#Visuals in color and sin colors

[kentnaturaltribrid]

Been kind of busy, finished these three. The yellow one, sorry if it’s slightly off kilter, but it too was supposed to be the same thing as the other two, with just the purple behind it. However, sorry if it’s not as visible and vibrant to some degree or looks only like a circle from far away. Wasn’t exactly going for that either, but with so little colors available nearby the yellow had to stick out the most. None of the piles had any silvery or grey colors on them, so had to go with the colorful and the black as part of the set. Sorry if they didn’t turn out the way they’re supposed to be. Also as for the non-color, didn’t exactly have a third option there nor a fourth.

[no1ryomafan]

I swear I’m not a hater for modern and/or digital anime, especially not with the many times I’ve defended new getters art style but MAAAAN why is casshern sins visually so much better looking then most recent digital animes? Like the art style probably isn’t for everyone given it’s still kinda bug eye/same face syndrome-y but even the faces are still different from how most of them do it. And the colors and the line art… they blend beautifully together that even if it’s clear it’s digital it has this painted feel to it.

Why can’t more new animes try to be this unique with its art style 😭

[soberaniasar]

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Babies Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: It was always easy for Spencer to be with you. But when you started acting strangely, everything changed.

Words: 6,8k (welcome back, long stories).

Warnings & Tags: this works as a standalone one-shot, but also is an extra to a series. mentions of pregnancy, jail, and daddy issues. fluffy and messy + a little angst. established relationship. lack of communication and misunderstandings. my dear painter!reader who was a cat. the reader catches a cold, but it's nothing serious. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This has been on my mind for a long time because I love messy stories, sorryyy.

I. With Extra Love!

It began with the way your fingers curled around the sleeve of Spencer’s hoodie before the grocery store doors even finished sliding open.

Not dramatically. Not with fear. Just quietly. Deliberately.

Like you were anchoring yourself to something familiar, something textured and known, against a world that had started to blur. Your thumb slipped beneath the frayed cuff and found the inside of his wrist, brushing across his pulse in one slow arc. The rhythm was steady. Measured. Reassuring. You clung to it like it was a metronome, trying to sync your own heartbeat to something outside yourself.

And your personal profiler noticed. Of course he did.

You usually wandered ahead in the store, letting your feet lead while your hands skimmed the corners of cardboard boxes and plastic bags, tapping textures, comparing fonts, pausing to squeeze loaves of bread just to feel the give. You’d hum to yourself, make up quiet stories about the people on the back of cereal boxes, laugh at bizarre off-brand mascots, and take mental snapshots of color combinations that might end up in your next canvas.

But today, you didn’t move like that.

Today, you didn’t drift.

You stayed close—too close—tucked into his side like a warm shadow stitched to him by something invisible. Your hand never left the crook of his elbow. Your shoulder brushed his every time the cart turned a corner. And when he reached for a carton of almond milk, you followed the movement like your balance depended on it.

He could feel it: the tension under your skin. Not loud. Not panicked. But constant, like the linework of a sketch you couldn’t erase.

The grocery store itself felt like a backdrop, poorly lit and overexposed: buzzing fluorescents above casting too-harsh light across the white tile. The smell of freezer air, too clean, too sharp. Ripe bananas nearby, sweet and cloying. Cart wheels squeaked. A child hummed somewhere off in aisle four, off-key but cheerful.

But Spencer wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

All he could focus on was the absence of your usual spark. The soft, living art of you.

The silence was louder than anything else.

Not your peaceful kind of quiet, the quiet of smudged charcoal on your fingers or brushwater tinting the sink blue. This silence was tight. Tucked in your shoulders. Seeping from the corners of your mouth like something unspoken and fraying at the edge.

You paused in the middle of the dairy aisle, halfway between the yogurt and the shelf of drinkable kefir. Your eyes flicked across the rows of cups—vanilla, strawberry, lemon, blueberry—but didn’t settle on any of them. You were staring through them, your gaze hollow with something unsaid.

Spencer stopped beside you. Watched you gently shift your weight from one foot to the other, your arms crossed loosely across your chest, your fingers tapping against your elbow like they needed something to do.

You were usually so visually alive in places like this. Your artist’s brain would marvel at the hue of a bell pepper or squint at the typography on the labels like it was a form of sin. You’d call a stack of fruit “an unintentional still life.” You once bought chocolate just because the packaging had the exact shade of ultramarine you’d been trying to mix in your studio.

But here you were now, gray around the edges, like your palette had lost saturation.

Spencer watched your eyes land on the strawberry yogurt he knew you liked.

“You want it?” he asked gently, voice soft like he was afraid of cracking something.

You nodded. Barely. Your lips parted just slightly but no sound came out. It wasn’t agreement so much as resignation.

That’s when his worry stopped being theoretical.

That’s when it took shape.

He didn’t speak again. He just reached for the yogurt and placed it gently into the wire basket, then slid the strap from your shoulder to his. He took your hand in his, the one you’d been keeping balled inside your sweater sleeve, and threaded his fingers between yours with quiet insistence.

His palm was warm. Wide. Familiar.

And then his thumb started moving.

Not erratically. Not urgently.

But the shift became undeniable when you tugged him toward the pet aisle.

There was no playful quip about how Mittens had become “a tyrant in fur,” no fond complaint about her knocking over your paint water mid-stroke that morning or dragging your charcoal pencils under the couch like buried treasure. Just silence. And the soft, uneven drag of your sneakers against the gleaming tile, as if each step took more thought than the last.

Spencer followed without needing to ask.

You drifted down the narrow aisle like you were walking underwater—past glittering collars, crinkly toys, glossy bags of kibble—until you stopped in front of the canned food. All that color and cheer and marketing polish, a whole row of smiling cats in bright pastel packaging, blurred together under the fluorescents.

Then, quietly, like your knees had forgotten how to hold you, you crouched down. Not gracefully, not purposefully, just dropped into a heap of sweater and quiet weight.

His chest ached watching you from above. You were usually so fluid in your movements, all long lines and quiet elegance, even crouching to pet a stray looked like part of a ballet. But now your posture was collapsed, drawn inward, like someone trying to fold smaller, to feel less.

You didn’t move.

Just sat there, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the stacked cans like they were a puzzle you couldn’t solve.

“She’s not eating,” you said softly, still not looking at him. The words scraped out of you like they’d gotten caught on something on the way up. “Not like she used to.”

Spencer crouched beside you, the chill of the floor sinking through his jeans. “Since when?” he asked gently.

You shrugged. A lopsided, barely-there motion. “A few days. Maybe more. I’ve tried everything. Her usuals. Tuna. Warmed it like the vet articles say to.” Your voice cracked in the smallest way. “She sniffs it and walks away. Looks at me like…”

He waited.

“Like she’s waiting for something else,” you finished in a whisper, your chin dipping, your fingers curling tighter into your sleeves like they could hide the tremble beneath your skin. “And I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what she wants.”

Spencer didn’t answer right away.

He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist.

“You’ve already done more for her than most people would even think to do,” he said softly. “She’s safe because of you. Every day.”

You closed your eyes at that. Just for a second. And for that second, he saw your breath stutter, just a little, as if his words had managed to loosen a knot somewhere behind your ribs.

You opened your eyes, then reached forward and slowly picked up a pastel can. Chicken pâté. Then another, salmon. Then a box of heart-shaped treats, the ones Mittens liked to ignore until she didn’t.

Then, without warning, you turned and folded into him.

No announcement. No signal.

You just shifted like gravity had changed, and suddenly you were in his arms, pressing into him like he was the only surface left soft enough to land on.

Spencer blinked, caught off-guard only for a heartbeat before he melted around you like instinct. One arm looped around your back, pulling you tight against his chest. The other curled protectively behind your head, cradling the curve of your skull like a precious thing, his fingers threading into your hair. He held you like you were something he could shield with his body alone.

He didn’t ask you to explain.

He just felt the way your breath came uneven and shallow, the way your nose pressed into the worn fabric of his hoodie, the way your fingers gripped the hem, not with panic, but with need. Like you were trying to convince yourself he was still here.

“I don’t know why I’m like this today,” you murmured against him, voice muffled, tinged with self-blame. “I think I'm about to get sick.”

“It’s okay, you’re not like anything,” he said, his voice so low it hummed against your cheek. “You’re just feeling. And even if you get sick, I’m right here.”

Your grip tightened.

“I feel clingy,” you whispered, so quietly he almost missed it. “Like…too much.”

His heart cracked cleanly down the middle.

He leaned back just enough to guide your chin up with two gentle fingers. His eyes found yours, steady and warm. “You could hold onto me all day,” he said, “and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Your lips twitched. Just the smallest flicker. “That’s dramatic.”

“No, that’s me being completely rational,” he said. “In fact, you could superglue yourself to my side, and I’d carry you around like a very affectionate emotional support satchel.”

That startled a soft laugh from you, a little crooked, a little watery, but real. And in that laugh, the air shifted again.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss the spot just above your brow. Tender. Intentional.

You pressed a kiss to the curve of his jaw in return—an unspoken thank-you—and then, like nothing at all had happened, you reached behind him and slipped a chocolate bar into the basket on the floor.

“For emotional support,” you said, clearing your throat. “I've had the craving since yesterday.”

Spencer arched a brow, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “One bar?”

You stared at the label. Then grabbed another.

He laughed, kissed your temple again, and helped you to your feet.

“That’s more like it,” he said softly.

He took your hand again, this time with both of his, and held it like it was something fragile, something rare. And for the rest of the grocery run, you didn’t let go.

Not even once.

Every time the cart stopped, you were right there. Hooked into his side. Fingers brushing the back of his neck. Your cheek resting against his shoulder as he compared cereal brands or frowned at the difference between dried rosemary and crushed.

He held your hand at the register, bagged the groceries one-handed just so he could keep his fingers locked in yours. He kissed your knuckles in the parking lot. Opened the passenger door like it was ritual. Placed the chocolate gently in the front seat like it was sacred.

He didn’t ask what had tipped your day sideways.

Didn’t need to.

He just stayed close.

And so did you.

II. With Extra Babies?!

The apartment was dim, softened by the golden hush of late afternoon light filtering through the gauze of half-drawn curtains. Outside, rain murmured against the windows, more suggestion than sound, a faint, persistent drizzle that had begun halfway through Spencer’s walk home from the pharmacy. His jacket, damp at the shoulders, clung faintly to his frame as he stepped inside, nudging the door shut behind him with a muted thud that seemed swallowed by the stillness of the space.

He paused, blinking once, letting the warmth of your apartment settle around him. That familiar blend of eucalyptus and your shampoo lingered in the air—clean, sweet, vaguely herbal—like the afterglow of a memory. The scent had seeped into the fabric of the place, into the walls, into him. Comfort and home. You.

Spencer slipped out of his shoes with practiced quiet, careful not to scuff the floor, and set the crinkling paper pharmacy bag on the low counter near the entryway table. His keys landed gently in the little ceramic dish you’d once made at a paint-your-own pottery place, one he’d teased you for keeping because it was lopsided, though he secretly adored how your thumbprint was still faintly pressed into the glaze near the rim.

From the direction of his bedroom, he heard your voice.

It carried through the hallway like a thread of sound, soft and slightly frayed, low from congestion, yes, but unmistakably yours. It had that familiar cadence, dipped in exhaustion and something weightier beneath it, something quieter. A sigh woven into syllables. Not quite sad. Not quite calm, either.

Spencer stilled.

He hadn’t meant to listen, hadn’t planned to stop, but the tone in your voice made something in him pause, made him want to…protect. To wait. To not intrude.

So he moved instead into the kitchen, placing the pharmacy bag down on the countertop with care, the kind of care one reserves for holding delicate things, a winged creature, a fragile truth, a heart not fully healed.

Inside the bag were small comforts:

—The good cold medicine, the one that wouldn’t knock you out completely but would ease the pressure behind your eyes.

—A tin of honey lemon tea you’d once mentioned you liked better than chamomile in the winter.

—Soft, eucalyptus-infused tissues that wouldn’t hurt your nose.

—Your favorite fruit gummies in pastel shades, already half-melted together in their bag.

—A bar of dark chocolate wrapped in shimmery gold foil, a tiny, handwritten price tag still clinging to the edge like a forgotten whisper.

He unpacked it all with methodical precision, arranging it on the counter like an offering. Not rushed. Not performative. Just…quietly tender. He placed the tea tin next to your daisy-handled mug, filled the kettle, and set it to boil. The low hum of water heating added warmth to the silence.

Your voice floated in again.

Softer now, almost wistful. There was a pause—your weight shifting, maybe the creak of the floorboard by the window as you paced—and then a muffled laugh, hushed by concern. Someone on the other end of the line must’ve said something reassuring.

His chest tightened in that odd, inexplicable way it sometimes did when he realized how much he cared for you. How much he noticed. How much he wanted to be the person you could say anything to. Even when you didn’t. Even when you couldn’t.

The kettle began to whistle softly, a thin, breathy sound that curled into the quiet like a secret.

Spencer moved automatically, lifting it with practiced care and pouring the steaming water into your daisy-handled mug. The soft coils of steam rose in elegant spirals, vanishing into the still air. He stirred the honey lemon tea with the back of a spoon, slow and thoughtful, watching the amber swirl deepen like sunlight trapped in water.

He set the mug beside the cold medicine and the chocolate, aligning them with quiet precision. A folded napkin completed the ritual, the crease smoothed once, then again, beneath his thumb. There was something reverent about it—like the countertop had become an altar, and this small collection of comforts was an offering to something delicate. To you.

Maybe he’d bring it in with a gentle knock. Ask if you needed anything. Tuck a gummy into your hand with a quiet joke. Something to make you smile the way only he could.

He reached for the bottle of medicine, squinting to check the label, how many hours between doses again? But something stopped him.

The opened one wasn’t there.

Had you taken it?

He frowned. The last time you’d coughed had been hours ago. You weren’t great at remembering. Maybe you needed him to remind you.

So he moved quietly, instinct guiding him now. Bare feet on warm wooden floor, the hallway stretching ahead like a passage between dreams. Dim light filtered from the bedroom, just enough to outline the door, cracked open, the soft pool of lamplight casting the edges of your shadow in long, stretched lines.

He didn’t mean to look.

Didn’t mean to listen.

But your voice drifted out, soft and unguarded. It stopped him mid-step.

“I mean, he’s the best. Perfect.”

Spencer stopped.

His breath stilled, just for a moment.

You were talking about him. He felt the words slip beneath his ribs, warm and golden, like a sunbeam let loose inside his chest. A helpless smile crept across his face, slow and stunned, aching in the way affection sometimes does when it ambushes you. He pressed a hand lightly to the doorframe, just to ground himself.

“I don’t think anyone has ever made me so much soup,” you continued, your voice scratchy but fond, “or given me so many flowers. Or told me so many useless facts about, like…the color theory of soup cans or the mating rituals of penguins.”

You laughed then. A soft, breathy exhale. He could hear the smile in it.

And it undid him.

“He’s just…he’s everything.”

Something in him split, quietly, beautifully.

His heart felt swollen in his chest, full to the point of ache. He could see you in his mind: pacing slowly, one hand cradling the phone to your ear, the other probably fiddling with the hem of your sweater or the chain around your neck. Saying those words like they cost you something to say out loud. Like you were afraid to let them fully exist outside your own head.

He would’ve walked in then. Said something stupid like, “The soup facts are definitely not useless.” Maybe made you laugh, just to see your face light up.

But then—

“I just…”

There was a pause.

Not a casual one. A loaded one.

The kind of silence that carries weight.

His spine straightened. His breath went shallow.

“He doesn’t know yet.”

His smile faltered.

The warmth drained slowly from his chest, replaced with a thudding quiet.

He blinked, once. Twice.

Doesn’t know what?

He leaned in slightly, hand flattening against the doorframe. Not in malice. Not out of intrusion. Just…because something had shifted. And that shift felt like the floor beneath him wasn’t as solid as he thought.

“I know he deserves to know,” you said, softer now. “But this changes everything. We’re not ready for this. We can’t even decide which apartment we’re going to live in.”

He felt it then…not the message, but the shift. Something cracking. Something sacred and terrifying unfolding in real time.

You were afraid.

“I’m so scared now,” you whispered, your voice trembling around the words like they were too sharp to carry.

Spencer’s chest pulled tight.

What changes everything? What are we not ready for?

The room suddenly felt smaller. The hallway narrowed around him. He stood there—frozen between one breath and the next—watching the doorway like it might offer him more answers if he simply stayed still enough.

And then—

The final blow:

“Pregnancy…it’s a lot.”

The word clung to the air like static. Heavy. Inescapable.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His breath lodged somewhere in the hollow of his throat, suspended like glass on the verge of shattering. The word repeated, echoing with quiet violence inside his skull.

Pregnancy.

His hand, which had braced instinctively on the doorframe, slowly dropped to his side. Numb. Cold. But his mind…his mind was anything but.

It began unraveling, fast and involuntary. Like a thousand puzzle pieces snapping into place all at once.

Your cravings.

You had said it like a joke last week, curling up in his hoodie and asking for pickles and chocolate at 1:43 a.m. He thought it was quirky, one of your artist whims. He’d kissed your forehead and fetched them anyway, laughing as you made an entire dinner out of strange combinations. But now…

Your fatigue.

You’d been napping more. Falling asleep in odd places: on the couch with your sketchbook still open, in his reading chair, curled up in the sunlight like Mittens. At first, he thought it was just the weather, or your new job at the city gallery. You’d brushed it off with a smile, said, “I’m just tired today,” like it was no big deal. But it wasn’t just one day.

The nausea.

Your distaste for coffee had thrown him. You’d pushed your mug away last weekend after only two sips, nose wrinkled. “It smells too bitter,” you’d mumbled, and he’d blinked, stunned. You loved coffee. It was practically your love language. That was the first moment he’d thought something was…off. But not this.

And the clinginess.

Oh. God.

You’d been clinging to him like breath lately. Pulling his hand to your cheek while brushing your teeth. Pressing into his side in line at the grocery store, looping your fingers into his sleeve like you were afraid he’d slip away if you didn’t. Kissing him longer. Holding him tighter at night. Your body always curled toward his, like it was magnetic, like it needed him.

You needed him.

And not just emotionally. Not just romantically. But in some instinctual, unconscious way. A way that made sense now.

His knees almost buckled with the weight of it.

You weren’t being moody. Or sleepy. Or irrational. You were pregnant. Carrying something alive. A possibility. A future. His. Yours.

He felt like his body was frozen and on fire at once.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he made no sound. Didn’t move. Just stood there, rooted in place, his thoughts unraveling and weaving themselves into something terrifying and sacred.

You were scared. You hadn’t told him.

And now he understood why.

Because this was bigger than either of you had expected. And it wasn’t just the apartment, or the toothbrush in his bathroom, or which bed you fell asleep in. This was life, multiplying in secret. Fragile. Real.

Spencer inhaled sharply, chest tight.

He pressed a hand flat against the wall to steady himself. Not because he was angry. Not even because he felt betrayed. But because the magnitude of it all—the way he missed it, how all the pieces had been right in front of him—was overwhelming.

And now, he wasn’t just a man in love with the girl next door.

He was going to be…something more.

He stayed in the hallway for a long moment after your voice went quiet, trying to get his heartbeat under control.

He wouldn’t say anything. You weren’t ready. He’d wait, he could do that. Let you tell him in your own time, in your own way.

But God, it was hard.

So he did the only thing he could: he picked up the little tray he’d made like it was armor. The daisy-handled mug, still steaming. The medicine, lined up neatly. A few of your pastel gummies tucked onto a folded napkin. The bar of dark chocolate with the foil already peeled back at the corner, because you hated fiddling with wrappers when you were sick. He even brought a spoon in case you wanted to stir in more honey.

He knocked softly at the half-open door.

Your head turned. You were curled in bed, half-wrapped in one of his old hoodies, your phone now tossed on the nightstand, your legs tangled in the blankets like you hadn’t figured out how to get comfortable yet.

Your eyes softened when you saw him.

“Hey,” you said, voice still raspy. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

He stepped inside, careful not to spill anything, and set the tray gently on the nightstand. He picked up the mug and handed it to you himself, waiting until your fingers wrapped around the ceramic before letting go.

“Tea. And the good kind of medicine. You’ll actually be able to think after taking it,” he said. “And I brought the gummies because…I know you.”

You glanced at the little napkin, and your lips twitched, caught between a laugh and something softer. “You’re being very sweet.”

“I’m always sweet.”

You gave him a skeptical look.

“Okay,” he amended. “I’m selectively sweet.”

He hovered for a second—then, without asking, he toed off his socks and climbed gently onto the bed beside you, careful not to jostle the tea in your hands. His movement was fluid, familiar, like he’d done it a hundred times, but tonight…tonight he stayed closer. A little more tucked into your side. Like he was trying to make himself small and soft and easy to hold.

You looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You’re crawling into bed with me now?”

Spencer shrugged. “I figured you could use the company. And I didn’t want to sit out there alone.” Then, after a beat, quieter: “I just missed you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. “You were gone twenty minutes.”

“Too long,” he murmured, almost to himself.

He leaned back against the headboard, shoulder brushing yours. After a moment, his hand slipped beneath the blanket and found yours where it rested in your lap, his fingers curling around it, slow and careful. He didn’t grip. Just held, the way someone holds a delicate piece of glass: reverent, aware of how easily it could shatter.

“You sure you’re okay?” you asked, glancing sideways. Your eyes searched his face like you knew something was off, even if you couldn’t name it yet.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just…tired.”

But it wasn’t tiredness. It was everything. The fear. The awe. The sudden flood of imagined futures he hadn’t even realized he wanted until five minutes ago.

He pictured you walking through the gallery in a flowy dress with a barely-there bump, resting your hand absentmindedly over your stomach. He pictured the first ultrasound photo on the fridge, the sleepless nights, the terrible baby books he’d undoubtedly read cover to cover. He saw your lives folding into something bigger than either of you were ready for.

And he saw himself, hesitating at the edge.

What if he couldn’t do this?

What if his past made him dangerous? Unfit?

What if he disappeared the way his father did…gone without goodbye?

What if prison had taken some piece of him that you’d someday need?

What if, one day, your child looked at him with fear in their eyes, not love?

He pressed closer without realizing it, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles beneath the blanket. It was subtle, but it was there: the clinginess. The quiet desperation to be near you, to feel you warm and real and here.

You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder.

“You’re acting like you think I’m going somewhere,” you said gently.

He smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the edge of the blanket.

“Maybe I just like you best like this. Quiet. Trapped under three layers of blankets. You can’t escape.”

You laughed under your breath and nuzzled in closer. “I don’t want to escape.”

His heart caught in his chest.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—quick, but it lingered longer than usual. His free arm curled around your waist, fingers spreading flat against the side of your body, not thinking, not calculating—just feeling. Like maybe if he held you gently enough, the world wouldn’t shift again beneath his feet.

You sighed, content, resting against him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Spence?” you mumbled sleepily, your voice muffled against his hoodie.

“Mm?”

“You’re being kind of clingy tonight.”

His chest lifted beneath you as he let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Yeah,” he whispered, tightening his grip just slightly. “I think it’s my turn.”

III. With Extra Wine??

The car ride home was thick with silence.

Not the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you and Spencer like a familiar blanket, but something heavier. Denser. The kind of silence that built itself out of unspoken words and barely contained emotions. The kind that crackled just beneath the surface, making your chest feel too tight and the air inside the car too thin.

Streetlights passed above in steady, pulsing intervals, flashes of gold and shadow that streaked across the windshield like slow-moving lightning. The soft hum of the tires on wet asphalt filled the space between you, but it didn’t mask the tension. Nothing could.

You sat curled against the passenger door, body angled slightly away from him, the fingers of one hand twisting your bracelet around and around your wrist like you were trying to wind down your own heartbeat. The smell of roasted garlic clung to the fabric of your dress, Rossi’s cologne still faint on your skin from when he’d hugged you goodbye. You could still taste the wine on your lips, warm and bitter. Dry. Just a sip. Barely even that.

And yet Spencer hadn’t said a word since.

He drove with both hands on the wheel, white-knuckled, his posture too perfect to be natural. His jaw was tight, so tight it looked like it ached. You could see the tension in the way he shifted his foot ever so slightly, like his body was too full of energy, like something inside him wanted to burst free and run.

You didn’t understand it, not fully. But you’d seen it happen.

One glass of wine. That was all.

Offered casually by Emily.

You’d smiled, reached for the stem without thinking, just as you always had.

And Spencer—across the room in mid-conversation with JJ—had gone still.

Not just still.

Frozen.

His mouth had stopped moving mid-sentence. His hand, which had been gesturing gently, dropped to his side like a marionette’s string had been cut. His eyes had locked on your glass like it was dangerous. Like it was a threat. You’d even felt the weight of his stare before you turned. When you caught his eyes, he hadn’t looked away. But his face…

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t confusion.

It was panic.

Sharp. Quiet. Controlled.

But unmistakable.

He didn’t say a thing, then or afterward. Just went quiet. Tense. Distant in a way that was so specific it hurt. He smiled politely at Rossi’s jokes, nodded at Garcia’s stories, laughed at nothing. You’d leaned into him at one point, your hand slipping beneath the hem of his jacket to rest against his back, and his muscles had barely reacted. Like he wasn’t even in his own body.

Now, in the dim interior of the car, he looked even farther away.

His face was pulled tight, drawn in clean, sharp lines, eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed together so hard the color had drained from them. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, jaw clenched like he was trying to hold his entire skull in place.

You turned away from the window and watched him for a moment longer.

And then, quietly but firmly, you said, “Okay.”

Your voice sliced through the silence like broken glass on tile. Spencer didn’t flinch, but the grip he had on the steering wheel visibly tightened.

“You’ve been weird since dinner,” you said, carefully, not accusatory but not gentle either. “What is going on?”

For a long moment, nothing. Just the hum of tires and the shallow sound of his breathing. Then:

“You drank wine,” he said, low. Measured. Like the words were forced out from behind his teeth.

You blinked, brows furrowed. “Yeah. I mean…yeah, I had a sip.”

“I know,” he said quickly, voice sharper than before. “I saw.”

“I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.” You turned toward him, watching his jaw tick, the way he still wouldn’t look at you. “It was half a glass.”

“It’s not.” He swallowed hard. “It’s not a big deal.”

But it was. You could hear it in his voice, tight with restraint, in the crackle beneath those four words. You watched the shadows crawl over his face as another streetlight flickered past.

You leaned back slowly in your seat, processing. “You haven’t said a single thing since we left.”

“I’m just driving,” he muttered.

“That’s not what you’re doing,” you said. “And you know it.”

A beat passed. He didn’t respond. You stared at him, willing him to just say what he was thinking, but he didn’t crack.

“I saw your face,” you added, voice quieter now, searching. “When I picked up the wine. You looked at me like I’d—”

You faltered. “Like I’d betrayed you.”

Spencer’s lips parted, barely. His jaw moved like he wanted to speak, but no words came. His fingers flexed on the wheel again, the muscle in his forearm tensing like a pulled wire.

You turned fully toward him now, your voice trembling—just a little, just enough to show how much this was starting to hurt.

That felt like déjà vu.

“Please,” you said. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

His breath hitched. And finally, finally, he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper:

“I know you’re pregnant.”

The words hit the air like a shockwave.

Your head whipped toward him so fast your neck gave a sharp twinge. “What?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenched tighter, and instead of responding, he flicked on the turn signal and slowly guided the car to the side of the road, pulling into a quiet, empty stretch of curb beneath a dim streetlamp. The sudden stillness was louder than the engine.

He shifted the gear into park but didn’t move. His hands stayed wrapped around the wheel, thumbs motionless. His eyes fixed on the dark stretch of asphalt ahead like it was safer to face than you.

I’ve been trying not to push,” he said finally, his voice low and steady, but under the surface, it vibrated with nerves. “I didn’t want to force you to tell me before you were ready, but…”

He inhaled through his nose, then exhaled slowly. A pause. A crack forming in the restraint.

“That night. When you were on the phone in my room.”

You blinked, trying to place it.

“You didn’t know I was back yet,” he continued, voice softer now. “I was in the hallway. I didn’t mean to listen, I swear—I just heard your voice. You said…that I didn’t know. That you were scared. That this wasn’t planned. And then you said…pregnancy.”

His hands finally dropped from the wheel. One fell to his lap, the other dragged across his jaw like he was trying to physically pull himself together.

“I thought maybe you were talking to your friend. Telling her before you told me. That maybe you were still figuring it out,” he went on. “And I—I didn’t want to say anything if you weren’t ready. I thought…if I waited, you’d tell me when you were.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, a slow chill creeping down your spine as it all began to fall into place. The silence. The careful watching. The nervous energy he hadn’t been able to name.

He still didn’t look at you. “I thought maybe you didn’t tell me because of who I am. What I’ve been through. I mean…” he laughed softly, but there was no humor in it, only hurt. “A dad with a record. A mom who’s schizophrenic. Someone who’s barely slept through the night since he was fifteen. I thought maybe you were scared I’d disappear, or mess it up. That I’d end up like—”

He stopped himself.

Like his own father.

The man who left.

The man who didn’t stay.

You could see it now, the way he’d folded in on himself these past few weeks. Not just out of fear, but out of guilt. Anticipating a future that didn’t exist. Shouldering a responsibility he hadn’t even been given.

“Spencer,” you whispered.

He finally turned to you, eyes wide and brimming, not with tears, but with something just as raw. Hope. Fear. The fragile kind of love that stretched between two people even when they didn’t know how to talk about it.

“I would’ve stayed,” he said, voice barely audible. “Even if I was terrified. I would’ve stayed. I would’ve tried.”

Your chest ached at the confession, so quiet, so pure. So Spencer. All this time, he’d been holding it inside. Reading every symptom like a case file. Piecing together something he never should’ve had to guess at. Carrying it alone, because he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.

You reached across the console and grabbed his hand, squeezing it until he looked at you fully.

“I wasn’t talking about me,” you said gently. “That night…I was talking about Mittens.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Mittens. My cat. Our cat. My baby. She’s pregnant.”

His brow furrowed, his grip loosening slightly on the wheel.

“That phone call was about her,” you explained, laughing again, the tension loosening in your chest now that it made sense, now that everything made sense. “I was talking to my friend, freaking out because I didn’t know what I was doing. I said ‘this changes everything’ because we don’t have space for kittens. I said I was scared because I am! She is still my baby, and I don't know how to take care of her now. And yes, I said ‘pregnancy,’ because she is. She’s like a furry balloon…don’t you noticed it?”

Spencer just stared at the road for a moment longer, blinking as the truth finally settled in. Then he released a slow, shaky breath, one that sounded like it had been living in his lungs for weeks.

“So…you’re not pregnant?” he asked quietly, still as if part of him didn’t believe it.

You laughed again, softer this time, full of affection. “No, Spencer. I’m not pregnant.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, the tension draining from his spine like air from a balloon. He didn’t say anything. Just breathed. Slowly. Deeply.

Then you reached over and grabbed his arm gently, shaking it, still half-laughing. “Oh my God. You thought I was pregnant. For weeks.”

He exhaled through his nose, somewhere between a sigh and a defeated huff. “You were craving pickles and chocolate at the same time.”

“I always crave pickles and chocolate at the same time. That’s just me being weird, not pregnant.”

He let out a soft, sheepish groan, dragging one hand down his face while keeping the other on the wheel. “I was so convinced. I even googled if wine was safe during the first trimester. At Rossi’s because my brain couldn’t work.”

You gasped, laughing again. “Spencer!”

“I panicked,” he muttered. “And I bought saltine crackers and ginger chews and started reading about bassinets…”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Wait…did you actually—?”

“I bookmarked five parenting blogs,” he admitted flatly. “And one ‘new dad’ book. I didn’t sleep much that couple of weeks.”

You reached across the console and took his hand, your fingers threading through his. He let you, easily.

“Sweetheart,” you said, gently now, the teasing fading into something warmer, something real, “why didn’t you just ask me?”

His voice was barely a murmur. “Because if you were, and you didn’t want to tell me…I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want you to feel trapped. Or watched. Or…alone.”

You looked at him, heart aching.

“And what if I had been?” you asked, softly. “Would you have wanted it?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he turned his head, just enough to meet your eyes. There was nothing hidden now. No defense. Just him.

“I would’ve been terrified,” he admitted. “But…yeah. I would’ve stayed. I would’ve tried. I’d try so hard.”

The lump in your throat surprised you. So did the way your fingers tightened in his.

“You’d be amazing,” you whispered. “Scared or not.”

The silence that followed was warm now, soft-edged, wrapped in everything unspoken and everything understood. The city lights danced on the windshield as the car slipped through the night like a dream.

You leaned over and gently rested your head on his shoulder, your voice light but full of affection.

“Just so you know,” you said, “we’re having kittens, not human babies.”

Spencer let out a quiet, choked laugh. “I’ll cancel the prenatal vitamins I ordered.”

You groaned. “You did not.”

“I also made a list of baby names,” he confessed, sheepishly. “It started as a ‘just in case’ and then…spiraled. There were spreadsheets. Multiple tabs.”

You let out a laugh that was equal parts affection and disbelief, brushing your thumb slowly over the back of his hand. “You’re absolutely unbelievable.”

“I was worried,” he said again, as if that excused the whole thing. And somehow…it kind of did.

“I know,” you whispered. “And I love you for it.”

He didn’t respond, not with words. But the way he looked at you, soft and reverent, and the way his thumb stroked yours, slow and sure, said more than anything else could.

You grinned up at him, mischief returning to your voice. “You smiled at me like I already had a baby in me.”

He flushed immediately, a pink hue blooming across his cheeks and up the tips of his ears. “That’s not—okay, maybe I did.”

You laughed again, letting your head fall back against the seat, content and warm. “God, I love you.”

And then, quiet, almost playful, voice low and curious, he asked:

“So…when do we actually have a baby?”

You turned your head slowly to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Drive,” you said with a smile, squeezing his hand again. “And we’ll see.”

He didn’t stop smiling the entire ride home.

Extra note: I hope this made some sense to you because it did to me. It's soo canon in my mind. But yep, guys, at least we know where Mittens was when she went missing! 😭

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee @23moonjellies @lolnothx06 @nnab

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[a-bit-of-writing]

24/30 - Blush

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Characters: Astarion x Reader (Female)

Words: 996

Summary: You only wanted a pear. Astarion, of course, made it about you blushing. 

notes: I’m making a collection out of these Astarion x Reader pieces. You can read the first one here -> Negotiate.

Dawn had only just powdered the treetops in rose‑gold when you padded into the clearing, determined to claim breakfast before the others stirred. Gale’s snore rumbled somewhere behind a canvas flap; Lae’zel muttered guttural insults in her sleep. The camp was blissfully yours.

Almost.

Because a white‑haired devil lounged beside the provisions basket like a dragon on its hoard, ankles crossed, fingers laced behind his head, smirk bright enough to rival sunrise.

Of course.

You cocked an eyebrow. “You’re up early.”

“Technically I’m up late, my sweet,” Astarion purred, stretching with feline grace. The motion set his silken shirt gaping wider, pale chest gleaming where two buttons had mysteriously vanished. “The night and I were having such a lovely time I couldn’t bear to part ways.”

“Mm‑hmm.” You crouched by the basket and spotted it: one perfect pear, skin flushed with gold and green, dewdrops still clinging like tiny diamonds. A rare treasure after days of trail rations.

You lifted it carefully.

Astarion’s eyes locked onto the fruit with predatory focus. “I do hope you intend to ask permission.”

“From whom?”

“From its rightful owner, darling. Me.”

You snorted. “Since when do you own the camp’s food?”

“Since I laid an elegant, discerning eye on it last night and declared, ‘That beauty is mine.’” He rose in a languid glide, closing the distance until his voice brushed your ear. “Besides, we both know I have impeccable taste.”

“Please.” You tried to sidestep; he matched you, a waltz without music. The pear sat cool and heavy in your palm - suddenly precious, suddenly bargaining chip.

“What will you give me,” he whispered, “to taste my pear?”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks - swift, traitorous. Of course he noticed; he noticed everything.

Astarion’s crimson gaze glittered. “Oh, there it is. The delightful rush of pink.” He clucked his tongue. “You are way too cute when you blush.”

“I’m not blushing,” you lied, hopelessly.

“Lies, lies, delicious lies.” He leaned forward until a silver strand of hair tickled your cheek. “Careful, love. Keep turning that charming shade and I’ll be forced to write sonnets. Very bad sonnets. The kind that rhyme love with dove.”

“That should be illegal.”

“Oh, it is. But I’m a criminal in so many delightful ways.” His smile curved razor‑sharp. “So, what will you trade?”

You swallowed. “What do you want?”

“Surprise me.” He folded his arms, biceps flexing beneath torn silk. “A secret. A confession. A dare. Something with… flavor.”

You weighed possibilities - and the pear - then exhaled. “Fine. I’ll give you something no one else here knows.”

“Scandalous already.”

You cleared your throat. “When I was twelve, I stole candles from the temple archive so I could read adventure tales after curfew.” A shy laugh escaped. “I hid them under my mattress for months before anyone noticed.”

Astarion blinked, genuine, momentary startle. “You little renegade.” Then his grin returned, wider. “Breaking commandments for literature? Positively sinful.”

“Happy?”

“Ecstatic but I think I deserve visual evidence.” He plucked the pear from your hand before you could react, then rolled it between long fingers, inspecting. “Mm. Smooth. Firm. Juicy.” His eyes flicked to yours. “Reminds me of someone.”

You laughed despite yourself. “You compare me to fruit now?”

“Only the finest.” His thumb stroked the pear’s curve with slow, suggestive care. “Look, she blushes deeper.” He sighed, mock‑smitten. “Honestly, darling, if you keep coloring like that, I’ll have to ask Shadowheart for smelling salts.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Hardly. Your pulse is racing.” He tapped two fingers against your wrist - soft, testing. “See?”

Lightning shot to your skin. You yanked your hand back. “Stop that.”

He chuckled. “Why should I? I quite enjoy seeing you unravel.” Biting lightly into the pear, he let juice run down the corner of his mouth - then caught it with a slow swipe of tongue. “Mmm. Divine.”

You averted your gaze. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?” He took another bite, lips glistening. “Do enlighten me.”

“Being obscene.”

“Obscene? Darling, this is breakfast.” He offered the pear, half‑devoured. “Care for a taste?”

You hesitated. His eyes dared you. Crimson crescents bright with mischief and something hotter. To refuse felt cowardly; to accept felt like stepping onto a blade. So you lifted it to your lips and bit where his mouth had been moments before.

The pear burst sweet on your tongue - sugar and wine. His gaze never left your mouth.

“How is it?” he breathed.

“Good.” You swallowed thickly. “Very… good.”

“‘Good,’ they say.” He tutted. “That’s hardly worthy of poetry.” He leaned close again, voice velvety. “Tell me, did you taste a hint of me? I promise, I’m even sweeter.”

“You’re impossible.”

He laughed, satisfied. “And you, little candle‑thief, are intoxicating.” He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear—fingertips chill, feather‑light. “I should warn you: if you continue blushing like that, someone less chivalrous might take advantage.”

“Chivalrous?” you scoffed.

“Well.” His grin flashed fang. “Chivalrous enough not to steal more than a pear at dawn.” He stepped back, theatrically bowing. “For now.”

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The morning smelled of dew and pear juice and danger disguised as laughter.

Suddenly he tossed the fruit high; you caught it by reflex.

“Keep it,” he said, straightening, voice softer - the faintest crack in the performance. “A souvenir of my generosity.” Then the mask returned. “But remember: every bite binds you deeper into my scandalous poetry cycle. Expect sonnets by supper.”

“Ghastly,” you teased.

“Glorious,” he corrected.

You turned to leave, yet glanced back. Astarion watched you with unreadable eyes, as if committing every blush, every stutter, to memory. For all his flair, the silence between you pulsed with something fragile - electric - real.

You raised the pear in salute. “Thank you.”

His smile gentled, just for a breath. “My pleasure… and soon, perhaps, my privilege.”

You walked away with cheeks on fire, heartbeat drum‑loud, pear juice sticky on your fingers—and the sneaking suspicion that somewhere between candlelit pages and stolen dawns, you had become as priceless to him as any forbidden fruit.

[darkbluetennessee]

"swirled you into all of my poems" is SUCH a good fucking lyric. on the one hand, what does that mean....to swirl something into something else, you're adding something that wasn't there before. taylor taking her art and adding this person to the narrative, changing the meaning to fit how she was feeling (we literally SAW her do this on stage multiple times!!) on the other hand, it's sooo visual. i see acrylic paint, with new colors being added, changing the whole picture. melted ice cream, swirling into itself and changing colors. it also—to me at least—has a sexual connotation, connecting to guilty as sin. when I think of it this way, I see that visual of ariana grande in the god is a woman music video (you know the one I'm talking about)

[vintagerpg]

What the heck, a full color GURPS book? In the ’90s? This seems bizarre. And for such a strange book! GURPS Goblins (1996) is…wild. It almost certainly isn’t what you think.

What we have here is an unflinching social satire of Edwardian London, circa 1830. Except, instead of English humans, everyone is a goblin. Except, they aren’t really goblins in the D&D sense. They’re…if you’re familiar with political cartoons of that era, or even in the Victorian period, the twisted figures whose physical traits so often visually depict their inner failings and moral decay? They’re that. Sort of like the ugliest of people crossed with Joe Dante’s gremlins. A city of millions of sentient deadly sins walking around, being the worst they can possibly be (and brought to a semblance of life through Guy Burwell’s grotesque illustrations).

Players, of course, take the role of goblins from the lowest class strata, the poor, the desperate, the criminal. The point of the game is to get a leg up. The introduction says, “The aim of every goblin should be to gain security and power with improved social level, faster than he degenerates through disease, age and the aforementioned maiming.” I should mention that the text is scathing, unflinching, strident and regularly very funny. I find it hard to find the correct words to convey my awe at this game, that in addition to pillorying Edwardian society of nearly two centuries ago, also somehow sees into the dark heart of 21st century life.

To wit: “The ruins and dungeons are far from uncharted — the only creature who never explores them is the landlord who rents them out.” I mean, damn. That’s some Ambrose Bierce shit right there.

Honestly, the goblins are kind of a red herring — remove their desperate parodying and you basically have an incredibly detailed source book for London in the 1830s, rife with poverty, disease, exploitation, crime and inequity. The goblinoid veneer makes it into something playable (though I would be surprised if something with this tenor found much of an audience in 1996) and brings the laughs, though I suspect they’d be the uncomfortable sort that issue when a gag hits too close to home.

A forgotten classic.

[kedreeva]

Transparencies are a a heavy load but would still balance out to be a better choice than all the different permutations if that's what you mean.

What kind of interface would you want for peahen simulator? Wasn't there some dragon breeding site ages ago?

Yeah, that was what I meant! And flight-rising is still around, but it's not... that kind of thing isn't really the same. The parents each have three colors, and each offspring randomly gets assigned one in each "spot" (primary color, secondary color, tertiary color), and they can't carry the other as a het. Same for the pattern "genes." So, it's COOL and all, but it has very shallow game mechanics as far as breeding goes. Even compared to some other breeding sims games that track genotypes for generations.

Very honestly, something like this would work just fine (this one is.... ugly as sin, but it is what it is), but we don't quite know peafowl genetics with the same depth as mouse genetics so the different autosomal genes would just kind of have to be treated like they aren't on the same chromosome until someone proves they are. So, drop downs for each autosomal color (treating each color as non-allelic, so each color would need a drop down for wt/het/homo), a drop down for sex-linked (since they're "alleles" in the sense that you can only have one per sex chromosome. except in the case of peach. because peafowl did a weird thing), a drop down for pattern, and drop downs for the leucistic genes. Select all the genes from the drop downs, hit calculate, it spits out a genotype, and each genotype codes to a phenotype. It doesn't even NEED a photo, but it would be cool to have a photo show up, OR to have a second page that does like this thing for horses. Which isn't a calculator, but would help people visualize their result.

There's ONE more problem- some stuff doesn't always show the same in the phenotype, and some stuff doesn't breed true. Het pied, het white, and dark pied all CAN show in the phenotype with white flights and a white throat latch, but they also sometimes show NOTHING. Het white eye CAN show in the phenotype with some white eyes or body silvering, but it can also show nothing. Pied x pied gives three different offspring genotypes, and idk if it's possible to do multiple results, with or without percentages. Hets would give the same problem of multiple results. What happens when someone picks a complicated bird and you end up with

It's daunting. But maybe there's scripts that can produce that?? like list all the combinations. I don't know enough about coding to know if that's even possible. especially with the sex linked stuff

[broken-clover]

If you asked Bedman what his favorite color is he wouldn't just say 'purple' he would immediately go on a ten-minute lecture on its history as a symbol of royalty and nobility due to the costliness of dyes as well as its association with mysticism and power, emphasizing how it all ties into his sense of visual presentation and style and his proficiency in magic, therefore making it objectively the best color of all of them (and how it is a very manly color, thank you very much (nobody asked or thought it wasn't but he is insecure))

Meanwhile if you asked sin what his favorite color is he'd just go 'I like blue because it reminds me of my mommy :D'

[wakasaz]

ooh, i heard u wanted some waka reqs<33 mayb more benkei's sis reader x waka? i love that trope, it is so underrated..

n for prompt,,,,, maybe waka seeing reader at the club (n shes not supposed to be there,,) n well.. since shes obviously drunk, things get spicy! smut too,, thank u!<33

Sins Between Shots

The bass hit like a heartbeat, low and heavy, vibrating through the concrete floor and straight into your chest. Neon lights pulsed in time with the music—violet, electric blue, blood red—painting the crowd in a kaleidoscope of color. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and perfume, every breath tasting like heat and wild freedom.

Bodies moved in waves on the dance floor, silhouettes tangled together, grinding, swaying, losing themselves in the rhythm. The DJ stood elevated in the far back, head bobbing, hands in the air, commanding the room like a god of chaos. Behind him, LED screens flashed with strobes and visuals that made your head spin if you stared too long.

To the left, the bar was lined with glowing bottles and slick counters, bartenders moving fast—pouring, flipping, shouting over the music. Laughter and slurred pick-up lines floated through the haze, half-lost in the beat.

In the VIP section, separated by velvet ropes and guarded stares, expensive cologne mingled with cigarette smoke. Leather couches curved around glass tables littered with drinks, half-melted ice, and untouched appetizers. Conversations here were quieter, more dangerous, all power games and smirks exchanged between sips.

You weren't supposed to be here, not even old enough to get in technically. Your birthday is in a few days so it's not that big of a deal right? Benkei would kill you if he knew but he thinks you're at Yuzuha's for the night.

You're six shots in and currently grinding on some guy you just met. He's cute you think—honestly you don't really remember what his face looked like, his clothes just reminded you of someone and that's why you accepted when he asked.

You see a flash of purple move past you but you think nothing of it continuing to dance until you hear someone say your name and then the pair of hands on your hips are ripped away.

“Hey, why did you—”

You turn around and see Wakasa, your brother's best friend—and the guy you've had a crush on since you were a little girl and Benkei introduced you holding the guy you were dancing with by the collar of his shirt, wakasa fist pulled back about to throw.

“Waka!” You say speech slightly slurred And vision a little hazy

He glances at you and pulls the guy close so their nose to nose “fuck off, I see you ‘round her again, I'll kill you” he says before pushing the guy back with enough for to make him stumble.

Wakasa walks over to you and crosses his arms. “You're not supposed to be here little Arashi” little Arashi the nickname he gave you when you were ten because you followed your brother everywhere—a mini him wanting to be just like him.

You gulp, scared he's about to call Benkei but Waka smirks and shakes his head “you look good” you feel your face Heat up but when you go to say something someone bumped into you and you stumble forward slamming into Wakasas chest. He smells good like cherry lollipops he always has and whiskey.

Your hands fist his shirt—pulling him closer to you and his wrap around your waist steadying you. You look up and see something in his eyes. You're not sure what it is but you've been seeing it a lot lately but usually it disappears as fast as it comes but tonight it's not.

You're so lost in his eyes you don't realize both of you are leaning closer to each other till your noses brush together. “Tell me to stop, little Arashi” but you don't. You lean up and close the gap between you two. He tastes exactly like me smells and it makes you moan into the kiss.

His arm that is wrapped around you pulls you closed so your bodies are flush and he deepens the kiss—his tongue flicking your bottom lip asking for permission you grant him without a second thought.

You didn't even know you two were walking till your back hit the wall and you feel wakas hands slide down towards your thighs. “Jump” he says against your lips.

You do as he says and wrap your legs around him, his hands gripping your thighs. You continue to kill and start grinding on each other. Your hands in his hair as his moves to your ass.

Wakasa puts you down and you see your in a bathroom. He turns you around so your facing the mirror and counter before he pushes on your back bending you so you're lying your front on the counter. His hand slides up the inside of your thigh going under the dress you wore tonight and he groans, mumbling something about how wet you already are.

He pulls your panties down to your ankles and undoes his pants pulling his hardened length out. His other hand grabs your face and turns you so you're looking in the mirror.

“Eyes on me, princess” he says as he pushes into you both of you moaning at the feeling. He doesn't give you time to adjust thrusting in and out of you. Slow at first but then picking up his pace. The top of your dress is pulled down as he plays with your tits, groaning and telling you, you have no idea how long he has wanted you like this.

You push back meeting his thrust “fuuuuck, just like that baby. Taking my cock so good”

You moan and whine his name, one of his hands slipping under your dress again to find your clit. You continue to watch in the mirror and you swear he has never looked more beautiful. He smirks at you and tells you you're his good girl and how good you feel wrapped around him. “Never had pussy this good”

You moan his name as you feel yourself come undone, clenching around him as he tells you to make a mess all over his cock. Your eyes crossing and legs shaking, the only thing holding you up is the counter the wakas arm wrapped around you.

He finishes seconds after you with a moan of your name, his head laying on the back of your shoulder. You can feel his breath hitting your neck. You both stay there for a few seconds catching your breath before he stands—readjusting his clothes and yours.

He kisses you one last time before resting his forehead against yours—his hands on your hips again

“You're mine now, little Arashi”

[thefandomsfervent]

Personal Pigments Viktor x Reader (Part 1) - Cadmium Yellow Deep Hue

Heimerdinger forgets to warn the science bros that an artist is coming in to visualize them and Hextech, a collaborative program between a Piltover art school and the academy for some new hall meant to be unveiled at an upcoming progress day. Large paintings can take years to do, with Hextech’s promising growth they are to be started in a preemptive manner. Reader is from Zaun, not sure what I’m going to do with this yet. Takes place in the coming months after they first get council approval, hexgates aren't complete. Wrote an imagine (here) and now I’m needing to see it through, would y’all want more?

╔═*✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧-✦-✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧*═╗

Viktor should be focusing. He is, but not on the right thing. His hands still fiddle with cogs as he looks to you for the umpteenth time this hour. Your brows were furrowed together as you compared pastels and pencils together.  Your lips pursed to the side as if you were biting your cheek in concentration. He would have been worried about being caught starting but your focus was elsewhere.

You had papers clipped to a drawing board in front of you.  The stool you usually sat on abandoned by the small table next to you.  He watched as your hands turned colored sticks over, looking for something. He didn't know what, but he appreciated the view regardless. 

In this summer heat the lab was humid, Jayce had gone out for water and Viktor himself had forgone his vest. You were starting to sketch something in wide yellow strokes, the smooth scrape of pressed pigment to paper filling the heavy air. You hummed a sound of affirmation, as if finally approving your choice before grabbing another stick in blue. As you continued your efforts, he took in all of you. A loose button up over a tank top, well fitting trousers, simple boots. The same attire you'd worn for weeks, but today something was different. The tank-top was a lower,  looser cut. Likely chosen for the heat plaguing Piltover this summer. Your warming up sketches facing a daylit window. 

“Composition, speed, and colour work.” The words you had said months ago lingering in the back of his mind. “You can never practice too much.”

He sees you from the side, the strap had been half way off your shoulder all morning. Innocent enough. Not truly your fault in any way.  

The white over shirt unbuttoned. Also loosely caught by your elbows, draping over your work surface. Picking up colors and dust. He follows the sleeves up to your hands, to your arms. He should be working. Reading a section in another overdue library book. Not watching you. Not following the gentle way you pick up and set down your pastels, certainly not the way today’s heat has exposed your neck, your shoulders, your collarbones and how they lead to the hollow of your neck. He looks away for a moment. Steeling himself. 

Surely he is not ogling you. That would be inappropriate. Yes, it has been a long time since he has been able to indulge in thoughts of that manner. But he shouldn't start down that kind of path here.

A clattering sound pulls his gaze back to you, a soft curse leaving your lips as you have to bend down to grab a pencil that rolled off your desk. His breath catches in his throat, your tanktop drooping lower when you lean down. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your bra revealing itself in a sinful second. The moment was very quick, and to his luck you didn't notice. The lab door opens as Jayce walks in. Ice cold water in a pitcher, three glasses on a tray. 

He sets one down on your desk looking over your shoulder. "The window today?"

"Just something quick, the sun is hitting the glass just right." You punctuate your sentence with the wave of a pencil towards the shaft of light illuminating a stack of books.

"I see," he says as he walks over to one of the many messy tables near you to set down the tray. He brings another glass to viktor. If he notices the red flushing his partner's face he doesn't say.  Maybe he assumed it was this wretched heat. In a way, it was the fault of the weather. 

"Thank you," Viktor says, just before he downs the whole glass. 

He gets an acknowledging pat on his shoulder before Jayce settles in his own station.  Each of you returning to your own work. The silent hum of drawing and tinkering becomes a soothing balm on the room, and on the tension in his shoulders. He fiddles with his engraver, marking runes onto various metal bits. He wonders to himself how he even got into this position. How he finds his thoughts, and apparently his eyes, wandering to you. 

He remembers that first day, how many months has it been since you’ve come here? 

╚═*✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧-✦-✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧*═╝

-------------------.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ Part 2.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .---------------------

------------‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙· Master Fic List *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊--------------

[mothdust23]

An angel nursing a drink. Her holy robes are ragged and dirty, her beautiful features marred by scars older than the light tethered to her head. She can feel her halo ringing painfully in her feathered ears, telling her to stop, leave this place of sin, return to her purpose. Her eyes are tinged with the orange of the disk, but her natural purple shines through enough to stare daggers at the holy symbol.

"I'm tired."

But you have so many people to save.

"Then let me save myself first."

This is self harm. Leave.

"All I'm doing is-"

INDULGING. YOU NEED TO STOP.

"By the holy, do you EVER shut up!?"

The bar goes quiet. The bartender stares her up and down, his visual receptor glowing and flickering.

"You're not a bird, are you?" he says gently.

"Gee, what tipped you off?" she mutters back, taking another swig of liquid courage.

"..The, er, halo, ma'am."

"Right, this accursed thing." She glares at it, reaching up and trying to pull, yet it sticks like glue above her head.

ACCEPT YOUR PLACE.

"I must say, in all of my years of active service, an angel has never graced my establishment. Why are you here?"

"To get drunk, what does it look like I'm doing!?"

STOP SINNING

The robot gives her a pitying look, remotely signaling an early end to his shift as he sits down next to her.

"I've never heard of an angel who didn't like its halo." he says curiously.

"It's not just the halo, it's the whole thing. Celibacy? No earthly possessions? Giving up everything, spending every hour of every day saving strangers from sins that don't even exist!? I never wanted this!!"

BUT YOU SHOULD

With every word she gets angrier, holy light cracking the glass and turning the alcohol to water. She groans and tosses it at the ground, making the bartender wince.

"...then why are you an angel?"

"I WAS FORCED TO BE!! My parents, my whole family, everyone I grew up with- it was either I put on the damn halo or they.. t-they.."

She tears up. The robot puts his hand on hers.

"Shh.. I understand. Perhaps you didn't get to choose then, but you can choose now."

No

"..what do you mean?"

"...I was built as a soldier. Programmed to be a soldier. Spent the first 10 years of my life killing birdkind and skeletons and humans and even other robots.. now, here I am, working the night shift in a bar in the middle of nowhere."

Servos whir in his back as he relaxes, plates of metal moving into place alongside others. Faint light shines through the gaps.

"Sounds miserable."

"On the contrary, I have never felt more alive. I have a family now, a life. People see my faceplate and smile and talk about their day. I give back to them."

"...what's your point?"

"..It's never too late to change, I guess. I'm new to this whole helping people thing anyways, hahah."

Do not

He shrugs, seemingly smiling.

You need to be pure..

"Shut up."

Please..

"..."

An angel nursing her drink. Her halo shines a brilliant green, and her purpose has never been clearer. She's finally pure.

Purely herself, that is.

She's never been happier. New robes in sacreligious colors, no more makeup to hide the scars of her childhood. Maybe one day, she'll find her family, and teach them what she learned. For now, though.. she sits, and drinks, and allows herself to smile.

[bdxpelik]

Episode 23 was perfection.

It was everything I imagined plus helped me better understand the Shi Clan's backstory through visual and audible storytelling. And is this the first time we got through a major plot point without Maomao? She wasn't even in this ep till the end credits and we've been following Jinshi's POV the whole time.

It was fascinating to see Shisui/Loulan and Jinshi/Zuigetsu interact properly for the first time (even though he visited her regularly in the rear palace as part of his job). It's the first time they showed their true colors to each other. I'm dying to know how they truly felt about each other. Resentment? Somehow it doesn't feel that way despite Loulan being the one who caused so much political trouble and kidnapped the girl he loved. Would Jinshi have listened to Loulan if he hated her so much? Does Loulan resent Jinshi or was he just a tool for her grand finale? Hmm. Side note, their passive aggressive jabs at each other were frickin hilarious.

I came up with two conclusions about Shishou and Shenmei after this. One: Shishou is a loving coward who deserved better. Two: Shenmei has always been a total bitch. The sins of the Shi clan and the Ka clan (namely, the former emperor) were overlapping one another that it negatively affected generations later. What sins did Suirei and Jinshi have? Being born? Having the same face as the Emperor? It's despicable. And Loulan, who was a child trapped in a cage of deceit and resentment. She grew up as a villain and ended her life as a villain.

Finally, Jinshi was sure: this was her stage. And all those around her were merely supporting actors drawn into her performance. (...) Should he have stopped her? No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t mar the performance of the great villainess of her time. Couldn’t even take his eyes off it.

Jinshi comparing what he witnessed to a play/performance and Loulan calling herself an actress is pure poetry. Everything about Loulan's dance was breathtakingly, hauntingly beautiful. Suirei helplessly reaching out to her sister. Jinshi unable to look away. Loulan's laughter. Her smile as she fell, knowing she was finally free. The music. The starlit sky.

Absolute perfection. A masterpiece. And my heart has shattered into a thousand pieces.

[helluvaartcritique]

so, we all agree that hazbin's overuse of similar color palettes is a bad thing, but... why? personally i like the idea of a show set in hell whose characters are all represented by shades of red/black/pink while still being visually distinct character designs, but for some reason that just doesn't work for hazbin. but why not? how would that be improved? is there even a good way for that to be executed well?

There's a multitude of reasons for why everything being the same color doesn't really work (Not just for HH, but HB as well)

1. There's no variety

Variety is important when it comes to character design, and the same thing goes for the colors of the characters. You want to have people be able to point out which character is with from their color palettes

These palettes have variety in their colors. It's not all red, you're able to tell who is who

Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss on the other hand, they're very hard to distinguish.

For Hazbin, which one is Charlie? Which one is Mimzy? Is Husk in this lineup? Is Rosie here? From taking a good look at it, here's who I could figure out

The only ones I knew immediately were Emily and Adam, because their palettes stuck out from the rest of the cast. When only 2 of the characters are recognizable from their palettes, it's not pretty. Hence why diversity is important.

2. It's a problem for colorblind people.

This post explains it better than I can. Go check that out if you want.

In short, this is what people with colorblindness see when watching HH, and as a result, the characters don't stand out well from the background.

Now, how does one improve this?

Make the cast stand out from the background

Having the cast be colors other than red would be a good solution, and even better if each character had a distinct color from the other. (Since it's set in Hell, maybe have the characters be the colors of their respective sins? Just an idea)

It would give our eyes a break, and allow people who are colorblind or have other vision issues to at least see what's going on.

But that's just my idea.

Thanks for the ask!

[icanbringyouinhot]

Take something bad and make it into something good - Chapter 1

Paring: retired!Javier Peña x F!reader

Summary: After leaving Colombia, Javier slowly but surely slides into a post-burnout depression that he tries to self-medicate with alcohol and self-imposed exile. However, his friend Steve Murphy and his wife Connie are not having it. Turns out, their endless nagging got him in a very interesting situation that turned out to be exactly what he needed. (Though, he’ll never admit they were right.)

Here’s the song that inspired me: Something Good by Paul Haig (spotify link)

Warnings: I don’t think there are that many, honestly. There’s no smut (boo-hoo, this is my first fanfic ever posted in here, I’m shy ok?..). No physical description of the reader, though I did describe her clothes because we love a well dressed diva. Vague mentions of alcohol abuse. Mentions of blood, wounds, guns, and depression because our boy is traumatized by what went down in Colombia. The reader has one small tattoo on her forearm. Let me know if I forgot anything, this is my first fanfic, idk what the hell I’m doing.

Word count: Roughly 2k.

A/N: Ok so there’s a few things, PLEASE READ: (1) As I said two times already, this is my first fanfic, I’m nervous and insecure about my writing, so please, please, please, give me any advice you have, criticism, words of encouragement, anything that could help me grow. I ain’t no pussy, you can tell me this is shit and I won’t start crying (as far as you know teehee). (2) The story the reader is talking about is my latest hyper fixation, however, i couldn’t find the source. There’s an article that says it belongs to the Chumash Tribe, but there are also other articles and reddit posts that say the otherwise. I have no idea were I know this story from, it just spawned into my smooth brain. For safety measures I chose not to associate it to any Native American tribe and let the reader’s granny take the blow, because I don’t want to offend anyone and because I am from Europe, so idk what the hell I’m talking about and it would be disrespectful to pretend that I do. (3) The art pieces and the artist that are featured in this fanfic are real (they are also present in the little collage that I’ve made, there in the middle, for visual reference)!!! But i don’t have a clue when he did his work and I was too lazy to google it so i have no idea if they existed by the time Javier Peña left Colombia (or if the art pieces ever touched the American land). Once again this fanfic was a last minute thing I didn’t put that much thought into it. (4) Once again i pulled this story from my bum bum and i don’t know if there’s a Modern Art Gallery in Houston, but I don’t care, I take my artistic liberties to invent one on the spot. (5) English is not my first language!!!!!! I tried really hard to make my sentences beautiful and clear, because sometimes in my head everything is an absolute mess. Once again, Idk what the hell I’m talking about. This fanfic is 100% the concept of raw dogging life and see where it gets you.

Okay!!!!! I think that was it. I think we are ready for our first flight together. I have to inform you that I don’t have any right, license or experience into flying the FanFic Aircraft. Too late, you can’t get off now, I shut the doors. Thank you for choosing our company to fly towards your next destination: JAVI LAND!!!! (play national anthem.)

(Also if someone knows how to add those colorful spacers on a post, I also forgot how it’s called, please send me a message and explain to me like I’m your grandma, thank you!!!!!)

Okay here we go. I’m nervous.

Chapter 2 >>

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Javier Peña had a lot of sins he had to try to pay for, but never in his life did he imagine this would be the price.

Four months. That’s how long’s been since he’d left Colombia for good, leaving behind all the bullshit he had to endure, the mistakes he made, the deaths he’d witnessed.

In all fairness, he thought that going back to the states would motivate him to rebuild his life and start anew. That was his honest to God intention. However, once back in the good ol’ Merica, he realized it no longer felt like home, not in his dad’s old house, not in his new apartment, in a different city, nowhere. He became almost a recluse, filled with rage, resentment and frustrations, never leaving his house much, except for runs to the closest liquor store or the bar down the street.

The first few weeks, Murphy gave him space to sort out his thoughts, drink himself into oblivion, chain-smoke through the night and avoid human interaction like the goddamn plague, only checking on every now and then but never pushing.

Then, they started showing up.

First it was just Murphy, with beer and bad jokes, watching football games, doing anything but talk about Colombia or feelings. Then, Connie started showing up too, with thinly vailed concern and always bringing something for him to eat, all while trying to pull words out of him with pliers. They even had their daughter have a try at him, convinced that no one could resist the innocence of a small, bright-eyed child, especially one that loved her ‘uncle Javi’ like he hung the moon just for her. Yes, Javier loved his niece and would do anything for her, but that was the one thing that he couldn’t do, mostly because he didn’t know how.

No matter how many times he tried to turn them down, they were relentless. They’d pestered, prodded, and outright bullied him into getting out of the house ­– something about fresh air, new experiences, maybe even fun, as if he had any patience for that word anymore. They started up with the occasional dinner invitation, then it was offers to take him out for drinks – somewhere nice instead of the dingy, dimly lit bar where Javi spent his weekends. He never wanted to go anywhere, but Murphy and Connie always insisted until he gave in just to shut them the hell up. Well, more Connie than Murphy, really – she was the one planning every intervention, though she’d been sweet enough not to say that word out loud.

And now… this.

This one – Oh, this one took the cake.

A fucking art gallery.

Connie got her grabby hands on some invitations from an old patient lady that actually owned the fancy Modern Art Gallery in Houston, and Murphy, as the good husband that he was, just went along with it.

But Javier Peña didn’t belong here. That much was obvious from the moment he stepped through the doors of the establishment, wearing a scowl and the same old leather jacked that had seen more blood and dust than it had high society.

The walls were lined with massive canvases – some monochrome, others smeared in chaotic swirls of color – but what stood out the most were the ones that had been slashed and punctured, riddled with holes like someone had taken a knife to them in a drunken rage.

Murphy, the bastard, was actually trying to appreciate it. He stood next to Connie, nodding along as she pointed to different pieces. Javi had no doubt Steve didn’t understand a damn thing either, but unlike Javier, he was at least pretending.

He took a long sip of his whiskey – at least the open bar made this bearable.

At one point during the night, Connie leaned in and, in a hushed, reverent tone, explained that the artist, Lucio Fontana, had created these pieces with great precision to “explore spatial concepts beyond the canvases”, emphasizing “the interplay of light, shadow and space.” He just rolled his eyes and moved further away from her in a corner, plotting his escape.

What a load of bullshit.

All he could see were stab wounds. Bullet holes. Scars carved into the fabric of the country he had spent too many years fighting in. If he looked long enough, he swore he could see blood seeping through, hear the gunshots echoing in his skull.

And maybe that said more about him than the art itself.

He exhaled, running a hand over his face. He needed another drink.

He turned to leave – and walked straight into someone.

“Shit, sorry.” He muttered taking a step back, but the woman in front of him didn’t seem bothered.

You were standing close to one of the mutilated canvases, your back straight, hands folded in front of you as you studied it. You wore a calf-length silk skirt that shimmered under the lights and a lacy top that showed just enough skin to be distracting. But what struck him the most was the way you were looking at the canvas in front of you – not with the pretentious admiration of the other guests but with quiet, genuine thoughtfulness.

You waved off his apology with a small smile before turning your gaze back to the painting – a deep navy-blue canvas punctured with what looked like a thousand tiny holes.

Javier should’ve walked away, but instead he looked at you looking at the painting, and the curiosity got the better of him.

“You actually like this shit?”

You smiled, slow and knowing, like you were expecting that reaction. “Maybe.”

Javier huffed incredulous, crossing his arms. “Really?”

You gestured to the navy punctured canvas, “It reminds me of an old story my grandmother used to tell me when I was little.”

Javier pulled his eyebrows together, puzzled. The only thing it reminded him of was the dark colored government van that got ambushed and was completely obliterated along with the agents inside. But he couldn’t say that, and before he could open up his mouth to say anything else, you already started telling your story.

“Before the humans appeared on the planet, the rocks, animals and plants lived in harmony. They were the people of the world. They lived in harmony and peace, appreciating and taking care of the nature and of one another. They woke up every morning greeting the Sun, and went to sleep waving goodbye to the Moon, thanking her for looking over them.”

Javi found himself listening despite himself, watching you as you talked, tilting you head in his direction, gaze lost, but a small smile creeping on your lips as you continued to narrate the story.

“As time passed, they started to forget. They didn’t greet the Sun anymore or show any appreciation, and the Moon was completely forgotten. They became jealous of each other, thinking others possessed more than them, greed taking over their hearts. They started to take more than they needed, either to consume or to sell away. They didn’t help each other, cooperation didn’t exist anymore. They separated more and more, arguing, hating, fighting, hurting each other.”

His eyes darted between you and the painting, his mind running a thousand miles per hour, but knew better than to try to interrupt you.

“The Creator had been watching and said ‘Enough’, throwing a blanket over the whole world. Now the world was in darkness, people frightened. Each of them tried individually to take off the blanket, but no one was able to reach that far. Desperate, they formed a council, to discuss what they should do. After endless meetings and failed attempts, a hummingbird came with a plan that demanded everyone to cooperate. The hummingbird got on top of the crow, the crow got on top of the owl, and the owl on the eagle. The idea was simple, the eagle was supposed to fly as high as he could, then when his energy ran out, the owl took over, then the crow, until finally the hummingbird got close enough to puncture the blanket with its beak. Light seeped through, and everyone got their hope back. They started working together until they punctured enough holes in the blanket for them to have light and warmth again. The animals that couldn’t fly helped from the ground, preparing water, food and shelter for everyone. The Creator was so pleased to see that the people were living again in harmony that he lifted off the blanket, and the people never took what they had for granted anymore.” You seemed to finish your story the moment your eyes were focused on again, this time shifting your gaze towards Javier. His face was an amalgamation of emotions – confusion, admiration, concentration. “Anyway, it’s said that after they lived again in harmony and peace for many, many years, the people started to forget again.” You added with a shrug, this time with a knowing look into your eyes.

Javier looked at the canvas again. He still saw violence – still saw the wounds, the tearing, the things he couldn’t erase from his mind. But for the first time, he also saw what you did. Something else. Hopeful.

“You got all that from a couple stab marks on a painting?

You turned to him fully, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Art is what you make of it.”

Javier tilted his head, watching you. “So, what do you make of that one?” he said pointing to a different canvas – one with a long, deep cut right in the middle of it, like a wound.

You studied it for a moment, pursing your lips, then said, “Loneliness.”

“Loneliness?”

“Yes, the loneliness we all feel sometimes, almost like a wound right in the middle.” You said tracing absentmindedly a finger over your chest. “Separation. The way we carve ourselves apart from others, whether by choice or by force.”

Javier’s smirk faded slightly. He wasn’t used to conversations like this. Usually, when he talked to women, it was all surface-level-flirting, small talk, nothing deeper than what was necessary. But this? This was different.

If your words affected him, he didn’t let it show, but truth be told, a bitch slap would’ve stung him less than this.

He scoffed giving a skeptical look, “Alright smartass, and that one?” he pointed to another, where multiple slashes ran parallel, like scars.

After another pause for consideration, you said, “Community. We crave connection, we need it. No one survives alone. Even if we are wounded, we heal better when we are surrounded by others. Pain shared is pain halved.”

He almost wanted to ask if you knew Steve and Connie and if they put you up to this, but something in your expression made him reconsider, because when you spoke, when you came up with these awful, soul barring interpretations, you seemed lost in thoughts for a second.

“Where do you come up with this stuff?”

You grinned, “Pulled it out of my ass, mostly.”

He barked out a laugh, “Figures.”

You leaned in slightly, voice conspiratorial, “Truth is, I think this whole thing is bullshit.”

Now that was something he could get behind. “Then how the hell does a smart woman like you end up stuck at an art gallery she doesn’t even like?”

“My grandmother owns the gallery.”

Javier blinked. “Shit.”

You smiled slyly, “Yeah, so don’t tell her I said that.”

“No promises.” He said, “I’m Javier, by the way.” he added, and you shook his hand telling him your own name.

After a beat, you cleared the air, “The only one I’ve actually meant was the first one. The story kind of stuck with me.” You said as you rotated your forearm, letting him see the tiny hummingbird tattoo you had, so small, fragile and beautiful. He wanted to kiss it, honestly,

“So, you really believe in that?” he asked with his characteristic smile plastered on his face.

You glanced at him. ‘Believe in what? That the sky is a blanket and the stars are holes?” you asked amused.

Javier shrugged, “I mean, the whole idea. That there’s a way out, that people could actually find a way to fix their world at some point.” He explained his question, because it sure like hell never felt like that when he tried to lift the proverbial blanket that the cartels threw over Colombia.

You smiled, but there was something wistful in it. “I think stories like that exist because people need them to. To make sense of things, to find hope. The world’s a little less lonely when you see that there are others with the same way of thinking. Maybe if more people knew the story and they’d believe in it, things would change too.”

Javi studied you. You weren’t like the rest of the people here – weren’t fawning over the art just to seem cultured, weren’t talking in circles to sound impressive. You were just… real.

And that was a dangerous thing for him to be around.

You two stood there, quiet for a moment, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space between you. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t.

Javi wasn’t sure when was the last time he’d met someone who actually entertained him, let alone someone who made him forget the shitstorm in his head. You had that way of carrying yourself – calm, amused, like the world was something to be studied but never taken too seriously.

“So, what about you?” you said after a moment, “If you hate this so much, why are you here?”

Javier sighed, glancing across the room where Steve was balancing a glass of wine while his wife animatedly discussed another piece. “Some friends dragged me.” He muttered.

You nodded in consideration, then looked around for your own dear grandmother. She was way over her head discussing with a circle of quests just like she did the whole night. Aside from knowing that you came, she didn’t get the chance to check in on you or chat at any point during the event, and you took a wild guess that it wouldn’t be happening anytime soon either.

You grinned, tilting your head slightly. “Tell you what – I’ll make you a deal.”

Javier arched a brow. “Yeah?”

You leaned in, lowering your voice. “There’s a bar two blocks from here. No abstract art, no bullshit. Just whiskey and decent company. Maybe some food too. You in?”

Javier hadn’t expected the night to be anything other than a painful endurance test, something he did mostly for his friends than for himself. He sure hadn’t expected to meet someone like you. And for the first time in a long time, he thought – why the hell not?

His lips curved into a genuine smile – he couldn’t remember when was the last time he smiled as much as he did ever since he started talking to you.

“Hell yeah, lead the way.”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

[idolomantises]

Hi Quill! I hope you're doing alright. I have some questions.

1. How old are the Bugtopia characters?

2. Will we see Alex's nephew soon?

3. You mentioned in a previous ask that fallen angels kept hellhounds as slaves. Will we get any lore there?

4. You mentioned in the past that Cherry and Scylla were sisters. Are they half-sisters, by chance? (Given that Cherry is part succubus I mean).

5. Cherry mentioned therapy dogs as being expensive. Are therapy dogs just a way to call a hellhound who's a therapist in MaG?

6. What is Cherry's design inspiration?

7. When will Catty and Ciel appear again?

That's all I have for now. Sorry for the amount of Cherry questions but I just love her so much 😍

Lol I just have an ambiguous "adult" and "child" age. Except Dot and Tulip, I always assumed they were four and five.

Not soon but eventually.

Yeah, back in the early days of hell, any demon that wasn't a Goetia, Fallen angel or Deadly Sin was basically an indentured servant (or well, slave). Powers mentions it but demon children were basically created to serve higher ranked demons. In her case it was being a child soldier, in the case of hellhounds it was protecting high ranked demons and preventing humans from escaping hell. It all fell through after a massive civil war when Hellhounds and Digital demons were the last to receive their freedom. Overall Hellhounds are still high ranked demons, even when enslaved most demons didn't dare to mess with them

Half sisters. Hellhound half-breeds are actually pretty common and more common than pure blooded hellhounds.

Yes... kinda. Cherry is more of the traditional therapist where she tries to breakdown Eva's psychology, but most therapy dogs are actually there to sleep with demons and offer them emotional support. Cherry can't do that because of Eva's condition, so its just normal therapy

Really my only design inspo was a fox because i wanted a succubus hybrid to look visually different from a regular hellhound outside of colors. I saw some people ask me if she was based off of Ceroba from Undertale Yellow but i designed her before that game dropped

Eventually

No worries, I'm glad people like her. I was actually worried folks would find her boring.