#I hate when artists who worked on their skill turn to others who worked on their skill in a different way and say “you are worse than me

[weaponizedmoth]

There's so many cool musical theatre professional photographs that'd be great for composition reference. I've been looking at them for one hour. It's great.

[sonotpattismith]

where I first saw you

pairing: tattoo artist!sukuna x ballerina!reader word count: 10.3k content: fluff, grumpy+sunshine vibes, sukuna is low-key an asshole, reader is depicted as a bit naive, special guest starring choso my shnookums, almost loss of virginity, smut, 18+

Sukuna loved his job— no really, he did. He didn’t have to speak a certain way to garner respect, his marked up face helped his occupation rather than hindering it, and he was finally able to put to use what seemed like the one goddamn skill the universe graced him with. Anyone who walked into the shop and saw that look on his face though might assume he’d rather be anywhere else than holed up in the dimly lit tattoo parlor he worked at, but it truly was just his face. Luckily for him though, his resting bitch face seemed to match the vibe of the shop, so his boss let it slide.

So, yeah, there really wasn’t anywhere else the daunting man could see himself working in, but there was one qualm about his job— the people. God, how Sukuna fucking hated some of the half-wits that sat in his chair most of the time. Whether it be cuddled up inconvenietnly to their significant other with whom they would soon be matching ink with, or the awkwardly beefed up masculine types that were convinced that their decision to get a big ass tiger on their back was unique. 

Perhaps he should have started working on his judgemental nature long before he decided on a career that centered around servicing people, but he just couldn’t find it in him to feign interest in their drawn out stories about why they were sitting in his chair that day. At the end of the day, it was the art that kept his soul alive while having to work with so many idiots. He loved drawing, since he received his first sketchbook at the ripe age of ten so that he’d stop scribbling on the walls of his room. 

He often joked that it was his one redeeming feature, never having been the best academic student and failing to be as charming as his twin brother so easily managed— this was his one thing. 

That was why he seriously had to exercise restraint and put on his best poker face when a group of babbling college students stumbled into the shop just shy of an hour before closing. There were about five of them, all shouting over each other and giggling obnoxiously as if they could hear any of what the others were saying. 

Don’t lose your job over some sorority kids. He had to keep telling himself as he set his pencil down, looking up from his sketchbook with his lips set in a firm line. They were huddled around the stencil book now, shoving at each other for turns looking at the choices before them. The bickering grew louder and louder until his last thred of patience snapped. 

“Oi, if you shitheads are gonna come in here so close to closing, you better quiet the fuck down and pick which one of you is getting inked, cause I ain’t got time for all of you, and you’re givin’ me a fucking migraine.” 

The group was stunned to silence, blinking up at the aggravated man behind the counter who was shutting his book with a huff. It was silent for a moment before they broke into hushed, excited rambles about how he was perfect and how fucking funny this would be in the morning. Taking in a controlled breath, he watched them shove one of their members to the front.

“It’s her, she wants a tattoo.” They all guffawed, looking at each other with barely concealed smirks that appeared far too incriminating. 

You stumbled forward, bracing your hands on the counter as the room seemed to spin around you. The apples of your cheeks were flushed red, but he assumed it was your nerves, along with the fact that your gaze couldn’t seem to focus on the man before you. 

“It’s late, so if you want something it’s gotta be small.” Sukuna explained with poorly concealed annoyance as he stood up to begin prepping a chair. He heard you begin to speak, but you were quickly cut off by the boisterous group surrounding you. 

“It can be small!” One of the guys insisted desperately as he guided you by your shoulders to sit in the leather, reclining chair the tattoo artist was standing by. “She wants a…” His words trailed off as he glanced back at the giggling group, who were all giving him a thumbs up as they shouted various ideas at him. “A tramp stamp! She wants a tramp stamp.”

Sukuna felt his jaw tick at the outdated term, but he swiveled his head to face you nonetheless. 

“You fuckin’ mute or what?” He grumbled as he snatched the stencil book from the group. 

“N-No, I… they told me they’d pick something nice for me.” Your words slurred almost unintelligbly, and, upon closer inspection, he was taking note of the blearly look in your eyes. 

“You plastered right now?” 

“She’s only had a couple drinks!” One of the girls defended quickly, leaning the entire upper half of her body across the counter in anticipation. “But she’s been talking about this for like everrr.” 

Something about their eagerness to speak for you sounded off warning alarms in his mind, but he shook his head nonetheless. 

“You ever done this before?” The pink-haired man questioned as he donned a pair of gloves. 

“Umm…” You hummed nonsensically, head lolling to the side to watch him snap on the last glove. His deadpan expression made you flush with embarrassment, staring down self-consciously at your ink-free skin. “No.”

“This one! She wants this one!” Another degenerate spoke up, pointing excitedly to the stencil depicting various sized lipstick marks that would traverse the expanse of your lower back. When you leaned your head forward to look, he quickly snatched the book away from your line of sight. 

Sukuna watched the motion with narrowed eyes, irritation slowly creeping up each of his fingers with an urge to ring someone’s neck out. Glancing back at the way you were slumped back in the chair, eyes barely able to stay open, he gave a curt shake of his head. 

“Nah,” He finalized, ripping his gloves off before tossing them in the bin beside him. “I don’t know what it is you lowlives call a joke, but I ain’t the one. Take her home.”

The group quickly broke out into a string of protests, walking around the counter to level with the man, but he had already made up his mind. 

“C’mooon, man!” The guy pleaded with the stencil book still clutched in his grasp. “She’s fine! I’ll pay extra, c’mon!”

Sukuna stepped forward to snatch the book from his grasp, pointing it back at your figure still sat obliviously beside them. 

“She can barely fucking sit up straight. Take her home before you seriously piss me off.” He repeated once again. 

There was an encore of disappointed groans from the idiotic group that had brought you in. 

“Whatever man, there are like three artists on this block. We’ll go somewhere that actually wants to make money.” The ringleader quipped before grasping at your arm to pull you up.

All at once, his patience seemed to drain from him as his hand came forward to grip the man’s wrist in warning. Sukuna towered over him, his broad shoulders unknowingly blocking you from his view as he tilted his head at him. 

“Yeah? How ‘bout I call the fucking cops?” The shadows seemed to cast an impossibly more intimidating aura to his already less than welcoming expression. “Or do you wanna take this outside?” 

The group could be heard murmuring to each other, weighing their options out and deciding their cruel joke wasn’t worth whatever fate this man had in store for them should they continue. Upon acknowledging the fearfully complacent expression on the guy’s face, Sukuna leaned back, dragging his gaze across the group where not one of them stepped up to defend you in your inebriated state. 

As the idiot rushed to get you up so they could hightail it far away from this shop, the artist shook his head, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

“She’s fine there.” Sukuna said simply, not trusting that any one of these lowlives had even the slightest intention of taking you home unscathed that night. 

Baffled eyes stared up at him, but he remained resolute in his decision. It didn’t take much convincing at all though, because soon enough the group was scrambling out of the shop without so much as a second look at their ‘friend’. 

With an aggravated growl, Sukuna finally turned to face you again, only to find you passed out against the leather chair. He pursed his lips in annoyance, carefully reaching out to jostle your shoulder. You groaned softly, your still flushed face falling against your shoulder. 

“C’mon, brat.” He grumbled, glancing at the clock on the wall and deciding he deserved to close the shop a little early tonight. His boss would just have to get an explanation the next day. Reaching up, he gently pinched your warm cheek between his knuckles in an attempt to rouse you from your comatose state. “Where does your sorry ass live?”

Your eyes opened blearily, and it almost appeared as though there were two of him. Trying desperately to focus your gaze, a dumb smile spread across your face as you reached up to poke at his cheekbones. He grimaced, trying to shift his head away from your reach. 

“Haha, ‘sup four eyes?” You giggled deleriously at your own joke. 

“Yeah, real funny,” Sukuna quipped with a huff as you tossed your head back against the chair to close your eyes again. “Hey, hey, no, wake up and tell me where the hell it is I need to drop you off at.”

You only hummed sleepily at his words, and it was clear that he’d already lost you once again. Closing his eyes, he inhaled slowly through his nose to calm his temper. When he opened them once again, your lips were parted ever-so-slightly as you slipped off into a drunken slumber. 

He tsked in frustration before giving you a once over. You didn’t have a bag on you, and he wondered if your ‘friends’ had taken it with them. Glancing down at your pockets, he carefully reached down to feel around for a phone or wallet that he could use to get you home. When your front pockets proved to be useless, he grimaced slightly as he slumped you forward to search your back ones, sighing in anguished relief when he procured a cell phone. 

“Fuck.” He growled out when the damned thing prompted him for a passcode. 

In a desperate attempt to get you the hell out of his shop, he began pounding in random variations of four digit codes. Typical ones, 1-2-3-4, 0-0-0-0, 9-9-9-9, anything that might get him out of the situation he’d put himself in. After countless attempts though, he nearly tossed the device across the room when it alerted him that he was locked out due to too many failed attempts. Opting to toss the wretched thing on the table beside him, he groaned up at the ceiling. 

This is what I get for not minding my own damn business for once in my god-forsaken life.

There was a light scratching noise that flooded your consciousness. With it, came the realization that your brain was absolutely pounding against your skull, and you were sure there was a knot in your back that no amount of stretches would be able to unfurrow for at least another week. Parting your lips to lick the desert-like dryness from them, you noted that your mouth was just as parched. 

It was cold— far colder than you ever dared to keep your dorm room set at, and the sensation manifested goosebumps that prickled at every inch of your exposed skin. Despite this, there was a sheen sweat that was lining the back of your neck as you attempted to stretch. The nearly forgotten scratching stopped abruptly at your movements, and you slowly pried your eyes open. 

“Oh my god.” Your rasped voice blurted out as you came to the gruelling realization that the ceiling you were staring up at was not that of your room. Sitting up with a start, you frantically took in your surroundings as your mind reeled with the feeble attempt to remember what had transpired the night before. 

There were a myriad of… unique posters lining the walls, and, from where you were sitting, you could see a counter filled with various body jewelery. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front were drawn, making it difficult for you to determine what time it was, though you could swear you saw a sliver of sunlight peeking out through the cracks. 

Your hands suddenly began feeling around your own body in search of your phone, but you came up short. 

“It’s on the table.” Came an unfamiliarly deep voice on your right. 

Whipping your head around so quickly that it nearly made you dizzy, you caught sight of the monstrous-sized man lounging on the leather seat on the opposite end of the room. His hair was disheveled, but you were still caught off guard by its soft pink hue as strands strew across his forehead. An intricate work of black tattoos lined his face, emphasizing the secondary set of eyes he had inked under his real ones. 

“Oh my god!” You repeated with a mortified expression. He set aside the notebook that was perched on his lap to stand from his seat, and you shrunk farther into yours as he stretched to his full height. “Did we… oh my god, did I get a tattoo?” You weren’t sure which outcome sounded scarier to you as you frantically began assessing your skin for any evidence. 

“Check your ass.” He quipped with an amused glint on his otherwise stoic expression, but it almost broke upon seeing the horrified look on your face. “I’m fucking with you. Nothing happened— no thanks to your dumbass choice of friends though.”

You slowly settled back against the leather seat, trying to calm your racing heart as his words sunk in. With a vague haze, you could recall going out with a few members from your class who you were paired with for a group project. They weren’t exactly your friends, but you were desperately trying to change that being new to the city where you had begun university. 

“What… what do you mean?”

“I mean, they brought you in here telling me to tat you. You couldn’t even keep your eyes open. I told ‘em to fuck off.” His explanation was nonchalant as he began organizing a few things behind the counter. “And your sorry ass wouldn’t wake up long enough to tell me where you lived.”

The hazy puzzle pieces slowly started to come together, and you felt yourself flush instantly. Glancing at the time on your phone that was waiting for you just beside your seat, you noted it was still far too early for a tattoo parlor to be open. 

“I’m so sorry, this is mortifying—” You babbled as you stood up, quickly trying to straighten your rustled clothes. “I’m not from around here, and I was just trying to make some friends, but I didn’t know that—”

“Woah, woah woah,” The man before you grimaced with a wave of his hand to halt your rant. The warmth in your cheeks grew that much hotter at the realization of your rambling. “I just spent the night on a damn tattoo chair. I am nowhere near awake enough for your sob story right now, doll.”

“Right, sorry. Um, I should really get out of your hair.” You stammered, glancing awkwardly down at your feet as you made a beeline for the front door. With a barely noticeable hesitance, you turned back toward him one more time. “Thank you, by the way. That was… really cool of you.”

Sukuna watched with a lazy gaze as you pulled at the door only to be met with stark resistance. With a quiet huff, you used both hands this time to try to wrestle it open, even attempting to push it just in case. His long legs slowly dragged toward the front of the store with a tired mischievousness. Reaching over you, he switched the door unlocked before leaning back again, watching as the heat creeped up your neck. 

“Thanks.” You mumbled once again in humiliation, unable to face him as you finally pulled the door open. In an instant though, his hand was reaching above your head to hold the door closed. Your heart leaped into your throat, a nervous sweat nearly breaking out onto your forehead as you hesitantly looked up at him. 

“No friends is better than shit ones, you hear me?” One of his brows was raised as he glowered down at you, and the breath slowly escaped your lungs. 

His broad figure made sure his shadow consumed you, and from this close your clouded mind was finally able to process how terrifyingly hot this man was. Not trusting your voice, you could only nod meekly at his solemn advice, nearly crying in relief when he finally pushed off the door and allowed you to slip through it. 

In the end, you, by the grace of a higher being, made it to practice only ten minutes late, though you were still scolded by your instructor since you cut into your warm-up time. It was arguably the hardest practice you’d yet to endure, what with the crink it your back from spending the night on a tattoo chair. 

The more you thought about the mortifying events that had transpired the night before, the more you wished you could take your brain right out of your skull and hose it down in hopes of forgetting all about it. It was humiliating to think of how naive you had been to keep accepting drinks from the group you were with, who were still essentially strangers to you. Still, you were desperate for some friends after having spent an entire semester holed up in your dorm with nothing to do and no one to see. 

You had moved to the city from a small town, the kind where everyone knew everyone, and the culture of hospitality was far different from the uppity vibes you had received from nearly every new person you had met here. It was never really in your plans to move so far from home, but the university you had been accepted into had one of the best ballet programs in the country, and it had been your dream to dance professionally since you were six years old and perfected your first pirouette.

Still, you hadn’t expected to sacrifice so much to make it happen. 

You were friendly with the other members of your ballet group, but they all seemed to have already known each other for so long. It was more difficult than anything— trying to fit yourself into friend groups that had already been solidifying for years before your appearance. So, when your group members invited you out with them that night, you were more than elated to go along with whatever they had planned. 

You groaned in frustration, gently hitting your head against the wall of your shower as you washed off the sweat that had built up from your questionable night as well as practice later that day. There were at least five minutes spent inspecting your naked body in the mirror to confirm that you did not in fact have any unexpected ink anywhere. 

Despite your being in the clear, you couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of what could have happened had the kind yet terrifying tattoo artist not been as decent of a human being as he was. The guilt and embarrassment gnawed away at you in the few days that followed at the thought of the complete stranger staying with you in the shop until your stupidly drunk self decided to wake up. You thought of his parting words as well, that made you feel even a tiny bit better about your less than fortunate social circumstances.

It was an impulsive urge spurred on by your incessant boredom just two days later that had you meticulously weighing out the ingredients for the easiest cookie recipe you could manage in your dorm’s tiny kitchen. You heard the timer ring in the next room as you tied your hair up in front of the mirror. After carefully packaging the baked goods in a leftover, holiday themed cookie tin with a neatly written ‘thank you for not tattooing me!’ note written on some pink stationary, you set off for the shop that had been haunting you for the past two days. 

The lit up, neon red ‘TATTOO’ sign that hung outside the front seemed to buzz ominously as you stared up at it. It was never the type of… establishment you ever frequented, but it was far from you to judge given your previous circumstances. 

With an anxious sigh, you pushed into the door, hearing the faint jingle of the bell attached to it. The shop was fairly busy, a stark difference from that morning you’d woken up in it prior to its opening. 

“Welcome in. You here for a tattoo or a piercing?” You were pulled from your thoughts as a man behind the counter greeted you. He definitely fit the part, you thought as you took in his tattooed nose and pierced lips. What appeared to be eyeliner was smudged haphazardly around his already ominous, dark orbs, and there were two spiked out buns at the top of his head. 

“Um, neither actually.” You flushed unnecessarily, your fingers curling tighter around your tin as he raised a curious brow at you. Mustering up a kind smile, you finally found the courage to look him in the eyes. “I’m looking for a guy that works here. Tall, pink hair, face tattoos— do you know who I’m talking about?”

“Sukuna? Yeah, he’s working on an appointment right now.” The man explained as he looked at the time. You opened your mouth to ask if he would be so kind as to just give him the tin whenever he got out, but he cut you off. “He should be finishing up soon if you wanna wait here for him.”

Abruptly shutting your mouth, you weren’t sure why you couldn’t bring yourself to decline his offer, far too self-conscious about your every breath in this place. Nodding in thanks, you slowly sat down on the low, leather black couch that was in the waiting area. You clacked your nails anxiously against the tin in your lap, hyperaware of the man’s eyes still on you. 

“So, what’s in the container?” He questioned with a curious glint in his eyes, jutting his chin toward your lap. Looking up at him in surprise, you offered a bashful smile.

“Oh, they’re just cookies.” You explained with a nonchalant wave of your hand. 

His intimidating expression seemed to melt right off of his face, darkly lined eyes lighting up in a way that gave him a child-like aura. Smiling knowingly, you stood to walk over to the counter and opened the tin to offer him one. The boyish smile he gave instantly fought off any fear you previously held toward him, and the tension in your shoulders slowly faded as he eagerly grabbed one. 

“‘Thank you for not tattooing me’?” The man read the card through cookie-filled cheeks, crumbs gathering around his lips as he looked up at you in question. “I’ve gotta hear this—”

“Choso, get him a tube of aftercare, will ya’?” That familiar, deep voice saved you from the embarrassment of having to explain yourself to the kind man at the front desk. Sukuna, as you had now learned his name was, was walking in from the back followed by a shorter man. His movements faltered upon seeing you in the shop again. 

His ruby eyes took in your soft appearance in contrast to the gothic decorations that adorned the shop. You stuck out like a sore thumb, with your baby pink cardigan and perfectly glossed lips, and he couldn’t for the life of him think of why you would step foot back in here. 

“Sorry, doll, bed and breakfast is closed.” He quipped as nodded at the customer who had stopped to thank him again before exiting the store. You flushed at his jab, wondering why you bothered humiliating yourself like this. 

“She made you cookies.” Choso announced excitedly, once again with his mouth stuffed.

“Yeah? Then why the hell are you eating them?” He grumbled, swatting the man on the back of the head as he raised his hands in mock defense. The pink haired man walked behind the counter, picking up your note and skimming it with a raised brow before casting his eyes to the side dismissively. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought you had flustered him. “Don’t gotta thank me for not being an asshole.”

As he leaned over to distract himself with checking the computer for his next appointment, Choso stared incredulously between him and you.

“You can thank me, I’m not an asshole.” He gushed, leaning his forearms on the counter to smile invitingly at you. His eyes skimmed your face before a flush fell over his cheeks. “Won’t tat you either if it means a pretty girl brings me cookies, too.”

“Quit being such a freak.” Sukuna growled as he elbowed him, finally tearing his gaze away from the computer to close the tin back up before Choso could steal another, but he was far too focused on getting your attention to pay the grouch any mind.

“How ‘bout a piercing, hm? Bet you’d look reeeal cute with a septum ring.” 

“Oh, um…” You flushed at his words, subconsciously reaching up to touch your bare nose. “I’m actually in ballet, and they’re pretty strict about—”

“Ballet?” Choso guffawed, much to Sukuna’s dismay as he huffed at the energetic man. “That’s so tight. So you do like shows and cool shit like that?”

“Yeah! I… actually have a recital coming up next week.” You explained enthusiastically, eager to connect in any way you can to the first person who’s shown you any sort of kindness since moving here. Without stopping to think about how desperate you might appear, you fished out a spare handout from your bag. “You should come— y’know, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

The pierced man before you snatched up the paper eagerly, dark eyes skimming the contents before he slumped in disappointment. 

“No can do, I’m working that night.” He sighed before turning to Sukuna, who had been watching the exchange with a barely concealed glare. “You should totally go though— he can go, right?”

You were undeniably flustered as you looked up at the man you had come here for, who looked less than enthused about your sudden turning up to the shop again. God, were you totally out of your element inviting this insanely attractive, crushingly edgy man to your ballet? Gulping down your nerves, you nodded softly, offering a timid smile. 

“Y-Yeah! Of course—”

“What the fuck would possess you to think I look like a dude who goes to ballets?” 

Your words died in your throat, and you felt all the blood rush to your face so embarrassingly fast that the only possible solace would be if the ground opened up below you and swallowed you whole. Looking down at your pristinely manicured nails, you dug your top lip mercilessly between your teeth. 

“Well, I-I usually invite my friends, but… it’s my first show since moving here, and I don’t… really know anyone, so…” It was as if you were growing more pathetic by the second, and you willed yourself to just shut the fuck up.

Sukuna, on the other hand, felt his stone cold heart shrivel up in horror at your words. Even with all the terrified glances he’d get from passerbyers on the street, and all the children he’d scared to tears with just a sharp glance their way, he had never felt like more of a monster than he did in that very moment watching your lively face dim so abruptly. 

He remembered what you had said the other day about trying to make some friends, and apparently you were desperate enough to get yourself in the position he’d had to pull you out of himself to do so. Beside him, he could feel Choso stepping on his toes as if to tell him to take it easy on you, but he was already wallowing in a pool of his own guilt. 

With a guarded scowl, Sukuna snatched the paper from his half-brother’s hands, red eyes skimming it furiously as you began apologizing for disturbing him. As you turned to make a desperate speed-walk toward the door, he spoke up. 

“Better be fucking good, brat.” 

Pausing mid-step, a subtle warmth spread in your chest as you slowly turned back around with a tickled smile. He didn’t deserve it, he was sure of it— not with the way your eyes lit up the entire room as if he’d just found the cure to cancer or solved world hunger. No, he’d just stepped on your innocent offer with the sole of his heavy, black boot after you’d just brought him home-made cookies for not tattooing you while you were under the influence. He didn’t deserve the way you flashed your teeth at him. 

“Heading to practice right now, boss.” You beamed with a mock salute before making your way to the exit with more pep in your step than had been there previously. Just before the door shut behind you, you shouted over your shoulder. “I hope you like the cookies!” 

“Why doesn’t this type of shit happen to me?” Choso questioned rhetorically as he stared longingly at the door you just left through with a shake of his head. “You’re a real asshole, you know?” 

And, boy, did he know it. 

While you had been flattered at Sukuna’s implication that he’d be showing up to your recital, a larger part of you was coming to terms with the fact that there was no way in hell that dude was coming. You couldn’t blame him. After all, you were essentially strangers, and it truly didn’t seem like his scene. Still, it would have been nice to have one person coming in your support. 

Sighing wistfully, you sprayed the final touches of hairspray into your slicked back bun, turning your head to the side to assure there were no stray strands. The lights of the dressing room mirror reflected the subtle glitter on your eyelids as you watched your fellow dancers bustle around behind you as they also prepared. 

Resisting the urge to bite at your lip for fear of ruining your lipstick, you glanced down at the message on your phone. 

Mom: Please send me a recording! I hate that I can’t be there for you today :(

In all your years as a dancer, you had always had someone there for you in the audience to cheer you on. Whether it be your family or your hometown friends, someone was always waiting for you outside with flowers and a proud smile. Swallowing down your self-pity, you gave yourself one last once over before you heard your three minute warning. If you weren’t dancing for anyone, you determined, you would just have to do it for yourself. 

That was the notion that got you through both of your group numbers and your solo. With every pointed kick and turn, you reminded yourself that this was for the life you were working so hard to achieve. The stage lights were blinding, and the beautifully orchestrated music almost made you forget that you were so upset in the first place. It showed on your face though, you were sure. After all, every instructor you’d ever had always told you that your expression would tell the story of your number louder than any lyrics ever could.

With all the preparation that went into every recital, you still never failed to be shocked whenever it ended so suddenly. There was a strong sense of pride bubbling in your stomach as your team met up backstage for a few celebratory photos. That familiar buzz came to an end though as everyone began departing, all greeted by friends, families, or lovers. With a wistful smile, you tugged your jacket tighter around yourself as you stepped out into the frigid air. 

“There you are— jesus,” A man sighed in exasperation as you accidentally shouldered into him, his hand closing around your arm before you could walk away. “All you people look the damn same with your hair like that.”

Looking up in bewilderment, your jaw fell open in surprise upon seeing that familiar head of pink hair. He was scanning the area with an awkward tension in his shoulders, as though he felt out of place in the midst of all these ballerinas— he certainly looked out of place. 

There was a black, button down dress shirt clinging mercilessly to his sculpted form, the first few buttons undone and revealing a teasing amount of his chest. As if it was the only color that ever graced his closet, his slim-fitting dress pants were also black, emphasizing his slim waist as it contrasted against his broad shoulders. 

Your lips parted as you took in his appearance, and you could swear the air around you grew at least five degrees warmer. As if your face couldn’t get any hotter, your eyes finally landed on the arrangement of flowers clutched in his hands. He glanced down at them with what seemed like an annoyed expression before shoving them toward you. 

“My brother said you’re supposed to bring crap like this to these things…” He explained, still not looking you in the eyes as you slowly took the bouquet into your arms.

“You actually came.” You commented, still a bit shell shocked to see him here. 

“I said I was gonna, didn’t I?” It came out harsher than he would have liked, but he couldn’t help but feel so oddly out of place before you. 

“Right.” You muttered pathetically, looking down at your feet so he wouldn’t see the flush in your cheeks. After taking a moment to compose yourself, you offered a hopeful smile that struck him like lightning. “Did you like the show?”

“You were alright, brat.” Sukuna grumbled as he peered down at you. 

It was a gross understatement though, because the man was absolutely floored when he saw you on that stage. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen before— so used to the heavy metal and the harsher things in life. As soon as that center light hit you though, reflecting the ardently despaired expression on your intricately done up face as you allowed the music to take hold of you, it was as though you had cast a spell on him. 

The flowers in his lap nearly dropped to the floor as he found himself subconsciously leaning forward in his seat, lips parted in disbelief. You were angelic, each of your calculated movements translating etherally into the overall story you were conveying through your choreography. Even the subtle positioning of your delicate fingers seemed intricately thought out, pulling him further into your orbit. It made him want to trap you in your own little snow globe to put you on his shelf, ready to twirl so breathtakingly each time he longed for it. 

Yeah, maybe alright was an understatement, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it to you. Even now, as you smiled up at the waiter taking your order, Sukuna pretended not to be enamoured by the way your stage makeup made your eyes glitter under the restaurant's dim lighting. He had insisted on taking you to dinner following the show, not exactly asking and certainly not taking no for an answer as he led you to his sleek, black car with an urging hand on the nape of your neck. 

And you— you were far too elated to be making a friend to care about his off-putting demeanor. You barely had the chance to be remotely nervous over the fact that this teetered very closely on the edge of being a date with a man you would have deemed far out of your league just days ago. 

“So, you own the tattoo shop?” Your soft voice pulled him from his haze once the waiter placed your plates in front of you. You leaned forward on the table, a curious smile tugging at your red painted lips.

“Hah— yeah, that’s fucking hilarious.” He scoffed with an amused grin, leaning back as he took a sip of his drink. Taking note of the barely concealed confusion on your face, he cleared his throat, trying to remind himself to be on his best behavior. “I mean, I just finished my apprenticeship— don’t got the kind of money it takes to own my own shop.”

“Oh,” You muttered with a shy smile, suddenly feeling stupid for asking in the first place. “Well, I’m sure you’re really talented. I could barely draw a stick figure without making him look deformed.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, amused by your attempt to smooth over his negativity. You nodded affirmatively as you took a sip of your wine. There was a subtle flush in your cheeks that told him your drink was starting to catch up to you, and he made a mental note to stop the waiter from refilling your glass again. “And what about you, huh? You’d let me come at you with some ink since you think I’m so talented?”

A mock hum bubbled in your throat as you pretended to think about it. 

“I don’t know, you’d have to come up with something real cool.” You teased, running your hands dramatically up and down your bare arms. “This is virgin skin you’re seeing here— not to be tainted with any of those boring designs, you know?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.” Sukuna assured with theatric sincerity, only spurring on your giggles as you played along. 

“It has to be something that’s me, you know?” You pursed your lips pensively before casting a sidelong glance his way. “Maybe like a pair of pointe shoes.”

“A pair of what?” 

 “Pointe shoes! You know, the shoes ballet dancers use?”

“That’s fucking lame.” Sukuna blew a raspberry at your idea.

“Oh yeah?” You quipped, biting down your embarrassment at his abrupt shut down of your suggestion. “What would you put on me then?”

The tattoo parlor was already closed by the time you and Sukuna stumbled inside, your excited giggle filling the deadly silent shop as he locked the door behind you and switched on the lights. He shrugged his jacket off, watching you carefully as you snooped around the store. 

“Why don’t you sit your ass down before you break something?” He grumbled, snatching a tattoo gun from your curious grasp before taking a seat in one of the leather chairs. You rolled your eyes playfully before sitting down across from him, swinging your dangling feet gently as you looked around. 

“So, what were you thinking then, boss?” You questioned, watching as he pulled out his sketchbook and flipped it open. Rummaging through the drawer for a pencil, he peered up at you with a raised brow. 

“I don’t know. Tell me something.” He murmured as he began a rough sketch. 

“Like what?”

“About you.” 

“Oh.” You looked down bashfully, toying with a run in your tights before shrugging at him. “I don’t know. Nothing to tell, I guess. I’m kind of boring.” 

“That’s bullshit.” He brushed off nonchalantly, not looking up from his book. You blinked owlishly at him a few times. Noting your silence, he continued. “I saw you dance— saw the look on your face. Can’t tell me there’s nothing to tell there.” 

You were taken aback by his astute observation, staring back at the way he concentrated so intently on his drawing. He didn’t look nearly as intimidating in this light. It was silent for a beat too long, and he glanced up at you, the sharp nature of his gaze sending shivers down your spine. 

“Well?” 

“Okay, well, um… I guess I just never know if I’m making the right decision? About anything ever?” You rationed with furrowed brows, trying to make sense of your own illogical feelings. “I moved here because of the dance program, because I thought that this was really what I wanted. Now I’m here though without all my friends and family, and I’m…”

“Lonely?” Sukuna finished for you as you trailed off. 

“I guess so. And, I mean, I know it’s supposed to be hard in the beginning, but I can’t help but feel like I made a massive mistake and my life is about to crumble around me?”

The sound of his pencil scratching against the paper filled the sudden silence that hung between you, but you knew he was listening. Taking advantage of his distraction, you stared unashamedly at his hunched over figure. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the black rings that were tattooed across both his arms. There was a subtle furrow in his brows, but for the first time since meeting him it wasn’t born out of anger or frustration, instead telling a story about his dedication to his craft.

You felt the breath get knocked out of you as you observed him. Frantically trying to veer back on topic before he noticed your creepy gawking, you cleared your throat before offering an enthusiastic smile. 

“Guess it’s just always been hard for me to commit to things.” You tried to wrap up your subtle sob story. “Maybe that’s why I’ve got no tattoos then, huh?”

He huffed out a breathy laugh, the corners of his lips curling up ever so slightly as he shook his head at your conclusion. 

“Is that what you want? You know, do this ballet shit for a living?”

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“Then to hell with people. If they give a shit they’ll be there whenever you come back.” He scoffed as though the notion offended him personally. “You’re too talented to hold yourself back for that kind of crap.”  

His nonchalant compliment made your heart pound just a little bit harder.

“What about you?” You asked breathlessly, shaking off the butterflies waging war in your stomach. 

“What about me?”

“Why tattooing?”

“Wasn’t good at anything else.” He answered simply, and his dismissal made you roll your eyes. 

“Come on, I was just very honest with you.” 

“Yeah, well you’re probably better at all that sap shit anyway.” 

Sliding off the chair, you walked closer to him and leaned your elbows on the work table before him. Propping your chin on your fist, you grinned knowingly at him, though he still hadn’t looked up from his sketch. 

“Maybe that’s why then, huh?” You assumed. He hummed in question at your vague statement. “You draw cause you’re not good at all the… ‘sap shit’. If you don’t know how to say it, you draw it, right?” 

The careful maneuvering of his pencil slowed before pausing all together at your read. Of course, he’d always known that his drawings were an outlet for him, having learned through years of repressed feelings how to convey words through lines and swirls. No one had ever explained it so… simply to him before though. Taking note of his forlorn expression, your lips curled up empathetically. 

“I do it sometimes too, you know— when I feel too overwhelmed to put my thoughts into actual words. I put them into my choreographies instead.” 

“Yeah, it shows.” Sukuna finally spoke up,  suddenly uncomfortable with the serious energy that had invaded the space around them. Clearing his throat, he put his pencil down before handing you his sketchbook with an awkward scratch to his forehead. “That ‘you’ enough for ya?” 

Your pretty, pink nails clutched at the edge of his sketchbook, slowly bringing it toward you as you soaked in his creation with parted lips. Right in the middle of the page was a snow-globe, flowers that you recognized as the same type he’d brought you earlier decorating the base of it. Inside though, was a ballerina in the very costume you had donned just hours prior on stage, one leg curled up as her arms curved softly around her in the perfect pirouette position. 

“Sukuna, this is…” Your voice failed you as you gave each detail another weighted once over. Blinking back the haze that threatened to form over your eyes, you looked up at him with a besotted smile. There were stars in your eyes, and he didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of them. “This is so beautiful. You’re incredible.” 

He tsked dismissively, trying desperately to conceal the softness in his gaze as he took in your reaction. 

“Why the snowglobe?” You questioned suddenly, glancing down at the sketch before flashing him with that eagerly curious grin. 

He opened his mouth only to shut it once again, not sure how to tell you of where his thoughts had taken him to while he watched you dance so gracefully across the stage. So, he simply huffed in feigned annoyance before snatching the book from you and jutting his chin toward the chair. 

“You questioning my artistic decisions now, brat?” He didn’t give you the chance to respond as you sat back against the leather chair. “So, where are we putting this thing?”

“Oh!” You quipped, suddenly coming to the realization that he was dead serious about giving you a tattoo. Anxiety creeped up in your stomach as you brought your hand up to chew apprehensively at your nails. “Um…”

“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out on me now.” Sukuna teased with a mischievous smirk.

“No!” You quickly defended, much to his surprise. “I want to do this— get over my fear of commitment, right?”

He hummed thoughtfully, brushing your jacket from your shoulders to inspect your arms. Grasping at your hand, he turned the inner side of your arm out to face him, purposeful in the way he allowed his fingers to trace up the delicate skin of your forearm. It made your breath hitch, his proximity allowing for a generous waft of his cologne to flood your senses. You clenched your thighs together in a manner you prayed was subtle. 

“I think it’d look good right here.” He suggested, grazing his thumb over the expanse of skin just above where your elbow creased. 

Taking in a calculated breath to pull yourself together, you quickly shook your head. 

“Can’t be anywhere too visible.” You explained, staring down at where his hand still wrapped around your elbow. “I mean, it can, but I’ll have to worry about covering it up for every performance.” 

Sukuna’s dark eyes glanced up to meet yours at this statement. His brows were raised in suggestion, an amused smirk pulling at his lips. 

“So your friends were serious about you wantin’ a ‘tramp stamp’ then? That what I’m  hearing?”

“I don’t want a— a tramp stamp.” You scoffed with flushed cheeks, but he was just too elated at how easy it was to fluster you. “I don’t know, where else do you think that can be covered up easily?”

Sukuna sighed, eyes trailing over your body in thought. It made you squirm in your seat. After a moment, he leaned forward to pull the lever on your chair, sending it reeling backwards until you were nearly laying flat. You squeaked in surprise, quickly grasping his arm for support as he smirked at your reaction. 

You watched as his hands came up to hover over the hem of your sweater before glancing up at you in question. Despite the way your heart was beating up into your throat, you nodded softly at him. It had to have been deliberate— the way he dragged your sweater up so agonizingly slow, assuring his fingers brushed against each inch of skin that was exposed on the way. You gulped as he paused just under your bra, and he was once again looking up at you in search of approval, to which you nodded silently, far too convinced you’d embarrass yourself should you speak.

With your approval, he tugged your hem up to rest just under your chin, trying to appear professional as he took in the sight of your bra-clad chest. The truth was though, that his thoughts were so very far from the tattoo at the moment, reveling in the way your breasts strained against the confines of your cups with each ragged breath you took. Your breathing had been growing heavier since the second he laid his hands on you— and he noticed each time. 

He trailed his hands up your sides, thumbs grazing over the divets of your ribs in a manner far too sensual to just be chalked up to searching for a good placement. As his pointer fingers traced where the wire of your bra met your skin, he hummed affirmatively. 

“It would look nice right here.” His raspy voice was almost a whisper now as he tucked his finger underneath the area of your bra just between your breasts, right over your sternum. 

A breathless whimper threatened to escape you, but you swallowed it back and looked down at where he had placed his finger. 

“Y-You think so?” You whispered, and he quickly nodded, gradually leaning over you more and more with the illusion of getting a better look. 

“Might be a little painful, but…” His voice trailed, as did his hand, escaping from under your strap to dance up your chest and neck. “I’ll let ya’ hold onto me if you’re good.”

You were sure your soul had left you at that point, off to find a body whose nervous system wasn’t utterly short-circuiting. Your knees drew together as you fought to maintain your composure at his suggestive words. 

“Sukuna, are we… still talking about the tattoo?” You questioned doubtfully, and the smirk on his plush lips told you you weren’t wrong. 

“Do you want it to be about the tattoo?”

“Well, it’s just…” He thought the way you stammered over your words was endearing, and it was sending all the blood in his system rushing down south. Glancing up at him timidly, you chewed on your bottom lip. “Would it hurt more if it’s… my first? You know… tattoo, of course.”

For the third time since meeting you, Sukuna was struck by the startling realization that he seriously didn’t deserve any of this. The hand that had been slowly traversing up your neck grasped at your jaw. 

“Well, I’d make sure you were good and ready first, doll.” He assured, eyes drifting down to stare longingly at your parted lips before meeting your heated gaze once again. “But you should always be sure you chose the right artist first, you hear?” 

And you heard him loud and clear. With your heart beat reverberating mercilessly in your ears, you nodded breathlessly at him.

“I trust you.”  

And oh, how hard he worked to assure you didn’t regret those words. Something told him you didn’t though— maybe the way those pretty, manicured nails were digging into his scalp just as his jaw began to ache deliciously in tandem with his mouth’s relentless ravishing of your perfectly supple pussy.

You were dripping down his chin, evidence of you tickling down his neck as he desperately tried to drink up every last drop of you. His colossal hands had come up to hold your trashing hips down against the chair after one too many jolts away from his eager tongue. The sound of his grotesquely sloppy, open mouthed kissed against your core filled your ears as you stared up at the ceiling blearily. 

You were so grateful that you always wore waterproof makeup for your performances, because you were sure your mascara would have been smeared unattractively down your face with the sheer force of your overstimulated tears. The saccharine moans that were hurdling their way from your throat made him dig his black fingernails into your stomach as he sucked on your clit as if rewarding you for the melodies. 

He grunted when the sensation made you yank at the roots of his hair, and you quickly gasped apologetically before releasing your tight grip. 

“Oh! I-I’m— ah! I’m sorry.”

Your disappointed whine made him smirk as his face suddenly emerged from between your legs to leer at you menacingly. One of his hands left your stomach to catch yours as it departed from his scalp, guiding it back affirmatively. 

“Tear the shit out if ya’ want— quit fuckin’ apologizing.” 

His words had your eyes rolling back into your skull, more confident now as you dug your fingers through his soft locks once again. The hand that had abandoned its post on your stomach never returned, and you instead felt it gliding purposefully up the inside of your thigh. Two of his long fingers sweeped up your weeping slit, gathering some of your arousal as his lips remained focused on your bundle of nerves. 

With a thrust that seemed so uncharacteristically careful of him, he dipped his two fingers into your sopping entrance. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, the heels of your feet finding the edge of the chair to pull yourself away from the subtle sting. 

“Easy, easy,” Sukuna rasped, tearing his mouth away from your honied center in favor of talking you through your unease. The remaining hand on your stomach began tracing soft, sensual circles against your silken skin. It made you slowly release your hitched breath, apprehensively relaxing back against the leather. “Atta girl, relax for me, yeah?”

You nodded deleriously up at the ceiling, head lolling to the side to watch what he was doing, not expecting to find his ruby eyes already focused on you. A flush fell over your face, hoping your expression didn’t give away how utterly torn apart he had made you with his tongue alone. A smirk tickled his glistening lips as you met his gaze, and he turned his head to press comforting, open mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. 

After a few moments, his fingers began slowly pushing through the subtle resistance of your core. Casting a sidelong glance your way to catch your reaction, he gently curled his fingers up, digits massaging at the cusiony bundle of nerves at the roof of your walls, and god, how the blissed out popping open of your mouth failed to disappoint. 

Burning for a closer look, he rose from his knees to climb onto the tight space of the chair. It was by no means designed to hold two people— especially not when one of them is as abnormally overgrown as Sukuna, but he’d be damned if he couldn’t drink up those candied whimpers slipping past your lips. The steady pace of his fingers picked up as he hovered over you, taking a moment to soak in how beautifully debauched you looked just like this. 

“Sukuna—” You whined at the sensation of the steadily growing knot in your stomach, but he only offered a mockingly sympathetic nod. Your fingers dug into the soft fabric of his button down, clinging for dear life as he lowered himself closer to you until his lips brushed against your ear. 

“Call me Ryomen, doll.” 

And that was the very name that slipped from your lips in an almost strangled sob as you crumpled against him. His lips quickly found yours, though you were hardly able to reciprocate his kiss as moans continued spilling from you, falling into his awaiting mouth like a prayer. 

Much like the startled realization you had earlier that he was very serious about tattooing you that night, you were for some reason just as gobsmacked as you watched him rise with his knees trapping you in, purposefully unbuttoning his now wrinkled dress shirt as his hungry eyes stared down at you. He had pushed your sweater off of you just before burying his head between your thighs, and he was now reaping the reward of watching your breasts heave as you looked up at him. 

Your expression must have given you away, as it always seems to, as he stood up to work his belt off. The clinking of his buckle made your mind race, chest swelling with a feeling that you couldn’t decide was anticipation or anxiety. As he pulled the leather material through the loops of his dress pants and worked away at his button and zipper, he observed your horribly practiced poker face. 

He tilted his head to the side as his bottoms pooled at his feet, the outline of his erection now on full display for your already perturbed gaze. Maybe it was just because you’d never exactly seen one up close before, but, even through the straining fabric of his boxers, you were almost positive that thing wasn’t natural. Hiking yourself further up on the leather chair, you tried not to stare in a way that screamed fear. 

The motion made him pause, his thumbs slowly unhooking from their spot in the waistband of his boxers. A careful sigh escaped him, the tiniest of knowing smiles masking the subtle disappointment in his chest as he turned from you to pull up a stool. 

“W-What are you doing?” You questioned, watching with fluttering eyes as he leaned down to begin pulling supplies out from the drawer to place on the work table beside your chair. 

“I’m tattooing you— the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” 

Your mouth opened and closed much like a fish as you closed your legs self-consciously. His hair was still rustled from your fingers’ assault through it, and there was still a very prominent tent poking out through his boxers, though he still began prepping his station as though he hadn’t just been about to take your virginity in the middle of this tattoo parlor. 

“Well, um… what about you?” You stammered anxiously as he guided you by your shoulder to lay back. 

“What about me?” He murmured while pulling on a pair of gloves. 

“Didn’t you want to…” The words died on your throat, far too embarrassed to utter them aloud. Your eyes drifted to the side as you felt your face flush. “I mean you… helped me, so.”

Sukuna finally paused, tilting his head to look at you with a challenging raised brow. 

“I wouldn’t tattoo you in that chair cause you weren’t a hundred percent about it before. What makes you think I’ll fuck you in it when you clearly don’t want to?” His crude words only made your embarrassment grow that much deeper, but his fingers quickly came up to tilt your chin toward him before he winked teasingly at you. “Don’t worry— one commitment at a time, right?”

Your gaze softened at his consideration, even as he turned away from you to continue prepping his station. It made you forget how nervous you were that he was about to permanently mark you, but a small part of you already felt like he had. 

So, you allowed him to carefully pull your bra off when he asked, sighing wistfully as he pressed a longing kiss against each one before cleaning the area. Much like just minutes prior, he let you pull at his hair as the needle gradually began piercing your skin, laughing through your tears as he grumbled about how much of a wimp you were. His soft smile told a different story though as he sat still clad in his boxers and paused each time you needed to breathe, taking each opportunity to kiss and nip at your lips with the false pretense of taking your mind off the pain. 

You were sure the process was prolonged at least an hour longer than necessary with how long your breaks would last as he couldn’t bear to interrupt you as you nervously rambled about whatever came to your mind. As you began growing used to the subtle pain, you traced each of the black marks on his face as he worked with a fierce concentration. 

Pathetic tears of awe and shock spilled from your tired eyes as you stood in front of the mirror to observe his delicate handiwork. It was just as beautiful as it had been when he first showed you the rough sketch, though he would argue that your skin did it far more justice, chin hooked over your shoulder as he observed your reaction in the mirror. 

Sukuna scoffed at you when you tried to ask him the price, much to your mortification. He wouldn’t even look in your direction, busying himself with cleaning up the station as he pretended not to hear your countless protests. 

“You just spent like— hours doing this.” You gaped, through flushed cheeks as you jostled his arm. “Please, let me pay you.” 

“Wanna know how you can pay me?” He finally questioned gruffly, leaning back against the counter as he pulled you in closer to his bare chest. Breathlessly, you nodded, eyes unable to meet his as they were too focused on his curled lips. 

“Whenever you’re ready for your next big commitment,” He whispered, his warm lips brushing against the shell of your ear as you clung to his biceps. “Let it be me, yeah?”

part two

a/n: got the inspiration for this yesterday, blacked out, and suddenly it was finished the next day oops

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[nataliasquote]

Tattoos for troubled minds | n romanoff

Summary: Natasha struggles to trust anyone when it comes to touching her body. But that becomes rather difficult when a tattoo idea comes into her mind that she just can’t shake

Warnings: mentions of scars, tattoo needles, slight internalised homophobia

wc: 3.6k

note: I don’t actually have tattoos (despite wanting one so badly) so this is probably really inaccurate. I do apologise if this doesn’t make sense. also, I hate this so much but the guilt of not posting is eating me alive so I’m sorry

-⧗-

Natasha was a quiet soul. She kept to herself, usually sitting at her own table in the Shield cafeteria, eyes focused on her plate of food as she ate quickly, just wanting to get out of there. None of the other agents dared make conversation with her, too spooked by her fighting skills to approach. But that didn’t bother her. Her hyper independence made her hesitant to trust people.

Clint was the only one she spoke to outside of working hours. They weren’t exactly friends, but she tolerated him enough to flash a small smile if she saw him in the hallways or feel slightly relaxed if they were paired for missions together.

And he liked her too, especially since her first words had been a jab at his choice of weapon.

“Bow and arrow? What did you do, get your training in a forest?”

But he didn’t take offense to it. After all, he’d made the call to save her and she owed him her life. Which is how, two years later, she was sprawled on his couch, chewing on take out pizza for the second time that week with a scowl.

“I think I want a tattoo.”

Clint frowned at her, wondering where her brain cells had disappeared to. “What?”

“You know, the permanent drawing-“

“Yes I know what a tattoo is Tasha,” he rolled his eyes at her teasing smirk, already over her sarcasm. “But you know it’s a bad idea for spies to have unique markings like that.”

Natasha shrugged, tugging up her sleeve to reveal a strange shaped scar across her bicep. “I’d say I’ve got enough of those naturally. And it would be hidden on my ribs or something.”

Clint just shook his head and turned back to his food. He was used to Natasha’s odd comments and her tattoo phase probably wouldn’t last in his eyes. Just like her ‘wanting to be blonde’ phase didn’t.

But it didn’t end. A month later and Natasha had fallen down the rabbit hole that was tattoo designs on pinterest, courtesy of a fellow agent who introduced her to the app. She didn’t understand it at first, but now it was 3am and her tablet screen was still glaring bright in her face, a plethora of images scattered across her screen.

She saved a couple to a board, now set on design and placement, before placing it to one side with a grin on her face. Natasha climbed out of bed and padded over to her mirror, pulling up her shirt and smiling softly to herself. But the dim lamplight made her scars glisten and she caught herself, a sudden feeling of repulsion shuddering through her body. She looked like a freak and no tattoo artist would want to go near that. Her scars weren’t normal and she wasn’t ready for the questions yet.

Tears glazed her eyes over and her arms snaked across her stomach, her reflection in the mirror now blurry. Even as the salty tears dripped down her cheeks and soaked the collar of her shirt, she didn’t step away, too engrossed with how disgusting she felt in her body.

That stubborn hope that the redroom failed to squash out had ignited inside her once more, except this time she just wanted to laugh at it. Natasha would never be normal. She was what they’d made her into, and a tattoo was never going to change that.

Clint noticed the change in her demeanor when she sat down at breakfast. Natasha barely engaged in her usual small talk, more focused on her food in front of her.

“Did you do anymore tattoo research yesterday?” He asked, knowing that would catch her attention. But instead of the usual spark, she remained dejected, stirring her yogurt half heartedly.

“Yeah,” came her response, albeit rather forced.

“There’s probably a lot of places in DC that would kill to tattoo a shield agent.” Nat shot him a look. “Just saying!”

“Sure. But I don’t think I can anymore.”

Clint looked at her with a frown. “Why not?”

Natasha just looked down and tugged at her sleeve, suddenly feeling exposed in her tight fitting suit. The image in the mirror from last night came into her mind and she pushed her food away, no longer hoodie. And beside that, she didn’t trust people she worked with, so how would she trust a complete stranger to add something permanent on her body? Getting a tattoo would be nothing but a dream for her, she knew that, but it still crushed her.

Clint studied his best friend for a moment in thought, before he placed his hand gently on her arm. “I might know someone who can help.” Natasha looked up, now interested. Her face was still stony but Clint knew she was excited. “A friend of Laura’s, we helped her out even before you came here.”

“An agent?” Clint hadn’t mentioned anyone like that before and it confused Natasha.

But Clint shook his head. “No, nothing like that. She came to Laura and I when she was a teenager and had nowhere else to go. And you know my wife-“

“Can’t let anyone suffer,” Natasha finished for him, warmth spreading in her stomach at the thought of the soft woman she’d grown to adore. Laura really did have the biggest heart out of everyone.

“Exactly that. Y/n was fourteen, I think, parents kicked her out of the house. How she got to ours, I’ll never know, but she just appeared on the doorstep one night and Laura melted at the sight of her.” Clint’s expression softened at the memory. “But anyway, what I’m saying is that she’s a tattoo artist. She’s got trust issues just like you and I think she’ll help.”

Natasha scowled at the last part, wanting to protest his comment. But she knew he was right; her trust issues were what got her into this mess in the first place.

“But she’s a kid?”

“No, almost the same age as you,” Clint said with a laugh. “You’ll like her, but she can be a little scary.”

“Scarier than me?”

Clint smirked. “Oh, you’d be surprised. That glare of hers rivals yours.” This vague description intrigued Natasha and Clint could see the cogs turning in her mind. “She knows what we do and she’s seen my scars. Trust me, they won’t put her off.”

Natasha’s head shot up, staring at her best friend with confusion. Was she that easy to read? Or did he just know her too well?

~~~

With the news of her favourite girls coming back home, Laura had been in a frenzy of cleaning and preparing. Clint had texted to say he was only minutes away so she left the dishes to soak and headed to the porch, anxiously staring at the track beside their house as she waited.

Anyone would have thought she was married to Natasha over Clint by the difference in reactions she gave them. Sure, Clint got a kiss and a hug, but Natasha truly got the special treatment, with Laura scanning her to make sure she wasn’t injured and quizzing her about how she was. Poor Clint was left to grab their bags as the women disappeared into the farmhouse.

Tea was poured and snacks were eaten in the cosy kitchen before the doorbell rang and Laura excused herself, leaving an anxious Natasha on her own for a moment. Muffled voices could be heard but she tried to go against her instincts of listening in and instead busied herself with a loose thread on the tablecloth. She heard footsteps approaching and turned in her chair, ignoring the way her heart thumped loudly in her chest.

The woman who walked in the kitchen doorway was stunning, Natasha couldn’t deny it, and her eyes darted to the patchwork of tattoos that littered her exposed arms. Their eyes met, and Natasha swore she could see the walls up in the other woman’s mind. But it didn’t scare her off. No. It brought her a weird sense of comfort and her body started to relax.

Clad in a black cropped tank and black cargo pants, Y/n hesitated in the doorway, duffle bag slung over her shoulder hitting the wall gently. Laura appeared behind her, gentle hands falling to her shoulders.

“Y/n, this is Natasha, the one I told you about.” The y/h/c girl made no effort to move. “She’s Clint’s partner.” Clearly not much of a talker, Y/n just nodded, not hiding the fact she was scanning Natasha from head to toe. She didn’t trust strangers, but she trusted Laura and Clint who seemed to love Natasha. So maybe she wasn’t a threat.

“Hi, you can call me Nat if you want.” No one called her Nat except Laura, but it was a feeble attempt to make the atmosphere more comfortable. Another nod came but Laura smiled.

“Do you want to go set up? All of your stuff is still exactly where you left it,” Laura addressed Y/n who adjusted the grip on her bag and disappeared down the hall without a word. Natasha’s eyebrows raised at Laura who watched her go, a fond look in her eyes. “She does speak, I promise.”

Natasha shook her head, brushing her off. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I can tell you care about her a lot.”

“She’s like a daughter to me, kind of like you are.” Natasha’s cheeks flushed at that. “She doesn’t have anyone except us, so I worry. She’s a real sweetheart though, she’s just been through a lot. Kind of like someone else I know.”

“I’ll be kind, don’t worry.”

Laura couldn’t help but smile as she stirred her tea. “Oh I know. She already likes you, you don’t need to worry about that.”

Natasha let out a sigh and started to play with the hem of her zip up jacket. It suddenly felt real, the whole tattoo thing. And whilst she weirdly trusted Y/n, it didn’t help ease her nerves any less.

The redhead sensed a new presence before she spotted her, standing in the doorway just like she was before.

“Ready when you are, Nat.” Her voice was slightly raspy from lack of use and she spoke quietly, almost as if she was scared she’d get into trouble. Natasha smiled softly at the sound of her nickname and squeezed Laura’s hand before she followed the y/h/c girl down the hallway of the house she considered her second home.

Clint’s office had been turned into a makeshift tattoo studio with all new equipment and furniture decorating the small space. The tattoo bed had a fresh paper layer on top and Y/n gestured for Natasha to take a seat.

“Ok, do you have an idea of what you want? And where?” Y/n sat down at a small table and picked up her pen before looking at Natasha expectantly.

“I’ve got a couple of reference pictures on my phone.” The small device was handed over and Y/n swiped between them, nodding in approval before setting it down. “The last one is just for placement ideas.”

“I’ll work up a sketch and you can tell me what needs changing.” Luckily Natasha’s design was incredibly simple and it didn’t take long for Y/n to hold up her page.

Natasha slid off the bed and slowly walked over, not wanting to startle the skittish girl. But Y/n just moved over, clearly welcoming the redhead into her space.

“I love that a lot,” Natasha praised, studying the simple lines. “But maybe it could be a bit smaller.”

“I can scale it down when I make the stencil, no problem. But is the design alright? Remember, it is permanent so I want you to be completely happy with it.”

Natasha studied it for a moment, a smile tugging at her lips as she imagined it on her body. Y/n had talent, anyone could see that even from such a simple drawing, and Natasha nodded before she slid the notebook back to her.

“I love it, I really do.”

Y/n nodded, grabbing her stencil paper from a drawer by her leg. She wordlessly began making the stencil and Natasha took this as her cue to return to her seat. She peered around the room, admiring a few pictures that were on the walls. Incredibly complicated tattoos which she guessed Y/n had done.

The young girl sketching away in the corner thoroughly interested her and something inside Natasha was drawn in. She wanted to get to know her because aside from the shy and hesitant exterior she was effortlessly cool and seemed sweet. Maybe Y/n could be the start of Natasha’s project to make friends.

“If you lie back on the seat and lift your shirt, we can make sure this is exactly how you want it before I start.”

Natasha took a deep breath and slowly lifted her shirt and lowered the waistband of her sweatpants so her hip bone was exposed. She shivered despite the room being warm, fully aware that her nastiest scar was on full display on her lower stomach.

But Y/n didn’t care. Or at least she didn’t make it obvious if it bothered her. “Is it ok if I touch your hip?” She asked, looking Natasha straight in the eyes. The redhead almost melted at her words, not used to ever being asked that question.

“Of course, do what you need.” Y/n’s fingers were soft and delicate as she placed the stencil on Natasha’s skin. She didn’t touch anywhere she didn’t need to and worked quickly, making sure it was fully stuck down before stepping back to allow Natasha to step over to the mirror.

Although it wasn’t permanent, Natasha’s heart was racing as she saw the way the black ink stood out against her pale skin. The symbol was small but perfect in her eyes, and she turned back to Y/n with a grin.

“It’s perfect!”

“Then I’ll get started.”

Due to the design being so small, it took no more than fifteen minutes for Y/n to complete. Her hand was incredibly steady and Natasha’s pain tolerance was so high she barely felt it. The room was silent aside from the faint buzzing, no conversation stemming from either woman. Questions spiralled around Natasha’s head but she knew this wasn’t the place to ask them.

Completely lost in her head, Natasha failed to notice the silence or the fact that her hip bone was no longer burning. Y/n kept working, wiping away the excess ink and making sure she hadn’t missed a spot. But it was perfect, as usual, and she gently tapped Nat on the thigh to snap her out of her head.

“You’re now free to look.”

Natasha grinned and hopped off the bed, holding up her shirt again as she looked in the mirror. Tears almost sprung to her eyes as she admired the finished product, and they probably would have tumbled down her cheeks if she had been alone.

A small spider sat on the front of her hip, legs slightly bent. It looked so delicate on her skin and for the first time in her entire life, Natasha actually liked looking at herself in the mirror.

“It’s so beautiful,” she began to ramble, unable to tear her eyes away. “You’ve got real talent Y/n, I can’t thank you enough. It’s so perfect.”

Y/n blushed and couldn’t stop the smile that graced her lips, catching Natasha’s eyes in the mirror and making the redhead freeze.

Her smile.

The young woman hadn’t smiled the entire time she’d arrived, but seeing her now was like a breath of fresh air. Smiling looked so good on her and Natash couldn’t get enough.

“If you want to show Laura, you can, but you’ll need to come back so I can wrap it safely.” Natasha glanced at her new addition and nodded, but hesitated once she was by the door.

“I think you should come too. The artist and her artwork.” Natasha spoke with a smirk and Y/n couldn’t ever imagine saying no to that woman. So she nodded again, her usual response, and meekly followed her back down the hall, pulling off her gloves as she walked.

Laura was already waiting for them in the kitchen and she placed her reading glasses in her hair to get a good look at Natasha who still hadn’t dropped her shirt down. She’d never seen the Russian with such a wide grin before, her usual collected expression completely out of the window.

“It looks beautiful, Nat, truly. You did such a good job Y/n.”

“You never told me how talented she is!” Natasha stepped to the side to allow Y/n to come forward, but the humble woman stayed where she was, already hating the attention. She didn’t see her art as talent, more like a form of escapism. But it made people happy and that was all she wanted.

“I wanted you to see for yourself,” Laura replied. “And besides, she never believes me when I tell her how good she is.”

“You’re really easy to tattoo. You don’t squirm or cry like other people do, so really I should be thanking you.” Laura was taken aback by Y/n’s comment, not used to more than three words coming out of the girl’s mouth. But the more she observed her, the more she saw her change. The darkness she’d noticed since Y/n was a teenager had lifted a little and she seemed a lot less guarded, looking over at Natasha with a soft expression.

And Natasha looked back at her just the same, purely in awe of how gentle she was. As Y/n gestured for them to return to the office and offered to hold Nat’s shirt, Laura felt like squealing like a child.

Two of her favourite people in the world had found each other and, despite both being so broken and fragile, fit together so perfectly it was like they were made for each other.

Natasha was strong enough and sure of herself enough for the both of them, and Y/n treated her with such delicacy and care that it slowly broke away Natasha’s trust issues and allowed her to open up. And Natasha’s protective nature came out around the other woman, wanting to keep her safe from the world.

With a quick word about going to show Clint, Natasha disappeared into the front yard with her newly wrapped hip, leaving Y/n to find Laura again. The older woman welcomed her with a hug and pulled a chair close to her own.

“You like her, don’t you?”

Y/n kept her gaze on the crossword Laura was doing, not wanting her eyes to give her away if she looked up. “She’s nice.”

“Hey,” Laura said softly, carefully taking Y/n’s hand in her own. She didn’t miss the way she flinched but unfortunately she was used to that by now. “You’re not back there. You’re allowed to like her if that’s what you want and feel. She’s a good person, but so are you, you don’t need to be scared.”

Y/n’s eyes followed where their hands were clasped up to Laura’s face, trying to find any hints that showed she was lying. But all that came back was the soft and caring face she’d grown to love, one that didn’t lie to her and didn’t hate her for who she was.

“I don’t like her like that.” Call her a hypocrite for lying, but Y/n had her reasons. Loving a woman was still unnatural in her eyes, despite her contrasting feelings that longed for it.

“Y/n…” Laura’s ‘mom’ tone was one she was used to and she knew she was caught out. “I’m not asking you to tell me now, but you deserve happiness, as does she. And I haven’t seen either of you that relaxed in a really long time. So please don’t push her away.”

Y/n didn’t know what to think. How could she? Her whole life had centred around hating who she was, so how could anyone ever like her like that? It messed with her head and Laura could see that.

But what was Natasha if not a life saver. She came strolling into the kitchen, her tshirt now tucked up into the band of her sports bra to allow her tattoo to be on full display. Y/n smiled slightly at the sight.

Sinking down into the chair beside her, Natasha noticed the clasped hands of the women and wondered what she’d interrupted. But that wasn’t her place to ask, so she turned to Y/n.

“How can I pay you? How much do you charge?”

Y/n shook her head frantically, pulling her hand away from Laura. “Nothing, honestly. You’re a friend, it’s no big deal.”

“Absolutely not. If you won’t take money, at least let me repay you another way.”

“Nat-“

“Dinner? How about you let me take you to dinner next week. You’re from the city, right?” Y/n nodded, her brows creasing. She turned to Laura for help but the older woman just smiled widely and nodded, giving her as much non verbal encouragement as she could. “Please, Y/n?”

She’d said yes before she could even process what was going on. After all, they were just friends going to dinner. People in the movies that she’d seen did it, so she could too.

What was so wrong with that?

[erinwantstowrite]

opinions on ai?

This is the perfect time to share something I wrote a few months ago when I was upset about it:

AI is the bane of my existence and I hate it so much. Not only because of the environmental impact that it has, but because of how it gives us absolutely nothing of value in creative spaces and is actually a detriment to our future, rather than being "innovative" like companies want us to believe.

If you're using AI to write notes for you, or to answer questions, to write your essays and your discussion posts, you are hurting yourself. But eventually you will hurt others with your willing ignorance. You are not learning, you are not taking the time to push yourself to new bounds. You are not absorbing the information you need, and for why? Because it's hard? Life is hard. Learning is hard. If learning was easy, you wouldn't be learning anything at all. And one day when you need to use these tools you put down and gave to a program in order to do your job, you are going to get someone hurt in some way. If you're going into teaching and you didn't bother to learn about childhood development because you let an AI take your notes because you couldn't be half-assed to sit through an hour long lecture, you will fail every student that comes your way. If you're an engineer and you had AI do the math for you, something that you make will break and it could kill someone. Because the AI can not even count how many times the letter 'r' is in strawberry, but you're trusting it to make bridges or design buildings?

And in a creative sense, you are not an artist if you use AI. I will scream it from the rooftops if I have to.

You are not an artist if you use AI.

Because to be an artist is to put your very soul into what you create. And an AI has no soul. To be an artist is to lay yourself bare for people to witness and interpret, and it's scary but it's freeing. To be an artist is to make a message with your art, to have people a thousand years from now sit in a museum and feel connected to who you were so far in the past. To think that humanity may be different but we are also inherently the same. To be an artist is to despair over the process of creating your art because it's difficult, and time consuming, and damn does it drive you crazy. But then you get that end result and you realize you learned something about yourself, you got better at something that brings you joy, you created and now you see what you are capable of, and what you will be capable of in the future. To be an artist is to connect with someone because of what you made, and that someone includes yourself.

We keep telling young artists that they need to be better now, they need to quit if they aren't good at it on the first try. We keep acting like we didn't start from somewhere ourselves, like we were born with the fine motor skills and the talent needed to create. It's because our attention spans can't handle over 20 seconds and we need multiple videos playing to drown out our own thoughts. We have to look at comment sections to see the court of public opinion before we make a judgement ourselves. If anything is out of the ordinary or doesn't look the way we expect or want, it must be shamed. And this existence is exhausting because at the end of the day, we have done nothing of value. When coming across a video of a young artist who took the time out of their day to create, we need to encourage them to continue going, tell them that their work is worthy. Because it is. It is worthy because they made it. If we shoot them down before they can go anywhere, we've just killed an artist that could have painted the next Starry Night, or created a sculpture that millions of people would try to visit. We've shot down someone who could teach others how to create one day in their future. We shot them down and killed their inspiration and motivation, and they might turn to someone else to do it for them because they will believe they are not worthy enough or talented enough to make it.

When I was still in school, my favorite part of the year was seeing the projects put up on the wall. The silly displays our teachers put up to show a holiday with slightly wonky paper snowflakes, the posters that the art students made with "too many lightning bolts around the guitar", the signs for school dances, the yearbooks that students spent all year making, the English class posters that depicted scenes from what they were reading and they were made with stick figures or they had someone draw out butterflies. I loved seeing the decorations for Homecoming Week, loved looking ta the booths that everyone made for our career and science fairs. I liked when we put on talent shows still, when we did pep rallies and fashion shows and we saw everyone get together to have fun and not care if it was "perfect." No one there was a professional artist, not yet, but that didn't make it any less entertaining or creative.

We dance because we want to feel how our bodies move and express ourselves in ways words cannot. We paint and we draw and make pottery and quilts and pictures because at one point, all we had were cave paintings of our hands, and we still look at them with reverence for where we started. We sing and we drum and we laugh because music is a universal language that anyone can understand, and isn't that breathtaking? We write so that people in the future can pour themselves over our words and learn from us, so that kids can hide their books underneath their covers with a little flashlight when their parents put them to bed hours ago but they just can't put our story down they have to know what comes next! We cook for our loved ones and have family recipes that mean we've been tasting the same food that our family we never got to meet were eating too.

We create because humans are meant to create. We put our love into the process, we put our dreams and our hopes and our hard earned lessons into these creations.

AI will never have that. AI has none of the process, and therefore, it is not art. We can gripe about how art has different meanings all we want, we can shout that art is only art if it invokes an opinion or a thought, but that is not what makes art. Because there is still effort put into placing a shoe on a pedestal, or painting a yellow square, or painting a mural on a wall, or writing poetry in a tiny notebook at school, or melting crayons together, or anything that requires you putting it together. If AI is doing all the work for you, then you've accomplished nothing. And you stole from the people that actually did accomplish something. You stole not only their effort, but you stole their process, their feelings, their hope and their dreams and their ideas of the future.

AI is nothing and will ultimately become obsolete. Because humans will not stop creating just because companies are pushing for us to stop and hand it over to them. They want us to stop creating, they want us to pay them for it, they want us to put blind trust into what they're doing, they want us to forget that they are stealing from us. I will not forget. I will never forget. Because I was born to sing and dance and write and draw and cook, and when I die, my body will go right back to the Earth and perhaps flowers will grow around my grave. I will still be creating even then. And even if AI is still around and still trying to steal from us, I will die knowing that it could never do the same.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Tangled Dreams [W. W]

Willy Wonka x fem!reader

word count: 3.7k

[Timothée masterlist]

note: I decided to combine these two because they are quite similar! I hope the ending doesn't seem rushed, I really appreciate your patience and please tell me if you liked it.

Special greetings to @kpopgirlbtssvt and @broadwaybaby123 ily pretty!

As you fell towards an unknown place through a stone tunnel, you thought that there were two things you wished you had done the day before: check the hole in your bag to avoid losing all your money and have read the small print of the contract you had signed.

If you had done both, you would have avoided ending up in the mess you were in, with the seemingly kind woman who had greeted you telling you that you owed more than ten thousand sovereigns for charges you weren't even aware of. She had said that you would work for a sovereign a day, however, she hadn’t said what that job would be and before you could ask, Bleacher had already pushed you through the hole in the wall.

You hit yourself when you fell on a wagon full of white fabrics and quickly got up to understand where you had arrived. There were fumes, water, and everything smelled like detergent, so you knew it was the laundry room, but the place was desolate.

Would you have to do everything alone? How was it possible? Suddenly you felt very scared thinking about how long you would have to be there to pay off your debt. You had left your home to look for better employment opportunities so that you could develop all your artistic skills, since living in a small town it was almost impossible to practice with your brush. You were supposed to meet other artists, learn from them, buy new materials... you didn't have to end up where you had.

As the minutes passed and you had more time to think about things, the situation was getting worse. You had no one in the city who could help you, you were completely alone, without money, with debts, without food... between all of this you felt your breathing starting to accelerate and you knew you were about to experience a nervous breakdown.

That happened when you were in high-stress situations and, honestly, you hated it. Your heart began to beat like crazy with no way to stop it, you felt like you were sweating and everything around you seemed to start to suffocate you. So when you felt a couple of tears forming in your eyes, you thought that you just wanted to disappear into the wagon full of sheets where you were.

The shock didn't let you think properly and that's why you couldn't even hear the voices coming from the other room, which suddenly turned into the presence of a group of unfortunate workers.

"Oh, hello?" muttered an older man with glasses. He was accompanied by a woman dressed in blue work overalls, another lady, and a curly with a flashy suit “New here?”

Even though she seemed kind, you couldn't take the words that way. You were scared and soon everyone realized that.

“Girl, are you okay?” the woman with overalls was quick to say, with the same kindness as the man, and after that everyone approached your direction.

You wanted to talk, but you couldn't, and apparently the proximity of the group only made you more nervous. While you were trying to contain your sobs they were looking for ways to calm you down, to no avail.

After a few seconds another couple of people appeared in the place and from the corner of your eye you could observe them: she was a pretty little girl and next to her was a young man wearing a coat and hat. He noticed right away that something wasn't right and he walked in your direction to find out.

“Well, hi,” he greeted you. Everyone looked at each other with a combination of pity and concern, as if you were a helpless kitten in a box “How about we give her some space? She looks scared”

The group did as he told them and then the only one left near you was that man. He didn't say anything for a moment, as if analyzing your behavior, and then he leaned slightly against the box to watch you.

“I'm Noodle,” the girl murmured now, still keeping her distance from you. “What's your name?”

“Y/N” you managed to say. You were still looking into the green eyes that were also watching you carefully.

“It's a pretty name,” he complimented. You were still struggling to breathe a little when he held out his hand to you. “Do you want me to help you out of there, Y/N? So we can talk. We are all here to help you, don't be afraid”

Willy misjudged your appearance and thought that you were quite young, even though you were the same age, which is why he allowed himself to speak to you so cautiously.

You carefully took the hand he was offering you and then the man helped you out of the wagon, practically carrying you outside. Once you were outside his arm carefully wrapped around you and guided you to a couple of chairs, where you sat down and he sat down too.

“Breathe,” the boy urged you, realizing that you were still sobbing a little. He wasn't touching you anymore, but he was watching you carefully “Can you get some water, Piper?”

You realized that the first woman who had spoken to you was named Piper, and while you were working on regulating your breathing she disappeared down the hallway. The boy whispered soft instructions: inhale, exhale, and with that you managed to calm down until she returned with the glass he had ordered for you.

"Here you have"

You took it and drank slowly, being careful not to choke, until you felt better. You were suddenly aware of everyone's expectant gaze and you shrank in on yourself with some pity.

“I'm sorry for all this,” you murmured, now that you were more composed. “It's just that when I fell here, everything was alone and I felt very… scared.”

“That's how we all felt the first time,” said the older man, to reassure you. “I'm Abacus Crunch.”

“Y/N,” you repeated, even though everyone had heard it the first time.

“This is Piper, Lottie, and Larry,” the boy next to you murmured, smiling gently at you. “And my name is Willy Wonka.”

That last one was the one that settled in your mind the most. Willy Wonka.

“How did you end up here?” Lottie asked kindly.

Everyone listened to your story carefully, now that you had managed to calm down, and a couple of sympathetic grimaces appeared on the faces of your new companions as you spoke. They told you, in broad strokes, their own reasons for ending up there and it turned out that these weren’t very different from yours.

“We were all fooled just by not reading the small print,” Larry said bitterly, even though he was supposed to be a comedian.

“For now we will just assign you a room and… you can rest, okay?” the little girl named Noodle murmured, trying to be as friendly as possible.

“Mrs. Scrubitt told me that I would have to work here every day to pay off my debt, is that true?”

They all shared a knowing look, debating whether or not they should tell you about their recent escapades to sell chocolates, and then Willy made the decision for the rest.

“You don't have to worry about anything. We'll be out of here soon, all of us. Just sleep and tomorrow we will explain to you, okay?” he murmured gently.

There was something about his smile that calmed you greatly and you were grateful that there was someone like him in that place. They all seemed to be good people, actually, so at least that was one less thing to worry about.

Noodle took you to an empty room where you could settle in along with your few belongings and right or wrong, you thought that at least you had a roof over your head that night.

Once you slept for a few hours and when morning finally arrived, they took care of updating you on the activities they had been doing to settle all the debts that existed with the cruel woman who had deceived you.

“We move through the sewers and come back here before Scrubitt does the roll call, at night,” Abacus explained to you. He was something like the leader of the place, probably because of the years of experience he had “If you help us with sales, then you will enjoy the benefits too.”

“You mean I can leave here?” you wanted to corroborate. Willy nodded enthusiastically.

“You arrived at a fairly opportune time, the business seems quite prosperous and if we continue like this, we will be gone in… a month and a half, maybe two months,” he estimated. It all sounded pretty good and at least they had the decency to tell you, so they could include you in the plan “Are you in?”

You thought it was risky, but if it meant a chance to leave, of course you'd take it. After all, those people had been trapped for years, what assured you that you wouldn't have the same fate? As you saw things, actually agreeing to help them was your only option.

"Of course. Just tell me what to do, I'll learn quickly” you exclaimed and everyone was happy with your response. Especially Willy.

“I'll take care of it myself, take it for granted.”

You took the hand that the man was offering you, as if you wanted to formally close the deal, and then everyone rushed to get the things you needed for the day's sale ready. As you watched them go from here to there you thought that you would have to get used to that hustle and bustle, but somehow it comforted you to know that now you were no longer so alone.

“Thank you for helping me,” you exclaimed in the direction of the light-eyed boy, who had stayed next to you. “At this time and yesterday too. I was quite worried and I just… panicked”

“Oh, you don't have to thank me for anything” he smiled at you sincerely “I know how ugly it is to be scared, so if another day you feel like that just tell me. I am always happy to help”

For a man who had only known you a day, he turned out to be quite the gentleman around you. Or maybe it was just that he behaved that way naturally.

“All ready?” Piper spoke and you knew it was your cue to leave for wherever your destination was that day.

And of course, just like everyone else when Willy came into their lives, from that moment on your whole world turned completely upside down.

Becoming friends with Willy Wonka wasn’t a task that required much effort, so after a few weeks the two of you were practically inseparable. To this we had to add that when he discovered that you were the same age, his sympathy towards you only increased, to the point of turning into a clear interest in you, although not in the way that most would expect.

Maybe he was rushing, but he had started to like you in a… romantic way? Maybe. He didn't know much about what it was like to be in love, but he knew that he had begun to feel something different in his chest for you. After all, you saw each other every day, at all hours, so it had been inevitable to know a lot about you.

You had talked to him about your life before arriving in the city, living in a modest village, about your dreams and the skills you hoped to improve with time and practice. Willy, in turn, had told you about his mother, the story of him making chocolates, the aspirations and desires he had to become the owner of a shop in the gourmet galleries... in short, everything that was truly important. Sometimes you spent entire hours, when you weren't working outside, talking and so you already knew a lot about each other by that point in your story.

That was why when, after a few weeks, your sleep was interrupted by a nightmare, the first thing you thought was to run and seek comfort in the arms of your friend. It was no secret that Scrubitt had been being particularly harsh with everyone there and although most of them were already used to it, you and Willy were the ones who suffered the most from those verbal attacks. She was quite trained in the art of being mean.

So maybe it was that he yelled at you a little worse that day, or it was just that you were too sensitive because the police almost caught you when you went out on the streets to sell the chocolates, but either way your mind had taken care of shaping everything that happened to create that bad dream.

When you knocked on his door you feared the thought of bothering him with your presence, however, it was too late to chicken out because almost immediately he had already peeked out of the room.

“Y/N?” he asked, slightly confused. From the lucidity with which he spoke you knew that he probably hadn't even been sleeping “What's wrong?”

“I had a nightmare,” you explained “Can I stay with you for a while?”

It didn't take Willy more than half a second to move to the side so that you could go inside and once you were there he invited you to sit on the deteriorated bed, where he also took a seat. The next thing he did was stretch his hand open on the mattress, offering you the option to take it if you needed it. You did it, partly to feel something to anchor you to reality and partly because you loved the feeling of his warm skin against yours.

“Do you want to talk about what you dreamed?” he asked softly.

“It wasn't anything too terrible, but it's just… Aren't you going to laugh?”

"Of course not. I would never do it,” Willy assured you, moving a little closer to you as if he wanted to keep the matter confidential. “What is it about?”

“It's just… I don't know, it was a strange dream. I dreamed that things were getting complicated with this whole business of selling chocolates and that's why I stayed here for years like Abacus or Piper. I mean, I really appreciate that you're trying to help us all and I know I'm the one who's been here the least and maybe I can't even complain, but… I've been afraid of something bad happening since I got here. And I dreamed that the chocolate cartel was hurting you, that's why I got very scared and I..."

“Hey, hey,” Willy murmured as he extended one of his arms to you, when he saw that you were about to burst into tears.

He hated seeing people cry, perhaps because of his compassionate and kind nature, but he hated seeing you cry, especially you. The first time you guys met he didn't want to be too invasive in terms of personal space because he didn't know how you were going to react, or he didn't even know if a hug would help you calm down. But now that you knew each other better he had also learned a few things about you, so he felt confident in holding you down if you were feeling bad. Like right now.

“I'm sorry, it's just that with what happened today with the police I feared the worst. It's not that I just love you because you're going to help us get out of here, it's that I really appreciate you and I don't want anything bad to happen to yo... to all of us, I mean”

Willy smiled moved at your concern and let go of the hand he was holding yours to hug you properly, without you objecting at all.

“But nothing bad is going to happen, dear. It was just a bad dream”

He calling you that pet name warmed your face, so you just let yourself be sheltered by his kind arms and nodded against his chest, a little less worried now that you had spoken it out loud. You stayed in that position for a few minutes, with you listening to the constant beat of his heart and with him enjoying the pleasant weight of your body against his.

“Were you making chocolates?” you asked quietly, noticing the ingredients spread across the table in his room. He loosened his grip on him slightly so you could get a better look.

"Yeah! Do you want some? Maybe that will make you feel better. Chocolate always makes me feel better” he smiled.

When Willy saw you nodding he rushed over to grab a couple of the treats and then shoved them into your hands, hoping you could enjoy them as much as he did. He was definitely right when he said that chocolate would make you feel better.

“Do these have nuts?” you asked, feeling the crunchy bits between your teeth.

"Yeah"

“I love nuts” you confessed. You had already told him before and he had made sure not to forget it, so a little smile crossed his face when he saw that the candy was to your liking. “Thank you for the chocolates. And thanks for listening to me, I… I definitely feel better”

“I'm glad to hear that”

“You're so sweet, Willy. I'm serious"

“It's no wonder. You deserve all the sweetness in the world.”

Your gaze fell on him immediately and you gave him a couple of seconds in case he wanted to take back those words. However, he didn't do it.

“Well, it's nice that you think that. Not many people are nice these days.”

“Like Scrubitt, for example?” he joked and you laughed.

“At first I felt very angry, you know? But at least now I'm happy to know that despite all this bad situation, I was able to meet someone like you."

Suddenly the urge to tell you what he felt appeared in his chest and he was honestly surprised by the impulsiveness of his thinking. There hadn't even been anything that triggered that desire, it was just his brain together with his heart that were asking him to say that out loud.

Were you going to be scared? He hoped not. Maybe he should just refer to his feelings in the hopes that you'll put the missing pieces together, or maybe he should just stay silent, or maybe...

“I have never met someone like you. You are very special to me"

You couldn't help the shy smile on your mouth and Willy settled for the excited gleam in your eyes.

“Ow, are you serious?”

"Yeah. And I think I like you a lot.”

You assumed, like everything he did, that this was just another courtesy on his part and so you responded as kindly and friendly as you could.

“I like you too, Willy.”

“And I think you're very pretty. In every way” he continued.

You didn't know if he was trying to flirt with you or if he was just being nice, so you just laughed with flushed cheeks and shoved another chocolate into your mouth to try to calm your nerves. You wanted to tell him that he was handsome to you too, but instead you murmured:

"Are not you sleepy? I can leave if that's the case, I didn't even think about…”

“No, you can stay,” he said quickly. He really seemed to want you there with him “Did I say something wrong?”

Of course he hadn't said anything wrong, how could he?

"No. I just thought you were tired and I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted. “And I appreciate that you think I’m pretty”

The way he was looking at you and the question he had just asked you made you think that maybe what he had told you about liking you was something like he really liked you. In the romantic, cheesy way you swore wasn't possible.

“I like that you are here, but I don't want to keep you if you are tired.”

“No, no” now you said. You were acting so awkwardly that your brain was screaming at you to do something to fix it, but your thoughts were interrupted by his eyes landing on your lips “What?”

There was something different in the atmosphere that had settled in from one moment to the next and could be felt with the fingers on your hand.

“Can I confess something to you?” he asked in a whisper. “And you promise not to be scared?”

“That depends,” you said nervously. Those kinds of secrets could range from the illegal to the wildly strange.

Luckily, what he longed to tell you was nothing on that spectrum.

“I think I like you a lot,” he repeated. But this time you understood perfectly what he meant.

You were burning with shame at the direction the conversation had taken and you looked at your friend with fear, not knowing how to respond to his confession. You knew you reciprocated those feelings, but you didn't feel the courage to say it. Fortunately you did have the courage to lean towards him and press your lips against his, because of course, from your strange logic that would be less embarrassing.

Now it was Willy who blushed noticeably and using the same reasoning as you, decided to mask his nerves by kissing you back again. Although he didn't say it explicitly, it was notable that he had never kissed any woman and the thought of it being his first kiss made you feel touched. He tasted like chocolate and inexperience, but he was perfect.

“I like you too,” you admitted between his lips, just as if you wanted to make it clear to him that the feeling was mutual and that he shouldn't have any fear about it.

While you were kissing him, your mind kept thinking that all that had happened thanks to one of your nightmares and, for the first time in your life, you felt grateful for that bad dream.

taglist: @dyieying @reallysparklychaos @silverchainbee @amethyistheart @shadowygladiatorlight @lavendarhearts @lou-multifandoms

[dn-imagines-in-2023]

DATE NIGHT

Light

Is pretty open to whatever you want to do. If you ask him to choose, he'll go with the classic dinner at a nice restaurant and maybe go to a museum or something.

He's a very good conversationalist. He loves to learn so he's very easy to talk to; he remembers details.

'Oh, they hate this color, I better pick a different tie.'

If you're doing something fun, he'll have a good time. But he's not a fan of the 'lay around on the couch' kind of dates, they make him feel unproductive.

L

He LOVES the lay around on the couch type of dates. They're a good safe option for him when it's not safe for him to be in public.

When it is safe for him to be in public he's completely shameless. All of his habits and quirks are out on display for the whole world to see and he does not care if he gets judged for it.

So if you can't handle the secondhand embarrassment of your boyfriend having his bare feet out for free, you're going to have a bad time.

If you do go out, he likes quieter, more private dates. A library, a park, places that aren't too crowded or chaotic.

Cafes and bakeries are always a win for obvious reasons.

Misa

She really goes all out. You have to schedule your dates with her, because they can be like 6 hours long.

She's a big fan of classic romantic dates. The 'dinner and a move' kind of thing.

I think she would absolutely love to take you to a masquerade. A chance to experiment with fashion and dance with you all night? She'd be all over it.

She would also like shopping dates. She loves to pick out clothes she thinks would look good on you and will let you pick out things for her too.

Takes lots of cute pictures through the night and displays her favorites in her room.

Mello *NSFW mentioned*

He’ll only go on dates with you on his off time- work always comes first. He has to beat Near by any means necessary, that means his love life comes second to that. In another world where everything was resolved neatly, he would likely be more willing to engage in romance.

Mello loves an adrenaline rush. His favorite dates are always a little risky and you always end up sweaty and out of breath (in a good way.) 

I imagine he would like taking you out for drinks and going dancing- probably to raves rather than nightclubs. 

The dark is a nice excuse to hold your hand- so you don’t get separated of course. 

When you’re so exhausted and dizzy you can’t see straight, he’ll call you both a cab and you’ll do everything short of have sex in the back of it.

The real fun starts when you both get upstairs ;)

Matt

Matt loves relaxed stay-at-home dates. You hop on multiplayer on a really relaxing game like stardew valley or minecraft and just lay in a snuggly pile of blankets together. 

I think he would also like dates where you make something together- trying a new recipe, or making an art project. It might not turn out great - he doesn’t have a sophisticated palette or a lot of artistic skill, but he would have a lot of fun.

He doesn’t mind going out once in a while, but he doesn’t like dressing up. He hates wearing ties. He’ll do it occasionally for your sake, but it’s not his favorite.

Near

He doesn’t really do specifically set out *dates*. You both just… end up in each others company.

It’s never a case of ‘Let’s set aside this Saturday at 7 for a date night.’ Usually, you just end up in his room while he’s working, you distract him, and you two end up spending the next six hours talking.

I imagine he would like that type of date, where you sit and have a really, really good conversation for hours and hours.

Especially since you’re one of the only people in the world who can really keep up with him.

He might bring out something for you two to work on together, some of his toys, puzzles, models, etc.

He likes meticulous, detail oriented work. Introduce him to knitting/crochet and you two can sit and knit together for hours. (embroidery would also work for this.)

Matsuda

Silly goofy guy.

He likes new experiences, he’s willing to try just about anything once. So if you have a really wild date idea, he’s probably down with it.

If he’s the one to come up with the date, he tries to put some thought into it and make it personal to you. But he has trouble coming up with new ideas so he tends to stick to what he knows - you two have a dedicated date night restaurant you both like.

I have no idea why, but I imagine he would love live theater? Like specifically musicals. Take him to see Hairspray, he’ll have the time of his life.

[randomdragonfires]

Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did - The Other Woman [SNEAK PEEK]

Oh, and there was a woman.

WORD COUNT | 3.5k (and it's only a sneak peek ffs)

Author's Note | Hello everyone! So I am working on a relatively short 10k word chapter that is centred around Alys and Aemond from this story. How they came to be, what it is that they talk about... just the general progression of their relationship.

What follows is the first scene of that interlude chapter. The full thing should be up soon, following which I'll begin the final chapter. You'll see mentions, the ghost of Wylde - but for obvious reasons, Alysmond is the star of the next update.

Be warned. I see that many don't take well to the Alys and Aemond pairing - I will not appreciate any hate being thrown towards me or the story. There's always a civil way to say things. The strong reactions to their pairing is what kept me away from continuing it immediately in the first place, but mama didn't raise a quitter so here we are lmao

MORE THAN A YEAR AGO - AEMOND POV

"Of course I'm here. It’s summer vacation, and it’s only one of the biggest art gallery openings in the country," Wylde said with a grin. He was still new to Oldtown, while she was heading into her final year of school at King’s Landing—but they both knew where they belonged in the world. He would eventually take his place at the top, running one of the oldest commercial institutions in the realm. She would become a prominent socialite, wielding her family’s art connections with pride and skill, possibly on the arm of one of the men in this room.

For a fleeting moment back home, he had wished that man would be him. But that had passed—or so he liked to believe.

"Hm."

"Anyway, I have to make my rounds, shake hands," she sighed, as if already exhausted by the thought. "Most of them will try to get to my father through me, hoping for a chance at our family’s paintings for their displays." She paused, her expression softening. "My plane to King’s Landing leaves soon after, so I might not catch you to say goodbye, okay?"

She leaned in on the tips of her toes, instinctively brushing her lips against his cheek, a gesture so familiar it felt natural. His skin warmed under her touch as he held onto her for a moment, before letting her go and watching her slip into the crowd.

"It was nice to see you, Aemond," she said, giving him one last smile before she disappeared among the other guests.

He watched as the crowd welcomed her with open arms. And why wouldn’t they?

Aemond stood quietly near the back of the gallery, his head turned as he swirled his wine and pretended to be interested in the pieces around him. But his focus had already drifted.

From across the room, she had become the only thing he could think about.

She was magnetic in a way that defied simple description. It wasn’t just her beauty, though he could hardly deny that. There was something in the way she moved - fluid, deliberate, as if every gesture, every glance, was part of a conversation only she knew how to conduct. Aemond watched as she floated through the crowd with an easy grace, her black dress brushing the tops of her heels - not revealing, but just enough. 

But it wasn’t her appearance that intrigued him the most. It was her detachment. The way she seemed to occupy the room and yet remain entirely separate from it. Like she knew she was better than the herd. How can she possibly not? He knew it, and he’d barely seen her for ten minutes.

He studied her carefully, trying to decode the way she interacted with her surroundings. The other guests barely held her interest, even her husband - Brynden Rivers, the artist on feature - who was basking in the attention of his admirers, seemed peripheral to her thoughts. She would smile and nod at the right moments, offering polite responses when addressed, but her eyes - sharp, dark, endlessly curious - always strayed back to the art. It was as though she were in search of something she hadn’t quite found, or perhaps she was testing the art itself, waiting to see if it would reveal anything worth caring about.

He found himself wondering what she saw. What was it that drew her attention so intensely? Was she, like him, disillusioned by the pageantry of it all? Or was she simply beyond it, a part of a world he hadn’t yet glimpsed?

Aemond’s eyes lingered on her, captivated by her subtle confidence. He could tell she knew he was watching - how could she not? And yet, she gave no indication that she minded. Instead, there was a knowingness in her movements, a quiet acknowledgment of his gaze that sent a strange thrill through him.

Almost as if she moved just for him.

As she turned from the group around her to admire one of the larger paintings, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his. It was fleeting, just a flicker of recognition, but the brief moment stretched out in Aemond’s mind. She didn’t look away immediately, nor did she smile - there was something almost challenging in her gaze, as though she were testing him, daring him to keep watching.

And he did.

Their eyes met again several times as the night wore on, each moment charged with tension that had heat penetrating him through his black turtleneck. He couldn’t place it - this feeling that they were circling each other from opposite ends of the room. They had not spoken a word, yet it felt as though they were in conversation, their glances exchanging ideas, questions, provocations. What was she thinking? Did she feel this pull too, or was she simply toying with him, amused by the attention of a younger man?

She leaned in to whisper something to her husband, her lips barely moving, and Aemond felt an unexpected surge of jealousy - irrational, yes, but undeniable. She was so at ease, so unattainable, yet there was something in the way she kept looking at him, as if she wanted him to see her just as much as he wanted to understand her.

He’d never, in his entire life, felt like this before.

Their eyes locked again, and this time her lips curved into the faintest smile, not of politeness or pretense, but of acknowledgment. She knew exactly what she was doing, and Aemond, for all his careful control, felt the thrill of the chase. It wasn’t just desire - though there was plenty of that - it was the curiosity that gripped him. Who was she? What did she want from this night, from this life? And why did it feel like, in this crowded room, they were the only two people who mattered?

There was a moment when their gaze lingered just a little longer than before, the silence between them almost deafening, despite the buzz of conversation around them. Aemond felt something stir deep within him, a strange excitement, as though this unspoken challenge had a life of its own. What was he to her? Just another man in the gallery, or had she singled him out the way he had her?

It wasn’t until she broke the connection - turning back to the painting in front of her - that he realized he had been holding his breath.

Aemond had been standing in the corner of the gallery, nursing a drink that had long gone flat. His eyes drifted back to her, stealing glances, trying to untangle the mystery she presented without making it too obvious. He couldn't quite understand why she fascinated him so much, but her presence demanded his attention.

Then, it happened.

She moved.

At first, he thought she was simply changing her position to get a better view of a painting, but when their eyes met across the room for the third time that evening, something shifted. She wasn't just glancing anymore - she was walking toward him.

Aemond’s heart rate spiked. He forced himself to remain calm, to not show his surprise, but he could hardly believe she was coming up to him. The crowd of art enthusiasts seemed to blur, and the distant hum of voices faded into nothingness as she neared. He couldn't help but track every step she took, as though each one was part of a dance he hadn’t learned yet.

And then she was there, standing in front of him. Up close, she was even more striking than he had imagined - her features sharp and graceful, with an aura of confidence that was almost magnetic. She had an air of quiet authority, but not in the way the old-money elite around them carried themselves. Hers was different, more subtle, more powerful.

“Aemond Targaryen,” she said, her voice smooth and knowing, as though they were already well acquainted.

He blinked, still processing the fact that she was speaking to him at all. “You know me,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly a question. It made sense - he was a Targaryen after all, but still, something about her saying his name with such ease unnerved him.

“To no one's surprise, yes.” She smiled, the corners of her lips curling up in a way that was almost teasing. “You didn’t think I’d notice the only one in this room who's barely looked at the art?”

The comment threw him for a moment, but then, intrigued, he leaned in slightly. “A room full of some of the finest art, and yet you’ve been watching me,” he pointed out. 

Did she notice him before, the same way he’s noticed her?

For a moment, her dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “Alys Rivers,” she began, letting the name roll off her tongue slowly, as if inviting him to puzzle it out.

Aemond’s brow furrowed. "Rivers..." he muttered, almost to himself, trying to jog his memory. The name wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but he couldn’t quite place it. And then it came to him - he hadn’t heard that surname in relation to anyone important in his world. 

“Strong,” she corrected softly, the name falling like a small bomb between them. “My maiden name is Strong.”

Aemond’s eyes widened as the realization hit him. Strong. Of course. Lionel Strong, the headmaster of the school he attended for years. Harwin Strong, whose presence in Rhaenyra’s life had always been whispered about, and whose children were a constant point of rumor and speculation.

She is a sister to them both. How had he not known of her all this time?

His gaze snapped back to her face, searching for any sign that might have connected her to that family before, but there was nothing immediately obvious. “Lionel Strong...” he said aloud, piecing it together, more for himself than for her benefit.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Lionel is my half-brother. Harwin, too.”

He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of it sink in. It was like a secret door had been unlocked, revealing more about her than he ever could’ve guessed. She had roots in his world, in his life, that had been there all along, just hidden beneath the surface.

Alys smirked, clearly enjoying the way his mind raced to catch up. "Surprised?"

“More than I’d like to admit,” he replied, a slow smile pulling at his lips as he found himself even more intrigued than before.

Aemond leaned back slightly, still processing everything. His mind, usually so sharp and analytical, felt slower than usual in the presence of Alys Rivers - or Strong, as she had just revealed. But as much as her family ties surprised him, it didn’t change the allure she carried. She was still an enigma, now with even more layers to uncover.

Alys shifted her gaze to the painting nearest them - a sprawling canvas of abstract forms, colors bleeding into one another in what he deduces as an intentional mess. “So, what do you think of the work?” she asked casually, her eyes tracing the chaotic lines as if she already knew exactly what he was going to say.

He tilted his head, not willing to offer anything up too quickly. “It’s… bold.”

“Bold,” she repeated, her lips quivering. “That’s a safe assessment.”

“I suppose it is,” he conceded, allowing himself a small smile. “But it’s honest. What about you? You seem like someone with stronger opinions on art.”

“I do,” she admitted, folding her arms across her chest as she took in the piece again. “This one... it’s my husband’s.”

Her words hung in the air, and Aemond couldn’t stop the faint sting of jealousy that crept into his chest at the way she said ‘husband’ - with a sense of familiarity that only came from many years of being tied together. He glanced back at the painting, trying to find some reflection of the man behind it.

“Your husband’s quite the artist,” he said, keeping his tone even, but his interest was undeniable.

Alys nodded, her gaze still on the painting. “Yes, he is. Brynden is one of the best, I suppose, but you don’t need me to tell you that. Everyone else here already has.” There was something dismissive in her voice, a casual indifference that caught Aemond off guard.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “And what do you think of his work?”

Alys tilted her head and gave a half-smile, as though considering the question for the first time. “It’s... fine. I appreciate what he’s trying to say, but it doesn’t speak to me in the way art should.” She paused, then turned to him, her dark eyes finding him with a sharpness that left him momentarily breathless. “But you already guessed that, didn’t you?”

Aemond smirked, amused by how easily she read him. “It’s a little obvious. The way you talk about him, about his work… It’s almost as if you’re disconnected from it.”

She met his gaze, unflinching, her smile growing. “You’re observant, aren’t you? That must be exhausting.”

He chuckled softly, unable to help himself. “I’ve been told as much.” There was something thrilling about it - this mutual understanding, this wordless challenge.

“So,” he said, redirecting the conversation with purpose, “if your husband’s work doesn’t speak to you, what does? What kind of art do you appreciate?”

Alys turned away from the painting, her attention fully on him now. “The kind that demands something of me. Something that won’t let me look away. I want to be moved, even unsettled. The kind that makes you question everything you thought you knew.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered, intrigued. “You mean the kind that unsettles you in the same way a person can?”

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Exactly. Sometimes, the most impactful art is the kind that forces you to confront things you’ve been avoiding. It’s messy, uncomfortable, but unforgettable.”

He found himself nodding in agreement, feeling the conversation dip. “I suppose that’s why art and history are so closely linked. Both make you confront uncomfortable truths. The more you understand the world, the more you realize how fragile everything is.”

She sighed softly, as though she’d found someone who shared her exact thoughts. “Yes, and that fragility - that’s where the beauty lies. When you can’t control it. And when it’s gone, you’re left wondering why you didn’t appreciate it enough.”

They weren’t just talking about art anymore, and both of them knew it.

“And history,” she continued, her voice softer now, “is like the ultimate piece of art, isn’t it? Layered and complex, full of contradictions. No matter how much you study it, there’s always something more to uncover.”

Aemond nodded, his gaze intense. “It’s a reminder that nothing is permanent. Not power, not legacy, not even love.”

The way he said it, the quiet certainty in his voice, made Alys pause. She studied him for a long moment, as if searching for something behind his words. “You’re quite young. Do you really believe that?” she asked, her tone challenging, though her smile remained.

“Of course,” he replied easily. “Everything has its limits.”

As their conversation deepened, they moved through the gallery, eventually stopping in front of a painting that caught Alys’s attention. The piece was striking - two figures, intertwined in an abstract embrace, their forms blurring at the edges, as if they were dissolving into one another. The colors were bold, almost chaotic, bleeding into one another in a way that suggested both unity and dissolution.

Alys tilted her head, her lips curving into a thoughtful smile. “What do you make of this one?”

Aemond studied the painting, the mingling figures, the way their outlines seemed to waver as if they could hardly contain themselves within the frame. It was both intimate and unsettling, a reflection of connection and the inevitable loss that comes with it.

“It’s fascinating,” he said, voice measured. “There’s something about the way they’re almost… becoming each other. But it’s not peaceful, is it? It’s like they’re losing themselves in the process.”

She nodded, eyes still fixed on the canvas. “It’s about boundaries, I think. How much of yourself are you willing to give before you start losing pieces of who you are?”

Aemond glanced at her, sensing the weight behind her words. “Isn’t that what love does, in a way? It strips you down, forces you to let go of your boundaries until you’re not sure where you end and the other person begins.”

Alys met his gaze, her eyes sharp, thoughtful. “But that’s dangerous, isn’t it? Giving up so much of yourself. Maybe that’s why so many people cling to the idea of monogamy - one person, one connection, to keep things simple. Less risk.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Do you think monogamy keeps things simple?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Not at all. Monogamy is just another way of complicating things, if you ask me. The idea that one person can meet all your needs… it feels like an illusion.”

He considered her words, watching her closely as she turned back to the painting. “You don't have much of an opinion for loyalty in your connections?”

Alys shrugged, her smile a little mischievous. “I believe in connection. But I also believe in freedom. Sometimes, those things don’t go hand in hand.”

Aemond’s gaze lingered on her, his mind swirling with the implications of her words. “Is that why you don’t believe in monogamy?”

She didn’t answer right away, instead turning to look at him with that same sly, knowing smile. “I didn’t say that - I can’t, given that I am married. But I don’t think it’s the only way to live.”

Aemond chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “I think monogamy works for some people. But for others... perhaps it’s just another form of control.”

“And what about you?” she asked, her gaze locking with his, challenging him again. “Do you crave control, Aemond?”

He didn’t answer right away, but the intensity of her gaze made his heart race. “I think we all do, in some way. It’s human nature.”

Alys took a step closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “But sometimes, the most exhilarating moments come when you let go of control. When you surrender to something - or someone - you can’t predict.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine, and for a brief moment, he felt the air between them grow charged. The flirtation between them had evolved into something far more potent, far more dangerous.

“Are you speaking from experience?” he asked, his voice lower now, the distance between them shrinking.

She didn’t break eye contact, her lips curving slightly. “I think you know the answer to that.”

Aemond glanced around the bustling gallery, the laughter and chatter of art enthusiasts fading into a background hum as his focus narrowed back to Alys. The way her eyes sparkled, the slight tilt of her head, and the intoxicating warmth of her presence drew him in like a moth to flame.

In a bold, instinctive move, he reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. The contact sent a jolt through him, a mix of excitement and nervous energy. Her skin felt warm against his, soft yet somehow grounding, and he marveled at how effortlessly their hands fit together.

Without a word, he began to lead her away from the crowd. They slipped through a doorway and into an empty stairwell. As they stepped into the dim light, Aemond turned to face her fully, their hands still clasped. He felt a rush of exhilaration, the act of holding her hand feeling significant, almost intimate. 

“What now?” she asked, her voice low and playful, her gaze unwavering.

He hesitated, caught in the intensity of the moment, the gravity of her presence. He reached into his trouser pockets for a cigarette and lighter, and soon there was the ashy smell of smoke around them. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I want to find out.”

The smoke from Aemond’s cigarette curling lazily into the quiet space. He took a drag, exhaling slowly as his mind raced, the sharp taste of nicotine mingling with the tension. He kept his gaze on the blank space ahead, the smoke filling the air around them. She, however, hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He could feel it—the way she watched him, measured him, waiting to see what he would do next. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt charged.

He took one last drag before carelessly flicking the cigarette to the floor, grinding it under his boot without a second thought. The small, defiant gesture felt freeing, as though he was stamping out a part of himself—his restraint, his hesitation. He turned to face her again, her gaze steady, her lips slightly parted as if she was waiting for something.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside the stairwell ceased to exist. Then, with a low exhale, he stepped closer, his eyes locking with hers. It was a split second of tension before he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers. The kiss was slow at first, exploratory, testing the boundaries between them. But the moment her lips parted, the intensity between them flared to life.

Aemond pressed her back against the cold, hard wall, the warmth of her body against his heightening his awareness of every touch, every breath. His hands moved with purpose, one sliding up to cup her face, the other finding her waist, pulling her closer. As the kiss deepened, his fingers traced the line of her neck, her collarbone, before they slipped lower, teasing the hem of her dress.

She let out a soft gasp as his fingers found their way between her thighs, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth. There was no hesitation, no awkward fumbling—only the smooth, practiced confidence.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as he continued, the rhythm of his fingers drawing soft moans from her lips. He could feel her tightening, her body trembling as she reached the edge. His thumb brushed over her in just the right way, and that was all it took. Alys stifled a cry as she came, her body arching against the wall, and Aemond kissed her again, this time slower, more tender, as if savoring the moment. Her breathing slowly evened out, and Aemond felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. Neither of them spoke. There was no need for words. 

They simply stood there, foreheads pressed together, sharing the stillness as the world outside continued to move without them.

Look forward to your thoughts! (No seriously, say something. I really need to be motivated and that usually happens through fic related discourse haha)

[grapejuicestyless]

Unforgettable

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: Y/n Y/l/n is a classic rockstar with a magnetic pull and a bad reputation with men to her name. Turns out Y/n might not be such a bad girl after all and the men she used might have not been the truth.

Pages bursted from every seam of her notebook, littered in scribbled lyrics of failed beginnings, one night stands and the most innocent poetry writings that reflected the opposite of the devilish woman behind the pencil marks.

Everything about her was shiny. Her glittery deep purplish blue eyeshadow and the highlight on the tip of her nose to the glistening sweat that dripped underneath her top.

She was messy, yet so detailed. Every hair out of place seemed to fit perfectly a top her head. The lazy smear of lipgloss and eyeshadow applied carelessly yet laying in such way that it almost looked intentional.

It was that careless attitude that was so magnetic about her. The rockstar exterior she possessed attracting the innocent into her wild web of her craft.

But, despite her rockstar complexion and her love life reputation, the girl had an undeniable talent that could not be ruined by the poor press that swirled her name.

So it could only be fitting to place the most standout woman there into the cleanest band reputation wise. It was humorous, when it was announced. Y/n Y/l/n, joining Harry Styles for his long awaited Love On Tour.

Harry, who had hand picked her from the bunch of bassists waiting to wow him, was immediately aware of her presence. Her look sharp and eye catching, but her talent even better. She had a skill for her craft that nobody else was even able to come close to achieving. It was almost destiny she had shown up, notebook stuffed full of sloppy writing and bass scratched from her frustration.

Truthfully, Y/n hadn’t really longed to be placed into the band. She didn’t exactly enjoy the bright pinks and pop music that blasted through the speakers. She had only gone to the audition because she had been itching to play. Having traveled the world with some of the biggest inspirations, and by herself on a successful world tour a couple years ago, Y/n found herself bored in her home for so long. She was just about ready to go out a preform to a room filled with angry elderly people who hated all loud noises. Anything to give her the thrill of being in front of the crowd again.

So, when she was emailed one August evening, detailing of an audition for a bassist to join a well known artist on stage, she pushed aside her unfamiliarity with the genre.

It wasn’t that Y/n disliked pop music, it just wasn’t her favorite. She’s spent most of her time closer to a soft rock sound, pulling from past inspirations and old sounds that could be reworked into her work. The glitz and glam of the fresh and new sounding pop music was only something she hadn’t really gotten into, explaining why she felt more nervous than glad she was selected.

Yet, her ability to adjust and charm her way through her lack of experience within the genre was enough to keep her going, placing her where she was now. Standing next Harry, under the intense lights of Madison Square in the middle of one of the hottest summers to date.

…

A year had passed, just about, since Y/n first stepped onto the stage, her bass slung around her neck with a tattered strap that was practically molded to her shoulders. She gave a good amount to the band, adding in bass lines that ascended the songs into a better form of themselves. Making sure not to overpower the other instruments, but to lift them up and amplify how they sounded collectively as a band.

“That was good, that sounded great actually!” I turned back, the side of my lip pressed into the surface of the microphone. My hands found their way around the cord, untangling it to gain some more movement around the stage.

“Why don’t we recollect, get some water and stretch out?” I shot a thumbs up to the sound guy, who had been playing around with some switches behind a small barricade farther back in the arena. After the go ahead was given, the lights dimmed to a soft glow on top of the stage and the heat seemed less intense.

“No way, that’s so cool! Where did you find that, I’ve been having so much trouble looking for a new bass recently.” Her voice was slightly raspy, deeper too, I noticed from the dryness that I assumed was itching at her throat.

I watched her toss her head back, lips wrapped around the plastic water bottle until it crinkled beneath her hands and was left with nothing more than a few stray drops of water pooling at the bottom.

Elin, who she had been conversing with enthusiastically, seemed to match her energy precisely, showing Y/n the same amount of excitement over the new piece of equipment. Eyes gleaming with interest and passion over the topic. It felt warming knowing that work felt less like an obligation but instead was a privilege.

A close knit family that brought a dopey smile to my face at only the thought of it. I listened to them and there insane energy inconspicuously, eyes avoidant of the women and instead settled on the ledge between Sarah’s drums and where the trumpet players would stand later that night where the nearest supply of water was.

From afar, underneath the sound in my head of my aggressive swallowing of water, it sounded like the pair were dispersing. The conversation ended with a faint laugh that dwindled out the longer the conversation ended.

It was a true laugh, sincere. Almost a belly laugh but just not quite there yet. The sound so familiar it was instantly pinned in my mind as Y/n’s.

The common misconception about Y/n was that she was shallow, unfeeling and unknowing of basic relationships and proper manners. The media had poorly labeled the innocent woman, her lyrics thought to be too provocative and explicit. Too in depth and detailed that gossip accounts were ready to start this false narrative about the most undeserving person of the hate.

Maybe it was her careless expressions after completing a hard bass line, or her rockstar style that made her such an easy target for the untrue opinions and thoughts. She had that old grungy thing about her that both made her desirable and criticized, yet she made it work.

Y/n was the sun, in my eyes. A bright, young woman with wisdom beyond her years and heart so full it was overflowing with empathy and sympathy. Her lyrics reflected her past experiences, like any other artist. Her failed relationships that left her in the darkness and her distantly timed hook ups to fill the cold loneliness beside her bed.

Truthfully, she was more like the rest of the industry than any gossiper could comprehend. Her writing abilities expressed so freely, so vulnerable that it caused that discomfort, that pit in the listeners stomach forming with each song she put on her albums. The real truth was that she wasn’t some shallow, sex driven girl who dated guys to write about how they did her wrong. She was a loving woman who loved everyone more than life and was overly naive. She dated trying to find someone who could understand her like she understood everyone else. She spoke what was on her mind completely true and unfiltered constantly. Not fearful of the backlash her opinions would bring. That’s what continues to draw me to her throughout our time together.

“Hey, Harry.” Her voice was sweet, laced with honey and dripping in sweetness. I barely noticed her touch on my shoulder until I looked down at her guitar string scarred hands and found myself smiling.

“What’s up, Angel? What’s going on?” I turned my back to her, head thrown over my shoulder to look back to her face while my hands worked on screwing on the cover to my water bottle.

“You know, the usual. Just wanted to tell you I thought that note change during Sign of the Times was beautiful. You should go for those higher notes more often, you hit them every time.” She was completely honest in her opinions, which is why I held her words dear to my heart.

Y/n had no issue telling me what she thought. She was rather quick to give pointers of what worked better and how to substitute those notes that were strained and uncomfortable. Yet, she did it with such a down to earth point of view. She remained humble, even if everyone here knew she had talents beyond all of ours. She acted like she was just as good as the rest of us, like we were equals.

“I know, it’s just hard with so many people around. Don’t want to fall flat and ruin it.” Shrugging, we walked together to the stairs at the edge of the stage.

“Don’t psych yourself out, Styles. You nail those notes all the time. Your range is unbelievably complex. You have that ability to hit the higher notes every time.” She placed her hand in mine, following me down the stairs cautiously as the last one was always less steep than the rest, causing mishaps occasionally.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” We nodded at each other, silently understanding that the conversation was ending but still taking each other in. It almost felt like something was pulling us closer, eyes growing heavier and smiles getting looser. Breathing sharper.

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” It was breathy, the way it came out of her mouth. Almost like it was something she hadn’t wanted to say but forced herself to.

I nodded, watching her eyes crinkle before she turned away briskly, quick to find her escape through the illuminated tunnel. For a moment I felt like a fly in a web that was her creation, stuck in place to just stare as she left.

…

The show was unworldly. An atmosphere so intense and the energy so insane the floor swayed beneath my feet. The shows were structured the same each night, yet each one felt like a completely new experience. It was how the fans danced together in a formation that they’d created during Treat People With Kindness and how they’d share different experiences drawn out on their cardboard signs. It was surreal, something I felt lucky enough to experience with some of my closest friends, my band.

It went by smoothly, as projected to. The lights and the transitions between each songs igniting an excitement beyond no other I had ever experienced. Sarah played the drums precisely, hitting every beat necessary as her husband, Mitch, created the familiar tunes that were the songs of the past few albums. Within in the music, Y/n stood perched just next to Pauli, continuing to support Mitch and Elin within her bass playing.

By the time Kiwi had reached its end, I caught myself looking back to catch a glance at Y/n. Telling myself it was only to get a short moment to observe her living in her passion. Really, deep down I knew it was something more, something that had always been there yet I hadn’t had the courage to admit until that out loud.

…

The dressing room was quiet, after the show. The post show blues, as I used to refer to it as. The ultimate high coming back down with the realization that it was all over.

I let myself peel the sweaty chevron shirt off of my body and kicking off my green Gucci shoes. I left on the mismatched bottoms while ruffling through the pile of clothes packed in my suitcase for a shirt and shorts.

“Hey, rockstar. Trying a new look?” My head raised, turning halfway to meet her eyes.

“Yeah, really going for that oiled up 2000’s boy next door idea.” We laughed, eyes closing at how stupid I must’ve looked to her. Finding it funny and slightly embarrassing as the rose tint spread like wildfire across my cheeks.

Soon, our laughs turned into silence, warm smiles reflecting off of our faces onto the others. It was comfortable, lip caught between her teeth and mine pulling at the skin of my bottom one.

“I heard what you did tonight. Proud of you. I told you, you could hit that note change. Honestly, sounded better out there than at soundcheck.” My heart fluttered.

“I could say the same about you. It’s like you gain more power with each show.”

“Stop it, you just might make me blush.” She stepped closer, merely a few inches left separating the two of us. Her breath tickling my skin, her hands clenched by her sides nervously.

Suddenly, she had lost all that confidence that told the world she could play anyone like a fiddle. Suddenly she lost that fog around the mirror that created the illusion of a rockstar super player who moved from one man to the next, without rhyme or reason. She became what we’d all learned of her. The girl who loved long and hard on the people close to her, and the girl who despite was she was destined by the media to have been, had only had a couple relationships past the one night stands that filled her notebook. She batted her eyes, and I held my breath.

“Y/n…” It was a whisper. A soft murmur beneath my breath, but I was sure she’d heard it.

I found myself slowly reaching for her hand, opening it on top of my palm and brushing my fingers gently over the creases that ran along them before letting it fall back to her side. My eyes lifted from where we touched back to her face. Only to allow myself to find contact again. I let my hand slip around her waist, pulling slowly until our bodies were pressed together. The only thing separating our lips was the small gap we’d placed between them.

“Harry..?” She seemed conflicted, unsure almost. Hesitant.

“Is this okay?” It came out shaky, the nerves reaching a point that could only be cured by her acceptance.

“I…I just…” She thought on it, “I don’t want you to believe everything about me. I don’t want to lose you when you realize I’m not who you think I am.” The confession sounded like it was almost painful to admit.

“Oh.” I blinked, “Y/n, angel, no. I would never think that.” Her eyes were avoidant, her body more tense than moments prior.

“Please, look at me.” I let my other hand raise under his chin, pointer finger hooking underneath her chin to raise her gaze to mine, “To me, you are everything. You understand me. You see things that nobody else sees. Y/n, you bring out the best in me. I would have never had the courage to push myself and change that note tonight if you hadn’t pushed me to do it. You have this honesty that makes everyone value your words and you have this power over me that continues to draw me to you. I can not explain it, but believe me when I say you are all I want.” Her eyes fogged with what I believed to be her taking in my sudden confession. Yet, with her realization at what I had just said, she still remained silent and I felt the instant regret growing harder in my heart.

I had been through enough rejections to build a home. Yet, the thought of her rejecting me hurt more than anything I could’ve put myself through.

“Shit..Im sorry. I didn’t mean to-“ My explanation was no use, her hands on my cheeks and her lipstick smearing across my lips in a red hue as her lips pressed hard into mine in a sudden burst of confidence.

My eyes shut quickly, settling into it, only for it to be taken away quicker than I had longed for. Eyes opened in a lustful haze. Yet it wasn’t sexual, but completely innocent and perfect in every sense.

“I love you.” The words slipped passed my lips before I could stop them. A smile growing in a lovesick fashion across her face as my confession Is held in for so long reached her ears.

“I love you too.” She returned the confession, leaning in again to press her lips harder into mine and a heavenly sigh escaping her throat.

It was passionate and loving in a way that I’d never experienced before. The shared feelings were strong, new, vulnerable. A new beginning that both of us secretly longed for.

How funny the public would find it if the news ever broke that their precious bad girl rockstar was actually a giant love bug and an angel on earth. How much of a shock it would be to those who tore her down for her fashion choices and her lack of precautions in the public eye.

She might not be who she was made out to be from the exterior, but the one thing the press had gotten right about the devilish woman who broke too many hearts and dished out too many fights she could handle.

She is unforgettable.

[masked-tornado]

All about Allen Alagona

Overview:

Basics

Allen's backstory

Allen's personality

Allen's relationships

Allen's relationship with Deuce

Allen & blot

Allen's previous life

Allen's magic

Fun facts

OFFICIAL ALLEN X DEUCE POSTS:

1 // 2 // 3

1. Basics

Allen is a Ramshackle freshman who comes from another world (¾ Italian, ¼ Japanese) and "has no magic".

He's an aspiring illustrator and musician who doesn't seem to have success no matter how hard he tries. Whenever he attempted to gain attention on the internet before, all he ever received was ignorance and hate. Nowadays, he's too scared to try again.

2. Allen's backstory

Allen is an intersex boy and was born with lower testosterone levels as well as a mostly "female" outward anatomy.

Having suffered from a genetic anxiety disorder since his childhood, Allen was never really able to enjoy things. Once he got into school, he was mostly used for his good grades and ignored otherwise.

However, things got much worse when puberty started: Allen's body was feminine and muscular at the same time, and he towered over his classmates. His resting bitch face didn't help with people finding him intimidating and scary... and soon, he was not only ignored, but actively avoided and made fun of. He got pushed around, insulted, and told that "a freak like him" could never be loved. Nobody invited him to hang out, people pretended to have crushes on him in order to fool him, and all the "friends" he ever had badmouthed him behind his back.

Allen couldn't tell anyone about how hurt he was — boys weren't supposed to cry and act all whiny, and he would prove that he was indeed a boy by being all tough.

Trying to escape from the bullying at school, Allen put all of his feelings into art instead — a thing he was told he was "gifted" at — and started sharing it on social media. However, as he watched other artists blow up and build entire fanbases, absolutely nothing happened to him; he was either ignored or insulted for his art, seemingly never being good enough to earn compliments. Combined with the fact that Allen compared himself with other artists a lot, he slowly started losing confidence in the one thing he enjoyed and thought he was skilled at.

That wasn't the only thing Allen "wasn't good enough" for. As he got older, the topics at school progressively got harder, and the model student started struggling with them a little. His grades dropped from As to As and Bs, and that was somehow already enough for his teachers to blame him. "What's wrong?", "I expected better from you" and "stop slacking" were just some of the things Allen had to hear from them. He began studying even more in an attempt to satisfy them and prove his worth to himself, but nothing seemed to work out, and instead, it all led to Allen having a burnout.

At this point, Allen started believing that he was possessed. How could one single person have so much bad luck and be hated this much solely for trying to live his life...?

...and why was he even trying when he was never good enough for anyone anyway?

It was then that Allen decided to give up on everything. His grades never satisfied his teachers no matter how well he did, so why should he work for them at all? His gentle personality was never appreciated, so why should he be kind? Fights hurt him, so why shouldn't he fight back?

Allen slowly became a delinquent. He started skipping class almost every day, finally dared to cuss, and got into lots of verbal fights with the people who formerly bullied him. Those who already feared Allen before were now absolutely terrified of him, and soon, rumors about an actual possession started spreading.

The headmaster couldn't stand watching the process of one of her most valuable honor students turning into a delinquent and eventually kicked Allen out of school for his shenanigans.

Allen knew he wouldn't attend a school ever again due to what it had done to his health, but at the same time, he was in desperate need of that graduation if he ever wanted to have a proper job. He tried to blackmail the headmaster into giving him his graduation by threatening to expose the school for how they covered bullying and even allowed teachers to be bullies, but ultimately, Allen got nothing out of it.

He had nothing but his parents now. He had no friends, no confidence, no future. He was likely possessed, doomed by the universe.

Allen lost the sparkle in his eye; he wanted nothing more than to disappear. But the thought of his parents' grief forced him to stay alive. Every day was torture and reminded Allen of how much of a failure he was, and he progressively grew angrier...

...until he started imagining himself in music videos every time he listened to songs.

That was when Allen had an idea. He couldn't be violent, so why not channel all of his hatred and wrath into lyrics and make his own music? This time, he wouldn't post anything online in a long time, instead taking things slow.

Things slowly got a little better — Allen was able to start a hormone therapy, dyed his hair, changed his overall appearance, disassociated himself from his old self, and learned to control his anger through writing and other methods he figured out for himself. However, the emptiness, anxiety and hopelessness remained, and Allen was stuck with depression.

Just the day when Allen wanted to finally buy a software to produce music with, he woke up in a coffin in a strange world...

3. Allen's personality

Allen is widely known to be friendly, lowkey, mature, calm and helpful. People admire him for his good looks and determination, and some even consider him to be perfect due to the fact that he is additionally "good at everything". He also avoids fights and more heated discussions and instead serves as a mediator most of the time, earning him a fair amount of respect at NRC.

Allen has an easy time getting along with people and, while he rarely engages in deep conversations, generally enjoys talking and spending time with others, even if he's not close to them.

The truth: this is a mask.

Allen is an extremely flawed person but skilled at hiding it. He doesn't do anything he's bad at in public, only voices reasonable opinions, uses white lies in order to not accidentally hurt people, and hides all of his mental struggles as much as possible.

Not only does the real Allen envy everyone who is in some way more successful or "better" at something than him, but he has also developed a superiority complex to cope with his insecurities. He even feels this way towards some of his friends, yet doesn't dare to speak up on it out of fear of ending up all alone again.

The real Allen writes aggressive songs, has violent thoughts, and hates himself with a burning passion. His trauma and insecurities always get the better of him, and Allen still believes that he's ugly, worthless and not deserving of love despite being one of the most popular people at NRC.

The real Allen also doesn't care about the problems of people and gets impatient extremely quickly (Deuce is an exception — Allen cares about him a lot and is patient with him — as well as other people who have genuinely earned Allen's trust). His primary motivation for helping with bigger issues around the school is to draw attention to himself and finally receive praise.

Allen's biggest fear is to be lonely, abandoned and ignored, which is why he does his best to hide all of his flaws and true opinions on people — he doesn't want to risk being disliked now that he's finally appreciated somewhere.

The only person who knows the real Allen (and who he is 100% honest to) is Deuce, who doesn't judge him at all and instead understands him.

4. Allen's relationships

5. Allen's relationship with Deuce

Ever since day one, they've been best friends who always know what the other is thinking/feeling and do almost everything together.

Having the same experiences in a mirrored way, Allen and Deuce are able to understand each other better than anyone else could and naturally help each other because of it. Allen is able to assist Deuce with studying while making sure that he doesn't overwork himself and provides him with healthy outlets for his delinquent tendencies, which helps Deuce mature and grow calmer. Instead of trying to change Deuce, Allen helps him see the good in his flaws and use them to Deuce's advantage while fully supporting his goals and making sure that Deuce doesn't lose himself. Deuce, on the other hand, simply loves and admires Allen the way he is, which helps Allen slowly accept himself more. Being around someone who's so similar to himself and genuinely supports, understands and adores him also manages to fill the void in Allen's heart at least a bit.

Due to Allen's tough vibes, determined personality, intelligence and pretty appearance, Deuce fell for him extremely quickly (it was basically love at first sight for him). Allen fell for Deuce during book 4 when he realized just how much he missed the boy. After hesitating with a confession for a long time due to how it could possibly affect their friendship, Allen and Deuce eventually start dating some time after book 7.

Before I go on an eternal ramble about these two, here are some posts from my Deuce x Allen blog explaining their relationship further:

How they help each other

Why I ship them

Relationship timeline

Facts about them

6. Allen & blot

Allen feels his body get weaker and is somewhat out of touch with it in Twisted Wonderland. At first, he isn't aware of what the reason might be, but things resolve themselves... in the worst way possible.

During every breakdown occuring after these symptoms, a part of Allen's body changes. At first, he merely cries black tears, but then his hair turns another color, followed by another body part every time... until Allen is fully convinced that his demon is slowly taking over.

These occurrences are, in fact, mini overblots building up to Allen's first proper overblot, in which he assumes the form of a demon prince with fire-based magic and massive claws.

Due to his overall physical and mental weakness as well as the fact that he's not from Twisted Wonderland, blot affects Allen extremely easily and in a different way than with mages.

But why can he accumulate blot if he's not a mage himself? Well...

7. Allen's previous life

Unbeknownst to everyone, Allen is the reincarnation of Asterope, an infamous mage from Twisted Wonderland.

Asterope was an exceptional mage said to have been blessed who had weather-based powers but couldn't fully control them due to his impulsive personality. As a result, he accidentally slaughtered a village through a tornado in a fit of rage caused by being excluded and bullied, and became a wanted criminal as a result. He ran away, assumed the identity of "Alan" and joined the Silver Owls, only to be caught when he found out about his sole friend's death and accidentally caused another tornado. Asterope then got executed, and to this day, he's known as nothing but a villain.

Nobody is aware that Allen is Asterope's reincarnation and supposed to fix his legacy until Allen dies after being stabbed during a friend's overblot. A storm is raging outside the school during the entirety of Allen being in a critical state and eventually dying. While his body is already dead, Allen's mind intensely relives the moments from both his current life and the one he had as Asterope. Ironically, his strong blot accumulation and Asterope's desire for wanting his legacy to be fixed through his "successor" eventually bring Allen back to life, leaving him with mere permanent tattoos... and the ability to use magic.

Shortly before Allen awakens, Asterope speaks through him, talking about his legacy. Later on, Allen and his friends do their best to figure out what exactly happened.

8. Allen's magic

Allen has fairly little control over his everyday magic due to both his mood swings and the fact that he's entirely new to this kind of thing. However, he is eager to learn and improve so he can hopefully reach an average skill level.

On the other hand, Allen's Unique Magic is incredibly powerful and can only be countered by the strongest of mages when they're concentrated. "The Calm Before the Storm" traps a being in a tornado that drains them of all their physical and mental energy, often causing the person in question to pass out. It can be used on living creatures from all worlds.

Fun fact: Allen discovers his Unique Magic before he can use normal magic at all.

9. Fun facts

Allen is three days older than Ace.

Allen is good with animals and children.

Allen's natural hair color is black.

Allen is considered to be one of the prettiest people at NRC, but isn't aware of this.

Allen collects plushies and Deuce gifts them to him regularly.

Allen loves Shiba Inus.

Allen likes motorcycles and blastcycles.

Allen is an only child.

Allen loves his parents but is distant from the rest of his family.

Allen has photographic memory.

Allen eats instant noodles a lot.

Allen can't cook, but is willing to learn how to cook egg dishes for Deuce.

Allen doesn't have a lot of stamina.

Allen has problems falling asleep.

Allen is generally bad at sports, but can run fastly and dance very well. He does, however, suck at ballroom dance.

Allen is often called a twink, and he's very curvy for a skinny guy.

Allen has long eyelashes.

Allen received chest surgery during book 5 and now has scars.

Allen prefers coffee over tea.

Allen dislikes pastries.

[fallowtail]

So curious what you thought of last night's Ghost episode! I LOVED Trevor's tenderness with Escarghost (lol) but wasn't a big fan of the Isaac storyline. Plus, it was a reminder that the writers really aren't revisiting H-money---even when he thought he was being sucked off he didn't seem to have any sort of special goodbye for her or register her as anything more to him than the other ghosts are, and Hetty was kind of rude to him most of the episode.

Long reply incoming because I have a lot to say about the current status of H-Money and you gave me an excuse to think about it >:) Loved it, but I love all the episodes- there really hasn't been one I've walked away from disliking outside of a some "aw, I wish they had done that differently or gone into it more" disappointments here and there haha. Shelly the Escarghost was a stand out snactor who portrayed this ethically dubious snail very artistically and he is a very good boy who deserves to slowly rotate his way up the shaft over the next few days. The Isaac plotline did fall a little flat for me but I don't hate it at all and I am genuinely really interested to see where they're going to go with it. Hetty and her desire for appliance erotica may be one of my favorite moments of the season, lol, and the Jay & Pete shotgun argument is delightful.

(read more because this got a little long and i don't want to clog the tag)

Re: H-Money, I don't see it that way personally, but I also view them as a ship a bit differently than it seems the current main consensus/desires for them has turned into this past year- I do not personally think they are currently secretly in romantic love with each other, and are still at the stage where they're still working through realizing and understanding that they're actually friends and that they genuinely care about each other and do have things in common. Him not having a monologue for her specifically doesn't ring as anything that "dooms" the ship or whatever to me personally- if anything I think him pronouncing a deep affection for her or having anything meaningfully specific would be pretty out of character at this moment- their canon relationship isn't the same as what their fanon one is, the canon one is going muuuch slower and is not really as standardly romantic as people seem to want it to be, which, don't get me wrong, I love the fluffy fanon stuff, I really do, I've written some of it and encouraged a lot of the others!- but their canon-dynamic of ["enemies" to friends with benefits to exes to girlfriend/boyfriend to "exes" to friends with benefits again to exes again and now back to friends who are maybe sleeping together again (no idea! could be, could not be, i love the mystery!)] is endlessly more fascinating to me and I do think it's something important to keep in mind that what the show is doing with them is not the same as what the fandom is doing with them haha. Hetty was rude to him, but, well, that's just...Hetty, her social skills despite being a socialite are...not the best, and I do think she actually was genuinely trying to express interest and empathy for him, just in a very...Hetty-like way, lol. Hetty is rude, Hetty is blunt, she makes inappropriate comments, that's just inherently part of her character and mutually part their relationship, even- like yes, she makes the comment about his dog being wormfood by now ("sorry, your dog is 35 years old, my bad" absolutely killed me) but it followed a scene where she is gazing at him very empathetically and tenderly and giving him space to be vulnerable with them about his guilt and grief, and gives Alberta a scolding look for commenting about his friends body dumping him, lol. (For a toss of hope for you that is not just me going "I don't see their relationship the way other people do" LOL a lot of their current interactions are very interesting to read into if you want to read it through the lens that they're sneaking around again, because this sort of behavior is exactly what they were doing last time!) Keep in mind this is only episode 6 of 22, we have a long way to go just yet, we're not even at the half way point! Thank you for the ask & I hope any of this makes sense <3

[gonetoforks]

Introducing; my version of Rise’s Venus de Milo! (OUTDATED; adding the canon design for BM’s assistant!)

(she/her/thon/thons) She’s about 9 ft tall since she’s equally based off of Frankenstein, IDW Venus and the OG Venus de Milo. more info about her and her life under the cut! (Like, a lot more info, she’s been living in my head since last April) (She’s a year old and I’m only now revealing her info!) (HBD Venus!!)

Her Family in the Hidden City

Big Mama had her made by a scientist/patron of hers during the first 2 seasons as a synthetic competitor for her Battle Nexus, but after her change of heart in the S2 finale, she took thon in as her heiress and daughter to try and do something right for a change. It’s very hard for her. Her parenting style is a good balance of gentle and stern but she thinks praise is a good replacement for emotional vulnerability and it’s turned Venus into quite a megalomaniac. Venus just calls her “Mama” and BM calls her “Veedee” (If she calls thon “Venus,” thon’s in deep shit)

Time wise, after the movie she’s physically at age 1.5, 2 years old, though mentally thon’s about where Leo and Donnie are, 16. (Still very young, please keep in mind she is a child and has big eyes like the teenagers in the show, she’s just tall. If you sexualize her I will send you to the shadow realm. BEHAVE.)

Venus also sees the doctor that made her, Dr Shelly, as her father, and they’re quite close. She spent the first few weeks of her life in his home, mostly in his library where she filled her head with everything most people know intuitively. She often can recite information she has no memory of learning, these first few weeks were less like learning and more like remembering information but from no memories.

Venus’s closest friend & surrogate older sister is Jennika, who works as Big Mama’s assistant (and a fine artist!) under the codename “Frida.” The 2 spend most of their days on diplomatic missions in the Hidden City mafia underworld and managing/restructuring the Battle Nexus to be more ethical. Venus is a naturally studious academic who loves philosophy, literature, and of course, renaissance art, so adults tend to think she’s mature, but only Jennika really knows how naive she can be. Jennika misses her human family, so they’ve really latched onto each other.

She picked her name out herself. When thon was first revived, Shelly rushed up to her and almost addressed her with a name starting with V but stopped himself before he could say it in full. Changed his mind and said that he supposed that name probably wouldn’t fit right now. So she had a preference for a V name.

Thon’s Physiology

It’s quite the mystery how he did it, but the secret to Venus’s sentience is a machine that manages to convert any matter she digests into energy in the form of empyrean. This is why she was mostly kept a rapunzel-like secret for the first few months of her life before she had Jennika as a bodyguard. Nobody knows about her heart except herself, Jennika, Shelly and Big Mama.

If she bleeds or cries, it glows bright green, so she hates both because thon feels like she’s drawing attention to herself. She’s insecure about most of her organic parts anyway and pushes herself to appear stoney, inorganic and perfect. (The consequences of idolizing and wanting to emulate a literal goddess statue, skill issue) It’s not like her fears are completely unfounded though, she has no idea where Shelly got her dead body parts.

If she’s too stressed, the seams on her upper arms bleed and they fall off like a gecko tail. She kinda looks like the og Venus do Milo statue when that happens, it’s a bit gruesome.

To represent her need to balance the organic/inorganic parts of herself, thon’s biggest dreams vs realistic expectations for herself, her right hand is organic (and based off the 2012 turtles) while her left is robotic. (& made to look like big mama’s claws in her spider form)

Goals & wants

She wants to overthrow the council of heads and rule the Hidden City as president. (Through a democracy of course!) She sees them as ineffective and useless, she went to them during the Kraang invasion to tell them something needed to be done about the alien invaders but they did nothing and said to let the turtles handle it. She’s grateful everything turned out well but she still has a grudge against them and the way they run things. Big Mama thinks she’s silly and Jennika thinks she’s a mentally unwell, workaholic, megalomaniac but pizza supreme as her witness, thon’s gonna do it.

Thon wants to be a good, ethical leader/politician (oxymoronic, I know lmao) and sees the increasing amount of Battle Nexus estate Big Mama entrusts her with as practice for managing yokai society. She would love “the Good Place.”

She also wants to know more about Jennika and for her to reconcile with her father.

Venus’s arc

“Your life is your own, ok?!” She struggles with dehumanizing (de-turtle-izing?) herself because she believes it makes her greater, more fit to achieve her goals. When the fact that she’s a mortal, breathing, living being, that can’t possibly be anywhere near divine like thon thinks she needs to be hits her, she spirals. Thon desperately needs to learn that being imperfect is a necessary gift, that she is “the protagonist of her own life” and that you don’t need to be a great person to do great things, you just need to be a person.

She’s very studious and seen as intelligent and mature for her age, but when she’s put in real life situations after meeting her cousins, the turtles, she has to learn to to manage imperfections and embrace them.

She’s quite based off of MP100 and Barbie haha.

For this internal conflict I was inspired by how the original character’s depiction back in the 80’s was really,, dehumanizing? if that’s the right word? Misogynistic very much too. I find the message that; “no matter what other people think of you or what you think of yourself, you will never be anything more or less than a regular being” both comforting in itself and a neat subversion of the original VdM since one of my favorite aspects of Rise’s writing is how subversive it is.

I can’t wait to show you more of her! Esp how she interacts with the Mad Dogs!

Bonus; Design Details!

All the turtles have shape motifs; square, rectangle, circle, triangle, her’s is a Raindrop shape! Combined with her electric motifs she’s a bit of a storm cloud lol

The Turtles’s shells are s-shaped and follow the curvature of a human spine, I draw Venus’s shell really distorted and disproportionate to this since she’s inorganic.

Similarly, while the other turtles shells and plastrons are like boxes that contain their whole torsos, thon’s kinda just sits on top of her torso, where her plastron ends and her legs begin don’t line up. It started out as an anatomical error but i liked how it made her look distorted and off somehow. (Kinda gruesome, but it kinda helps her look like a bloated corpse, which is what she is aksjks) To be clearer, the difference between how the mad dogs’ shells/plastrons/bridges(sides) are attached to their bodies vs Venus’s is like the difference between a bodysuit and a t-shirt.

[slasherstories123]

You're "New Beginning" story that you made for me was so beautiful, that I cried. I was hoping maybe when you have the time, you could do a part two? Where the S/O and Vincent date a lot, and that she bought Vincent a new sketchbook and artist pencils.

Bo wanted her back, even though he said it's over, he got bored. Until he caught her actually dating Vincent after he climbed through the window with a small bouquet. The S/O refuses to go back to him of course, she loves Vincent now.

If you don't want to, you can just delete it and ignore it

New begging pt 2

Word count: 1.6k

Tagslist: @dootys @callmemeelah @fluffy-little-demon @mehidktbh @slash3rl0v3r @the-anxious-youth @beanbagbitch @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better @mrs-heelshire @oneofvincentscandles @sleepypersonblog @alexxavicry @beel-mcburger @slasherscrybaby @sadskies @bunnysenpai31 @emychan @pink-apollo @misscaller06 @l0sercat @naxxsstuff @charliedawn

Ever since the break up with Bo, it tore you apart, but his twin was there to bring you back up, you didn’t want to be with Vincent just yet, and he respected that. Waiting for whenever you were ready, when you did, he was happy, Ecstatic. Honestly, he treated you better than Bo did, you two always spent time with each other in the basement where he worked, or crafted. Even teaching you a few drawing skills. Mainly, you’d watch him draw or paint, always putting his hair in a braid or ponytail so no art products would get in it. He was grateful for it, grateful to have you for himself. You were happier with Vincent. Compared to Bo, he’s sweet and gentle.

Since Lester came to town, you decided to get groceries and other items from stores, thanking Lester for taking you as you got back home. Waving at the truck pulling off. You put up all the food that belonged in the cabinets and fridge, leaving a certain bag out. Black hair tickled your neck as you put up cans of soup, giggling to yourself, knowing who it was. “Hello to you too Vince.” Turning around, you hugged your boyfriend. His arms wrapped around you, returning the hug, chin resting at the top of your head. “I got you something,” You pulled away to grab the bag, smiling at the small head tilt he gave you, taking it to see what you got. It was a large sketchbook and sketch pencils. You paid attention to his art supplies, seeing that most of his sketchbooks were filled and the pencils were low.

“I thought you could have a bigger sketchbook, plus it was on sale, made me think of you.”

The man smiled under the mask, gently tilting your head upwards so his masked lips could kiss your forehead, his way of saying thank you. You kissed his mask cheek. “You’re welcome, Vinny.” You took a good look at him, his back was still kinda hunched forward, indicating that he’s been sitting in a chair for hours. He looked sluggish. Tired even. “Is this your first time coming out of the basement since I left?” You cupped his masked face ever so gently. He shamefully nodded, hair tickling your nose, you rubbed it so you wouldn’t sneeze. “Vinny you gotta learn when to take breaks, your health matters.” His soft hands grabbed your wrists, thumbs rubbing against your veins. He understood.You hated it when he didn’t take breaks or would spend up to hours working on art or sculpting figures.

His forehead rested against yours, making you laugh. Looks like he really missed you today. Sounds of plastic filled both of your ears. Vincent turned around to see his twin brother at the door with a bouquet of flowers in his right hand, wearing the blue suit he’d always wear at the church. Tilting his head upwards to look at the two of you. He stood there silent. You had a feeling that you knew what he wanted to say. You whispered to Vincent, giving him the bag and telling him to go downstairs, you’ll meet him down there.

He looked at Bo and complied, nodding his head and leaving. Now that you two were alone, you leaned against the counter and crossed your arms. “Bo?” You spoke. The man took a few steps forward, handing the flowers out in your direction. “I…” He paused, you moved your hand in a way telling him to continue. “I want you back darling.” “I’m not your darling. Not anymore, you had your chance and you blew it. Badly.” He was taken back by the response.

“Come on Y/N don’t be like this…”He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Okay?” It was rare for Bo to even apologize at all, so it caught you off guard, only a little. Shaking your head, you pushed the flowers to his chest. “I will accept your apology, but I’m not getting back with you, as you can see, I’m with Vincent, and am much happier with him. Like I said, you had your chance, plus, you were the one that broke up first, remember?”

He didn’t say anything, eyes filled with an emotion you couldn’t describe. Plus, he never acted like he wanted you back until now. It was like he didn’t care at first, but got bored. You weren’t gonna make that mistake. He might do the same things again, you weren’t going to fall for it.

“So, you can take those flowers, and give it to the next woman that comes to Ambrose, I’m sure she’ll love it like I would’ve done.” You gave him a smile, patting his shoulder, leaving the man alone in the kitchen to pounder in his thoughts. Ever since the breakup things have been weird, especially since you had to stay with Bo in order to play your role in getting the victims to trust you, but after a while everything was fine. You thought he was fine, going back to his old self since he didn’t have to worry about a partner, who knew he'd turn around and try and ask you back despite him breaking up first.

As you left the kitchen, you ran into Vincent, just by his body language, you could tell he was guilty. You sighed. “You heard everything, didn’t you?” He nodded slowly. You hugged him, feeling slight tension be released from your shoulders. “Just know that nothing is going on. I’ll always be with you.” His body slightly tensed up, but hugged you back, Glad that you chose to stay with him. “Now come on, I’d like to see more art you made since I was gone. After that, you’re taking a nap, it looks like you need one.” You could tell he was happy at the sentence, head slowly nodding. Plus, a nap sounds good. Holding your hand to guide you to the basement, where you could praise him for the beautiful art he’s made.

[smilesrobotlover]

*crawling into your inbox* Smiles do you have any drawing tips? Everything I’ve drawn recently I’ve just not liked at all and I’m strugglin ;-;

-Sky Floor

Yes! I can try to help!

First things first, there’s a YouTuber named Excaliblader who gives AMAZING art tips. He focuses a lot on anatomy but he also talks about sketches, art motivation, and art styles. His tips are super simple and so easy to understand but also incredibly helpful. He’s an nsfw artist so the examples he uses are a little suggestive but they’re not explicit, but he knows what he’s doing and he’s helped me a lot with anatomy.

As for tips from me, experiment! And when I say experiment I mean push yourself to the edge. Draw things you KNOW will suck. Draw with your left hand, play with different face shapes, experiment with crayons, anything to try something new that you can expect to look bad, if that makes sense. The reason why a lot of my art has different brushes and things is because if I do the same thing over and over again I start to hate it. I need something new to do with drawings. And when you find something that you ENJOY doing (like a certain style, a new brush, etc.) you’ll get so motivated to do stuff with it! This may also help you unlock new skills with art because you’re pushing yourself outside your usual domain and discovering new things. Let’s say your characters have the same face, so you decide to experiment with different facial features. You can start small with downward turned eyes, round eyes, or triangle shaped eyes, just anything to make the eyes distinct. Or you can start with noses. Small button noses, long straight noses, bumpy noses, wide noses, all of that. Soon you’ll be able to draw all kinds of features confidently if you keep at it. But that’s just an example. Also drawing old people, people with extreme features, or just copying an art style can help. You’ll never improve if you do the same thing over and over again. You’ll be good at that one thing! And you may improve with some things in there, but if you want to do more, you’ll just have to do it.

Something I always say is to look at all kinds of tutorials on how people draw and experiment with those. Some draw their faces with a T shape, others add a lot of guidelines. See which one works for you. There’s no right way to draw; if it’s quick and efficient for YOU then it works!

And another thing, art isn’t easy. When you’re drawing, it’s hard to tell how much progress you’re making because from your perspective, you can’t see the road you travel on. If you’re feeling unmotivated and feeling bad about your art, turn around and look at the progress you made. Redraw old art and see how much you improved. Comparison is the thief of joy if you compare yourself to others, but if you compare yourself to your past self, it’ll make a world of difference. You’ll be able to see how far you’ve come. You’ll be able to see the things you were able to achieve and improve upon by actively redrawing something old and comparing it. That’s something that helps me a LOT when I’m feeling bad about my art. I cant tell you how motivating it is!

One more thing that really helps is tracing! Now, tracing someone’s art work and then posting it and claiming it as your own is bad. Obviously. But tracing actually helps your brain know WHERE things are supposed to go. Your hand is able to figure it out as you do it! Tracing real life photos help a LOT with anatomy, and if the artists allows it, tracing good art to help you learn is good! Again, don’t post it as your own. But it’s a great way to learn! It’s best if you trace a photo, and then use that trace as a reference photo, cuz you’re learning how to use a reference in two different ways!

Idk how to help with your issue specifically (I’m at work so I can’t sit down and draw something alas) but these things help me when I’m struggling! And even then I barely know what I’m doing XD

[aclowntiny]

Hiiii!!! First I wanna say how much I really like your work! Also, I stumbled upon our Seventeen and Enhypen as Hogwarts students, but saw you didn’t have it for Stray Kids 😭 I know they’ve mentioned in 2019 what house they think they are, but you seem to have a much better understanding of the houses and I’m very curious to see what you would think their houses would be.

I was wondering if I could request a similar sort of headcannon for them 🥹 Thank you!

Heck yeah! Can't believe I didn't do this sooner tbh but I love this so here we are 😌 I agree, not necessarily that I'm the best at the job, lol, but that people just go for very generic ideas of the houses (Gryffindor is cool, Slytherin is evil, Hufflepuff is nice/silly, Ravenclaw is smart) rather than the true reflection of where they'd be hehe! Like Ravenclaw is actually also known for being artistic and eccentric, Slytherin for strong determination, Hufflepuff for acceptance and breaking tradition, Gryffindor for being the other self-sacrificing house. So sometimes people just say "I'm a Gryffindor because I'm a good guy!!!" anyway rant over here's the actual content we want🤣

🏰 Stray Kids as Hogwarts Students🔮

Bang Chan

☆ Some kids got sorted instantly, but with one Christopher Bang the Hat took longer. Muttered to itself a lot as it waffled between his qualities, dubbing him hardworking and courageous and ambitious and loving. He couldn't help but flush under the hat's words, almost not hearing when its voice finally bellowed "Gryffindor!”

☆ Being Pure-Blood was only ever a phrase on a family tree for Chris. Who one’s ancestors were, what they looked like, or how much money they had said nothing for their value- only their choices and character did that.

☆ It’s only a formal class for one year, but he adores Flying. The feeling of freedom and getting to have some time outside is heaven for him. Defense Against the Dark Arts is another favorite for the similar reason of being able to get active and challenge himself, even literally facing his fears.

☆ Astronomy is very cool to him, but he finds having to fill in the same charts week after week a bit repetitive and not the best use of his time, frankly.

☆ Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain! He plays Keeper, working with great patience and synergy with the rest of the team to keep the goals clear.

☆ Blessed is the only word Chris can think of when he realizes how many happy memories he can pull from- not everyone can say that. As the word comes to mind, his wand lights up, producing a shining silver wolf standing majestically, protectively, before him.

Lee Know

☆ "You're an interesting one," came the Hat's comment upon touching Minho's head, "you've certainly got your priorities...whatever those are. A unique mind for sure. Better be Ravenclaw!" Some of Minho's friends had teased him as a Slytherin, so he was a bit surprised. Not that he would let his house define him entirely.

☆ He hates the reputation and unnecessary pressure that comes with being a Pure-Blood. It’s stupid and not worth debating in Minho’s mind. The only benefit is just the resources and opportunities he might get, and it’s tempting to turn those down on principle. Money and status don’t matter to him at all and there’s a part of him that wants to ‘sully the bloodline’ just for the hell of it! Luckily his parents don’t care either.

☆ Potions whiz. One of the few who actually get it and enjoy the calm, precise art and its beautiful results and wants to go N.E.W.T. with it. He’s also great at Care of Magical Creatures, naturally focused on the well-being of animals and other living things over his own excitement or whims.

☆ Having a fear of heights, Flying is not it for him. No thanks. He passes, but barely, and in his mind it’s not a skill he plans to use.

☆ Naturally, Minho opts out of Quidditch signups, but instead joins the Gobstones club because he thinks spraying the losers with stone juice is funny. Also gets invited to the Slug Club for his Potions skills and influence.

☆ No one is surprised when Minho closes his eyes, focuses, and boom! Produces a little glowing cat bursting from his wand with a few swipes of its paw to groom its nonexistent striped fur.

Changbin

☆ "Quite a softie underneath it all, eh?" Beneath the weight of the tattered Hat, Changbin strikes a bit of a pose. "Got a lot of ambition, but you've also got a lot of...that. Hmmm..." The Hat muses for a few more moments. "At the end of the day, this one’s a Slytherin!” Pride flows through Changbin’s veins- he doesn’t care for the reputation of producing dark wizards, the potential snobbery. All he cares about is showing his ambition to be the best if he puts his mind to it.

☆ He’s a Half-Blood, but both of his parents are wizards so his familiarity is much more with the Wizarding World. He wants to understand Muggles better to connect with them, too, as well as Muggleborns.

☆ Taking Muggle Studies helps with this and learning about another culture is quite fascinating to him- technology especially is amazing, like that’s what people do instead of magic? Wires of captured lightning? Sounds pretty magical to Changbin. He gets into tinkering with technology because of this. Another class he enjoys is Defense Against the Dark Arts. Changbin loves feeling ready to protect himself and others, so that’s the class he spends the most time practicing and taking notes in. He always thinks of his friends and his sister as he does so.

☆ History of Magic is boring, though, Changbin wants to cast some spells! At the end of the day, where certain spells come from don’t matter to him as long as he can use them. However, the idea of showing up in a ‘great wizards’ history highlight one day is appealing to him…

☆ His strength comes in handy serving as one of Slytherin’s two Beaters. The other teams are lowkey afraid of the Bludgers Changbin sends their way because they know how hard he hits!

☆ Bets are flying on what his Patronus animal would be, a pig or a rabbit. Pig is the most popular choice, mostly in jest, but shushing them all Changbin focuses all the great joy he’s expressing…and out leaps a rabbit! Not just any rabbit, though, but the massive, fluffy form of a Flemish giant rabbit that has everyone laughing and Changbin grinning, reaching out to it.

Hyunjin

☆ Nearly the second the Sorting Hat rests atop his head, it's shouting 'Ravenclaw!' Hyunjin himself can't be surprised, really, not when he's heard talk of the great artists in that house. In fact, pride glows in his chest as he joins his table that the Hat could see that in him.

☆ The Hwangs are an old wizarding family. Hyunjin has a lot of opportunities because of this, but fights against the idea that he could be any better than anyone else because of a name. Rather, he is often seen lifting up Muggleborn classmates and highlighting struggled of other magical people.

☆ Ancient Runes comes naturally to Hyunjin, something about his eye for detail, symbols, and decoding. Language is an area of interest for him so that class is like a beautiful puzzle. Astronomy grants Hyunjin so much art inspiration as well as time to relax and appreciate the gifts of nature and their inherent magic.

☆ There's no one class he hates, but like a lot of students Hyunjin has a harder time focusing on all the information getting dumped on him in History of Magic.

☆ Hyunjin’s extracurriculars include the Muggle Art club where he hones his painting skills and the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, where he plays as the team’s Seeker.

☆ Expectations fly as everyone wonders what the next Hwang’s Patronus will be. Will he get a stag, the majestic animal associated with famous wizards? An eagle, symbolizing his house? Not at all, in fact what Hyunjin summons is a beautiful, delicate silver dove that lights upon his shoulder.

Han

☆ “Don’t be so shy, kid, you’ve got heart.” “Really? Thanks bro.” “Yes, that’s what I’m talking about,” the Hat chuckles, “this one’s a Hufflepuff!” Jisung’s eyes go wide. He wasn’t expecting to get Hufflepuff, but if the hat says so, well, who is he to fight it? It’s nice getting the kindest house, too- maybe he’ll make a lot of friends.

☆ As a Half-Blood, the heavy weight of prejudice never really fell on Jisung. Half-Bloods tended to fall between the cracks as having already been sullied, just middle ground. As he witnesses bullying more and more, though, his passion grows to somehow help others and remind people that nobody can help who their ancestors married.

☆ Charms are quick, snappy, spur-of-the-moment but effective in a pinch, and Jisung likes that. It's fun and he can cast charms as quickly as he cracks a joke or comeback! Ancient Runes brings him a lot of inspiration from history and other languages that he loves to bring to his songwriting.

☆ Flying, thank goodness, isn't enforced every year! It scares him, frankly, and he'd much rather stay on the ground where he belongs.

☆ Because flying isn’t his favorite, no way in hell is he doing it with giant leather and metal things trying to smash him. Nope. However he’ll happily watch and commentate, hence him taking the mic and giving very entertaining descriptions of everything that happens. He’s also in the Frog Choir, always trying to get them to perform one of his compositions.

☆ Jokes around that he’s going to get a massive Patronus animal like a bear or a lion, but once he sees the embodiment of his joy skipping from his wand as a little quokka, he can’t even be embarrassed, just smile!

Felix

☆ "Well, you're just a delight, aren't you?" Felix couldn't tell if the Hat was being sarcastic, but still he chose to respond in kind. "I try!" At that, the Sorting Hat chuckled. "Yes, this one's a Hufflepuff for sure!" His sister had told him as much, but Felix couldn't complain- he liked the idea of being a Hufflepuff!

☆ Felix is a Muggleborn, so he takes in every step of starting school with wonder…though it is a bit overwhelming feeling like everyone’s speaking another language sometimes. But then again, magic candy! Brewing potions!

☆ Absolute wonder at Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology. Felix is so gentle and good with every living thing, they practically request he be the one to handle them and that makes his heart burst with joy and honor! He also loves Potions, thinking the idea is so classic and cool, plus despite what most students say it’s kind of relaxing to him.

☆ Transfiguration dropped lower on his list when they started using living subjects. Sure, the idea that anyone and anything can grow and change and exist in many forms is really inspiring, but those poor mice and birds!

☆ Slug Club inductee part two! Even though he’s a Muggleborn with no direct influence, Felix is such a good student and avid potioneer that he’s a shoo-in. He also plays Quidditch as Hufflepuff’s Seeker.

☆ Felix isn’t sure what animal he’ll get, but he certainly isn’t expecting multiple! The entire class is shocked when a whole brood of chicks tumbles forth from his wand, eliciting shock and charmed coos alike.

Seungmin

☆ "This one's a bit of a surprise now," the Hat commented upon being set atop Seungmin's head. Seungmin couldn't help wondering what that meant and if it was bad, how to prove the Hat wrong. "No, lad, all you just did was prove my point. Looks can be deceiving, after all. Slytherin!" He wasn't sure what he expected, but that might not have been it. Sort of made sense, though- he could have fun with that!

☆ He can’t help wondering if the Hat chose as it did because he’s a Pure-Blood, taking Salazar’s old favors into account. Then again, he did just throw a cheating Gryffindor under the bus in class…

☆ Thinking logically is no trouble for Seungmin, so Arithmancy isn’t a bad choice for him. Connecting relationships between numbers and their power just makes sense to him- eight is his lucky number, after all. He also frequents the Potions dungeon, but that’s mostly just to brew the photo solution that grants his personal art projects motion!

☆ Defense Against the Dark Arts is a fun and active class, but it's boisterous and people take the duels too far sometimes.

☆ Frankly, he didn’t have time to join the Quidditch team due to his other extracurriculars, being an avid Frog Choir singer and the Hogwarts paper’s photographer.

☆ Everyone is sure the student everyone sees as a puppy will get a dog for his Patronus. Imagine their surprise when he casts a tanuki! Cute and cunning, no one can deny it matches him perfectly in the end.

I.N

☆ He forgot the Hat could read his thoughts. “So you want a house where you can show your talents and look out for people, huh?” Flushing, Jeongin just nods with a faint, bashful smile. “Well, better be Gryffindor, then!” He’s surprised, thinking maybe he’d have gotten Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff- he isn’t particularly brave, is he? “Trust me, kid, you’ll find your way,” the Hat promises, and do its eyelike folds wink?

☆ As a Half-Blood, he has knowledge of the Wizarding World, but also life outside of magic. Having one Muggle parent means one person getting yanked into the world of wonder, after all! Jeongin is proud to understand both sides of his world and guide his friends on how Muggles really live.

☆ Details don’t escape Jeongin, so he loves drawing star charts for Astronomy. Transfiguration is another favorite of his for similar reasons: he enjoys the focus, the idea that he can reshape objects into something greater or something new. It feels symbolic, poetic.

☆ Potions stresses him out because it's so easy to burn things or measure wrong; even if little details usually fascinate him, he can be a bit clumsy with the required finesse.

☆ Joins the wizard chess club, art club, and plays Quidditch- what can’t our baby bread do? Jeongin becomes Gryffindor’s Seeker, one especially known for turning the tides of the game for his team completely!

☆ He can barely contain his excitement that day in Defense Against the Dark Arts when it comes time to cast Patronus charms! He wonders if his animal will look like him and he certainly gets his wish when a charming little desert fox pops forth.

[blakbonnet]

ARTIST OF THE WEEK @midearthlingart ✨

This week's AOTW is Laz aka midearthling, and any AOTW event intending to bring classic ofmd art back into circulation would be incomplete without them <3 She agreed to answer a few questions for me and shared some great tips for beginners:

- Which do you use to draw (app/digital or traditional)?

I think everything posted here is digital, done mainly on Procreate, although I have started using Art Studio Pro more recently and I really like it (also an iPad app but available on other machines afaik!). I do like to doodle and do studies in my sketchbook though, I think it's good to keep me sharp and for a change of pace! And sometimes ideas come easier that way. But any completed pieces tend to be digital.

- Fave brushes/pencils/mediums (links/screenshots?)

On procreate I'm partial to using jingsketch basic’s flat brush, it’s so versatile for sketching and painting! Other brushes in my regular rotation are the default chalk and 6b brushes from procreate. I also have a soft ‘photoshop’ brush that I use to flat in colours, and a round brush I downloaded that I often use for sketching too; unfortunately I can’t remember where I got either of those ones but I’m pretty sure they were free! Sometimes I use random texture brushes, and the default watercolours in procreate.

- Your favourite piece you've drawn?

I go through phases of really loving some pieces and then hating them again (I often dislike my own art!) One of the best things I ever drew is a very nsfw comic so I unfortunately can’t share it on tumblr lmao. But in its stead, I think this and this have a special place in my heart.

- Who's harder to draw: Ed or Stede?

Honestly it just depends on the day! Both can be difficult to capture for different reasons; oddly I think for me I don’t have Ed’s face pinned down as much as I do with Stede’s. I’ve drawn them so much at this point I can bang them out without reference most of the time, but every now and again I’ll have a difficult angle and need to reference again! Stede’s nose is my absolute favourite to draw though.

- One essential tip for beginner artists?

Keep going! References and 3D models are your friend! It’s okay to make studies of other people’s works in order to learn (just don’t share and try to pass it off as your own!) Tracing photos to learn is also fine too, these are all just tools to help you hone your skill.

- Why OFMD? 🥹

It did something to my brain! I remember watching it back in March 2022 when there were only 6 episodes out at the time, I binged in one go and then the very next day watched all of them again. It just felt so cosy! I watched initially when I heard about it because I already loved Rhys and Taika’s works so needless to say it was hook, line and sinker from me from the start—I did not stand a chance! When it turned out to be a queer, middle-aged love story I knew it would be special to me forever.

[flowersandskeletons526]

"We Need A Tagger" - Warriors Concept Album Fanfic (Part 5/5)

Aaaaand it's the final chapter! This one definitely took longer than the others but I hope you all like it. Enjoy!

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Ajax sat on the edge of her bed, bouncing her leg and staring at Rembrandt across the room. Rembrandt sat cross legged with her sketchbook in her lap. She’d gone out on her own earlier that day - which Ajax hated but Cleon insisted upon - to get a semi-realistic sketch of the Wonder Wheel and was now planning her route to the center.

“You shouldn’t have to do this!” Ajax burst out. It was the third time she’d said it in the past hour.

Rembrandt pursed her lips and set down her pencil. “If Cleon says this will be my real initiation,” she said slowly, “I’m going to do it.”

“It’s bullshit. We wouldn’t even technically have a territory if it weren’t for your skills, just a bunch of blocks to fight over. You’ve gone through enough of an initiation already!”

“I want to earn my place in the gang.”

“You have.”

“I want to be a Warrior.”

“You are!”

“Not technically.”

“Who cares about technically?”

“You do!” Rembrandt put aside her sketchbook and turned to face Ajax fully, features set, eyes alight. Her words came out in a wild rush. “I want my colors, okay? I want to prove that I’m strong enough and brave enough to wear them. I want to walk through the city and have everyone know I run with the Warriors and I do it proudly. I don’t want anyone fucking with me anymore because they’ll know I have you and Cleon and everyone on my side. I want someone on my side, I want a crew that has my back, I want someone who always has my six, I want y-!”

She bit down hard on that last word. She inhaled sharply.

“With me,” she finished. “I want you with me.”

Ajax balled her hands into fists and let her head hang. She took three long, deep breaths like Cleon had taught her a long time ago, making a concentrated effort to control her reaction whenever she felt something she didn’t want to feel. Anger had always been easier. Fighting had always been easier than working through the tough emotions, the sadness, the worry, the fear of her past and her present and the idea that she might lose someone she wanted to be in her future.

Even if Rembrandt only had to go halfway up the face, the Wonder Wheel was massive. She could fall on the way up or the way down, she could get stuck and Ajax wasn’t sure if any of them were nimble enough to go after her, she could lose her grip when she went to paint the tag and Ajax wouldn’t be able to do anything-

Ajax stood. She said beside Rembrandt, angling her body in towards her. Rembrandt reached for her hand. “I’m with you,” Ajax whispered. “I’m gonna be there cheering you on and I’ll be waiting at the bottom with your colors when you come back down.”

Rembrandt leaned into her. She put her arms around the artist, holding her close, her pulse racing as Rembrandt all but melted in her embrace. She hoped Rembrandt couldn’t hear how fast her heart beat even with her ear pressed against her chest. Rembrandt gripped the back of Ajax’s tank top, tangling her fingers in the fabric so she couldn’t pull away, not that she wanted to. How strange it was to think that this was the same girl who only two months ago had smashed Ajax in the face with a spray paint can.

They laid down together in Rembrandt’s bed, inches apart in the dark. Rembrandt tucked her head under Ajax’s chin and curled up against her chest. Ajax had one hand under her head and kept the other on Rembrandt’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath, slow and deep and even. 

Ajax had fallen asleep beside the other Warriors before; her head on Cleon’s lap watching movies in those early days, the time she and Cochise slept back to back because her old mattress had springs poking through it, even once leaning on Swan in an empty train car after a long mission when they’d both passed out at the same time. Neither would ever admit that, though.

But with Rembrandt, it was… different. She learned from sharing a room with her that Rembrandt kept her arms up in front of her when she slept, as if even unconsciously, she was preparing to defend herself. Now she still kept one arm tucked in between them, but the other was looped around Ajax’s waist, keeping her close as she relaxed with a soft sigh.

The few inches of space between them was a chasm, and Ajax was a daredevil staring down the ramp ready to jump with a bike that wouldn’t fucking start. 

She wasn’t sure how long it was before she checked to see if Rembrandt was asleep yet. She was. It was the only time she didn’t have that little crease of worry between her eyebrows. Carefully extricating herself from Rembrandt’s arms, she stood, made sure she didn’t wake her up, grabbed her vest, and went to make a final plea.

Cleon and Swan sat across from her at the kitchen table. Both were a little pissy about being woken up in the middle of the night and Swan was almost falling asleep sitting up. Ajax didn’t like the fact that she had to bring Swan into it. She much rather would’ve only talked to Cleon. However, Cleon was the one she was arguing against, and even though Swan was Cleon’s number two and had her back on almost everything, Ajax knew they were on the same page about this.

“Why are you wearing your colors over your pajamas?” was the first thing Cleon asked. 

“It’s a gang discussion,” said Ajax, “so I’m wearing my vest.” Swan rolled her eyes, and Ajax resisted the urge to throw a punch.

Cleon dragged a hand down her face. “I already know what you’re going to say.”

“You can’t make her do this. It’s too dangerous.”

“Ajax, everyone has their own initiation-”

“I got jumped in while annexing a block. Cochise went one-on-one against you. Swan-”

“Watch your mouth,” Swan warned. 

Ajax swallowed her pride. She needed Swan on her side for this. “What I’m saying is, none of that is comparable to scaling the fucking Wonder Wheel. The letters are taller than she is! Swan, back me up here,” she begged. Swan hesitated, looking between Ajax and Cleon. Ajax’s heart sank. “What the fuck, man! You were just agreeing with me the other day!”

Swan raised her hands. “Dude, cool it, I’m not fully awake,” she slurred. She rubbed her eyes and turned to Cleon. “I do agree with her. This is… it’s too much, Cleon. Rembrandt proved how tough she is. You didn’t see her on that first night but we did. She was already rolling at the same level as us before she was even done with her first probationary mission. Why do you want her to do this?”

“I want her to do this because I know she can,” Cleon explained. “I knew all of you could pass your initiations before I handed them down. I want to see if she thinks she can do it.” 

“She does and she’s going to and that’s why you have to take it back!” Ajax snapped. 

“Ajax,” Swan said quietly, and between her tone and the way her eyes narrowed, she didn’t need to say anything else for Ajax to understand the message. 

Ajax clenched her fists and breathed in and out three times before she spoke. “In all of our initiations, if something went south, there was a way out. If something goes wrong with Rembrandt’s…”

She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.

Cleon frowned. Her eyes widened as a realization hit her. She shook her head and reached across the table to take Ajax’s hand, then Swan’s. “I want you two to look me in the eyes and tell me something,” she said. “Do you actually think I would tell Rembrandt to do this if I thought there was no safe way she could get down? There are maintenance ladders all over the damn thing.”

“But the workers are rigged up in harnesses when they go up those,” Swan pointed out. “Rembrandt’s only got her grip.”

“Is Rembrandt afraid of heights?”

Swan and Ajax looked at each other. “No,” said Ajax.

“Is she strong enough to hold her own weight?”

Ajax recalled one time they were out tagging where she watched Rembrandt hold herself at almost a ninety degree angle off the edge of a fire escape, hanging on with one hand and one foot hooked under a railing. She’d even changed hands at one point to twist over and talk to Ajax waiting on the street below. She wasn’t strong in the same way Ajax was, AKA going blow-for-blow with Swan and being able to do push-ups with Cochise on her back, but Ajax knew she’d never be able to do some of the body weight balancing feats Rembrandt accomplished with ease.

“She can.”

“Does she want to be here?”

“You know she does.”

“Then she will be fine. Have faith in your girl, Ajax.”

Ajax’s face grew hot. “What the actual fuck are you talking about?”

Cleon and Swan shared a look. A short conversation played out between the two consisting entirely of miniscule changes in their facial expressions. Ajax hated when they did that.

Cleon rose from her seat, and the Warriors rose with her. “I’m going back to sleep. Y’all should, too. We’re going to the Wonder Wheel tomorrow night so no doing anything during the day. Everyone needs rest before this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ajax grumbled. 

They all returned to their rooms. Rembrandt was still asleep. Ajax wondered if she should maybe sleep in her own bed but ultimately took her spot beside Rembrandt again. Her heart jumped as the artist reached for her in her sleep. She held her tight and, for the first time in a long time, slept easy through the night.

When she woke up, Rembrandt was gone.

Shit.

Ajax threw on the first clothes she grabbed and ran into the living room. The whole crew was there, sitting around talking and doing nothing much at all. The whole crew except Rembrandt.

“Where is she?” Ajax demanded. 

Swan raised her eyebrows. “You mean Rembrandt?”

“Fucking obviously!”

“She’s on the roof,” said Cowgirl, who was draped across Cochise’s legs on the couch.

“The roof?!”

Ajax tore out of the apartment and headed up the stairs before anyone could say another word. She found Rembrandt straddling the raised ledge around the perimeter of the roof, one foot planted safely on the floor, the other swinging idly over the four story drop. She stared out over the boardwalk and the ocean with a cigarette in her hand.

Ajax knocked lightly on the doorframe of the roof access. She was still so jumpy no matter how good of a mood she was in, and Ajax didn’t want to risk her being startled and losing her balance. Rembrandt twitched, but she didn’t waver. She turned to Ajax, eyes bright, glowing golden in the morning light, and smiled. Ajax went to stand beside her.

“What are you doing up here?” she asked.

“Smoking,” Rembrandt said.

“But why on the roof?”

Rembrandt pointed. Ajax followed her finger out to the boardwalk, to the top of the Wonder Wheel. Ajax shifted her weight between her feet. She’d been looking at the damn thing her whole life and it never occurred to her exactly how massive it was. Obviously not as tall as the parachute tower, but Rembrandt didn’t have to climb the tower. She had to climb the giant contraption of steel beams and lights and moving parts with no safety net if she misplaced a single step.

Ajax’s morbid, anxious curiosity got the best of her. “How far do you have to go up?”

“Like eight stories, I think? Cochise helped me with the math.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you-”

“Freaking the fuck out? Yeah, I am, but this doesn’t scare me as much as… as losing the Warriors.” She took a deep breath and sat up straighter. “Besides, if I do this, I’ll be the only person in the city who can say they tagged the face of the Wonder Wheel. I’ll have every other tagger beat.”

Rembrandt grinned, and Ajax chuckled. “I knew you’d make a great Warrior. Now come on.” She extended a hand and helped Rembrandt off the ledge. “Cleon says we get to just chill for today.”

And that was all they did. Everyone hung out in the apartment for the whole day, joking and watching stupid shows with no mention of business. Cleon and Cochise told funny stories from the earliest days of the gang when it was just the two of them holding down the boardwalk and they came across a scraggly little street punk trying to fight everyone who walked by. Ajax immediately shut that down, laughing and claiming no one needed to hear her origin story. She and Swan went back and forth with good natured jabs and for once there was no true venom behind it. Cochise got Cowgirl to share her wildest subway surfing stories. Rembrandt didn’t say much but she was laughing along the whole time. 

At some point, Rembrandt leaned into Ajax’s side sitting on the couch, laying her head on her shoulder. Ajax put an arm around her. She didn’t think it was weird; Cochise and Cowgirl had been sitting in each other’s laps all day and even Swan gave Cleon a quick hug from behind when she got up to get a drink from the fridge. But Cowgirl kept shooting them sly looks, smirking at Rembrandt, and Rembrandt would always look away and even gave Cowgirl the middle finger at one point. 

After the sun had set over the city, Cochise and Rembrandt went out to smoke and Cowgirl tagged along “just ’cuz.” Ajax, Swan, and Cleon sat in comfortable silence waiting for them to come back. Ajax swirled her drink around, smiling to herself, and Cleon and Swan had one of their silent eyebrow conversations. They turned to her. Ajax looked back at them, squirming in her seat. Swan smiled knowingly. 

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Ajax demanded. Cleon stifled a laugh. “Okay, seriously, why have you guys been staring at us all night?”

“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Swan. 

Ajax began to stand just as the other Warriors returned. Cleon and Swan stood, and the six of them gathered in the kitchen. Rembrandt’s smile faded as she fell into line beside Ajax. Cleon held her arms out. 

“It’s midnight,” she said. “You ready?”

“I’m ready,” Rembrandt said, standing tall. “I’ll get my paint.”

Ajax followed her into their room. She leaned on the doorframe, watching Rembrandt grab a new red spray paint can and her respirator. Ajax took a deep breath to steady herself. Rembrandt was already nervous enough and Ajax promised herself she wouldn’t add to that. 

“You’ll do great,” she said quietly, so the others wouldn’t overhear her. 

Rembrandt nodded, holding her mask in both hands and staring at it contemplatively. “You’ll be there at the bottom when I come down, right?”

“We all will.”

“But… you will be?”

“Yeah. I will be.”

Rembrandt pulled her into a fierce hug. Ajax hugged her back just as hard, only for a moment before they let go and headed back out to face the others. 

Rembrandt walked in front with Cleon as the gang made their way down the boardwalk. Cochise and Cowgirl followed. Swan left her spot at Cleon’s right hand to drift back through the group and fall into step beside Ajax. She didn’t speak, and Ajax was thankful for that. She didn’t think she could handle any sort of conversation at the moment. She felt the anxiety morphing into anger like a crucible in her chest and it scared her and she knew she absolutely could not start a fight right now. Swan reached over, staying at arm’s length, and grabbed Ajax’s shoulder. Even that was almost too much. 

They gathered around the base of the Wonder Wheel. Rembrandt had a high chain link fence to hop, metal beams to scale, and a thin, rickety ladder to climb before she even reached the letters to tag them. Then it was the same thing the whole way down again. She stood facing Cleon in front of the fence while the others formed a semi-circle around them.

“What do you have to do?” Cleon prompted.

“Climb up, tag the W’s, and come back down,” said Rembrandt. “Do I have a time limit?”

“No limit. Do it as fast as you safely can. I would rather give you a second chance at initiation than have to bury you in your colors.”

Ajax didn’t think that any of this could be done safely but whatever.

“You ready?”

Rembrandt put on her mask. “I’m ready.”

Cleon raised her arms like a master of ceremony. “Rembrandt, your initiation begins.”

She was over the fence in a second. Ajax couldn’t have done it cleaner. She crossed the base platform, hopped another barrier, and slipped into the beams. She was nothing but a shadow through the colorful lights that never turned off, jumping from strut to strut until she hauled herself up onto a maintenance ladder. She began to climb.

Ajax stepped forward beside Cleon and crossed her arms. She was afraid Cleon might see her heart beating out of her chest otherwise. Behind her, the gang cheered Rembrandt on.

“You got this, Rem!”

“Go, girl, keep going! You’re good!”

Cowgirl leaned over to Cochise. “You’re not gonna make me climb a skyscraper, are you?”

“Bitch, are you a tagger?”

Ajax tuned it out. At the top of the ladder, right below the glowing words on the face, Rembrandt paused. Ajax bristled. 

“Why is she stopping?” she hissed.

“Let her figure it out,” Cleon soothed. “She’s doing great.”

Rembrandt kept moving. She disappeared behind the letters, and Ajax stopped breathing for a solid minute. Everyone fell silent, waiting for Rembrandt to reemerge from the structure. Ajax was the first to see her: tucked into the angle of one of the W’s, reaching up with spray paint in hand, as each lightbulb was slowly but surely blacked out. Ajax grinned. 

“She’s doing it.”

The gang cheered as the final light on the first letter winked out. From the structure, they heard a very faint “Fuck yeah!” and everyone laughed. Rembrandt swung herself down, silhouetted in the light, dangling for a moment before she dropped to the bottom row of letters. She hit the top of the W…

And her foot slipped.

“No!”

Rembrandt caught herself with one hand at the last second. She was stuck, feet scrambling as she managed to hook both arms around the metal frame. Finally, she caught a foothold and dragged herself back up onto a solid beam. She straddled the dip of the letter, leaning forward to rest her head against the metal, and Ajax nearly collapsed with relief. 

She rounded on Cleon. “Bring her down,” she begged. “She tagged one of them, that should be enough. Tell her to come down right now.” 

Cleon squeezed her shoulder. “She can do it. Tell her she can.”

Ajax’s head spun. She took as deep of a breath as she could, turned to the sky, and cupped her hands around her mouth.

“Rembrandt!” she hollered. Rembrandt sat up straight upon hearing Ajax’s voice. “You can do this! We’ve got your back! You’re a Warrior!”

Rembrandt got up. She moved slower this time and carefully chose new handholds and footholds before letting go of the previous ones. The lights started going out again. Ajax heard nothing beyond the pounding of her pulse in her ears. She lost her composure as the final light disappeared. She jumped and pumped her fists in the air, shouting, “Let’s go, Rembrandt! You did it! You did it!” Swan would make fun of her for this for months afterward.

The gang cheered and chanted Rembrandt’s name as she booked it back onto the maintenance ladder. She made quick work of the way down, slipping through the jungle of metal like a fish through water. She sprinted across the platform, flew over the fence, and jumped into Ajax’s waiting arms.

Ajax picked her up and spun her around. Both of them laughed like it was the best moment of their lives. Rembrandt clung to her, arms tight around her neck, the sweet sound of her voice in Ajax’s ear and her body solid and real beneath Ajax’s hands. The moment Ajax set her down, the rest of the gang tackled them in a hug. Rembrandt gave everyone high-fives and fistbumps and laughed as Cleon ruffled her hair but she never let go of Ajax. 

As everyone stepped back, Cleon turned to Swan and took a small bundle from her. She turned back to Rembrandt. Ajax nudged the tagger forward, and Rembrandt stood before her grinning from ear to ear, bright and joyous and alive. 

“Rembrandt,” Cleon announced. She held up a brand new leather vest, showing off the bright red calling card on the back: Rembrandt’s tag. “You’re a Warrior.” 

Cleon helped her into the vest. The moment Cleon let go, Ajax and Swan swooped in and hoisted Rembrandt up onto their shoulders. She flung her arms wide and raised her face to the sky. 

“I’m a Warrior!”

-----

The gang slept through the day. Rembrandt especially needed it. She and Ajax laid down in bed, holding onto each other, breathing the same air, Ajax’s fingers combing through Rembrandt’s hair as the tagger closed her eyes. “I hope I didn’t scare you too much,” she mumbled.

“A little,” Ajax admitted, “when you slipped.”

“Not my best moment.”

“I’m just happy you’re safe.”

Rembrandt smiled just as she drifted off. “I’m a Warrior.”

Ajax chuckled. “Yeah. You’re a Warrior.”

That night there was a celebration. All the Warriors, friends from the boardwalk, and allies from other gangs crowded into the apartment. The drinks flowed. Ajax cranked the music on her stereo so loud that Swan was worried they might get a noise complaint. Everyone was there to congratulate Rembrandt on becoming the official tagger and newest initiated member of the Warriors. They raised their glasses in a toast and cheered her name at the top of their lungs. The smile never left her face. She never left Ajax’s side. 

As the night went on, the celebration quieted, old friends mingling with new and Cleon playing the good host and everyone good and drunk. Ajax was shooting the shit with Swan, both in too good of a mood to even bicker. Rembrandt had tucked herself under Ajax’s arm and lazily swirled her drink around in her glass. She looked up at her.

“Hey,” she said quietly, “I’m gonna go smoke. Wanna come with?”

“Sure.” As Ajax got up to follow Rembrandt down to the stoop, she caught Cleon smiling at the two of them out of the corner of her eye. 

They leaned against the railing together, touching from shoulder to hip. They passed a cigarette back and forth despite Ajax claiming she didn’t smoke. “You’re allowed to smoke when you’re drunk,” she claimed, which got a laugh out of Rembrandt.

As the cigarette burned out, Ajax turned to her. “Listen,” she said. Rembrandt looked up at her, angling herself in, her face illuminated by the single light above the door. Ajax’s heart caught in her throat. “I, um, I-I-I…” Since when the fuck did she ever get tongue-tied? There was no way she could be that wasted. “I just… I wanted to say I’m really proud of you and-”

Rembrandt grabbed her by the collar and kissed her. 

Ajax froze in shock for a millisecond before melting into the kiss. Heat flared in her chest as Rembrandt took her face in her hands, her thumb sweeping across the curve of her jaw as she pulled Rembrandt close by her waist. The cold of the evening air faded against the warmth of Rembrandt’s touch. She couldn’t feel the metal railing pressing into her hip or the buzz of liquor in her head, only Rembrandt’s hands on her skin, the rush of her heart, the little sigh that fell from Rembrandt’s lips as she arched up into her. 

Ajax’s life couldn’t get any better. 

“I fucking knew it!” 

The pair jumped apart. They looked up to see the other Warriors crowding in the doorway, with Cowgirl standing in front and grinning smugly at them. Ajax and Rembrandt flushed bright red. 

“What was that about not having a thing?” she teased. 

“Cowgirl!”

Rembrandt bolted after her, chasing her up the stairs as Cowgirl laughed wildly. Cleon, Swan, and Cochise laughed and watched them go before they simultaneously turned to Ajax. Her head was still spinning.

“What just happened?” 

Cleon smiled and shook her head. She put an arm around Ajax and gave her a gentle shake. “She’s got a full hold on you,” she chuckled.

“Huh?”

“Let’s get back to the party.”

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Please leave a comment if you liked it! I love talking to you all!