paying for commissions and I want to avoid that.

During the process I will send you frequent updates and will ask for input, to see if it is going in the direction you want. You can ask for changes during the sketching progress but once I've started on line-art and coloring, no big changes will happen. (You can for example ask for a different color for a shirt etc, but not for a different prop or pose or expression)

When it is completed, I will send the drawing to you via email. The drawing will remain mine and it is not to be sold or profited of by the person who commissioned me. If the commission is for something commercial/for selling, that needs to be discussed. I prefer to do drawings only for personal use!

For more questions, my dms/asks are open :)

How long have I been doing digital art:

I've been drawing digitally for about 5 years now i think? But before that I've been drawing and painting traditionally literally since the moment I could pick up a pencil.

Set-up:

It's just me and my ipad and apple pencil laying on my bed. I wouldn't even know where to begin for those whole multi-monitor/screen setups ;-; I draw only with Procreate

Brushes:

I tend to play with different brushes from time to time to get different textures, but generally i use the same few for most of my drawings/styles. My favorite one is the Peppermint Brush, for sketching. I use it in every drawing i make! I always sketch with it, and often do the line-art with it as well! And it makes for a nice textured brush for rendering as well! (i used it for a lot of rendering of the armor in this drawing)

The (procreate) brushes i use a lot are

for medieval style: inking - Ink Bleed (for line-art) artistic - Quoll (for coloring)

for general style: calligraphy - Chalk (coloring/rendering) sketching - Peppermint (line-art/sketching)

for realism: calligraphy - Shale Brush (full rendering) Also using the shale brush for smudging and erasing when drawing realistic

for lineart: smooth pencil from this pack by Heygiudi

How/why do you choose a base color:

I tend to look at a few different things when deciding on a base color/color palette.

the overall color of the reference pic

the color i associate with who or what i am drawing

the feeling/vibe i want to give off with that drawing

color has a BIG impact on the vibe of a drawing, so it is something i keep in mind when im drawing.

Using a color as a base to start, helps a lot with my drawing process. It helps me pick out other colors so they match better. It helps me get light/dark values right. And the chalk brush i use, has gaps between the strokes, so the base color will always come through a little. Having the same color come through in the entire drawing, helps pull all the colors together if that makes sense? I always start with a solid base color when i am painting traditionally as well!

Advice:

PRACTICE!!! just keep drawing and practice. I know this is such generic advice but truly practice is The Way. Learn from other artists but don't compare yourself to them. Everyone's artistic journey is different and there's no "good" or "bad". And most importantly make sure that you have fun when you're making stuff :3

I also learn a lot by studying art I admire and love. Figuring out what it is I like about it. (for example, the line thickness or the shapes or texture etc), and try to incorporate that in my own style in a way that is not directly copying or stealing.

[mira--image]

Here's a wip compilation of my latest piece!

You ever take a photo of a sketch because you're about to commit to lineart and wanna make sure you have a record of it in case it gets ruined? 😂

Even my tiniest eraser was bigger than Leo's face, which meant if I made a mistake, I was starting over. If you haven't yet noticed, I like to draw small, which has natural consequences 😂

Those who follow my Instagram actually saw wips for this drawing ages ago— I mostly post to my story there, and it's more daily shenanigans than just art if you like following that kind of social media!

When i'm intimidated by a piece, I like to pick a stage and completely finish it so I can get an idea of what the final product will look like, and complete it in more manageable chunks.

Mikey be like 🦅🦅

Another example of me doing all of a chunk first so I can see if the process is worth trusting— the answer was a resounding yes! I also like seeing the colored lineart before shading.

Told ya the paper was brown! I have a white pen that smudged when I first colored over it— but when I realized I could use that to my advantage, I really enjoyed using it to blend colors in the background, since my markers are india ink and are usually resistant to that unless very wet! Speaking of markers, these things are old enough to go to middle school, every time I use them it's a gamble to see how long they'll last XD

[mosneakers]

Following the final moments of Erwin’s abduction, Jill Smith ordered an immediate halt to all live media coverage.

Desert CAHR Productions was granted special permission to film on the rooftop during this critical moment.

Jill Smith, her security, and the members of the SWAT team do their very best to be respectful, allowing Coraleye the space to process her shock, while also keeping their weapons drawn and remaining vigilant for any signs of returning spacecraft or any other potential threats. Tycho pushes through the crowd to reach Coraleye, who is collapsed in despair on the ground, wailing incoherent sobs toward the sky. Only barely cushioned by mascara-stained gloves, her clenched fists pound relentlessly against the cement. Tycho grasps her wrists firmly, desperate to pull her back from her anguish.

Tycho: Coraleye! Please, stop! You’re going to hurt yourself! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Talk to me, baby, please!

He cradles her face in his hands, smudged with mascara and tears. She locks her gaze onto his, searching deeply into his eyes—into his soul, really—her voice emerging in a guttural growl that shakes him to his core.

Coraleye: DO SOMETHING.

More than a plea, she demands it, her voice raw.

Coraleye: Let go of me, and fucking— [attempts to yank her arm away from his grip] —do something to HELP HIM. QUICKLY!

He freezes. This is it—his only chance. With a grand audience and everything being filmed, there’s no way to erase anyone's memory. There’s no backing out now. He takes a deep breath.

Tycho: Listen to me! Fuck, honey— I never imagined I'd be telling you this surrounded by guns and cameras and helicopters. I... I don't really know how I'm going to say it, so I'll just come out with it. Coraleye: Just say it, Tycho. Tycho: I am, I promise. Just… please don’t rush me. He’s gone. Erwin is gone. [Breath hitches as he watches her furiously shake her head in denial] For good. There’s nothing anyone can do to save him, alright? And I’m so, so sorry.

Coraleye: No, no, NO! Why? Why would you say that, Tycho? Tycho: Darling, there’s something I need to tell you.. There’s a reason I know—[voice cracks]—that he won’t be coming back.

Coraleye: Stop! Just stop! We don’t have time for this! [Voice cracks, sobs tear from her throat] You and I both know you could have done something to stop this from happening... I know exactly who you are, Tycho. Tycho goes still, his body rigid with disbelief as he tries to discern whether the words she just uttered were reality or a demented figment of his imagination.

Tycho: W-what? What did you just say? I don't understand. Coraleye, what are you saying? Seeing her shaking uncontrollably, Tycho instinctively reaches for her hands, but she shoves them away. After a deep breath, she speaks, her voice unnervingly calm compared to the turmoil displayed moments before.

Coraleye: Did you really think you were erasing my mind all this time, Tycho? A skilled spellcrafter? You never once considered I’d have taken precautions to protect myself? Like, I don't know, maybe a spell to keep my mind from being fucked with—really, Tycho? Tycho's mind goes blank, and he lost the ability to swallow. Sirens can be heard in the distance of the bustling city; for a split second he wonders if they could be coming for him. Tycho finally chokes out a response. Tycho: How long... Coraleye’s silence is deafening. She doesn’t respond with words, only a piercing glare, her eyes burning through his. Tycho: Don't tell me...You knew the whole fucking time, didn't you?

[slytherinshua]

DOODLES

genre. fluff. warnings. kissing. pairing. so mun x fem!reader. wc. 900.

“No peeking!” So Mun scolds, holding his sketchbook even tighter to his chest to make sure there was no way you would be able to glance at his sketch. You huff in defeat and go back to your own drawing which is looking more and more lopsided as you keep trying to capture Mun’s perfectly sharp jawline and fail.

“I’m butchering your handsome face, just so you know.” You mumble, grabbing your eraser for the hundredth time. At this point the drawing looked more smudged than legible and you were close to giving up.

“Good thing you have the real deal right here, then.” Mun replies smoothly, and you glare at him from over your sketchbook making him giggle. 

You wonder how he hasn’t even touched his eraser once as you watch him still making little details on his drawing with ease. You know he’s been drawing his whole life and his drawing skills are on par with his fighting skills, but you know he hasn’t had much time to draw apart from composition sketches. You were glad you suggested doing this doodling session with him. It was cosy and relaxing and definitely what you both needed to get your mind off the stress of everything. 

You’ve never had anyone draw you before, but you’re glad the first one to do it is your boyfriend. He’s only been drawing for 10 minutes, but you’re starting to get a little impatient to see the results, and so you attempt at sneaking a peek again.

“I said no peeking.” He stops you without even looking, catching your hand in midair before it can reach his sketchbook. 

“When will you be done with it?” You ask, and So Mun hums in response. “Baby.” You whine.

“I’m almost done.” He looks up to smile at you before resuming his pencilling. “Are you done yours?”

“I guess… It’s not getting any better so I decided to just leave it.”

“Can I see?” Mun peers over to take a glance and you hand him the open sketchbook. “Aww, you added a heart.” He smiles widely and you swear you can practically see his eyes sparkle.

“It’s so bad, though.” You mutter, cringing at the way you had messed up his proportions. 

“I think it’s cute.” Mun smiles again.

“I get to see yours now, right?” 

He nods and hands you the sketchbook finally, and your eyes land on the drawing. Your breath is quite literally taken away and you spend the first few minutes just staring at it, taking in every detail, every stroke of pencil. And a warm sense of comfort comes with how you just know that every mark of that pencil was created with so much love behind it. You can feel it.

“So…?” So Mun asks expectantly, blinking at you.

You open your mouth to give him a response, but then pause as the wind slightly blows the page of the sketchbook, giving you a peek of more drawings on the previous page. Curiosity takes over and you flip it, revealing an entire spread of you.

There’s a small drawing of you sipping a bubble tea, and you recognize the exact day it’s from given your outfit. You had stolen So Mun’s leather jacket on your lunch date that day, and he had even drawn in the little hair clip that you had worn.

Looking a little lower on the page were countless more drawings. One of you blowing a kiss, you with a kitten, several of you just smiling, and even one of you sleeping which you immediately suspected he had drawn while you actually had fallen asleep.

“Were you ever going to show me these?” You ask, blinking back tears because they’re all so beautiful and you adore each and every one of them.

Mun panics, “I- I wasn’t not going to show these to you?” His response sounds like he’s questioning the fact himself and you tsk quietly, flipping over to the next page only to find even more drawings.

“How many times have you drawn me without my knowledge?” You question, utterly bewildered at just how many drawings there are. With every page you flip, there are more, and soon you discover that the entire sketchbook is filled with just you. 

“If you weren’t my boyfriend this would be so creepy, you know?”

“Do you think it’s creepy?” Mun asks.

“No, it’s probably the cutest shit anyone has ever done for me.” You say in a complaining tone which makes So Mun laugh. You tackle him in a hug, kissing his cheek as many times as you can before he pulls you off of him in a fit of giggles. 

“I’m glad you like them because to be honest it’s become a stress reliever to draw you.” Mun admits, melting your heart easily.

“You’d better show me next time, or I’m going to go snooping through your stuff just to find your sketchbook.” You threaten and So Mun nods with a smile before reaching over to kiss you. 

He always kissed you softly, like you would break if he put too much pressure into it. Now was no different as his plush lips moved against yours, lifting up into a smile when you pull away. And his smile is so infectious and filled with so much love that you can’t help but to smile back.

↳ k-drama taglist: @yeonjuns-redhair,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @cha3w0n-hearts (abp & tuc only),, @tempobaekh (tuc only)