#Plaques for Benches

[benchmemorialplaques]

New York City

November 2024

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[severalowls]

The bench at the bus stop at the big junction near me has conspicuously disappeared and I swear to god it had better just be in for repairs and not Gone.

[flock-of-cassowaries]

Revising my will to let my loved ones know that I, too, want to come back as a bench.

…but not one of the ones with the trash cans attached to them. I have contamination OCD so that is like an existential nightmare to me.

[im-the-lover]

[ploverbear]

i wonder if i would be like. allowed. to set up a little free library outside my apartment

[s0upofthenight]

Please put why and give any details you'd like in the tags!!!

[weirdstrangeandawful]

I doubt this will happen but decided right now right here: When I die, someone needs to dedicate a bench with the most batshit crazy thing I have ever said.

Some candidates:

'Aoûtisme' [actually inspired by @whatcoloristhatcat I believe]

'I'm like if the CIA was Peter Pan'

'Alto clef is a frat boy'

'My left nipple is not pleased with the goose activities'

'You are a very very inefficient soda stream'

theres something about being disabled and needing to sit down constantly in public spaces that makes you notice how often benches are put up as tributes and memorials. and before i hit an age where i really started to need them as frequently i think i never fully understood the sentiment but now its become very endearing to me. a bit of relief and care for you in the name of someone who offered us the same… i dont think i had a point with this post but i hope everyone thats been memorialized as such knows how loved they were to become synonymous with respite even to total strangers

[dearmisshoney]

when stone hungers

synopsis. taking the gardening gig at the malfoy manor turns out to be more than just pulling weeds and trimming bushes. the old security guard warned you about the haunted statues, but you’ve brushed his counsels as mere stories to boost the popularity of the tourist attraction. what happens when you’re trapped in the intricate maze of the manor, hunted down by a lust-filled cursed statue?

pairing. cursed statue! draco malfoy x reader

content/mdni. DUB-CON. fem!reader, gardener!reader, cursed statue!draco, victorian man!draco, repressed!draco, kinda soft!draco, dom!draco, possessive!draco, weeping angels!au type of statue, maze chase, a bit of horror (?), monster-fucking (you fuck his human form tho), blindfold usage, oral (m and f receiving), public/maze sex, dirt/pavement fucking, doggy style, slight size kink, teasing, allusion to humiliation (m receiving), overstimulation (f receiving), praise, dirty talk (bad attempt at victorian speech), name-calling (darling, good girl, my sweet, my gardener), raw sex, thoatpie, creampie, tons of plot (5k is just plot and build-up)

word count. 7k

a/n. have you ever wanted to fuck a statue? I GOT YOU! smut and a dash of horror? I GOT YOU x2. first draco fic! my lovely @draco-malfoys-lovergirl, sorry for taking so long! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

“so the side garden and the maze, right?”

“yes, miss.” the old man confirmed immediately, nodding his head in agreement as well. “please start with the garden, as our guests will see that first.”

indeed, when the malfoy manor will be open to visitors, fully converted into a tourist attraction, the side garden will reach their eyes first. the maze, positioned at the back of the manor, somewhere more reserved, will only be explored — if ever — together with a tour guide.

“the maze is terribly overgrown, but do not stress yourself too much. there’s a small chance for it to be open to the public.” he mused, pursing his lips towards the end in an attempt to stifle a laugh. “kids will definitely get lost in it.”

“i understand. then i will make my way to the garden and work my magic.” you gave the old man a crooked smile before bowing slightly, signaling your departure.

“good luck with that!” he smiled back at you, his gesture flying to his eyes and making them turn into two curved lines. “and, miss. be careful with the statues!”

a small chuckle escaped your lips, but you brushed it away with a sway of your hand. “i am sure the haunted statues will let a master do her work in peace.”

bowing your head towards the man one last time, you bid him goodbye. picking up your wheelbarrow — full with your gardening equipment, you headed to the side garden to assess the situation.

the job advertisement did not lie.

the garden, long abandoned, was in terrible shape. the flower bushes were overgrown, yet somehow still blooming despite the obvious lack of care. weeds were sprouting everywhere, enveloping and capturing the legs of the few benches.

some vines even latched themselves over the statue in the middle, crawling over the stepping stone and curving all over the name plaque. the shoes of the statue were surprisingly clean, but that might be because of the birds attacking it and picking at its feet.

birds were definitely attracted by this statue, as the shoulders and even the hat were covered in white stains of poo.

“here is young master…”

your gloved hands, already equipped for ripping weeds and other unwelcomed plants, rested on the plaque, caressing over the wild vines and, then, ripping them away from the surface.

the polished stone of the plaque was finally breathing, hit by the warm sun after being drowned in leaves and lianas for god knows how long.

“… draco malfoy.”

the inscription was now clear to your eyes and you muttered the name with such familiarity, like you’ve known the young man for ages.

but you didn’t, really.

you had to look up at the statue to register to whom such a name belonged. squinting your eyes, you raised your gaze from below your hat’s brim and pierced his own.

it was quite the tall statue, the young man keeping a straight and unwavering posture. he was of noble lineage, that was quite clear from his expensive victorian attire — the coat draped over his shoulders, although sprinkled with bird poop, was fabulously sculpted. his fingers, clad in big rings which would’ve definitely bought a house in today’s time, were perched on his sturdy fingers. every detail of his hands was visible to the naked eye thanks to their position, placed one over the other on the handle of a cane.

and his eyes… so soulless, yet so full of wonders. the colours were not captured into the cold muddy stone, yet his gaze was drawing you in, hypnotizing you and calling you to explore their depths.

there was no depth, as the sculptor couldn’t possibly imitate the intricacies of the human eye. yet, his eyes made your feet move closer to his, made you step on the stone platform and stop before him. his eyes made you crane your neck upwards to meet his face once more.

his eyes made your gloved hand touch his face and caress that freezing, lifeless stone.

“you must’ve been very popular with the girls, master draco.”

your tone was not full of jest or mockery. you were sincere. if you, a modern woman, found his statue attractive, surely ladies in the victorian era were swooned by his alive version.

“were your eyes piercing green?” you mumbled to yourself, contemplating on his eye color as you carefully danced across his cheek with your fingers. “or maybe a deep chocolate brown?”

the stone could not answer back to such questions.

“or a nice electric shade of blue?”

you were now close to him. too close.

your nose bumped into his stone one and, in that moment, you realized how crazy you must look from the outside. you retracted your hand immediately and jumped down from the stepping stone, putting some distance between you and the statue.

“gosh, maybe i am the haunted one.” you say out loud as you smack your own head, trying to bring you back to reality and do the job you were actually hired to do.

picking up the weeds you’ve removed from his plaque, you throw that into one of your giant garbage bags. fastening the gardening apron tighter around your hips, you drop into the front pockets your shears and your little trowel and began rehabilitating the garden.

all under the statue’s fixed gaze.

•••

“and the last one.” you finished counting the garbage bags as you throw the last one into your wheelbarrow. it drops nicely next to the other three bags you’ve previously placed, deflating atop of the pile like a mushed cherry.

your tools were nicely spread across one of the benches there, your apron now empty and easier to carry around.

making your way to the statue, you plop yourself down on the platform, butt seated right next to the plaque. you extended your left hand to the side of the stone, fishing for your water bottle, as you admire the work you’ve done.

the garden was looking so much better than before and, with a bit of aftercare, you’re sure it will be blooming beautifully for the opening ceremony. for now, the nicely trimmed bushes, the uprooted and cleaned-up weeds, and the shoveled soil will do.

“good work, girl!” you congratulated yourself as you opened the bottle, unscrewing the cap with one hand and bringing it to your thirsty mouth. dipping your head backwards, ready to savoir the by-now lukewarm water, you hit something rigid with the back of your head.

“ugh– ouch…” you instantly jumped forward, raising from your make-shift seat and turning to inspect the obstacle.

the statue.

you could’ve sworn you were not that close to the statue, as the edge of the platform was still some inches away from the body. and you were right, the distance between the margin and the sculpted shoes was big enough, but you seem to have missed the extended arm of the statue.

his right hand was looming forward, as if young master malfoy was placing his palm against the head of his trusty subordinates.

“thank god it didn’t shatter.”

you were grateful the stone was not damaged by your sturdy head. technically, it was impossible for it to break from a mere strike; practically, the statue was so old, even such a movement could ruin it. you came closer, carefully analyzing the hand, grasping it in your own naked one and feeling around the stone.

it seemed fine. unharmed.

“i might as well clean the poo off of you, no?” you sigh, knowing you’d have to sacrifice your last gulps of water to wash away the dried-up spurts of excrements from the statue.

but you did, going up again on the platform and splashing the stains with your water bottle. thankfully, the bird poo appeared to not be as hardened as expected, flowing down together with the liquid and leaving behind clean stone.

“there, there, young master.”

some poo was adorning his top hat, but your stature did not allow you to reach them. and you find that the hard way, as water actually splashed lower, over draco’s face and away from his hat.

“ooops, my bad.”

you were speaking to the statue like it was a real human being, apologizing for drenching his face in water and even frantically searching for your cloth to dry it.

“we can’t have this beautiful smile drown, hm?” humming, you dabbed up all the water, revealing his upturned lip corners to you.

“all good! and handsome as ever.”

and with that you departed from the statue a second time that day, eagerly packing up your tools and dropping them next to the garbage bags. your water bottle joined them too, a clear reminder of your unclenched thirst.

“bye, bye, draco! hope you like your rejuvenated garden.”

with a brief goodbye and a childish giggle, you pushed your wheelbarrow on the exit path of the side garden, ending your first day as the rehabilitation gardener of the malfoy manor.

•••

“young master malfoy, we meet again.”

you almost laughed when you came back the next day and saw another statue of draco. you’ve finished with the side garden yesterday, a place which was built with draco malfoy in mind — or so the old man told you.

so why was a similar statue in the maze?

perched upon a similar platform, with a similar plaque, was a similar man.

it was definitely draco, you could recognize his facial features by now. his outfit was the same as the one from the side garden — the expensive coat, the top hat, the dress pants. even the cane was present in this sculpture.

the pose was different.

for once, the cane was no longer positioned in front of his body. it rested nicely alongside his frame, supported by his left hand. his right hand was bent and kept over his chest, holding between his ring-clad fingers his hat. his head was no longer sheltered, and you could now see how nicely his hair framed his features.

“the old guy said your eyes were bluish, even grey in certain moments of the day.”

you were now accustomed to stepping on the platform and forcing yourself into the statue’s personal space. you shamelessly cupped his face, like you were ready to rotate it downwards towards you, but it was stone — statues don’t move. so you had to rotate your own to meet his straightforward gaze.

“they might have been gray, but not this lifeless gray, surely.”

you thumb at the warm stone, heated by the radiant sun, tricking your mind into thinking that the man before you was somehow real. but it wasn’t. this was all just your imagination reconstructing the young lord with the bits and pieces you found around.

“and he said you had blond hair.”

your hand moved to the nape of his neck, but there were no strands of hair which you could’ve touched. the stone carvings of his haircut were stuck to his scalp, another reminder of his inanimate state.

“oh, your hat has poo on it.” the hat, which was not on his head like in the previous statue, caught your attention.

the edge had a familiar shit stain on it, and it made you wonder if birds had preferred spots to strike.

“let me get that before i start my work.”

with a bit of water and a tiny cloth, you rubbed away the stubborn stain and made the hat match his clean attire. “no stains for you, draco.” you finally reported like he was your boss, raising your gaze one last time as if the stone could offer its approval.

the statue remained unmoving and expressionless, but his downward gaze was fixated on his top hat. as if young master draco watched over your work and took in your efforts.

that was good enough for you, so you’ve moved away from the statue and straight back to your gardening duties.

as you’ve began shaping the hedges of the maze, you’ve completely skipped over the vine-covered plaque at the feet of the statue.

indeed, you now knew the name of the young master, so there was no curiosity left in you. but if you’ve just taken a peek at it you’d have realized that something was not adding up.

beneath the lianas, another name was carved into stone: lucius malfoy.

was the name wrongly placed? or… was it the statue?

•••

“no way it’s already this late?!” as you elevate your head from underneath the hedge, with weeds plucked in both hands, you are hit with a darkening sky and a rising moon.

“shit.” you dropped the plants in your open garbage bag and instantly pulled at the edge of your gardening gloves, turning them inside out so your skin remains clean.

“keys, keys, keys, where are the damn keys?” you start frantically searching your pockets for the keys to the main gate of the place, praying and hoping you have them on you.

the security guy at the entrance surely locked up the place an hour ago, now peacefully snoring in his little hut. security cameras are not yet installed so he won’t know you were locked in until the very morning.

your pockets were empty.

“no, no, no, this is unreal. maybe i dropped them somewhere around here?” you ducked and searched around the dirt on your hands and knees, trying to sniff out the keys like some trained dog.

but they were not around here.

“the statue maybe?” you had left most of your equipment there, as the center of the maze allowed you enough space to store them... and a sitting spot.

you hurried your steps towards the statue, turning lefts and then rights to reach it. you’ve memorized this part of the maze with how many trips you’ve made back and forth. and lo’ and behold, you did reach the center of the maze in record time, the statue of draco malfoy greeting you with his usual expressionless face.

“draco, dear, have you seen some keys?” you asked the statue like it will respond, so nerve-wrecked by the situation that you don’t even take into account the absurdity of the question.

of course, the statue did not answer, holding the cane in his right hand and the hat with his left, close to his torso, just like before.

the last ray of sun, paling with the arrival of the night, did help you one last time, glimmering the metal part of the keys at draco’s feet. you rushed to them relieved, thanking the universe for not abandoning you in these godforsaken times.

“gotcha.” clutching the keys, you pull them towards you with excitement. only to realize that a good chunk of them was stuck beneath the stone shoes of the statue.

stuck beneath the stone shoes of the statue?

“what the actual fuck?”

and you pulled again, this time with more force, tightening your fingers around the metal object and putting all your force into freeing them. all that to no avail.

“what are they doing there to begin with? is this some sort of sick prank?”

you kneeled down, legs bent and digging into the cracked pavement, as you grounded yourself to channel more power into your grip. you tried again, tugging at the keys underneath the stone foot with every muscle of your body.

nothing.

“shit.” you sprang up from your kneeling position, abandoning the keys at once to find some kind of tool to help you get them out. “maybe a crowbar? there should be one here, no?”

turning your back completely and strutting down one of the four pathways, you mentally go through all your tools to decide which one might act as a jack. maybe your big shovel can help you raise the statue someh–

your body slowed in its tracks when your ears registered footsteps behind you.

thank god, the security guy realized you were still inside and came to get you. his footsteps resonated louder and louder, a strong indicator the person was approaching you.

what was his name again? david?

“david, sir, i am so gla­–” and you stopped completely, readying yourself to turn around and face the man.

that did not happen, as strong, manly arms slide along your body, trapping you in a harsh lock. one hand dipped along your waist, nestling nicely across your lower abdomen, while the other snaked up to your jaw, forcing you to keep your gaze forward.

you tried to turn your head around and see the man behind you, but your face was gripped tightly by ring-clad fingers, digging into your cheeks and leaving marks into your skin.

“don’t move, darling.”

“w–who are you? let me go!”

you struggled against his arms, elbowing the body behind you in an attempt to escape. but he was unwavering and rigid, like stone.

“you know me, darling.” he whispered mysteriously against the shell of your ear, warm breath fanning across the side of your neck as he was closing in.

“what the fu–” ck is wrong with you? that’s what you were about to say, but the clattering of a foreign object onto the pavement made you stop and gaze down.

a cane.

a very familiar cane dropped down onto the pavement, clicking twice before going silent against the stone. a very familiar cane which was no longer of stone, but of a dark wood.

there was only one man who possessed such an object…

“d­–draco?”

“bravo.” draco breathed the praise as his lips were zeroing into your skin, careful pecks falling onto your neck soon after.

“b–but you’re stone! you are not real.” you try to use reason to understand the situation, but the not-so-innocent touches of his made your brain uncooperative. your lips, smashed into one another by his fingers, barely allowed a whimper to escape as draco’s kisses arrived at the base of your neck.

“–oh, but i am quite real, my sweet.”

his voice unfolded against your skin, low and silken, steeped in something archaic, something belonging to a century long buried. the tone of his speech carried the tidy rhythm of nobility, but there was a lazy, indulgent pitch to it now — like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

his hand moved slowly — possessively — from your stomach to the edge of your hipbone, resting there as if to lay claim. his fingers, still clad in cold rings that clinked faintly against your apron, brushed the skin where your shorts had shifted.

you shivered under the contrast of cool metal and warm breath.

“this– this isn’t possible…” you muttered, even as you twitch into him, instinct fighting every logical thread unraveling in your mind.

“really?” draco’s lips curled into a smile against your skin, teeth grazing lightly across the tender curve where your neck met your shoulder.

his voice, sultry and low, rumbled like thunder muffled under layers of velvet. you could feel the press of his body now — warm, firm, unmistakably human.

nothing like the freezing statue you had pressed your palms against yesterday.

“i’ve been watching you…” he murmured, dragging his lips down the arch of your throat, his hand on your hips squeezing tighter, possessive. “these couple of days.”

his words left a trail of heat far worse than the sun ever could.

“i knew you were trouble the moment your little hands touched my face… so soft, so curious.” his hand now moved over the lower straps of your apron, thumb toying with the fabric and slowly tugging it loose.

his voice dropped further, molasses-thick with old aristocratic charm. “do you know what it does to a man, to be frozen in time, starved, only to be worshipped like that?”

“i–i didn’t know—” you stammered, but he silenced you with a soft tut.

“oh, you wound me.” his voice wrapped around you like ivy, his darkened tone churning that coil in your tummy.

his teeth grazed your collarbone once more, and his hand dipped underneath the loose apron, down past your navel, fingers ghosting over the waistband of your shorts. his touch sent jolts through you, as unreal as the whole moment.

“you kept me clean. touched me like i was a god. spoke to me like i was a man. which do you want me to be now, hm?”

you gasped when his hand dipped beneath, fingers unerring, arrogant. you could barely keep upright, held up only by the hold of his arms and the way he crowded your body against his own rigid one.

“i– you are not real.” you shook your head in disbelief, still refusing to accept that the statue was alive. and, above all, full of desire for you.

you could feel his hands, warm and calloused, and his cool rings tease the skin beneath your waistband, palming your lower abdomen and feeling around for your undergarments. you could feel his lips still glued to your skin, now leaving open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

you could feel his clothed cock digging into your ass, the stiffness of it a reminder of his previous stone-being.

“must you deny the truth?” he growled behind you, his wandering hand stopping to scratch at your skin in frustration. “i am of flesh, just like you are.”

“then show me! let me see you.” you too exhaled in frustration, demanding to be turned around and shown his true, alive form. you tossed and turned in his grasp again, forcing your hands on his own and trying to pry them away from you.

“that i cannot do, darling.” his hands only became more rigid around you, muscles flaring beneath his coat and stilling your revolt.

“shall your eyes lay on me, i turn to stone.”

and there it was, the core of his curse. as long as your eyes are on him, he will remain a stone statue, frozen in time in the position he last occupied. with your eyes averted from his frame — just like the situation now — he was alive and capable of every human thing.

“l–lies…”

“check for yourself, my sweet.” he surrendered, sighing into your neck before jutting your head to the side, enough to glance back at the stone platform on which he previously stood. for good measure, draco did step to the side as well, shielding his form from your own wondering eyes.

your orbs were graced with the familiar view of the maze’s center, with the stepping stone and the four pathways it fostered. but there was no statue to welcome you. the pedestal was empty, like a sculpture was never there to begin with.

your keys were still there, but no longer obstructed by a foot. they shine less than before, now with the sun completely gone from the sky.

“b–but how?”

the reveal felt heavy on your shoulders, making your knees buckle under the weight of the cruel truth. you kept blinking and blinking, wishing the scenery would change and draco the statue would appear back on the platform.

but that didn’t happen.

“i walked.” draco answered your rhetorical question, humming against your skin in an attempt to soothe your anxieties.

“first from the garden–”

oh. this pedestal wasn’t his to begin with.

“–to this platform. then, i just stepped down when i saw you were leaving.”

his last words were dripping with something dark, possessive, venomous. “why leave me, darling?” draco gripped your jaw tighter, keeping it in place, as he saw your face sliding towards him.

wishing to see him. wishing to paralyze him.

“i thought hiding your keys was a splendid idea.” he mumbled more to himself than to you, analyzing his failure of a plan. “i should have claimed you from the start.”

“you are not real.” you whispered again, trembling now. but it wasn’t from fear alone. his words, so dangerous and possessive, made your insides combust with arousal.

draco chuckled darkly against your skin. “still in denial?” he said. “even when i am touching you. holding you. wanting you.”

his hand slid lower, right on top of your panties, and you felt the pads of his fingers ghost against the slick heat between your thighs. you jerked instinctively, a moan catching in your throat, and he grinned against your neck — you could feel it, the pride blooming in that twisted, noble heart.

“l–let me see you.”

“can’t do, my sw–”

“let me see you turn to stone, then i will believe you.”

draco stiffened. you could feel the tremor that ran through his body. not out of anger, but of reluctant fear.

"you wish to see me… undone?" his breath faltered for a moment. “to gaze upon me and strip me of my human form?”

you nodded as best as you could, hoping he would comply to your request.

“i need… proof.” you whispered. “i need to know you’re not a dream i’ve conjured.”

he went quiet. too quiet.

then — half-heartedly, with the weight of a century behind his breath — he spoke, voice barely a rasp. “then have it.”

draco’s arms fell away from you slowly, dragging against your skin like tamed serpents. his body slipped away from your own, away from your warmth, and the moment he did... cold rushed back in.

you turned.

the first thing you saw was the flash of his eyes — steel-gray, like a storm you’d only seen in paintings. like the sea itself had been frozen mid-tempest.

then, stone.

it happened in a blink.

his eyes — once alive, calculating, devouring you — were now glazed with eternal silence. his lips, once curled with hunger and twisted flirtation, were now unmoving. perfect. cold.

his hand was reaching out to you still. but it was rigid now.

draco malfoy stood before you, just as he had the first day you saw him. carved in grace, haunted in stillness.

the only sign he’d ever moved was the position of his body: arms half-raised, chest slightly arched forward, like he was trying to reach you. like he was begging you not to leave him after your little test.

you stumbled back, almost falling on your butt against the pavement.

the truth of it — of him — finally slamming into your chest like a blow.

the statue was alive. and he wanted you.

“no.” you breathed, horror wrapping around your lungs, making your breaths heavy with fear. “no, no, no…”

you backed away, but the statue — draco — stood watchful, haunting. you could feel his presence even now, humming under the skin of stone. waiting.

and if you dared to blink–

you didn’t wait to find out.

with a gasp stuck in your throat and adrenaline lashing through your veins, you ran.

you ran back into the maze, cutting corners, clipping hedges, ignoring the way untamed branches clawed at your arms. you ran like he could follow — and maybe, just maybe, he would, the moment your eyes left him long enough.

because now you knew: he was never just stone.

your legs moved before your thoughts could catch them. every twist and turn of the maze felt unfamiliar now, foreign, menacing. the very same hedges you’d lovingly pruned now loomed like walls.

like a prison.

a shiver crawled down your spine, even before you heard the snap of twigs behind you.

he was following you as your eyes were no longer on him.

you turned sharply down a narrow corridor of green. left, right, right again. you had to get out. had to get to the entrance. but the hedges all looked the same. you could barely see where your feet landed as dusk drowned the world in navy blue.

then — a whisper.

“running from me, darling?”

your heart was pierced by a spear of fear, making your legs loose balance and divert you from the path. you turned the left corner with urgency, hoping to at least lose draco in the maze.

his voice was near. too near.

luck was not on your side. as you bolted again, crashing through a thicket of untrimmed ivy, you emerged into a clearing.

and a terrifying dead end.

he stepped out from the neighboring hedge, moving with the careful grace of a man who had learned to treasure each moment of motion. like someone who’d spent too long unable to move at all.

his haunting voice hit you before his frame did, bouncing around the greenery and shooting straight into your core.

“found you.” it was velvet-laced steel, refined and dangerous, still soaked in that archaic drawl that made your knees tremble.

you backed up until your spine hit the hedge behind you and you curled into yourself, bending your arms in front of you to make a make-shift shield. that only aided him, your eyes now blocked by your self-made barrier.

draco advanced slowly — not like a man chasing, but like one collecting what was already his.

“you can’t escape me.”

your arms did little to protect you as you feel his body heat on yours, his breath fanning over the exposed skin. and when you remembered his weakness — your eyes — and tried to break away your shield, he immediately plopped his hat over the top-half of your face, covering them completely.

“nuh, nuh, we can’t have that again, can we?”

draco’s long fingers ghosted over your temples, adjusting the brim of the top hat so it sloped lower over your face, further obscuring your eyes. it was his own — victorian, dark velvet — worn during centuries of stillness. it smelled like him: old parchment, mossy rain, secrets pressed into stone.

but it wasn’t enough.

“no peeking.” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice now; closer, lower, dripping with victorious delight. “i’ve just got you back.”

you felt the rough tug of fabric being untied; your gardening cloth, pulled from your belt loop. a moment later, it joined the hat, knotted securely around your eyes in practiced, possessive movements.

like a blindfold.

“there. now you may believe me with your body, if not your sight.”

you gasped as his lips found your collarbone again, this time, hungrier. he kissed like he had waited decades to know the taste of flesh, wetting your exposed skin with spit and need.

"touch me more." he murmured, voice crumbling into gravel and satin. “like you did before. every meeting, hands on my face, on my hands… do you have any idea what that did to me, darling?”

you didn’t get the chance to answer.

draco pushed you back gently, letting you feel the hedge at your spine, the dirt soft beneath your knees as he guided you down. he knelt too, with a reverence that belonged to old traditions.

“i have dreamt of this...” he confessed, the edge of his coat brushing your thighs. “when night fell and the world turned its eyes away… i imagined you like this. on your knees. kneeling for your master.”

your fingers trembled as they reached out — found him. warm, alive, impossibly real beneath your palms. your careful touch was redirected by his own hands to his pants, encouraged to explore. to find the hard outline of his cock straining behind the buttons, itching to be freed.

and when you expectantly prodded against his crotch, the protruding bulge left you rubbing your thighs together in anticipation.

“you feel it?” he said softly, breath hitching as you cupped him fully in your palms. “flesh. not stone. and all for you.”

with careful hands, you undid the buttons. thankfully, the victorian attire had an easy-to-open mechanism. his cock sprang free in seconds, hot and heavy against your palm. it twitched when you wrapped your warm fingers around him, a bead of precum sliding along down to your digits.

“good girl.” he purred, one hand tangling in your hair, the other bracing against the hedge behind your head. his hat was long forgotten on the pavement, falling on your way down to this kneeling position.

but the hat was no longer a concern, as your sturdy cloth was blocking your eyes just right.

“taste me. take what you’ve longed for.”

there was no point in denying the want surging inside you, the dryness of your mouth which was only curable by draco’s messy cock. so you opened your mouth and pressed the head to your tongue, slow and teasing, admiring the weight it had.

he hissed sharply through his teeth, head lolling back from the feeling.

“ah—fuck.” draco rarely cursed, but it rolled off his tongue naturally. “so warm. so perfect.”

you swirled your tongue around the head, tasting salt and something ancient beneath the surface — like stone kissed by summer storms. draco’s hips bucked immediately, the feeling of your wet muscle making him groan loudly, but he quickly regained composure.

always the aristocrat. even undone.

“steady, darling…” he muttered, breath ragged. “we’ve… all the time in the world.”

his fingers tightened in your hair as you bobbed lower, taking more of him into your mouth. you could feel the tremble in his thighs, the tightness in his heavy balls, the way centuries of restraint tried not to shatter in your grip.

“beautiful.” his voice cracked. “you were always meant to kneel before me.”

the maze around you was silent, save for the sloshing sounds of your mouth and draco’s barely contained moans — quiet, strangled, like he still couldn’t believe he was free to make them.

you hollowed your cheeks, sucked harder.

“oh—” he choked, head thudding gently forward against the hedge. “yes. just like that. my sweet little gardener. worship me.”

and you did. breathing through your nose, you lowered your head fully onto his cock, making draco hit the back of your throat oh so unceremoniously.

your broken chokes, your drooling lips, your twitching hands, they all contributed to the sensation, making draco grip your scalp harsher and tug at the roots of your hair.

“you are bloody divine.”

he cursed again, one last string of aristocratic filth, and came in your mouth with a gasp like the cracking of old stone — loud, desperate, reverent. you swallowed it all, never once opening your eyes beneath the cloth, savouring the creaminess of his release.

like stone, you stayed still, nose-deep into his navel, welcoming his hefty spurts of cum into your hungry mouth. his legs were trembling, his hips were jutting back and forth with extasy. but alas, draco stilled shortly after, breathless yet aroused beyond compare.

when he pulled out moments later, his touch was gentle on your face as his fingers instructed you to open your mouth. to let him see his seed completely swallowed.

“my good girl.”

but your reward was far from over.

draco leaned down, pressed a kiss to your covered temple — a gentleness so jarring after the feral way he’d just used your mouth. and then you felt it; how his cock twitched again, not even finished with you.

not even close.

“turn for me.” he murmured, lifting your chin with two fingers. “face down, arse up. there’s more i must claim.”

you obeyed without further complaints, breath caught in your throat as your body moved. the hedge behind you scraped your shoulder as you shifted, the cloth over your eyes still snug. your knees found the hard dirt again, but this time, your chest lowered too, forearms braced beneath you as you arched your back and presented yourself to him.

you heard him groan behind you — truly groan.

deep, rough, primal.

“look at you.” he breathed. “so obedient. you’ve no idea what that does to me.”

he knelt behind you, one hand smoothing down your spine like a sculptor reacquainting himself with his abandoned statue. you gasped when his other hand slipped to your waistband, pulling your bottoms down to your knees in one go.

and then, with considerate care, right between your thighs — two long, aristocratic fingers dipping into your slick folds, already drenched with arousal and need.

“so wet.” he murmured, voice thick with disbelief. “all this for me?”

you could only whimper in response, hips grinding back into his hand, asking for more.

draco slipped a finger inside — just one — curling it expertly, teasing the gummy spot that made you see stars behind the blindfold. then another joined, his knuckles gliding with ease as he fingered you open, slow and rhythmic, relishing every soaked sound your cunt made.

“draco– please–”

he leaned forward, hot breath brushing your ear. “i know what you need, dear.”

yet the fingers left you. you nearly cried from the loss, pushing your hips back in an attempt to reconnect with his digits. but they were replaced immediately by the blunt, aching head of his cock, nudging your entrance. you arched further, offering yourself like a prize.

and draco took you like he’d earned it.

with one smooth thrust, he sheltered himself inside, forcing a plethora of moans from the both of you. his grip on your hips turned bruising, holding you steady as he bottomed out, hips flush to your ass, balls close to your clit, cock buried deep where only he belonged.

“fuck.” he hissed, bending over your back as his hips began to move. “so tight. so bloody warm. you were made for this. made for me.”

the pace he set was punishing — precise and powerful, years of immobility fueling each thrust. you clawed into the soil, gasping, whining and whimpering, the stretch of him making your body quake with need.

he held your hips like a man anchoring himself to reality, to you. his cock drove deeper with each thrust, the sound of skin slapping and wetness growing louder, filthier. then he reached down and found your clit, rubbed in merciless circles, as he plowed into you harder from behind.

“say it.” he growled, voice ragged. “say you’re mine.”

you choked on a moan. “yours– draco. i’m yours–!”

“yes, yes, you are.” he thrust harder. “mine to fuck. mine to deflower in the dirt if i so wish. mine to keep.”

soon, your orgasm hit like lightning — white-hot, rolling through your limbs and stealing your breath away. you came around his cock with a cry, pussy clenching so tight it drew a broken, gasping moan from him.

draco wasn’t far behind. he slammed into you once, twice, trice — then spilled another load deep inside, heat flooding you, his cum thick and scorching against your velvety walls. his hands trembled on your body, his breath heavy with relief and admiration.

“mine forever.”

when he pulled out, slow and attentive, your cunt ached from the loss, pulsing to be filled again and again. his fingers trailed your thighs, rubbing around your entrance and smearing the mess he’d made of you. spreading the sticky mixture of your bodies around in utter admiration.

“you bewitched me.” he spoke from behind you, accusing you of witchcraft like he wasn’t the one cursed to be half-statue.

be it jest or fact, you had no moment to respond as his mouth, hot and wet, latched onto your puffy cunt.

“w–wait, draco.” but he didn’t listen, clutching your hips again and forcing you to stay still as he lapped up your release.

he moaned low against your cunt, the sound guttural— unrefined — like a man slipping the leash after centuries of stillness. his tongue moved like he was painting scripture onto your folds, worshipping, devouring, humming with dark delight.

“oh, fuck— draco.” you gasped, unable to do anything but rut your hips back against his face, face collapsed over the dirtied pavement. he growled in approval, fingers digging into your thighs, spreading you wider, eating you deeper.

his tongue lapped up every drop of your combined slick, every pulse of arousal still leaking from your quivering pussy. he didn’t miss a thing. not a tremble. not a twitch.

and if you tried to squirm away, overstimulated, crying with need, he dragged you right back, nose buried between your cheeks and taunting complaints on his lips.

“no.” he muttered darkly. “you don’t run from this. not when i’ve waited centuries to taste you.”

his voice was muffled by your flesh, filthy and fervent. the sharpness of his accent cracked around the vowels like he was losing himself, becoming undone in the most deliciously undignified way.

then he lifted his face from your core just enough to speak clearly.

“you've ruined me.” he said, breathless. “made me fuck like a peasant on the dirt. like i’ve never known silk or propriety. i’m humiliating myself for your cunt, and i don’t even care.”

you let out a helpless sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, his confession making your cunt drool more on his tongue.

he licked another stripe through your folds, groaning like it hurt. “do you understand what that means, darling? aristocracy runs in my veins.”

briefly tonguing your leaking entrance, he then continued. “but all it took was a gardener with gentle hands and sweet words to make me rut into the grass like i’d forgotten my title.”

draco dragged your hips higher, adjusted your knees against the soil like he was aligning art — then sucked your clit into his mouth and moaned as he did.

you screamed.

your thighs quivered like leaves in a powerful wind. your hands clawed at the hedge in front of you. and still he feasted.

draco malfoy, the statue who had once stood cold and untouchable, now on his knees, face buried in your dripping cunt, completely captivated by the taste of you.

and all you could do was sob his name into the dusk, voice wrecked, as your second orgasm crashed over you. he didn’t stop until your legs collapsed and your body went boneless in the dirt; his lips shiny, chin slick, and expression wickedly dazed.

then, finally, with all the self-satisfaction of a man who had just claimed divinity, he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“take accountability, my darling.”

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @theodoresvalentine, @cafechichay, @lov3notts, @nottslove

[hometoursandotherstuff]

1922 "Hobbit House" is a 9 unit apt. complex in Culver City, CA. The 10bd, 9ba, 10, 980 sq ft residence was designed by 1940s Disney artist Lawrence Joseph. There are 5 buildings and current leases are lower than market value so there's the opportunity to increase them when they expire. $1.95m.

It's also an historical monument. So the original owners did live here, according to the plaque.

Another of the 5 buildings on the property. There's also a water feature and it looks like this building needs work.

It's nice, but the water looks green. Looks like it needs some refreshing and landscaping.

Johnson's granddaughter lived here and is selling it. It's cute. Look at the floor. A Google search suggests that it was once a restaurant. This looks like a bar, but it's probably a kitchen now.

So, I would imagine that the new owner could live in one of the units, if they're not all rented. This is a nice big bedroom with lots of built-ins.

Wow, it hasn't been well-cared for. What's happening here? So, it definitely needs work.

This bedroom is in good condition. It must be freshly painted.

One of the other units. Gee, the roof is in need of replacing. They probably all do.

This is nice, though. So many built-ins and those floors.

Interesting dining room.

I found photos of the units when they were for rent. This one has a tiny kitchen.

But, it has a cute little built-in table and benches.

This is the bedroom. If you live here you don't need much furniture, b/c it's already here, and you can't move it.

It even has a built-in bed and nightstands.

This bathroom is in better condition than the one in the other unit.

This is the largest home on the property.

The living room facing the windows out front. It even has built-in sofas and tons of shelving and storage.

This must be the dining area of the main room.

It has a large galley kitchen.

Someone painted over the upper cabinet, put some sort of metal on the doors, and it's all been propped up by a stick.

This bedroom also has a built-in bed, dresser, and nightstands. Looks like a large closet in the wall.

This unit has 2 bedrooms. Look at the big built-in bureau and vanity table.

Small bath.

Here you can see the 5 buildings and it looks out of place in the surrounding area. There's parking for 9 cars and it's on a .25 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/3819-Dunn-Dr-Culver-City-CA-90232/20432038_zpid/

[benchmemorialplaques]

New York City

November 2024

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[ozzgin]

Pyramid Head x Reader

Featuring Pyramid Head and a reader with amnesia lost in Silent Hill. This is Pyramid Head as originally intended for Silent Hill 2, so expect a lot of game-based immersion. Warning: NSFW, dubious/non-consent, violence, gore

[Horror Masterlist]

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

You grunt and slap the wheel, hoping your defiant act of violence will somehow convince the car engine to start again. It remains quiet. You run a hand through your hair and sigh. The palm is mildly sticky with moisture and you realize you've been sweating a fair amount. No wonder, you're stuck in this shithole. You couldn't see a damn thing ahead with all this fog. The only discernible object was a rusty, run-down sign showing "Silent Hill". You've never heard the name before, but reading the letters and allowing the words to escape your lips has brought you an unexpected wave of panic. You quickly began hyperventilating and your arms involuntarily twitched and twisted, pulling the wheel of the car along with them and causing the car to swerve into a street barrier. And now it refuses to turn back on. Fantastic. 

You hesitantly grab the door handle. After a deep breath in, you open the door and step out. Given the car crashed sideways, you can no longer tell which way is back and which way is forward. You can only see the first few inches of the barrier in both directions, but everything else vanishes under the thick clouds of mist. You rub your temples, becoming increasingly upset with yourself.  What were you even doing, driving all the way to-

Wait. Where were you going in the first place? You recall leaving from...home? But where is that supposed to be? No, don't do this. Not now. You walk back to the car and open the glove compartment, angrily pulling out a thick stack of documents and spreading them out onto the chair. You scan over them, growing more impatient. You don't recognize anything. The names and words and addresses don't hold any meaning. You glance up to the rear-view mirror in an attempt to detect some trail of blood seeping from your scalp, as a concussion might explain your sudden memory loss, but your appearance is fresh. Almost as if you didn't just crash your car in a strange place in utter confusion. 

You check your phone. Even if you can't remember, there has to be someone in your contacts that will come to your aid. The screen glitches briefly when you unlock it and the menu is empty. No contacts, no messages, no apps. No matter, emergency will do. You type in the digits and lift the phone to your head, but quickly remove it when loud static assaults your eardrums. Why is nothing working properly? You're tempted to just slam the junk into the pavement, but find enough composure to stuff it back in the pocket for now. 

All that's left to do now is to find another human. You begin walking. The road has to lead somewhere, that's for certain. And soon enough the barrier is replaced with a different kind of fencing that you use as guidance. It seems to be a small bridge. Just a few steps further and you discover the first signs of modern, populated world: a bus stop. Behind the waiting bench is a brief map of the area and you trace the plaque with your fingers, mumbling the path to yourself. "Now let's see...This is Nathan Avenue...Rosewater Park ahead...Ah, the Silent Hill Fire Station should be very close."

You can't wait to be done with this mess. They'll call for a tow truck and get you out of here. You almost sprint to the next block, expectantly. In fact, you can already spot someone right outside the building. 

"Thank God! Listen, my car broke down before the bridge. My stupid phone is also...huh." 

Just as you mention it, the same static as previously erupts from the speaker. You're startled and fumble for your phone. You're about to apologize to the person in front of you, but upon lifting your gaze you instantly stop in your tracks. 

'Person' is a strong word for it. It resembles one, or maybe it was one long ago. What's crawling towards you, however, is not how you'd define it. The arms are melted into the torso, mimicking a straight jacket of skin. The bony, crooked legs are dragging themselves in an unnatural, unnerving way. The creature has no face, save for a gaping hole, a bizarre cavity deforming what should be a head. Your mouth grimaces with disgust, followed by fear. Terror. You have the choice of returning to your damaged car, or attempting to find actual help deeper into the town. You run ahead, praying that someone's out there. The dissonant sound of a siren can be heard, diffused into the persistent fog.  

By the time you reach the next building, you're gasping for air. You didn't expect to run this far. You went all the way around Toluca lake, avoiding the side streets. The center was swarming with those abominations. Each turn and each corner would eventually reveal its revolting murmur, that pathetic shuffle of disfigured limbs. Thankfully they're not fast, nor smart. A little distance and they lose their interest to pursue you. You fall against the brick wall of this small house and read the poster. "Silent Hill Historical Society". Doesn't look too promising, but it's surprisingly devoid of any monstrous being. At this point you'd be more grateful for emptiness. It's safer. 

You tiptoe your way in, wary of potential attackers. There's a faint buzz echoing from afar, but other than that no immediate danger. You examine the lobby and notice the paintings and old photos hanging from the decaying wallpaper. It smells slightly rotten. One of the art pieces catches your attention and you stop in front of it. "Misty Day, Remains of Judgement". 

The abstract character depicted on canvas reminds you of an executioner. The more you stare, the clearer you can feel some kind of guilt knotting inside your stomach. Your shoulders are heavy and you're overwhelmed by the same anxiety of a child about to be punished. Awaiting the belt. The calloused hand of an unforgiving father. Your throat is dry.

Your musings are interrupted by the static that - as you've since learned - warns you of approaching creatures. The rooms are cramped and the walls are narrow and you dislike the idea of calculating your escape within this claustrophobic maze, but it's preferable to being dead. You jog along slithering paths, unsure of where they lead. The threatening turbulence of your phone goes up and down, like a sine wave, with each turn into uncharted territory. In your frantic efforts to flee you don't see the large hole blocking your way, or at least not fast enough. By the time you figure out the outlines of this pitch black well, you're flooded with the light sensation of gravitational force, stretching and compressing your innards as you fall. Is this how you end?

It's not so easy. 

As soon as you open your eyes, a burning pain metastasizes through the head, digging deep into your brain. You grab onto your scalp and press your fingers over the skin, hoping for a small relief. In your debilitating migraine you don't hear the agitated flutter of limbs. They're minuscule, but so many. Thousands of sclerotized joints frothing around your limp form. You lift yourself off the rusted ground and yelp voiceless at the sight. Cockroaches. The pile of vermin lets out a deafening, high pitched screech with every movement. You drag your elbows in an attempt to get away, but the creepers almost ignore your existence. They seem to be running away from something, retreating in masses.

You don't have to wait long in order to witness their source of fear. Heavy footsteps, muffled by the grating friction of metal against metal. A corroded stench invades your lungs and you cough. Whatever is coming has instilled the utmost dread in your very bones. You want to get up and run, until your legs give up and your body collapses of exhaustion, but your limbs are petrified in panic. Your chest constricts and throbs, as if your heart is trashing to escape this prison condemned to unknown doom. 

Finally, the fiend comes into view. A tall, large man wearing a leather apron layered with grime and encrusted blood. His skin is scarred and discolored, and a bulky, dense pyramid structure rests on his broad shoulders, concealing his face. He seems to be dragging along a great knife of sorts, although on closer inspection it looks like a halved pair of oversized scissors. The edge is dulled and has splattered visceral leftovers mattifying its surface. You remember the painting you've seen upstairs. Is this what it is? Your Retribution? 

You lower yourself until your forehead touches the rusty floor. Like an animal awaiting to receive the final blow from its hunter, like a prisoner resigning to his fate under the guillotine. If only matters could be dealt with so simply! Your neck is clawed into a tight hold by the large gloved hand and you're crudely pulled back up so that you can properly face your Punisher. There's a vague grunt coming from underneath his bizarre helmet. 

He carries you to the nearest wall and slams you against it. The great knife drops to the floor with a loud crash, and the other hand, now freed, begins to search your lower clothing. You can feel the seams of the garments tear and snap with no resistance. You want to vocalize a protest, but your throat is crushed under the forceful pressure of his clasp. At best, you can exhale in what sounds like a whispered wail. His apron is nonchalantly flipped to the side and your thigh lifted over his forearm, so that his hand can adjust itself securely under your bottom for support.

Abruptly, a prickling ache crosses your entire body as if you've just been split in two. Tears automatically begin forming in the corner of your eyes and spill down your cheeks and over the pyramid that's now pressing tightly against your quivering form. It's too big and you want to push away, but with each renewed plunge you grow weaker. The small tears and rips that blossom around your abused intimacy turn into bleeding wounds. You want to sleep. 

A creature of pure instinct, serving as a reminder of human perversions and immoral desires. Travesty, corruption, sin. And what about it? Before you know it, a small moan escapes your dried lips. You throw your arms around your captor's shoulders. The sharp edges of the helmet scratch your skin, waking you back into consciousness. Your lower muscles start to relax around the massive member and allow for a smoother glide in and out. The numbness is gradually replaced by pleasant sensations. The throbbing reverberates inside your abdomen and your other leg wraps around the creature's hips, asking for more contact. Once your compliance is confirmed, the hand pinning you by the neck wanders to other parts of your body in starved desperation. Your voice returns and more lewd whines roll out one after another. If only you had a mirror so you could look at yourself in this moment. What shameless expressions are you wearing on your face? You're clinging to your violator in feverish depravity. And in return, the creature responds to your cravings with increased intensity. He seems to resonate with your wishes and stiffens his hold on you with newfound obsession. His thrusts become almost feral, with a certain possessiveness to it. 

As you're about to reach your peaks, your mind once again travels to the painting. You wonder if you'd be hung and framed just like the prisoners behind their executioner. Pleasure mixed with guilt. 

What sin is eroding your entrails? 

[sunnie-angel]

jason todd returns to gotham city full of fire and biblical vengeance but it's not the same place he remembers.

there's a plaque on the park bench right outside of the public library that wasn't there before. it reads "in memory of jason todd-wayne: a son who is loved as much as he loved books". the wood of the bench is weathered, but the brass of the plaque still shines.

nostalgia drives jason todd to visit his favourite gargoyle, worn and familiar. what is strange are the flowers left there. little robin figurines and keychains. we remember you, the city whispers.

curiosity drives jason todd to look up the newest robin, only to be redirected to a digital memorial himself. gothamites offering up the worst moments of their lives that were just another tuesday to jason. how grateful they are to him. how sad they are that he is gone. how much they love the second robin that flew high for them.

jason todd is a son of gotham, and as much as he might forget it in the heat haze of anger, she remembers him.

[im-the-lover]

[ode-to-melpomene]

"Everyone's a Critic"

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader Synopsis: Art is in the eye of the beholder... Word Count: 1861 Warnings: None. Art gallery meet cute. A hint of awkwardness and embarrassment!

Jason was used to being overlooked.

In a sea of bodies he often found himself standing still. A lone rock in the middle of a raucous tide that slipped around him, dousing his cold, weathered face with seafoam. It wasn't so bad, being a rock–especially at events like these. Jason stood, like a rock, in the center of a crowd, and watched the crowd part around him.

Why would they look at him? He had mastered the art of appearing smaller than he really was–broad shoulders drawn into a tight hunch, obscuring his height. Eyes to the ground and his back to the wall. Ignore me, his presence seemed to say.

Why would they look at him when Dick fluttered about the crowd with a broad smile, a proverbial halo above his head from the soft, golden light of the venue? Why would they look at him when Tim's cleverness and etiquette outshone his? Why would they look at him when Damian spoke so maturely for his age, or Cass reveled in her most recent ballet performance, or Bruce existed?

Sometimes it was better to be the dead Wayne.

Sometimes.

The venue could have been worse. The Gotham Museum of Art was familiar to him these days, after Cass’s numerous performances and Bruce’s subsequent donations. Jason had lost track long ago of how many grateful galas had been hosted in thanks for his father’s contributions. They even had a plaque posted somewhere for Bruce–or was that Gotham General Hospital? He couldn’t remember at this point.

It was easy to hide in the shadows between the paintings, the spotlights above them only spanning the canvas’s borders. Hide at the edge of the crowd, his head ducked down, shoulders drawn tight- it was what he always did.

Until a tittering couple pressed too close to him, admiring the painting he stood beside. Ivory nails tangled in a suit jacket, heels clicking against the parquet floors. Too loud. Too close. He pushed off the wall as they approached, ignoring the side-cast glances. He felt judged at events like this. He could handle being ignored, or even ostracized. But criticism hurt. He lifted his head for the first time in what felt like ages, taking in the crowd.

There. A quiet spot in front of a broad painting, its oil surface unmarred by the demanding gazes of the gala’s attendees. Jason pushed through the crowd with his head high, watching as the chattering sea parted around him. His long stride carried him through the throng as he fled his once barren spot and approached his newfound haven. His lips parted in a soft exhale at the sight of a bench–he could sit with his back to the crowd and-

Jason’s stride faltered. There was already someone sitting on the bench, a figure with their back to the crowd. How had he not noticed them before?

The spotlight on the art cast a soft glow across your front, blanketed in a warm haze that brightened the dark clothes you wore. A deep-gray blouse fading to black, well-ironed slacks. Jason’s eyes dropped to your shoes–old and worn compared to the rest of the outfit. Tired, and scuffed, the black finish faded with age and wear. A cocktail server on break, it seemed.

When Jason lifted his gaze, he found you already staring. He jumped slightly, blinking once, twice. You smiled softly–it was a bone-tired smile that eased the tension in your brow and smoothed the hard look in your eyes. 

“Sorry, I…” he started, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. He rubbed the back of his neck and hunched his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not,” you answered quietly. “Did you want somewhere to sit?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

Jason bobbed his head in a half-hearted nod and rounded the bench. He sat at the opposite side, putting as much space between the two of you as possible. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, eyes fixated on the ground for a moment. After a long pause, he lifted his head to take in the painting in front of him.

It seemed to come to life the longer he took it in. The background bustled with liveliness. Parents talking–maybe arguing, he thought–in a doorway. The preoccupied cat ignoring a mouse that went otherwise unseen. Children’s toys scattered at the edges of the canvas. His eyes roved over the child at the center of the canvas’s foreground, alone on a couch, gaze meeting the viewer. It was a modernized oil painting, vastly different from the Renaissance-like pieces that lined the wall–maybe that was why this piece went ignored throughout the night.

“It doesn’t really fit the theme, but I still like it,” you spoke up. What he first took as timidity now seemed contemplative as he turned to see you gazing up at the painting. “Seems I’m one of the few.” You shrugged, a tender smile across your lips.

Jason took in the muted colors of the background and the quiet intensity of the scene. “It feels very… isolated.” You turned your head sharply to look at him, brows raising in surprise. He quickly looked between you and the painting. “It’s… the kid feels really alone, you know? Like the whole world is-”

“Moving on without him?”

Jason clamped his jaw firmly shut as he tipped his head to meet your gaze. Your eyes sparkled with warmth and excitement, chasing away the exhaustion that once clung to you.

“Moving around him,” Jason answered, holding your intense stare, his brows furrowing slightly. “His parents are just-” he gestured to the painting, “ignoring him, I guess. I mean, he’s alone in the center of the painting, while everything else is distracted. Look, even the wallpaper looks busy, and he’s just… wearing muted clothes and sitting on a gray couch.”

“It’s ivory and phthalo blue.”

“What?”

“The couch. It’s ivory and phthalo blue, and a little bit of brown umber mixed into the shadows. Not gray.” You cocked your head to the side and offered him a crooked, toothy grin. His eyes dropped to your lips before moving back to your eyes. “I… like your interpretation a lot. ‘Moving around him.’ You’re the first person tonight to give it any thought, honestly.”

Jason narrowed his eyes as he studied you, his brows pinched together. His usual scowl sat on his lips, the one that tended to drive people away. Instead, you smiled sweetly and turned your attention back to the canvas. You didn’t stare through him–you stared at him. For once, it didn’t make his skin crawl. It didn’t feel like you were forcibly filling the silence.

“I was hoping for some exposure tonight, really. You know, big Wayne event, good time to show off,” you said with a melodic chuckle that sent goosebumps down his arms. “But no one seems particularly interested in my work. Everyone’s a critic, right? Except you. You get it.”

Jason blinked owlishly as his brain raced to catch up.

“You painted this?”

You hummed in the affirmative, gazing up fondly at your work.

His eyes snapped up at the painting and then back down to you. “I’m sorry, I- I just assumed you-”

“You’re not the only one,” you answered quickly. His shoulders eased. You picked up on his meaning so quickly without an ounce of offense in your tone. “I don’t really care how people do or don’t, in this case, see me. At least one person took the time to look.”

The tension in your shoulders eased with a visible sense of relief. Tonight wasn’t a total loss. Sure, you hadn’t received any commissions, and had been asked to refill someone’s drink one too many times, but there had been some success in the end. It only took one admirer to make hours of labor worthwhile.

“I think it’s beautiful.”

You jerked your head to stare at him, starved for feedback. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I… don’t know much about art–I prefer reading, honestly, but, uh, I think you did a great job with the colors. It does a really good job of framing the kid, y’know?” Jason glanced at you, his cheeks warming at your dazzled expression before looking back at the painting. “He’s muted, so it kind of draws your eyes to the middle instead of the super bright background. It’s like the opposite effect of some of the others.” He gestured over his shoulder at a few of the other paintings. “It definitely gives that… isolated vibe. I just… I guess it makes you wonder how the kid is feeling in all of this. He feels lonely.”

He could feel your heated stare grazing his skin. You weren’t leering at him like some of the others did. He held on to the reverent silence and fought to quell the warm blush that dusted his cheeks.

“You have a nice nose.”

Jason’s face flushed scarlet. He snapped his gaze to yours, brows furrowed in confusion.

“What?”

“Sorry, I-” His gaze dropped to your lips as they pursed in embarrassment and then parted with a shaky inhale. “I just- sorry, I do some sculpture on the side–not very well, I think, but I’m trying–and, well, I’ve been working on this one piece and I just can’t get the nose right, and you- you’ve got a really nice nose and I was trying to… memorize it… for when I work on it later…”

Jason held your gaze for a long moment. You shifted nervously in your seat at the way he straightened his back and regarded you closely. Your mouth opened and closed, tongue feeling tacky against the roof of your mouth.

“I’m sorry, that was-”

“Do you have a picture of it?”

“Of… what?”

“The sculpture. Can I see it?”

Your eyes widened as you blinked slowly at him, your mind racing to catch up. You tilted your head slightly to the side, staring at him in awe. “Yeah, I… um, I don’t have a picture, but- uh, my studio is only a couple of blocks away. Technically it’s the gallery’s studio-” you gestured widely to the gala venue. “But I use it for some of my projects. You could- do you want-?”

He smiled. The stone-faced, impassive, wall of a man that you had been sitting beside for who knows how long actually smiled a full, toothy grin. The crooked scar that crossed over his cheek and jaw danced with a subtle grace. Crow's feet decorated the corner of his pretty green eyes. You wondered if you could maybe match their shade.

You took in a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then breathed out a soft sigh. His gaze dipped to your lips at the movement, then back to your eyes.

“Would you… want to come to my studio?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”