#and then carrying around and filling out a sketchbook

[veronicaphoenix]

until the stars stop shining | noah sebastian

previous part to all that's left, but it can be read as a one shot.

summary: noah and his girl spend an evening by the lake | words: 1.2k | reading time: 5mins

tags & trigger warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff. noah is an illustrator, reader loves baking cookies, mentions of noah having been reader's first, and that's it—they love each other a ton.

This is for the anon that asked for something sweet and fluffy after i posted All That's Left. I hope this does it. It's not actually a standalone work, but a sort of flashback belonging to the same story where All That's Left happens. I have a full plot developed in my head, but I can't tell if I'll ever write it and post it, so here goes this little thing where you get to know a little bit more of those characters and the story.

Thank you for all your constant love and support <3

 ͢ until the stars stop shining

Noah leaned back in the Muskoka chair, one leg lazily stretched out, balancing his sketchbook on his lap. He was shirtless, only wearing his bathing suit. For over an hour, he had been sketching, savoring the tranquil solitude offered by the lake, the warm caress of the late afternoon sun, and the rustling of leaves. Early fall was the perfect time for moments like this, when nature felt intimate and unhurried. Most of the tourists had long gone, leaving behind only the soft chorus of birds and the quiet murmur of waves licking the shore.

The breeze teased the pages of his sketchbook, carrying with it the crisp scent of pine needles and the rhythmic whisper of water against the rocks. Noah’s pencil glided in slow, thoughtful strokes as he tried to capture the scene before him, but his thoughts drifted constantly to his girl.

The door to the cottage creaked open right then, and she stepped outside. She carried a wooden tray filled with oat cinnamon cookies, their powdered sugar dusting glinting in the soft afternoon light. The sweet, comforting aroma mingled with the crisp air, making Noah smile to himself even without glancing back. 

She padded softly down the dock, her bare feet almost silent against the worn wood, and placed the tray on the armrest of his chair, her fingers grazing his shoulder in a brief, affectionate touch.

“I baked something,” she said, her voice carrying that familiar warmth. Of course she had. Baking was her favorite thing to do.  “Something sweet for my favorite artist.”

Noah grinned as he finally looked at her, his eyes catching on the spot of flour smeared across her nose. She had no idea it was there, and he decided not to tell her—she looked adorable like that.

“You need to refill your energy after working so hard for hours on end,” she pointed out as she glanced at the open sketchbook on his lap. 

Instead of reaching for a cookie, Noah broke off a small piece and gently brought it to her lips. Her smile widened as she took a bite, the sweetness melting on her tongue. A moment later, he let out a soft chuckle, reaching to brush a crumb off her lip with the pad of his thumb. His eyes lingered on her for a beat longer before dropping back to his half-finished sketch.

“I’m not half as good at drawing as you are at baking,” he admitted.

She tilted her head, glancing at the sketch. “This one looks pretty good to me, Noah.”

He smirked, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Wait until you see the one I did last night, after you fell asleep on the couch.”

“Why do you find it so entertaining to draw me?”

His gaze softened as he looked back at her. “Because you’re my favorite subject.”

That’s when he bopped her nose, making the flour stain disappear.

Her grin was bright and effortless as she leaned over the back of his chair, wrapping her arms around his neck. She rested her chin on his shoulder, close enough to feel his warmth. “And you’re my favorite person to bake for,” she whispered.

Noah’s cheeks flushed slightly at her words, a rare blush coloring his usually composed expression. She kissed the warm skin of his left cheek, lingering for just a moment before pulling away with a satisfied smile. She wandered toward the edge of the dock, her bare feet padding softly against the wooden planks. She sat down, her legs hanging off the edge.

Noah watched her for a moment, admiring how the wind gently tousled her hair and the way the light danced off her skin. The contentment in her posture, the way her eyes reflected the colors of the setting sun—everything about this moment felt perfect.

“You ever gonna let me teach you how to swim?” Noah asked.

She hesitated for a moment, her gaze fixed on the water before she responded quietly, “I don’t know... I’m still a bit scared of it.” She dipped her feet a little deeper, letting the cool water lap around her ankles. “But... I love being here. With you.”

The memory of that first visit just the two of them was vivid in both their minds. This was Jolly’s cottage, the same place where Noah and her had meet back when she was still fourteen and he was eighteen. They had spent countless of weekends and birthdays and fourths of July in this very same place. But nothing had been as special as the weekend Noah convinced Jolly to let him stay with her, alone. It had been six years since then, and even now, the memory of taking her virginity—in Jolly’s bed—was still as clear as water.  

Noah watched as the wind played with her hair, blowing soft strands across her face. He picked up his sketchbook again, unable to resist capturing her in this moment—the peacefulness, the effortless beauty. His pencil moved in quick, steady strokes as he sketched her sitting at the edge of the dock, her feet in the water, the sun casting an orange glow over the horizon. He knew that one day, he would marry this girl. There was no question in his mind.

Once satisfied with the drawing, Noah quietly set his sketchbook aside and rose from the chair. He walked over to her with slow, deliberate steps, his heart swelling as he took in the sight of her in this perfect, secluded spot. Without warning, he bent down, pretending to lift her by the underarms as if he were about to toss her into the water.

She yelped in surprise, her heart leaping as she felt her feet lift off the dock. “Noah!” 

Before she could fully react, Noah pulled her back into his arms, turning her around to face him. She clung to him, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her arms tightening around his neck, her pulse racing from the surprise.

“Don’t you dare!” she gasped, breathless from both fear and thrill, burying her face against his neck.

Noah laughed with her, holding her close, feeling her warm breath against his skin. “I wouldn’t let you go that easily,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

Still holding her, Noah carried her over to the blanket they had left spread out on the dock earlier. He gently laid her down, her body sinking into the soft fabric, and then settled beside her. 

“Don’t you ever,” she started to say, “ever, let me drown, Noah Sebastian.”

“Never ever,” he promised, showing her his pinky finger. 

She laced it with hers and finally, she let out a heavy sigh and cuddled closer to him, nuzzing her cheek against his bare shoulder. 

They lay close, facing each other, their fingers lazily tracing along each other’s arms and faces. Neither spoke for a long while. Her fingers trailed down his chest while his hand rested lightly on her hip. Above them, the stars began to appear, one by one, until the sky was a dark, glittering canvas. The moon’s reflection shimmered on the water.

“How long will you love me?” Noah asked, his voice barely louder than the breeze.

She gazed at him, eyes warm and steady. She placed the most tender of kisses on his lips.

“Until the stars stop shining.”

[omegamoo]

moo do you have tips on how to draw

oh god uhm. these are vague more mindset-based things, warning. u can look up tutorials for how to actually draw if that’s what ur looking for… i know that’s how i started drawing. but okay. sure let’s go:

draw what makes u happy for realsies!!! i am never motivated to draw if i don’t like what i’m drawing. also find materials that make you happy (what digital brushes you like, what traditional mediums your prefer) because motivation is higher if u like what ur working with ive found

study the world around you. this goes for everything. people and clothes and backgrounds and animals. you’re living in it right now! i like to look at what i’m wearing and draw jade in it. or like. reference pictures!!!!!! gives me something to go off of. traits + such. i really want to work on just. going outside and drawing trees. because i can just see them! and i suck at drawing trees which has got to be a fixable problem

don’t be afraid of messing up or creating something that looks “bad” because it’s impossible to create something truly bad + u r ur own worst critic. if you’re just starting out it’s not gonna be how you want it to be right away because that takes time. my art style is always always evolving i am always growing. practice practice practice draw everywhere. get used to the feeling of pencil in ur hand. draw fanart on math sheets when you’re bored (i promise u no one’s judging) carry around a sketchbook and draw when ur inspired if you like traditional doodles

on the other side of “don’t be scared” is be proud of urself when u make something you like… celebrate that!!! yay!!

drawing is legit my everything i think. some days i hâte what im drawing some days nothing works and that’s okay too though. i pour my heart on paper and that’s what’s important. to me

[melancholyhigh]

ARTWORK

ft. leon x artist!reader

synopsis. you're an artist, and leon's your muse.

content. 1.5k words. fluff, smut. nude painting, leon's pov, needy leon, praise kink, masturbation, handjob.

note. this was j supposed to be fluff but i got ahead of myself.

masterlist. i love your guy's feedback :3

“Paint me like one of your French girls.”

You laugh at Leon’s statement. He’s perched on the small, green couch in your home art studio, wearing nothing but his pink, fluffy robe as you prepare your oil paints. 

“You’re my first French girl, Leon.”

–-

You had suggested painting him nude while you were both in bed, lazing around. You’re in each other’s hold, Leon’s arms around your waist and face on your chest when he asks about any new projects you had in mind. 

He loves hearing about what art piece you were doing or planned to do. It was how you expressed yourself, whether there was a deeper meaning or none at all. He found it beautiful. Every work you do it had a bit of your personality in it. He could tell your work from thousands by the intricate details they carry. 

When you told Leon you wanted to paint him, he wasn’t too surprised. You mentioned he was your favourite thing to draw or think of when you had art block. The admission had left him sputtering, his face red as he tried to get his words out.

On the third date, you showed him your sketchbook, pages littered with drawings and portraits of him. Some were quick sketches, while other’s looked like you took time to get every detail of him. 

You’re always on my mind, Leon. You had confessed. Was it a little creepy? At that moment, flipping through the drawings of him, the attention to detail they held, he’d say it was romantic.

People have always said he was pretty as a picture, yet you’re the only one that makes his heart beat faster and his tummy fill with butterflies when you say he’s the type of gorgeous you’d find in a painting. 

“A nude painting,” you specify. It was as if you told Leon he was the object of your affection for the first time again. His head buries into your chest, trying to hide his flushed face. You smile at his sudden bashfulness. 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, baby.” You run your fingers through his soft hair. “I want to try something new, but it’s okay. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“‘S fine, angel. But can’t you use a picture?”

“Where’s the fun in that, pretty boy.”

He groans, muffled by your shirt, and you giggle. 

He loves to please you — in more ways than one — and nothing compares to the smile that graces your face, so he agrees. It’s not like Leon’s uncomfortable with you looking at him bare and vulnerable. There were other problems he was worried would interrupt your craftwork. 

–-

Leon leans back into the couch, doing just as you instructed. His bare back hits the soft cushioning, and it’s surprisingly comfortable. 

His robe is off, on the floor next to your easel. He rests his chin on his hand, supported on the arm of the couch.

He’s nervous. You said it’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but this almost feels more intimate than being intertwined with you in bed.

Maybe it’s the gaze you hold when you’re analysing him, grasping the compositions and layering basic shapes onto the canvas. 

He can’t help but think of when you told him he’s your favourite canvas to mark up. Sucking the reddish marks into his skin which turn the prettiest shade of purple, as you like to put it. Or when you said the colour on his cheek was your favourite shade of pink.

You always did like to rile him up, muttering the filthiest things to him in the most mundane setting, just like right now. 

“Spread your legs wider, Leon.” You mumble in a casual tone as if you don’t know the implications of your own words. You’re so engrossed with getting your work right you probably don’t.

It’s so fucking sexy seeing you in your element. Your brows pinched together, and your face serious with concentration. 

He obediently listens to you, parting his legs wide, and the problem he wishes wouldn’t happen is currently hardening between his thighs. You don’t notice, mixing paints to ensure it's the correct shade. 

You’re probably 30 minutes into painting, and he’s already hard. You said you’d take a while to finish, and he could tap out whenever he wants to, but he doesn’t want to disappoint. 

Finally, you’re looking up from the canvas and towards Leon. Your brows quirked up in surprise when trying to examine his features, studying the curve of his nose and the sharpness of his jawline to imitate on the canvas. His face is pink, the shade you know and adore so much. 

Your eyes trail down his body, his dick fully erect, slapping against his stomach. Your gaze is on his face again with a smirk on your lips.

He knows, you know, he’s rock-hard simply from the glances you take at him and the words you mutter. His lashes flutter, and he moves his hand to cover his face while the other is shamefully obscuring his cock.

“Be a good boy, and don’t move, Leon. I want to make sure everything looks good.” You say, and he thinks you aren’t going to acknowledge his 7-inch problem.  

“Oh, and make sure your pretty dick is hard for me, okay, baby?” You go back to your painting, trying to hide your smug expression.  

His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows his nerves, but he relents, going into position, not before giving his cock a firm squeeze. 

“Don’t cum too, okay? I want to be the one making you cry.”

A few hours pass, and Leon is on the verge of tears. He listened to what you said, only providing himself with enough stimulation to keep his cock hard but not enough to tip him over the edge into bliss. 

Precum leaks from the head down to the shaft. His dick is red and spent. He wants nothing more than for you to stop painting and make him cum.

“I’m almost done. You’ve been such a good boy for me, baby.” 

Your words are almost enough to make him spill his cum over the expensive fabric of your eccentric couch. 

You’re adding the finishing touches to the painting with each stroke, making sure you get the placement of each mole or freckle correct and each vein of his cock following to the tip right. 

You swear he belongs in a museum. No art can replicate how beautiful he truly is.

“I’m done.” You sigh, moving to get up to rid your skin of paint. 

After rinsing yourself off the paint, you make your way to Leon. You get comfortable in a seat on the couch right next to him. He’s breathing heavily in anticipation, looking up at you through his long lashes. Pretty, pink lips parted as pretty gasps left him. 

You cup his face, pressing your lips to his. The kiss is soft as you move your lips slowly in unison. He breathes out your name when you pull away. One of your hands moves to his throat, softly squeezing. Leon whimpers, his hands moving to hold your waist.

“Good job, baby. You didn’t cum once. I know it hurts, but I'm going to make you feel better,” you whisper, softly kissing his flushed forehead. 

Your hand moves to his pulsing cock, and gives it a soft squeeze, relishing the whine Leon lets out. Your touch sends goosebumps along his skin, and he plants his head into the crook of your neck. 

His hips eagerly buck into your hold. He’s practically sobbing into your neck, his soft hair tickling the underside of your jaw. You rest your chin on top of his head, smelling the fragrance of his shampoo. 

You thumb the slit on the tip of his cock, using his precum as a lubricant to start moving your hand back and forth on his shaft. 

You start at a slow pace. You don’t want Leon cumming quickly, wanting to enjoy every cry and whimper. 

The soft shlick noise of you jerking Leon’s cock fills the room with his desperate cries. He pulls back away from the crook of your neck, tears flowing down his blushing face.

“Please, please, please, g– go faster, angel. I’ve been such a good boy for you. Let me cum, please.”  He pleads, looking at you with those puppy dog eyes. His hips rutted frantically into your palm. How could you deny your boy?

“Okay, pretty baby. Cum for me.” You say softly, picking up the pace of jerking him off.

He whimpers loudly, thighs quivering lightly as his orgasm crashes and hot spurts of his cum spill onto your hand. He’s panting, dazed with lust and staring at you with what seems like hearts in his eyes. 

“T- thank you, thank you, s’much.” Leon gasps like a broken record, and you think he’s fucked himself dumb with your hand.

You peck his lips, effectively shutting him up.

“Let’s get you cleaned up so I can show you my favourite artwork yet.”

[rosenclaws]

Hi! 👋

I saw your requests were open and I was wondering if I could submit a request?

The reader is a shy artist who is a friend of Wades. She carries a sketchbook with her everywhere to sketch new pieces, but she doesn't show her work to people unless it's to Wade.

She and Worst!Logan become friends and slowly develop feelings for one another, but they won't say anything to each other because they think that the other wouldn't want them. Until Worst!Logan finds her sketchbook by accident and finds the book is filled with sketches of him. Worst!Logan confronts her about it, but she's a stuttering mess, and they end up confessing to each other. And please make it extra fluffy. Maybe throw in a kiss or a makeout session. Your choice lol.

Thank you and have a good day! 😊

Hidden Feelings and Hidden Sketches || Worst!Logan Howlett x Reader

warnings: drinking, swearing, wade making suggestive comments, make out sesh towards the end, reader gets drunk and logan helps her out. Logan also calls the reader sketch. It got kinda suggestive at the end I apologize sldfjka

a/n: Hi!! This idea is adorable omg I love it, I hope it was fluffy enough for you I have to admit I'm not great at writing pure fluff. I also hope wade is funny because I am not funny so its hard to write his dialogue sometimes. I also altered the plot a little so i hope its okay

You never quite understood how you and Wade became friends. He was possibly the biggest extrovert you have ever met and you were the exact opposite. He saw you once at his favorite diner with your sketchbook and he jumped into the seat across from you.

Yapping on about your art and if you drew often and that he once tried to paint but the class didn't appreciate his art and asking if you'd paint him naked as a present for his girlfriend. Which you declined very quickly.

He wouldn't leave you alone, talking and asking you all sorts of things. You getting a few words in and him covering the other 98% of the conversation. He left with the promise of seeing you again and disappeared before you could say anything else.

It was an odd experience that's for sure but you liked Wade. Sure enough he kept coming back and a friendship had blossomed. He invited you over to dinner multiple times but you always declined, choosing to meet at the diner instead.

Slowly he got you out of your shell around him. Cracking jokes and sometimes putting him in his place when he went a little too far. You showed him your sketchbook after a while and he gushed over your drawings. Begging you to draw him at his best angles and you would sometimes give in.

When he disappeared for a while you got worried, that is until he showed up with a new dog and a very handsome new friend. You couldn't take your eyes off of him. Wade spotted you and waved but you didn't even notice.

"I know right, he's like a tall glass of rage filled water." Wade sighs as he sits across from you.

"I uh what?" You hug your sketchbook close to your chest as you rip your eyes away from Wade's new friend.

"Oh don't pretend like you weren't eye fucking him the second he walked in here, not that I blame you." Your eyes widen as you start to stutter. Your face heating up as you stare at the pancakes in front of you instead. A loud grunt catches your attention. You can barely meet his eyes as your brain is too busy being embarrassed by what Wade had said.

"You can sit on my lap angel cakes." Wade pats his leg but gets shoved to the side as his new friend sits down across from you.

"Logan this is my friend, be a good kitty and play nice." Logan rolls his eyes and chooses to ignore Wade. He does look at you though, burning a whole through your skull.

"Hi Logan," You say shyly.

"Hi." A few beats of silence pass until Wade breaks it as usual.

"Well aren't you two the life of the party, if you excuse me I have to go relieve myself." Wade stands up and instead of asking Logan to move, starts to climb over the man.

"What the fuck?!" Logan hisses as he grabs Wades shirt and tosses him to the ground. You can't help the laugh that escapes your mouth as your friend flops to the ground.

"So rude." Wade shakes his head and heads off to the bathroom. Silence falls once again as you awkwardly push around the pancakes on your plate.

"What's that?" Logan asks, nodding towards your sketchbook. You grab your book and shove it into your bag.

"Nothing! It's uh, just a sketchbook it's nothing don't worry about it." Logan raises an eyebrow as you panic in front of him.

As if you couldn't feel more embarrassed. You debate on waiting for wade or just leaving to save yourself but Logan makes the choice for you.

"You don't have to stay, not holding you hostage." He sips his coffee as you let out a shaky laugh.

"Not much of a talker." You play with your fork as you look up at Logan. He's much more handsome up close.

"Neither am I." He offers a small half smile and you return it. He's still incredibly intimidating but maybe you can stick it out a little longer. Logan's food comes and the two of you eat in a comfortable silence and when you're done you work up the courage if he'll be here tomorrow. He holds the door open for you as you step outside.

You clutch tightly onto the strap of your bag as you wait for his answer. He lights a cigar and you try and suppress your smile when he says he will be. As you part ways you realize that Wade never did come back from the bathroom.

That sneaky bastard.

-on

The diner uh, meetings as you called them, with Logan were amazing. His grumpy exterior was hard to crack but eventually the two of you started to become friends. Being with Logan started to become your favorite parts of the week. He was more than the tough guy persona he put on. What surprised you the most is that he seemed interested in you too. Well you know as friends.

Logan could appreciate someone who liked the quiet. He never pushed you out of your comfort zone, never made you feel uncomfortable. He was just Logan. Call it what you want but it was only a matter of time before you fell head over heels for that man. Not that you'd ever tell him.

How could you?

He's a superhero. He's gorgeous and grumpy and funny and so much more. All you do is draw silly pictures. So for now you settle on friends. Even if he makes your stomach turn with ever smile. Even if his laugh is the best thing you've ever heard. Friends. That's good enough for now.

-

"Wade Wilson I am going to kill you!" You say angrily.

He had texted you asking you to meet him for coffee and you had agreed solely because you never got the chance to scold him for his little dine and dash.

"Leaving me alone with a stranger!" You slap his hand as he tries to reach for your pastry.

"Ow! That was so five months ago! Anyways I was just trying to help. You know, relieve the sexual tension." You gasp as he makes a very lewd gesture with his hands.

"Besides, you and Logi bear are spending a lot of time together for just being friends huh Boo-Boo." Before you can stop him he reaches for your sketchbook. Keeping it just out of reach as he flips through the pages.

"Give it back!" You plead as you reach across the table.

"Oh. My. God. How come you never draw me this sexy?" He shows you the pages and you fall back into your seat in defeat.

You know what's in there and now Wade does too. Pages and pages of sketches of Logan. You feel like a stalker. It's not your fault! Ever since you met him he's all you can think about. All you can draw.

"Please give it back." You beg but he refuses.

"You'll get it back after you admit to Logan how you feel."

"What!" Your jaw drops as you make another lunge for your book.

"I am a very impatient man and I'm not about to wait another thousand words for the two of you to fuck." He stands up and tucks the book down his pants.

"Ew really?" You groan as you let your face fall into your hands.

"I'm having a get together and you're invited. Logan will be there it's the perfect opportunity." You feel like throwing up at the idea of talking to Logan about any of this.

Maybe you could just steal it back tonight. Or maybe you could never show your face to anyone ever again. Yah the second option sounds better. If only it was that simple. You waited for many anxiety filled hours, the only thing on your mind is getting your damn book back. You knock on the door and it swings open with Wade standing there, a stupid smile on his face.

"Honey badger at 4 o'clock." He hands you a drink and pushes you right towards him. You shoo him away, taking a deep breath and head towards Logan.

"Hi Logan," You say nervously.

"Didn't think these were really your thing." He says with a smile. You laugh nervously and nod your head.

"Yeah well...I thought he'd finally stop asking if I came to one of these things." You joke. Logan snorts and offers you the seat next to him.

"Good luck with that." You sit next to him and swirl around the ice in your drink.

If you're going to tell him then you're going to need a lot of help. Logan's eyes widen as you down your drink in one go, making a face before asking for another one. He's never seen you at a party, let alone drink.

"Why don't you take it easy there sketch."

"It's a party right, why not have a little fun." Logan keeps an eye on you as you drink and drink. As the night passes on he realizes that you might have had a little too much. You can barely get a sentence out by the time the party's over.

"Hi Logii!" Your arms slink around his neck as you stumble into him.

"Come on, let me take you home." He chuckles as he helps you to the door.

"Nooo, I needa get my uh..." You stop and think for a moment.

"My uhhh" Logan hums as he helps you to your apartment. You stay close to Logan as you walk through the night. He's just so warm and he smells so good.

"Got your keys?" You pat around for them and frown. Logan reaches into your bag and pulls them out.

"Right here." He unlocks your door and helps you to your bed. You sigh as your head hits your pillow.

"Oh! my sketchbook. Wade has my sketchbook." You say with a yawn.

"I'll get it back tomorrow, now sleep well." Logan takes off his jacket and lays it on you. He brushes your cheek gently. A soft smile on his face as he leaves you to sleep peacefully.

"Good night."

-

God your head hurt and the sun was way too bright. You crack your eyes open groan as you head pounds. What were you even thinking last night? You wanted your damn book back that's what you were thinking. A loud knock on your door makes you moan in pain. Getting up you swing open your door only to be met with Logan holding your book. Your face pales as you see a smirk on his face.

"Wade gave me back your book." You reach out for it but he holds it back.

"You're a real good artist sketch." To your horror he opens up your book and flips to one of its pages.

Right in front of you was a side profile sketch of Logan. It had been while you were at the park or something. The sun was hitting him perfectly, he had this content look on his face. You couldn't help but draw it when you got back home. To capture him in a moment where everything felt okay.

"I uh..I.." You don't know what to say. He caught you red handed. Your face is on fire from shame and embarrassment as he finally hands over your book. You can't even look at him.

"I'm sorry." You whisper. Shutting your eyes you hope he gets the hint and leaves, leaves you to wallow in pity.

"Sorry? Why are you sorry." He grabs your chin and tilts your head up.

"I'm flattered sketch. I think you really captured me pretty good." You still can't bring yourself to say anything as you hug your book tightly. You can't tell if he's making fun of you or what.

"This isn't funny Logan." You try and push his hand off you but his grip is strong.

"Not trying to be funny." He brushes his thumb over your lips.

"Logan..." Your eyes flick down to his lips and you know he catches you.

"Say it, come on don't be shy. Not with me." Sighing you dig your fingernails into your book.

"I love you." Your voice is barely above a whisper, eyes squeezing shut. You almost hope he doesn't hear it but of course he does.

He presses his lips to yours roughly. You drop your book in shock as you melt deep into his kiss. Wasting no time in kissing him back, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. He deepens the kiss as his hands fall to your sides. You pull away much to his disappointment, his lips chasing after yours for a moment.

"I love you too." He kisses your jaw lightly making you sigh.

"You know, those drawings were good but I think you got my lips wrong." You furrow you eyebrows, you thought you got his lips pretty good. After all you stared at them long enough to memorize them.

"Yeah sweetheart, think you need a lesson." He walks you back until you hit your couch.

"Get up close and personal." He winks as you bite your lip. How flustered can he make you?

"Then maybe you can show me more of those drawings."

Well, If it would help make your drawings more, accurate. Then who are you to say no?

"Okay." You run your hands along his arm as you look back up at him. Nerves and excitement swirling around your eyes.

"Don't worry sketch, I'm a pretty good teacher."

[withleeknow]

do you ever just think about pining best friend hyunjin?

hyunjin, who treasures his personal space and quality time with himself more than anything, but somehow, he never has a problem with it when you're the one in his bubble.

hyunjin, who can be sharp and witty but gets tongue-tied every time you so much as chuckle at one of his jokes.

hyunjin, who carries two umbrellas with him at all times because he knows you always forget yours, and you get sick easily if you get even a little bit of rain on you.

hyunjin, who can't remember his own address after 1.5 bottle of flavored soju (it's peach, btw) but can perfectly recite your go-to breakfast order from memory, fishing it out of the inebriated depths of his mind like invaluable wisdom. oat milk latte with a drizzle of caramel syrup. almond croissant stuffed with cream cheese and strawberries.

hyunjin, who sometimes forgets to breathe when he sees you wearing one of his sweatshirts.

hyunjin, who absolutely hates it whenever one of his housemates borrows his favorite shampoo. but you? oh, when the thief is you, he suddenly has no qualms at all. maybe he secretly wishes that you'd do it more often. do it whenever you stay over. do it every week. ask him to buy it for you so you can use it every day. if that means that you're walking around smelling like him? well, he certainly isn't opposed to that idea.

hyunjin, who thinks about your mango lip balm a lot more than a best friend should. and your strawberry one. and cherry. maybe the lip balms aren't the issue here.

hyunjin, who thinks he must be on the verge of a damn stroke when you intertwine your fingers with his and call him your boyfriend to ward off unwanted attention in public.

hyunjin, whose sketchbook is filled with drawings that other people would think are just random things he sees in his every day life. blue tote bags. night lights shaped like a toaster. gold bangle bracelets. whale mugs. beige claw clips. lemon cheesecake yogurt cups. in a way, they're right. these are just objects that he sees daily. but only he knows that they're miscellaneous reminders of you. your favorite accessories, favorite silly purchases, favorite desserts. all you. everything is you.

permanent taglist: @onlyycb97wife @starsandrqindrops @borahae-reads @abbiestearsricochet @cutiespaghetti @anthropologykpopmultistan @moonlinos @mjnhoz @caitlyn98s @piercidh34rts  @stayceebs97 @linocz @yaorzu-blog @biribarabiribbaem @kayleefriedchicken @extrhotjne @caitxx1 @palindrome969 @todorokiskitten @azuna-sz @meanergreener

[anemos-orca]

The Harbingers Cat

Balladeer x neko!reader smut, MDNI

cw: smut, female reader, reader is the Balladeers loyal assistant, reader draws NSFW, humiliation, fantasizing, probably more qwq

Series Tag: #▪︎HarbingersCat

NSFW under "keep reading"

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Being the assistant (and a neko one at that) of the 6th Fatui Harbinger was not an easy job, but you couldnt deny how much you enjoyed your work. Despite how you sometimes slipped up or were given a shocking flick of electro for doodling on the job, working under the Balladeers direct command was, to say the least, fulfilling. He tasked you with medial jobs that were "below him" such as paperwork, greeting new cadets, and cleaning his workspace. You found pride in your work and were eager to please, each subtle word of praise murmured by your higher up fueling you into wanting more and more. It was such a rare thing that, whenever it did happen, it was like all your hard work paid off and you were rewarded with something worth more than mora itself- i mean, who gets praised by the Balladeer??

Scaramouche was amused by you and your strange willingness to do anything he asked. Sometimes he would make up a "job" so rediculous, it felt painfully obvious how fake it was- but still, you never questioned him. If for the sake of not having to sift through countless morons, Scaramouche could brush off your stupid little mistakes and your gross habit of doodling. Though, as time passed, he noticed that you were beginning to act... peculiarly. He would catch you mimicing his expressions, the way he walked, the way he talked- he couldnt deny how pathetically adorable it was. His little neko assistant bossing a cadet around just like how he would, only to turn around with a cute, satisfied smile (despite your efforts to contain the satisfaction of successfully copying your boss) like a kid who managed to learn how to make a sandwich just by watching their mom do it. He couldnt take you seriously, not with the way your fluffy little ears flinched away each time he snapped his fingers right next to them just to startle you. Not with how your tail would poof up in excitement at the most meaningless and fickle of things. Not with the way those stupidly expressive eyes of yours seemed to sparkle each time he would murmur the simplest of praises.

After even more time had passed, he would catch himself studying the little doodles you had made in days past- whenever you were being covered by some idiot who didnt know the first thing about being his assistant, they reminded him that he wouldnt have to deal with his medial tasks once you came back. He would never admit it, but he tended to be more annoyed with people on the days you were gone. He didnt understand the strange, relaxing effect you had on him, and it was irritating.

You werent a puppet like him, so being in lethally cold conditions all the time weakened your body just like it would any other mortal. Therefore, you were often given a couple days off every few weeks to recover. Scaramouche couldnt imagine what you could possibly be doing on the days you spent cooped up in your tiny room all alone, but he figured you just slept through it. Besides, mortal activities were not his concern.

However, that changed on the day you accidentally forgot your sketchbook in his office. You had already left- it was late and you finished filling out his paperwork for the day- but you didnt notice the precious item you left behind. Scaramouche knew how valuable it was to you, considering the fact that it was always in your little satchel and you never left it unattended, so it piqued his curiosity. Why was a sketchbook, of all things, your most valuable item? Such a stupid thing to do, to hold something so fragile and easily ruined at high value. Despite his subtle curiosity, he couldnt care less about what you did, owned, or carried, so he never demanded to inspect it. Though, given this perfect opportunity to quell his after-work boredom, he couldnt help but take a peek.

The Balladeer leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk with a relieved sigh, satisfied to have a moment of relaxation. He flipped the cover of your tattered sketchbook open and examined the first page, reading, "If lost, return to (y/n) at once. Inspection is strictly prohibited. Doing so will result in high punishment." He scoffed, imagining your stupid kitty ears flattening back in seriousness as you wrote. The first few pages after were filled with redundant doodles of the most random things- creatures, expressions, trees, a large amount of dogs and cats- but as he continued thumbing through, he began to see drawings of... himself? He narrowed his eyes and sat forward, raising a judgemental brow. They started out silly and cartoonish, but within the next few pages, he found well thought out, clean, almost realistic drawings of himself in quite the suggestive poses. He couldnt help but snicker, amused by the newfound knowledge of your apparent crush on him. The drawings of the next page were even more suggestive and lewd, but compared to what he flipped to after that, they seemed tame.

He had plans for that sketchbook. Imagining the mortified, humiliated, and impossibly embarrassed expressions youd make when he would reveal to you that he had seen the way you fantasized about his cock- the thoughts painted a sadistic smile across his face, and for the first time in a long time, he looked forward to starting a new day.

Scaramouches eyes widened and his amused expression grew as he laid eyes upon a completely pornographic drawing of himself that filled the entirety of the page- he was sitting in the very chair he sat in now, fisting his hardened cock, a scandalously pleasured expression spread over his face, and thick ropes of cum cascading over his desk. He had to admit, it was a good drawing, but all he could think about was the lustful expression and blushing cheeks you mustve had while creating such lewd art of your own boss. He wouldnt have guessed your massive crush on him even with your overly eager-to-please demeanor, only thinking his little neko assistant acted in such peculiar ways from vehement loyalty- and he found the idea to be rather entertaining. He finished flipping through your sketchbook, studying every nasty drawing you made of him and, in turn, began imagining his own dirty scenarios about making his secretly filthy assistant help him with more... physical tasks. It excited him, and he could feel his body heat up at the tought of it. Slyly chuckling to himself, the Balladeer shoved your sketchbook into the top drawer of his desk and left for the night, being sure to lock the door to his icy office so you couldnt sneak in and take back what was rightfully yours.

You, on the other hand, were not. The moment you set your satchel down in your little room, the lack of its familiar clunk sound due to your sketchbook being inside made your heart drop. You frantically searched every inch of your room, overturning and messing up every nook and cranny looking for that blasted sketchbook, but it was nowhere to be found. It was too late to go looking for it- it was past curfew, and if you were found snooping about, you would be punished and questioned. How could you possibly face another Fatui member and explain that, "Oh, im not being suspicious, dont worry! Im just desperately looking for my lost sketchbook that contains highly inappropriate art of the 6th Harbinger, my boss." You gulped hard, an overwhelming feeling of guilt creeping through your skin and into your bones as you remembered where it last was. His office. Your tail bristled and your mind began to race, panicing at the thought of what was going to happen tomorrow- surely he had seen it and flipped through the pages, infuriated that his stupid little kitty assistant was drawing porn of him. Was he going to kill you? Imprison you? Exile you to the fridgid wilds of your homeland? Archons, your heart had never beat so hard in your life. It felt like it was trying to escape your ribcage to run away and hide. However, no matter how much you stressed, there was nothing you could do except face the consequences of your actions in the morning. Your stupid, foolish actions.

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[introcoryo]

political science major!coriolanus, whose idea of a night of unwinding is reading a chapter of machiavelli’s ‘the prince’ with a glass of pinot noir in hand. well versed in debate, often dramatically pulling out notecards with bullet points on them as you argue over where to have dinner.

nursing major!sejanus, who is well liked and trusted amongst his peers and professors, being known for a tenderness that you can only find in bob ross painting demonstrations. you help him study by quizzing him until dawn, a kiss for every correct answer energizing him more than any red bull could.

music performance major!lucy gray, always carrying around a honey burst colored guitar, her fingers absentmindedly strumming the air as she walks. she refers to you as her muse, and soothes you to sleep on rough nights with a hushed lullaby specifically written with confessions of love whittled between lyrics.

fashion design major!tigris, who fills out sketchbooks and sketchbooks with extravagant designs she someday hopes will hit the runway. she has appointed herself as your personal stylist, and kisses your temple as she gets your measurements for custom-made pieces.

[estellan0vella]

Don't Bring The Kids To Work Older Brother Sukuna AU HFBU Pt1

Walking through the bustling streets, you hold onto Megumi's hand while Yuji skips alongside you, humming a cheerful tune. The midday sun is warm, casting a golden glow over everything. Your destination is just ahead: Sukuna's tattoo and piercing parlour, a place that's become a second home to you.

You open the door, the familiar chime signalling your arrival. The scent of antiseptic mixed with a hint of ink fills your nostrils, and you instantly feel at ease. The parlour is lively as always, with the hum of tattoo machines and low chatter creating a comforting background noise. Your plan today was to bring Yuji to the parlour so he'd stop asking questions about the wrestling incident from four days ago.

"Hey, Suku!" Yuji calls out, his voice full of excitement. He dashes towards Sukuna, who is leaning against the reception desk, talking to Toji and Geto. Sukuna looks up, a grin spreading across his face as he sees you and the kids.

"Hey, brat," Sukuna greets Yuji, ruffling his hair before his eyes find yours. "Hey, baby." His voice softens, and you can see the affection in his eyes.

"Hi, Kuna," you reply with a smile, walking over to him. Megumi, still holding your hand, looks up at Sukuna with wide eyes.

Toji smirks, leaning back in his chair. "Looks like the little one's tired," he comments, nodding towards Megumi.

"Yeah, he's had a long day," you reply, bending down to pick up the sleepy boy. He instantly curls up in your arms, his head resting against your shoulder.

"Why don't you two go sit on the couch?" Geto suggests, pointing to the comfortable-looking sofa in the corner of the parlour. "Megumi can take a nap, and you can relax."

You nod, grateful for the suggestion. "Thanks, Geto." 

You carry Megumi over to the couch and gently lay him down, his body stretched out on your lap. The parlour buzzes with its usual activity as you settle onto the couch, gently laying Megumi down on your lap.

His breathing evens out quickly, and you can feel his small body relax completely. Sukuna hands you your sketchbook with a wink, and you open it, immediately starting to doodle.

Yuji, never one to sit still for long, bounds over to Toji and Geto. "Hey, Toji! Hey, Geto!" he calls out, his eyes alight with curiosity. "Why do Suku and Y/N/N wrestle at night?"

Toji nearly spits out his drink, while Geto's face splits into a wide grin. "Wrestle, huh?" Geto muses, glancing over at Sukuna, who is now rubbing his temples in exasperation.

"Yeah! When I went into the room one time, they said they were wrestling," Yuji continues, unabashed as you stare at your sketchbook. "Sometimes I hear Y/N/N saying 'harder, harder,' and it sounds like Suku is hurting her. But she keeps asking for it!"

Toji is now outright cackling, his laughter echoing through the parlour. "Oh man, this kid is killing me," he wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. Geto leans back, shaking his head with a broad grin on his face.

"Lord kill me now," You sigh.

Geto, still grinning, decides to chime in. "Yuji, when grown-ups say things like that, it's because they're playing a very private game. It's not something kids need to worry about."

Yuji seems to ponder this for a moment before coming up with another question. "But why does Y/N/N say it feels good, but then sometimes she tells Suku it's too big?"

Toji lets out another round of laughter, nearly falling out of his chair. "Kid, you're really something else."

You lift the still-sleeping Megumi into your arms, using his small body as a shield to hide your burning face. He wraps his arms around your neck, nuzzling into you sleepily. The warmth and weight of the little boy offer some comfort amidst the onslaught of Yuji's relentless questions.

Geto, equally entertained but trying to maintain a semblance of composure, adds, "Yuji, sometimes adults exaggerate when they're playing their games. It's all part of the fun."

Yuji, not entirely convinced, tilts his head. "But why does Suku tell Y/N/N to take it like a good girl? What is she taking?"

You can feel Sukuna's tension radiating as he rubs his temples more vigorously. "Yuji, we've told you—it's just a game for grown-ups. It's not something you need to understand right now."

"But if it's a game, why does it make so much noise?" Yuji presses on, his eyes wide and earnest.

Toji lets out another bellowing laugh, nearly sliding out of his chair. "Oh, this kid is gonna kill me! I've never laughed this hard in my life."

Geto, barely holding it together, shakes his head. "Yuji, some games are just noisy. It's part of the excitement."

Yuji pauses, considering this, before coming up with yet another question. "Okay, but why does (Y/N/N) sometimes say she can't take it anymore? And why does Suku tell her she can?"

Toji is now almost incoherent with laughter, his face red and eyes streaming with tears. "Oh, this is gold. Pure gold."

You clutch Megumi tighter, feeling his gentle, rhythmic breathing against your chest, wishing you could use him to disappear entirely. The mortification is palpable, but you can't help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"Yuji," Sukuna says, trying to keep his voice calm and steady despite the deep flush on his face, "sometimes people push each other to be better, to go further than they think they can. It's about encouragement."

Yuji's face lights up with understanding. "Oh, so it's like when you make me run faster during soccer practice because you know I can do it!"

Sukuna nods, grateful for the comparison. "Exactly. Just like that."

"But why does Y/N/N sometimes say 'more, more,' and then say 'no more'? Is it like when I want more ice cream but then my tummy hurts?"

Toji falls out of his chair, hitting the floor with a thud but still laughing hysterically. "I can't handle this kid! He's too much!"

Geto is barely holding himself together, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "Yuji, it's a bit like that, yes. Sometimes people think they want more of something but then realize they need to slow down."

Yuji nods solemnly, taking in the explanation. "Okay, I think I get it. But what does Suku mean when he tells Y/N/N to 'ride it'? Do they have a secret pony?"

Toji's laughter reaches a new volume, and he starts wheezing, completely losing it. "Oh, man! I can't breathe!"

Geto leans back, wiping tears from his eyes, struggling to keep his composure. "Yuji, that's just more of the same game talk. It's all part of the... encouragement."

You bury your face in Megumi's hair, trying to hide your burning cheeks. "Yuji, maybe it's time to ask different questions."

Yuji looks thoughtful. "Why does Suku sometimes tell you to scream his name?"

Toji is now rolling on the floor, clutching his stomach and gasping for air between peals of laughter. "This kid! I can't take it!"

"I'm going to kill myself," You mutter.

You're at your wit's end, trying to maintain some semblance of composure while Yuji continues to ask questions that push the boundaries of your embarrassment. Megumi stirs slightly in your arms, murmuring something in his sleep, oblivious to the chaos unfolding around him.

Toji is still on the floor, laughing so hard that he's practically gasping for air. Geto, though struggling to keep a straight face, attempts to offer an explanation. "Yuji, sometimes people use words to describe how much they like something. It's like saying something is really good."

Yuji nods, apparently satisfied with this answer for a moment. "Okay, but why does Suku say Y/N/N is tight?"

Toji's laughter reaches a new crescendo, his face turning red as he clutches his stomach. "Oh, my sides! I can't breathe!"

Geto shakes his head, still chuckling. "Yuji, it's... um, it's a compliment. Like saying someone is really strong."

You bury your face in Megumi's hair, hoping to disappear entirely. "Yuji, maybe we should talk about something else."

Yuji, undeterred, furrows his brow in thought. "But what does it mean when Suku tells Y/N/N to take it all?"

Toji lets out another burst of laughter, slapping his knee as he struggles to regain his breath. "Oh, Yuji, you're killing me!"

Sukuna, who has been remarkably patient throughout this ordeal, finally intervenes. "Yuji, why don't we talk about something different? Like your favourite snacks or games?"

Yuji considers this for a moment, seeming to weigh his options. "Okay, Suku. But one last thing—why does (Y/N/N) sometimes call you daddy?"

"Seizure, seizure, seizure," You chant, looking at the ceiling, hoping that a seizure will take you out of this misery as Toji howls with laughter.

Sukuna moves to stand behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders as you continue to mutter prayers under your breath.

"Maybe don't wish for a seizure?" Sukuna suggests, squeezing your shoulders.

"It seems like the only option right now," You mutter. "A lot less traumatic"

Sukuna's hands tighten on your shoulders as he glances down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of amusement and sympathy. "It's not that bad, babe. We'll get through it."

Yuji, still curious, looks up at Sukuna with wide eyes. "So, why does Y/N/N call you daddy?"

Sukuna sighs deeply, rubbing his temples with one hand. "Yuji, it's just a nickname. It's something special between grown-ups."

Toji, recovering from his bout of laughter, wipes away tears. "Oh, this is too good. You two are never going to live this down."

"Do you want to die?" You glare at Toji. 

Toji, still laughing, holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just enjoying the show. No harm done."

Geto smirks, leaning against the counter. "Yeah, you guys are providing top-tier entertainment today."

Sukuna shakes his head, giving you a reassuring squeeze. "Ignore them, babe. Let's get these kids fed."

You nod, lifting a still-drowsy Megumi into your arms as Sukuna takes Yuji's hand. "Alright, let's go get some burgers."

As you all head towards the door, Toji calls out, "Have fun, you guys! And Yuji, keep those questions coming."

Geto chuckles, adding, "Yeah, we need more laughs around here."

Yuji beams, clearly enjoying the attention. "Okay! I'll think of more questions for next time."

You groan inwardly but can't help but smile. "Please don't."

Outside, the sunlight feels warm on your skin, and the chaos of the tattoo parlour fades into the background. Yuji skips ahead, his boundless energy infectious, while Megumi rests his head on your shoulder, his small body relaxing against yours.

Sukuna walks beside you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. "You okay, baby?"

You nod, leaning into him. "Yeah, just mortified. But I'll survive."

He chuckles, kissing your temple. "You handled it like a champ."

Yuji looks back at you, his eyes wide with excitement. "Are we getting burgers now?"

"Yes, Yuji," Sukuna says with a laugh. "Burgers it is."

You head to a nearby burger joint, a place that's become a place you frequent. The kids immediately perk up at the sight of the colourful play area inside. Yuji practically drags Sukuna to the counter, while you find a booth and settle Megumi down, his eyes already lighting up at the sight of the menu.

Once you're all seated with your food, Yuji starts firing off more questions, thankfully this time about his favourite superheroes and cartoons. The conversation is lively and fun, a stark contrast to the earlier embarrassment.

As the kids dive into their meals, Sukuna leans over, his voice low and filled with affection. "I love you, babe. Thanks for putting up with all of this."

You smile, your heart swelling with love. "I love you too, Kuna. And I wouldn't trade this chaos for anything."

Yuji, overhearing, grins widely. "I love you too, (Y/N/N) and Suku!"

Megumi, with his mouth full of burger, nods. "Love you."

Sukuna laughs, ruffling Yuji's hair and giving Megumi a fond look. "Love you too, brats."

As you all finish your meal, you can't help but feel a deep sense of contentment. Despite the embarrassing questions and the chaos that often surrounds your life with Sukuna and the kids, these moments of love and laughter make it all worthwhile. And as you walk out of the burger joint, hand in hand with Sukuna, with Yuji skipping ahead and Megumi drowsily resting on your shoulder, you know that there's no place you'd rather be.

[horrorisunknowntoyou]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Artist! Fem-Reader

Ghost actually didn't know you were an artist, you didn't brag about it or anything. You mainly kept it to yourself even in the beginning of your relationship with him. Mostly because you were embarrassed.

But much like him, you were a soldier, you spent most of your free time observing around the area or doodling in your sketchbook. It was a small one, 8 x 5, black with an elastic band around it, moleskin brand. It easy to carry around in your chest pocket during missions and such.

You were also the girl that ALWAYS had some sort of writing utensil with you, being pencils, pens etc you always had to have it on hand. Not to mention you kept finding them on the floor or other places while walking, so you would always give it to anyone who needs.

Ghost and the others soon started to notice, you pulling out a book in hand with pencil out. Being waiting for planes to pick them up or free time. You always had that book on you no matter what.

Until one day, you forgot your sketchbook as you left it beside you on a bench one day because and commanding officer called you in to chat with you.

Ghost soon noticed and walked over and picked up the book. Curious, he open to see what's inside, only to be met with his face, well, his mask but you get the point.

The sketchbook was filled with sketches of various art styles, of him and other soldiers such as Price, Gaz and Soap. He also noticed you taking cool things you find, like receipts, stickers, tickets etc.

There was even a page full of different skull mask designs for him to try out if he ever wanted to. It's obvious you had talent for this, and saw the world much different then he did.

"Ghost? What are you doing?" Y/n said walking up to him noticing him looking through your sketchbook. "W-wha? How did you get that?"

"You accidentally left it behind." He close the book in hand. Turning to face you, " Y/n why didn't you tell me you are an artist?" You stood there quietly, trying to think, " well...I don't know...I thought you would think it's weird I draw you without asking for permission or anything. "

You can feel him giving you a confused look, " weird? Your wrong doll. In fact I quite enjoy these, I think you should draw me more often then MacTavish though."

"ah, you noticed that."

He leaned in close to your face, his eyes staring at you. " Of course I did."

You can feel your face warming up by close he is, "alright, alright I get it...and to be frank the only one who technically knew I drew was Captain Price. During a meeting once, he saw me doodling on a piece of paper instead of paying attention...he would sometimes ask that I would draw stupid things for him."

"is that so? Show me."

You pulled out a little pocket book for index cards, and on the back of the index cards were stupid drawing of them, ghost include doing dumb shit. It was meant as an inside joke between you, price and even sometimes Laswell.

Ghost couldn't help but snicker at the drawings, it has your art style and humour on it. It's obvious, it's yours.

"You drew Johnny as a literal soap bar, he's going to hate this."

"Well you weren't supposed to see this."

"hmph, And who's this supposed to be?" He flips the index card showing a cartoonish looking grim reaper. You let out a nervous laugh, " ah that...well...uh... "

"Is that supposed to be me, sergeant?"

"Possibly."

"Yes or No?"

You sigh, "yes, it's you." Rubbing the back of your head embarrassed.

"Good girl, I'm keeping this as a souvenir." He says, placing the index card in his pocket. Leaving you there a flustered mess.

"Wait what?!"

Since then, Ghost liked to lean on your shoulder and watch you draw at times, be it at bars with the rest of the crew or at home. It's therapeutic for him at times.

Sometimes he joins in but he mainly like just watching you.

Also since you know he likes flipping through your sketchbook at times, you leave cute messages or notes for him to read. And doodles that supposed to represent you two. Mainly a cartoonish grim reaper holding hands with a witch. Since your nickname is "Salem."

Also Ghost likes to sometimes buy art supplies for you, and see how creative you are.

He's honestly amazed how you view things differently then him because of art, be it colors, or shapes etc. It's interesting to hear your perspective and thoughts both good and bad.

He may not fully understand everything you say, but he knows your passionate in what you do and he respects that. As long your happy he's happy too.

A/n: This is very self indulgence lol, hope you like it! I plan to write some ghost x Mexican fem reader or little scenarios/head cannons. I'm not sure yet but for now that's all :)

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

Will is good at making decisions.

It’s one of the only things he’s good at, actually. He can’t fight. He can’t control water or lightning or plants. He’s not as smart as Athena’s kids or as charming as Aphrodite’s. He is clumsy and soft-hearted and stubborn. But he is observant, he always has been, and he prides himself in his ability to think ahead. He keeps his infirmary stocked and his siblings on schedule. He reigns in head counsellor meetings and draws up binders and binders of files and projects — he is organised. He watches, he notices, he reflects, he prepares. He’s as impulsive as the rest of them, sure, but he has enough contingencies in place that he’s solid. A solid head on his shoulders, and he knows it — the head medic must.

So when he watches himself, horrified, diverge from his very detailed twenty-nine step process entitled The di Angelo Dilemma: Approaching Friendship like a Normal Person and ask Nico to come over, he considers the possibility that he has been possessed. Maybe the eidolons that fucked everything up the first time around have been crouching in dark corners, patiently awaiting the perfect time to strike and ruin Will’s life.

“See you then,” says Nico, rushing out the door, and Will smiles at him easily, watching him dash across the common, and then he sets aside the folder he’s updating, walks calmly out of the empty infirmary, nodding to Mr. D. as he passes, turns a corner in the hallway, slips into his favourite supply closet, sticks a chair under the door handle, clears his throat, and screams.

It’s one of those good screams, by design; he takes a good deep breath beforehand and lets the sound billow out of him, lets it scrape the sides of his throat raw and reverberate somewhere in the base of his skull. Were he not home in a camp that regularly makes use of lethal weaponry and deadly rivalry, entire armies would come running to his defense. As it is, he is left to fall to his knees and scream until he is hoarse, or until he hears a faint will you shut the fuck up! echo from around the vegetable gardens.

“Why me,” he croaks, giving in and collapsing to the floor.

It’s a nice floor, really. In between breakdowns he returns and decorates the place, sweeping up the dust and covering floors and surfaces with rugs and throw pillows. A guitar leans in the far corner for when his mother is thousands of miles away and he’s feeling sorry for himself. A photo album lives half-shoved under a shelf for when he is in need of punishing. His sketchbook remains in a constant state of almost-full under the one dusty window. (That one carries slightly less general despair.)

He is, upon reflection, somewhat of a disastrous person.

How fitting.

“Ugh,” he says out loud, to himself, and reaches for his guitar.

He has no intention of playing anything worthwhile. In fact he doesn’t even bother tuning it, not that he can very well anyway, and just strums random chords and riffs and yells over a string of flat discortants, at one point, filling the tiny room with noise ontop of noise ontop of noise until everything is gleefully stifling, like a mass of birds clouding the sun, like the thirteenth year of swarming cicadas, like the twentieth layer of July Texan heat. Until the mess is transferred from inside of his head to outside of it. Until he has committed so many musical sins that his father retreats from the sky a full forty minutes early.

“I feel you are at fault,” says Kayla, when he finally returns to their cabin. “For.” She gestures vaguely at The Outdoors.

“Hnnngh,” responds Will, taking three steps and tipping, gracelessly, onto Austin’s bunk, nearly bouncing right off of it. He catches himself, barely, and presses hard into the pillow, curling when his brother makes space for him, when his sister sighs, deliberately loud, and presses her knee into his thigh as she climbs up, too.

“This is your own fault,” Kayla grumbles. Her bony shoulders settle along the dips of his ribs, next to Austin’s thin ankles. “You could talk about things before they blow up in your face, but nooooooo. You run around doing everything yourself. Moron.”

Will swipes the heel of his hand under his eyes, throat garbling a weird snort-laugh-sniffle. Those bony shoulders tip to the side, slowly, until she curls under his chin, dragging Austin down with her. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Sh-h,” Austin says, patting blindly until his palm finds Will’s face, then patting deliberately. His knees press against Will’s, now, forehead inches away, barely clinging onto the too-narrow mattress. “Quiet town now. Reflect in your foolishness.”

“So mean.”

Years ago, exactly how many Will refuses to count, this exact scenario would be met by lots and lots of teasing, by pinched cheeks and cuffed shoulders and a forehead kissed several times over. There would be at least six instruments played at once, a camera flash the second he walked in the door pouting, and more lights on that would ever be necessary. An oft-repeated and never-resolved debate, probably; you coddle him, Cass; oh, shut up, Michael, he’s little. The scent of woodgrain and antiseptic and vanilla. A thousand other details he never thought to memorize.

Now there is quiet, or at least more of it.

Kayla hums, notes muffled as she gnaws on her lip, and Austin’s socked feet tap against the blankets, mapping out the tune playing out in his far-away eyes. The last final glow of the horizon turns red, then orange, then violet, sinking into dark navy blue, and their aunt blinks her way into focus, stretching widely across the thin wisping clouds. The fairy lights wrapped around the pillars and ceiling beams blink alongside the stars, chatting away to each other, and the breeze from the window is soft and warm and almost as sweet as southern jasmine. There is a pit in the dead centre of Will’s chest, and he is afraid Kayla will fall into it, and then Austin; afraid they will succumb to his gaping maw.

“What if I ruin absolutely everything,” he says. He swallows, and then again, and again, because his throat is dry, escape for the burning trails mapping the his face from corner of his eye to mouth. “What if I — scare. Am. What if I’m the reason, again.”

Diana snorts. You are such a drama queen.

And that’s coming from this theatre, Lee adds, gesturing grandly to the gold pillars of the cabin. You’ll be fine, kid.

A chorus of agreements from the rest of the occupied bunks; Kate’s encouraging grin, Leanna’s fond hair ruffle as she dances past, Amir’s wink.

Will smiles and blinks back and he is gone, and Michael’s scowl disappears, and Kate and Phoebe’s laughter fades from the background. The cabin is quiet, shadowy; Austin and Kayla breathe quietly, swallow silently.

“I don’t know,” Kayla admits. “You — could be. Again.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut. He begs for Lee to go back to his sleep for the night. He inhales around the shake and inhales and inhales and inhales and feels the vacuum dead centre in his body, like from navel to spin, twisting, tubing, sucking; take, take, take, take. Can I, can I, can I. I want. Please. Let me have.

“I’m not sure it’s better not to try, though.” Austin’s hands curl around Will’s palm. “Right? You always say to — try. Do your best.”

A smile curls up the corner of Will’s mouth.

“I do.”

“And you did try.”

“I did.”

“Did it fail?”

Will flicks down to meet Kayla’s eyes, squinting one and tucking his chin.

“I asked to come over.”

“Oh, well — okay, Marilyn Monroe. Like that’s a new thing.”

“For no reason.”

“…Oh.”

“I could go on the sand rant, Kayla. I’m like a sleeper agent. As soon as he says it, I’ll — you know.”

Austin shifts, frowning thoughtfully. “I mean, he kind of already knows you’re weird.”

“Not this weird!”

“I think everyone knows you’re weird, actually,” Kayla adds. She wiggles, squirming and elbowing until she is half-perched on the fleshy part of Will’s waist, ignoring his wheezing. “Being a nerd dork loser is kind of your whole thing.”

“It is not!”

“You have binders dedicated to people, Will.”

“That’s not bad!”

“Specifically on how to best socialize with them, Will.”

“That’s — thoughtful!”

“…Sometimes being related to you is hard.”

“I am! Collecting data! To better my relationships! What is the issue!”

Austin and Kayla exchange a meaningful look — which does not, Will is relatively certain, usually involve putting your entire palm on your brother’s face and shoving it so it cannot be seen. Kayla.

“You’re doomed to fail,” they decide. And then they kick him off the bed, which is rude, but he is weak to their giggling, and it’s bedtime for them, anyways.

As per his carefully outlined routine they are sent to the showers and sinks, back in half an hour, bickering. As per his less carefully outlined but nonetheless regularly present routine they are separated physically from each other and shoved to seperate bunks. As per his most carefully outlined routine, he follows them each, ignoring their complaints, and presses the back of his hand to each forehead, closing his eyes as he lets his life force bleed into theirs, mixing, checking, making sure.

“We’re fine,” Kayla grumbles.

“Shut up and cough,” Will orders.

Austin gives him less trouble. Will makes a show of thanking him for it. Kayla throws her extra pillow. Will takes it, placing it on his own bed. It is silent after he says goodnight, silent as he clicks off the light, gathers his caddy, pads to the door.

“Goodnight,” whispers a voice, half hidden by the creak of the screen door as he opens it.

“Goodnight,” whispers another, half hidden by the cream of the screen door as he closes it.

“Goodnight,” Will repeats, grinning. “Sleep well, kiddos.”

They grumble, and their bedsprings groan as they turn away, mimicking the grate of the rickety porch steps. That, at least, is familiar; that at least matches the echoes that bounce around the walls of the cabin and the inside of his skull.

———

next

[hey-august]

Word count: Just under 1k Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, no use of Y/N, mentions of masturbation, sex, and oral.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Buggy who is surprisingly good at drawing.

Buggy who doodles all the time. Ugly little caricatures of people who piss him off. Goofy scribbles of bits that make him laugh. Potential skits. 

Buggy who scrawls on the margins of paper, the corner of napkins, anywhere he can relieve the itch in his hands.

Buggy who designs costumes for his crew. Colored pencils and oil pastels bring the flashy couture to life.

Buggy who carries a small sketchbook in his coat. Deckle edged paper wrapped in leather, perfect for practicing pencil sketches and graphite drawings as he observes the crew.

Buggy who doesn’t share the drawings in his sketchbook, though. Some had to learn the hard way not to look over his shoulder.

Buggy who realizes too late that you are overtaking his personal pages. What started as small forms to study pose and movement grew larger, capturing more of your essence.

Buggy who becomes obsessed with capturing the small details. How your nose crinkles when you laugh. The sneer in your lips when you’re pissed. The way you rake your fingers through your hair when you try to calm yourself.

Buggy who gets curious late one night. Curious and desperate.

Buggy who draws you from memory and fueled by his filthy imagination. The soft sound of pencil scraping along the paper is comforting.

Buggy who fills a page with you in compromising positions. The lewd expressions you might wear. What he thinks you’d look like split on his cock. Or mouth open, begging to have your face fucked. His hands gripping your plush thighs.

Buggy who fucks himself to the hand-drawn porn and cums all over the page.

Buggy who feels guilty and burns the soggy drawings, as best he can. It takes a few frustrating tries and he panics, even though no one is around.

Buggy who tries to ignore those feelings. Trying to draw anything except you. But everything looks like shit now. Proportions are off. He presses too hard when sketching, unable to erase the stark lines. Even his doodles lack life.

Buggy who gives in and scribbles you in the corner of his sketchbook before moving on to something else. And it works. His movements flow better. A weight is lifted off his chest.

Buggy who eventually caves to the nighttime muse once more. Filling another perverted page with the obscene images flooding his mind. This time, he doesn’t ruin the drawings with jizz or fire.

Buggy who revisits that page frequently. Adds to that page. Convinces himself that it’s okay, it’s not hurting anyone. In fact, it helps him by taking away other urges.

Buggy who eventually manages to misplace his sketchbook. He fucking lost it.

Buggy who doesn’t want to bring attention to his lost treasure. If he says it’s missing, some freaks might find it and look through the pages. They’ll realize what a pathetic loser he is.

Buggy who frantically retraces his footsteps, barking orders to keep everyone away from him. 

Buggy who finally finds it in the hallway just outside his room. The book must have fallen out of his pocket and laid mostly out of sight with the brown leather blending into the wooden floor.

Buggy who is relieved. It doesn’t look like the book had been touched or moved. Even the leather string is still wound around the sketchbook tightly.

Buggy who needs to get back to other duties after sloughing them off most of the day. He’s still on edge, reading into everyone’s interactions. No one acts differently, adding to the relief that no one knows about his perversions.

Buggy who doesn’t open the sketchbook until the end of a very long day. Who waits until he’s alone and in his room.

Buggy whose stomach lurches at the note peeking out of one of the pages. A page devoted to your smile. A note with your handwriting. “This is so impressive! I look so happy”

Buggy who slams the sketchbook shut and starts to pace around the room. Fuck. Did you find it first? Did you look through it? Why? What else did you see? What else did you see?

Buggy who freezes at the thought. Who stares at the awful book, as if it would pipe up and tell him in a fluttery voice.

Buggy who grabs the book and roughly throws it into a drawer, ready to lock up his feelings. Ready to deal with his unhealthy actions with more unhealthy actions.

Buggy who tries to go to bed but can’t sleep. He lays in bed surrounded by a carousel of thoughts. Of fear. And anxiety.

Buggy who sends over a hand to retrieve the damn book. He has to know. He’ll die if he doesn’t find out.

Buggy who can feel his hands shake with each heartbeat as he thumbs through the book, looking for more notes.

Buggy who feels both calmed and excited as he finds your commentary on a few more innocuous pages. Praises for his skill and appreciation for scenes he captured.

Buggy who finally flips to the page. That one.

Buggy who’s afraid to read the note you left there. But he does. “Want to collaborate one day?”

Buggy whose stomach and heart are in knots. 

Buggy who keeps reading. “I’d like to see what you look like too.”

Buggy who shows up at your door, panting and red faced. Sketchbook in hand.

Buggy who trails his fingers along your face as he fucks into you, commiting each detail to memory. The shape of your mouth with each moan. Your lust-filled eyes. The little teeth marks left after you bite your lips.

Buggy who can’t help but stare at your sex-tired body. Chest heaving. Glistening.

Buggy who still wants to taste you. To taste himself on you. Who uses his mouth and tongue to memorize more of your body.

Buggy who is surprisingly good at drawing and collaborating.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

A/N: Just want to highlight this line bc I love it "This time, he doesn’t ruin the drawings with jizz or fire."

[storm-angel989]

Valentino x Reader (He Always Keeps His Promises)

I honestly can't remember if I posted this or not so apologies if there is a double post!

I snuggled against Valentino in our bed and closed my eyes. Tiredness, exhaustion. All of those things that came with working on my feet all day. Heck, if I was being honest, I was exhausted even on my day off.  The last thing I wanted to do was get up out of bed, but Valentino felt otherwise. 

He sighed and ran a hand through my hair, tucking back a stray strand. When he walked into our bedroom after coming home from work, he wasn’t surprised to find me in the same position he left me in- sprawled out, remote in hand, laptop propped on a pillow, sketchbook and table on the night table. 

“Princessa. Come on now, you need to get up. You need to eat. Even a little something,” he said as lightly as he could. “Come on now.”

“Sleepy!” I whined and snuggled into him. “No. Too Sleepy.”

“Princessa.”

There it was. The warning tone that made my stomach drop in both excitement and fear. 

“What was the last thing you had to eat today?” He cupped my chin and forced me to look into his eyes. 

I hesitated. “Uhm. I had a few chips. Pancakes- Vox made them and brought me one.”

“And what time was that?”

“I don’t know!” I whined. 

“Then up you go.”

His arms wrapped around me and yanked me from my cocoon of blankets. I whined again and was rewarded with a sharp grab on the ass. 

“Princessa,” he said sharply as he carried me out to the kitchen. “Behave.”

“You pulled me out of my blankets, and now you’re making me eat. I have every right to whine,” I protested. 

“Quit being a brat and sit pretty for me,” he said sharply as his hand caressed my bottom before he sat me on the counter. “You need to eat, otherwise you won’t have energy for the rest of the activities I have planned for tonight.”

I hung my arms around his neck. “Val, I don’t need food, but those activities…”

“Won’t happen if you don’t eat, mi amore. I know it’s difficult for you to understand, but our bodies need energy. And we get that energy from food. And…”

“And Vox gave me the whole talk already,” I grumbled. I tried my best to mimic his words as sarcastically as I could. “Food goes in our tummies and makes us feel good!” 

“See? You understand the concept already,” Valentino replied as he added pasta to the boiling water. 

I heard him mutter something I couldn’t quite catch.

“Whatcha making anyway?” I asked, leaning over to see if I could sneak a peek. I reached over as if to stir the contents of one of the pots on the stove. 

He swatted my hand away. “It’s a surprise, princessa. Now tell me about your day.”

As we chatted, the amazing scent of my favorite pasta sauce began to fill the air. Valentino’s speciality. I felt my belly rumble and he turned and gave me a grin.

“Are we still going to insist we’re not hungry?” He asked teasingly. He stirred the cast iron pot with a wooden spoon. He scooped up just  a bit on the tip and blew on it before pressing it to my lips. “Open, princessa. What do you think?”

Flavor exploded on my tongue. Sweet, spicy, and absolute perfection.

“Amazing, as always Val,” I replied. “When will it be done?”

“Glad to see you found your appetite,” he replied. “Give me just a moment.”

I watched as he created a plate- salad, pasta, homemade sauce. From the oven came a few slices of garlic bread- made from the leftover Italian bakery bread. Four of my absolute favorite things. He leaned over and kissed my forehead as he handed me the full dish. 

“Eat every bite, mi amore,” he said with a dangerous grin. “And I promise you you’ll be rewarded.”

I felt a shiver run though my entire body, a mix between a jolt of desire and anticipation. After all, Valentino never broke his promises.

[florencemtrash]

Hummingbird: Chapter One

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?

Masterlist

You leaned back against the desk, ignoring the leftover smattering of paint as it seeped into your overalls, and checked the time. Miles’s face was stuck to the pages of his sketchbook, blue and red ink staining his cheek as he snored softly. One hand loosely gripped an open highlighter, the other dangled over the edge of his desk, half-eaten sandwich abandoned on the floor.

Twenty minutes. He’d been asleep for twenty minutes, and if you let him sleep any longer, he’d be late for fifth period.

You rapped your knuckles on his pencil case, the ringing tin jolting the teenager awake. Brown eyes flashed around the room, fists shooting out in an amateur boxing move as he tried to figure out why his spidey sense hadn’t warned him of any danger.

But there was no danger here. Nope, just Miss Y/l/n staring at him curiously from under raised brows.

“Wakey wakey, Miles,” You wore your usual pair of yellow Converse and paint-splattered overalls, the pockets hanging wide and loose after years of carrying around paint bottles, brushes, and books. The school board liked to complain about your “improper dress,” but at the end of the day you were one of the school’s only art teachers - and the most highly approved by students.

“Oh heyyyyy Miss Y/l/n.” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck before dropping to the floor and snatching up his forgotten lunch. This was the fourth time you’d caught him sleeping in your classroom. Any more and you might actually have to start giving him detention. He tossed pens, snacks, and his sketchbook haphazardly into his bag, but not before you caught sight of a familiar blond-haired, blue-eyed girl smiling in front of a backdrop rioting with yellow, pinks, and blues more vibrant than a fireworks display. “GWEN!” the comic-style calligraphy called out next to her glowing face. Miles always seemed to be drawing her these days.

“You’ve still got five minutes left, calm down.” Miles straightened up to face you, clutching his lunchbox to his chest and smiling nervously. You folded your arms over your chest and stared pointedly at the gangly boy in front of you. With how much he’d grown over the last few months you wondered if one of his ancestors had been a garden weed. 

“You want to talk about what’s been going on, Miles?” 

“What do you-what do you mean?”

“You’ve been falling asleep in my class, this is the fourth time I’ve caught you napping here during lunch, and now I hear from Mr. Maloney that you’ve been skipping English.”

“He-he told you that?” He tugged at the collar of his shirt, hoping for a breeze to drift in through the window and save him from his nerves. He thought he’d been good about juggling the responsibilities of being a high-schooler and everyone’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. If his parents noticed anything different about him they chalked it up to teenage angst and grief over Uncle Aaron’s death. But someone had caught him slipping up.

You shrugged, “The teacher’s lounge exists, and people like to talk.”

“Oh…” he mumbled, shoulders dropping.

The dull ringing of the school bell cut through the silence, followed shortly by the rumblings of conversation as students filled the hallway, moving with the current like fish in a river.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, “Listen, Miles, you’re not in trouble, ok?” Miles sighed in relief. “If you need to eat your lunch or just take a break in my classroom that’s fine with me. I just want to make sure you’re not trying to flunk out like last year.” 

He shook his head adamantly. He couldn’t - wouldn’t - drop out of Brooklyn Visions now. He had a plan for the future: go to Princeton, figure out multiversal traveling, and reunite with Gwen and Peter and the rest of the Spider-gang. Seemed simple enough… and totally doable…

“I promise that’s not the case, Miss Y/l/n.” The sincerity behind his words satisfied you.

“Alright Miles, but I’m keeping an eye on you,” You said dramatically, squinting your eyes and pointing at his chest. Miles snorted, mouth breaking open into a lopsided grin, “Now get out of here or Mrs. Cape will think I’ve convinced you to go to art school again.” 

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I just…”

“Yes, yes, you want to go study physics at Princeton,” you waved your hand in the air, tracing some invisible pattern in the sunlight before grabbing a wet wipe from your desk and tossing it to Miles, “Quantum mechanics, the multiverse, and all that stuff.” 

It wasn’t the first time he’d told you about his future plans, but the words that left his mouth had a tendency of flying over your head. The kid was too smart for his own good.

You paused and took a moment to look at Miles, to really look at him as he scrubbed away at the ink on his cheek, “Those Princeton schmucks would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks Miss Y/l/n.” Again he gave you that crooked, boyish smile.

“Alright now out, out!” You shooed him towards the door, watching as he saluted you and flashed you one last smile before joining the crowd of students and disappearing around the corner.

You slipped back into your classroom, the smell of charcoal, dried paint, and pencil shavings settling into your lungs - sweet and comforting. There wasn’t an inch of space that wasn’t covered in some manner of artwork: sketches, paintings, collages… colorful graffiti that you should probably scrub out before parent-teacher conferences. Most of the pieces were the works of current students, but sometimes people like to leave things behind on purpose, trusting that you would find a place for them somewhere.

You wiped down the desks, rubbed the worst paint splotches from your overalls, and then collapsed into your chair, swiveling around and munching on the sandwich you’d picked up at the Prospect St. bodega. You had thirty minutes of peace and quiet before sixth period. 

That’s more than enough time. You thought to yourself. Maybe I’ll get some grading done and-

A head of curly black hair popped into the room, face wet and screaming with tears. You straightened in your chair as the boy’s lips thinned, then turned down. His shoulders began to tremble.

“He…He,” Hiccup, “He broke up with me, Miss Y/l/n.” 

“Oh geez,” you sighed deeply, setting your sandwich down and ushering the boy in. 

There were things you missed about being a teenager… the highs and lows of a first love were not on that list.

>>>

Saturday nights were sacred - the only time you reserved entirely for yourself. No grading, no reviewing and updating lesson plans, no agonizing over student reviews. You’d used to go out with old college friends for drinks on the weekend, but most of them had moved out of the city or gotten married and were doing married people things.

Is this what getting older is like? You wondered as you snuggled further into your couch, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders to keep out the chill. It wasn’t too terrible… albeit a little lonely.

The latest in a slew of cooking shows played out on the tv, throwing flashes of light onto the book-burdened coffee table and providing the background noise necessary for you to finally get your thoughts out of your sketchbook. But the moment you went to put the pen nib down, your mind went blank, and not in a good way. Every line looked wrong, the eyes of the figure looking bloated and misshapen. Time creeped by slowly, dragging you along for a ride as smooth as sandpaper.

 You knew the cause of your frustration, but knowing never made it better. It had been two months since Richard had moved out, two months and one day since you’d found out he was cheating on you with some grad student at NYU. 

Pendejo.

You’d hated his interior decorating, but now the blank spaces on the wall screamed his name. 

You tossed your sketchbook and pencil onto the ground and went to make a cup of tea. Maybe you were better off calling it a night and crawling into bed. Mid-year reviews had just ended and you had a long list of emails to reply to in the morning. One thing you hadn’t been expecting when you’d accepted this job was the number of parents who’d be on your ass about their kids getting a B in art - in art. 

The tea kettle was just about to open its mouth and start singing when a crash sounded from the living, followed by a sheepish “Whoops.” The muffled word punctuated Paul Hollywood’s critique of someone’s lemon tart - too stodgy.

Your blood ran cold as the stranger continued to mutter. 

“There goes another one. Wow there’s a lot of stuff on the floor.” Another one of your precious potted plants hit the ground with a dull crack. 

You grabbed the wooden bat from where it leaned against the wall, swinging it easily behind your head. At least there was one good thing Richard had left you with. 

You creeped out into the hallway, backing up towards the front door with your eyes trained on the shadowy figure making a mess of your living room. The figure fluctuated in and out of existence as he stumbled about the room, tripping over the piles of books and art supplies littering the ground. His body splintered outwards like cobwebs and twisted with flashes of bright light, haunting and inhuman. 

The creak of the floorboards gave you away. All at once the figure stopped and turned around to look at you. Where its face should have been was a single, flickering white spot, pulsing with curiosity as it tilted its head to the side. 

Mierda. 

You bolted towards the door… but he was already there.

“Why hello Mrs. O’Hara. Nice to finally meet you.” A thousand voices said at once.

You screamed and swung. 

The first swing missed, leaving a crater in the drywall. The second swing hit true, but the bat merely sunk into the black void of his body, some force ripping it out of your hands as you staggered backward. “Oh! Well that wasn’t very nice.” The creature laughed. 

Spindly tendrils of dark matter grabbed hold of you and you let out one final scream before the Spot swallowed you whole.

There was a momentary blindness and the sensation of falling before you were unceremoniously spit out onto a hard granite floor. You winced at the rough cut of broken glass beneath your heels, with nothing to protect you but a thin pair of socks. You looked upward and gasped. 

Where there had once been a towering glass ceiling dozens of stories high lay a gaping hole, the metal beams blown backwards into the night air like a blooming flower. It took you a moment to recognize the building, after all you’d seen it nonstop on the news for weeks last year - Alchemax.

What the hell?

Police tape criss-crossed over the debris like yellow spider webs, the scene broken up by black holes that morphed and twisted around you, pulsing with the same energy as the stranger in your apartment.

I must be dreaming. You thought. But in the back of your mind you remembered bits and pieces of what Miles told you he’d been studying over the summer - wormholes and spacetime and portals to different universes. 

You picked up a piece of metal off the floor, experimentally tossing it into one of the spots. It disappeared under the surface like pottery in slip before popping back into existence above you. You only narrowly lunged out of the way before it crashed into the ground and stuck there like a sword in a battlefield.

“Beautiful, isn’t it Mrs. O’Hara?” the Spot stepped out of a hole in the fabric of spacetime beside you. 

You jumped back, choking the scream in your throat. “That’s not-that’s not my name.” You managed to say. “Maybe you’ve kidnapped the wrong person?” A stupid hope.

“Oh? What is it then?” You said nothing, daring to lean down and pick up a jagged piece of roof panel. It might not do much, but it made you feel safer with its weight in your hands. “Well you don’t need to tell me. I just wanted to ask you a question.” He blipped out of existence, taking with him the darkness that pooled out of his skin.

“Who is Spider-Man?” the voices said as the Spot reappeared right beside you.

“You’ve got to stop doing that! Pendejo.” 

“What?”

“Just talk to me like a normal person.” You pointed the roof panel at him, keeping him at a safe distance.

“Who. Is. Spider-Man?” He stepped closer, the tip of your makeshift weapon sinking into his skin like he wasn’t even there. 

The question made you pause. That was what he wanted to know? He had kidnapped you just to ask about Spider-Man? 

“Um, I mean, he’s kind of the local superhero. Stops thieves, saves kittens stuck in trees, makes questionable brand deals at times-”

“NO! I know who Spider-Man is.” 

You blinked in confusion, eyes shifting to the side, “Then why did you kidnap me?”

“I want to know Spider-Man’s identity! His real identity.” The edges of his body sparked, shooting outward and striking the walls of the room. Dust and plaster fell to the ground like snow.

“I don’t-how the fuck am I supposed to know who Spider-Man is?!”

“You know him! The other version of you knew him!” 

“What, other me?”

“The alternate universe version of you!” He threw his hands up into the air like a petulant child. The darkness around him grew with every passing minute, crawling around on the floor and up onto the walls like a reptile looking for its next meal. He slid his hands down his face, somehow pulling at the ether he was made of as he muttered under his breath.

“Whatever, I may have miscalculated. You’ll still be important. Don’t you worry. You may not know who Spider-Man is, but Spider-Man sure knows you.”

Next chapter ->

>>>

Author's Note: so... I may have gotten carried away and written the second chapter as well... hope you enjoy!

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[awkward-walking-potato]

Hi 👋

I've been loving the fics you've been putting out and I saw you wanted some ideas for Nightcrawler? I love my blue child lol

How about this:

The reader is a shy artist that is a student at the x mansion. She carries a sketchbook with her everywhere to sketch new pieces, but she doesn't show her work to people unless it's to Rogue or Jubilee.

She and Nightcrawler become friends and slowly develop feelings for one another, but they won't say anything to each other because they think that the other wouldn't want them. Until Nightcrawler finds her sketchbook by accident and finds the book is filled with sketches of him. Nightcrawler confronts her about it, but she's a stuttering mess, and they end up confessing to each other. And please make it extra fluffy. Maybe throw in a kiss or a makeout session. Your choice lol.

Drawn to you

The halls of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters were bustling with energy, filled with students whose powers ranged from the awe-inspiring to the whimsical. Among them, you navigated the day-to-day with your head down, your ever-present sketchbook tucked securely under your arm like a shield. The thick, well-worn pages held a piece of your soul, capturing the world around you in lines and shades. But only two people had ever seen what you created within those pages: Rogue and Jubilee, your closest friends who shared in your quiet passion for art.

You were content to let the world flow around you, observing and sketching, but always from a distance. There was safety in your shyness, a barrier that protected your heart from the complicated emotions of growing up among mutants. However, that all started to change the day you met Kurt Wagner.

Kurt had a presence that was impossible to ignore. His vibrant personality, infectious laugh, and the way he moved through space with the grace of a performer left an indelible mark on you. His tales of life in the circus, the bright lights, and cheering crowds filled you with images you couldn’t help but capture in your sketchbook. You were drawn to him, fascinated by the blend of joy and melancholy that seemed to radiate from him in equal measure.

The two of you quickly became friends. Kurt would teleport beside you in the middle of your walks, flashing a playful grin that made your heart skip a beat. He’d talk, and you’d listen, sketching all the while, though never letting him peek at what you were drawing. You cherished these moments, but the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to ignore the feelings that had begun to bloom in your chest. Feelings that you were certain were one-sided.

After all, why would someone as incredible as Kurt be interested in someone like you?

So you kept your distance emotionally, hiding your growing affection within the pages of your sketchbook, where countless drawings of him lay hidden—his gentle smile, the playful glint in his eyes, the way he moved with a fluid elegance that never ceased to amaze you. Each sketch was a small piece of your heart, poured out on paper in the only way you knew how.

One afternoon, after a long day of classes, you found a quiet spot in the garden to sit and draw. The sun was setting, casting a warm golden light over the mansion grounds, and you lost yourself in the peaceful moment. You didn’t notice when your sketchbook slipped from your lap as you stretched, falling to the ground behind you. It wasn’t until you heard a familiar voice that you realized it was no longer in your grasp.

“Was ist das?” Kurt’s voice was filled with curiosity, and when you spun around, your heart dropped. There he was, holding your sketchbook in his hands, flipping through the pages with wide eyes.

“K-Kurt!” you stammered, scrambling to your feet, your face flushing with embarrassment. “Please, don’t—”

But it was too late. His expression softened as he realized what he was looking at. Each page was filled with drawings of him, capturing moments both big and small, from his bright laughter to the way his tail curled when he was deep in thought.

“Is this… me?” he asked, his voice quieter now, filled with something you couldn’t quite place.

You nodded, unable to speak as you felt your cheeks burn with mortification. The urge to run, to hide, was overwhelming, but your feet refused to move.

Kurt looked up from the sketchbook, his golden eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a string of nervous, stuttering syllables. “I-I didn’t think you’d… I mean, I didn’t know if… I just—”

He stepped closer, closing the sketchbook carefully and holding it out to you. “You didn’t think I’d what? Like it? Or… like you?”

Your eyes widened at his words, and you could only shake your head, feeling tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I thought you wouldn’t want me,” you finally managed to whisper, your voice trembling.

Kurt’s gaze softened further, and he took another step closer, closing the distance between you. “I thought the same thing,” he admitted, his voice gentle. “That you wouldn’t want me, that you might be afraid of what I am.”

You shook your head more fiercely now, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “No, Kurt, I could never be afraid of you. You’re… you’re incredible. You’re kind, and brave, and so full of life. I… I’ve liked you for so long, but I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Kurt’s expression lit up with a mix of relief and happiness, and before you could say anything else, he pulled you into a hug, his strong arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that melted away all your fears. You buried your face in his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of him, feeling the warmth of his embrace.

“I’ve liked you, too,” he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and in that moment, everything else seemed to fade away. The shyness that had always held you back melted under the warmth of his gaze.

“Kurt…” you started, but before you could finish, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a gentle, lingering kiss.

Your heart soared as you kissed him back, the world around you disappearing as you focused on the feel of his lips against yours, the way his hands cradled your face with such care. The kiss deepened, and you felt a surge of warmth spread through your chest, your hands clutching at his shirt as if he might vanish if you let go.

When you finally parted, you were both breathless, foreheads resting against each other as you shared a quiet moment of bliss.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Kurt murmured, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

You giggled softly, feeling a wave of joy and relief wash over you. “Me too,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He pressed another kiss to your forehead, his tail curling around your waist in a tender gesture. “I’m glad I found your sketchbook,” he teased lightly, earning a soft laugh from you.

“Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all,” you replied, your voice filled with newfound confidence.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms, the worries and fears that had once kept you apart now nothing more than distant memories. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a gentle twilight over the garden, you felt a sense of peace settle over you—a peace that came from knowing that you were no longer alone in your feelings.

[cowgurrrl]

Dawns

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: Selena Quintanilla I miss you every day

Summary: The Morning After [2.9k]

Warnings: loving descriptions of Joel Miller, a whiff of angst, I think that’s it this is literally just fluff

Joel is a heavy sleeper. You kinda knew he would be, but he proved himself when you got up halfway through the night to get water, and he didn't so much as flinch. The only thing that roused him from his sleep was you sliding back into bed and kissing his jaw. He groaned and rolled onto his back, pressing you into his chest and bringing you with him. So, you're not surprised when you wake before him once mowers start working around your apartment building. He stays asleep, and light snores leave him every so often as he dreams. It's weirdly endearing.

In the morning light, he looks like a lost Adonis. His broad chest moves with his breaths, and his muscles contract whenever he moves, showing off the strength of his body, which has been forged over years on sites and by carrying kids around. He has a tattoo over his heart that you hadn't noticed before. It's small enough to hide easily, but you make out the letters easily: initials. One is Ellie's, and you assume the other is Sarah's. His girls forever close to his heart. His curls create a halo of amber salt-and-pepper around his head, and his beard is unruly in a way that people try to emulate to get the perfect "messy" look. On him, it doesn't look messy. It just looks like him. His heavy hand rests on your waist while the other lies above his head, almost in a pose. He's so fucking beautiful. 

There are lots of versions of Joel you'd like to draw: him on his knees at the foot of your bed, kneeling in a type of worship that the church would never condone; him smiling at you from across your apartment with orange fridge light shining on half his face; him tapping a beat into the steering wheel of his truck as the wind tousels his hair. But this version with the relaxed features and golden sunlight might be your favorite. It's private and unguarded, something only you have the privilege of experiencing. It's only fair of you to try to capture it.

You manage to wiggle out of his grasp enough to reach for your sketchbook on your bedside table, the water cups and snack wrappers from last night still lingering nearby. You lay on your stomach and uncap your pen as you glance between the empty page and his sleeping face. You start with his face shape, which is undeniably kind of easy to draw, before moving on to his features. His nose crooks a certain way, and you want to make sure you get it exactly right. Your eyebrows furrow as ink stains your pinky and the page fills up, and the morning slowly rises around you. 

It would be easier to take a picture and reference that instead of looking up and down, straining your neck in the process, but you like noticing the way his face moves so subtly in his sleep. This feels more intimate than sex. Art has a funny way of doing that. Guilt pools at the base of your neck, and you're about to shut your sketchbook and get some breakfast when he shifts, his hand blindly searching the sheets for your body. 

You freeze as he rolls over and opens his eyes, blinking through the light to find you lying there. When his vision adjusts, and he's rubbed enough sleep from his eyes to see you clearly, he smiles, and the guilt is quickly replaced with that dizziness that only he can induce. You smile back and throw your sketchbook on the floor, the pen still twirling in your fingers.

"Hey," you say softly as you get closer to him. He welcomes you into his arms and pushes the hair off your shoulders so he can see you. 

"Hi." His voice rumbles in his chest, deep and gravelly with sleep, and you want to wrap the notes around you like a warm blanket. You settle for leaning down and kissing him, his hands sliding around your body in the process. "How long've you been awake?"

"Not long." You say, a smile stuck to your lips. He glances over, taps his phone to check the time, and groans as he rests his head back on your pillow. You giggle at his reaction, and he looks at you like you're crazy. 

"How can you be this happy this early in the mornin'?" He asks and you shrug as you push a curl out of his face. 

"I woke up to a view." He hums at your compliment but doesn't say anything else. Every time you've complimented him in one way or another over the past few months, he's shrugged it off or barely acknowledged it. You wonder if he's just not used to being told regularly how pretty he is or what a great person he is. You wonder how long it will take him to believe your words. 

"What were you workin' on?" 

"Nothing, really. Just had to get something out of my system."

"Can I see it?"

"My sketchbook?" You ask, that same guilt clawing its way back up your spine, and he nods. 

"You don't have to show me if you don't wanna. I just... I dunno. I like seein' your work." Well, fuck, you think. How am I supposed to say no to that? You take a deep breath and chew on the inside of your cheek.

"I'll show you a few."

"Just a few?" 

"For now," you say, and he smiles. You kiss him before you move to retrieve the Moleskine from the floor. He curses under his breath like he's hurt, and you quickly look up to see if you somehow elbowed him or something. 

"Now, that," he says as he sits up to trace the edge of the tattoo that wraps around your shoulder. "Is a pretty sight." You laugh and relax into his touch as you watch him become entranced by the ink.

"Tattoos really do it for you, huh?"

"Everythin' bout you does it for me," he says, and you shake your head, heat rising to your cheeks at the quip. "You do this one in a dorm room?"

"No, I had a friend who was apprenticing at a studio near the school. They gave me half off because she was an apprentice, but I think it turned out pretty good," you explain. His fingers follow the delicate lines around until he gets close to another one, and then he skips over and traces that one, his calloused hands much softer than any tattoo needle you've encountered. You let him follow the curves and bends of your different tattoos, but not before you press onto your elbows and lift a hand to trace the initials on his chest. "You were hiding this one from me."

"I think you were hidin' a lot more than I was." He says, and you laugh. He's not wrong. The juxtaposition of your covered skin versus his blankness is a little comical. Where you have deliberately placed art pieces, he has scars, freckles, and chest hair save for the letters above his heart. "Got it before Sarah went off to school. Figured it might be one of the last times my girls would be together."

"That's not true." You tsk.

"I know that now, but... I don't know. It's different than when they were younger. Good different, but still different."

"How so?"

"When Sarah was still home, Ellie had another woman to talk to. We were even numbers in the house. They would get to have their own days where they hung out and did whatever, which was really good for the both of them. But when she left, Ellie got really shy, like she didn't know what to do without someone guidin' her. Tommy and I tried, but I knew we weren't as good as Sarah. Nobody said anythin' bout it to Sarah, though, cause it wouldn't be fair to ask that of her. She has enough on her plate as it is, and she doesn't need us makin' her feel guilty." He says. He's so in tune with both girls that it almost blows your mind. It makes sense because you've seen him in action, and you know how he parents, but hearing him talk about the nuances of their relationships and giving them each space is refreshing. It would've been so easy to place blame on Sarah and ask her to help parent Ellie, but he didn't. 

"What changed?" You ask. He traces the lines going up the back of your neck until his hands frame your face, and he's smiling.

"This really great teacher started lookin' out for her. Changed our whole lives around." He says. You shake your head and force yourself to look away from his big, brown eyes.

"I was just doing my job."

"Don't do that," he scolds quietly. "I'm not sayin' anythin' that's not true. You helped Ellie in a way nobody else has done so far. You should've heard her tellin' Sarah bout you at Christmas. She couldn't say enough nice things."  

"I wish I could've met her," you say. "Sarah." 

"She really wanted to meet you, too," he says. "Next time." You smile at the idea of having him and Ellie around for long enough to meet this missing fourth member of their family. You hope he's right. 

Finally, you hand him your sketchbook and watch as he flips through the first few pages in silent awe. His eyes move around the page like he's trying to decipher a message when it's really just your sloppy scribbles you managed to get down between grading papers and working at the bar. To you, they're nothing revolutionary. They're just rough drawings that have this thing wrong with them or are missing that essential piece. When you look at them, all you see is what they lack. When Joel looks at them, all he can see is the art already there. He asks about certain things and points out different techniques he recognizes from Ellie's portfolio, like the hatching you did on a portrait of a stranger sitting in your bar. 

Sharing your art, no matter what medium, with anyone can be daunting. Someone you love might think you're a talentless hack but smile and tell you otherwise to not hurt your feelings, or they just don't pay attention to it at all. It's sacred. A piece of your soul materialized in the real world and left out in the open for anyone to come by and kill. Those emotions are still in the back of your mind, but as you watch Joel scan your work, you see admiration and reverence instead of disdain. He stops himself from looking at the whole book, remembering your words about only showing him a few, and looks at you when he's done.

"Baby, these are amazing." He breathes. The gentle tone in his voice makes your throat feel like sandpaper, and you have to breathe deeply to keep tears from welling in your eyes. You hide your face in the sheets, and he tsks as he grabs you and pulls you to him. You land on his chest, and then it's impossible to hide from him. Sometimes, it's annoying how strong he is. 

"Thank you," you say instead of listing off all the things you want to say about how bad the sketches are, how they're unfinished, and whatever else. He smiles as he gently puts your sketchbook down on your bedside table and kisses you. You straddle his waist as he cups your jaw and holds you close. You're vaguely aware of the sun rising higher and higher in the sky and the fact that he has a kid at home who's probably wondering where he is. His hands skate down your lower back as the kiss turns a little feverish and desperate, but you pull back before anything can start.

"It's getting late," you say. He sighs and rests his head on your shoulder. "I can make you some breakfast before you go."

"You really want me out that bad?" 

"No, of course not, but Ellie-"

"Is fine. She's with Tommy, and she's bout fifteen goin' on twenty. I guarantee you she's out with her friends at the movies or somethin' right now." He says. He's right; Ellie has become hyper-independent in the past few months and is almost always with a group of the art kids, but Dina and Jesse seem to be the ones she's closest to. Granted, Jesse isn't technically in the art club, but the bumbling basketball player always seems to find a way into your classroom despite never taking a class with you. Still, you can't shake your anxiety.

"What about when she asks where you were all night?"

"That's for me to worry bout, not you," he says. "If you really want me to go, I'll go but don't think you have to kick me out 'cause of my kid. She's fine, and even if she wasn't, I'd have already heard bout it." 

"Are you sure?" You ask, and he nods. 

"Positive," he answers. It's going to take a lot more for you to stop worrying about Ellie, but you let it go for now. If he's sure, then you have to trust his parental instincts. "Now, I think you said somethin' bout breakfast?" He says, and you smile. 

"I think I've got eggs and bacon." You say, and he groans at the thought.

"A woman after my own heart."

"You're a mess." You laugh as you climb off of him. You grab his shirt from last night off the floor and tug it over your head before grabbing a clean pair of underwear from your top drawer. Meanwhile, Joel throws on his briefs and the sweatpants you stole from him on New Year's Day and follows you into the kitchen. You get out the carton of eggs and hand him the package of bacon for him to put on the stove, a job he volunteered to do, as the coffee brews a few feet away. 

It's strangely domestic. Sharing the same space for the same goal as the dull hum of the city starts up outside. In your small apartment, you're safe from the demands of school for a few more weeks, and you don't have anything better to do than walk around your kitchen half-naked with him. He pours the perfect amount of creamer into your coffee and even pours a glass of water to accompany the caffeine. You push and pull him around the kitchen so you can reach certain things or show him where you keep plates. Any lingering doubt about your physical closeness has been dispelled and replaced with the ease of this morning. You could get used to it. 

You're in the process of making scrambled eggs when he starts playing music on his phone, a familiar explosion of sound coming over the speakers. Joel looks pleased even though he's the one who chose the music, and you laugh as he starts dancing toward you. Selena starts singing, and he sings along. Before you know it, he's grabbing your hand and spinning you into him. You struggle to match his feet when he takes steps you're not prepared for, and he laughs.

"I don't know this dance!" You defend, and he gives you a look.

"C'mon, don't tell me you've lived in Texas for this long, and nobody's ever taught you how to dance cumbia."

"Sorry to break your heart, maverick." You tease. He sighs dramatically but steps back enough for you to track his steps and copy them. Once you get the hang of it, he takes the spatula out of your other hand and takes you into his arms.

"You just do the same thing I'm doing but in a circle. It's not that hard, I promise." He instructs, and you raise your eyebrows at him.

"You have too much faith in my dance ability." 

"It's just a different kinda art," he says as he spins you. You manage to keep up with him and smile alongside him. You're not sure where Joel got so good at dancing, but you're sure it has something to do with the number of quinceañeras he's been invited to, if he's not been a part of one. He's gentle in reminding you of the steps and doesn't complain when you accidentally step on his toes or miss a step. It's fun and sweet and tinged with perfectly timed drum beats and Selena's effervescent voice.

He only lets you slip away from him once you remind him of the eggs cooking on the stove, but he's never far away after that. He helps you set the table and even makes your plate once everything is ready, so you don't have to. He refills your coffee and water without being asked and even pushes you out of the kitchen when you're done eating so he can wash the dishes. You like learning more about his little habits and nuances, and you think he likes seeing you in your own environment, too. 

You're not ready for him to go home and burst this bubble you've created. You're not ready to go back to school and reckon with possible repercussions. You're not ready for the real world to seep back in. You just want this morning with him and whatever other mornings he might be generous enough to share with you. Is that too much to ask?

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[yourmomsawh0r3]

Benedict Bridgerton with wife reader. They're celebrating Christmas as a family with their children. ( idk if they celebrated it back then) Just something fluff and cute. Maybe a tradition was born. You decide what it was. Thanks!! :))

A Bridgerton Christmas

benedict bridgerton x fem wife reader

The Bridgerton household was alight with festive cheer. The grand estate was adorned with garlands of holly and ivy, while the scent of cinnamon and freshly baked gingerbread wafted through the halls. Snow had blanketed the grounds outside, transforming the landscape into a winter wonderland. Inside, warmth radiated from every corner, courtesy of the roaring fireplaces and the love that permeated the air.

Benedict Bridgerton, ever the artist, had spent the morning with his children, helping them craft intricate paper snowflakes and ornaments to hang on the tree. Each child’s creation was unique, a testament to the imagination and creativity that Benedict so cherished in them. Y/N, his beloved wife, had been bustling about the kitchen, overseeing the preparation of the Christmas feast with the help of the household staff. She wore an apron over her elegant dress, a slight smudge of flour on her cheek only adding to her radiant charm.

As the afternoon sun began to set, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered grounds, Benedict gathered the children in the drawing room. Their laughter and excitement filled the space as they eagerly awaited the evening’s festivities. Y/N joined them shortly, her smile lighting up the room as she carried a tray of hot cocoa, each mug topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

“Who’s ready to decorate the tree?” Benedict asked, his eyes twinkling with joy.

A chorus of enthusiastic cheers erupted from the children, and they all scrambled to their feet, rushing towards the towering evergreen that stood in the corner of the room. The tree was already adorned with twinkling lights and a few cherished ornaments, but it awaited the special touch of the Bridgerton family.

One by one, they hung their handcrafted decorations, each child carefully selecting the perfect branch for their creation. Benedict lifted the youngest, a giggling little girl, so she could place her star at the very top of the tree. Y/N stood back, admiring the scene, her heart swelling with love and pride.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she whispered, slipping her hand into Benedict’s.

“It is,” he agreed, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “But not as beautiful as you.”

Y/N blushed, leaning into him as they watched their children. The room seemed to glow with an ethereal light, the spirit of Christmas infusing every moment with magic.

Once the tree was complete, the family gathered around the fireplace. Benedict took out his sketchbook, capturing the scene with swift, sure strokes. The children were transfixed, watching their father bring their Christmas to life on the page.

“Papa, can you tell us a story?” one of the older children asked, his eyes wide with anticipation.

Benedict smiled, closing his sketchbook. “Of course. Let’s see… how about the story of our very first Christmas together?”

The children settled in, leaning against their parents as Benedict began his tale. He spoke of their courtship, the way he had fallen in love with Y/N’s laughter and kindness. He recounted the snowy evening he had proposed, the joy they had felt as they planned their future together. And finally, he told them about their first Christmas as husband and wife, a day filled with love and laughter, setting the foundation for all the joyous celebrations to come.

As Benedict spoke, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a tear slip down her cheek. The story was a reminder of how far they had come, of the love that had only grown stronger with each passing year.

When the story ended, the children were filled with questions, eager to hear more about their parents’ adventures. But Y/N stood, a playful smile on her lips.

“I think it’s time for a new tradition,” she announced, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Benedict raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And what might that be, my love?”

Y/N beckoned the children to follow her, leading them to the kitchen. There, on the counter, were bowls of cookie dough, sprinkles, and icing in every color imaginable.

“We’re going to make Christmas cookies,” she declared. “Each of you will make one for Santa, and one to hang on the tree.”

The children’s faces lit up with excitement, and they eagerly set to work, rolling out dough and cutting it into festive shapes. Benedict joined in, his artistic flair evident in the intricate designs he crafted. Laughter and chatter filled the kitchen as flour dusted the air and icing smudged fingers.

As the cookies baked, filling the house with their delicious aroma, Benedict pulled Y/N into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“This is perfect,” he murmured. “You’re perfect.”

Y/N smiled up at him, her heart full. “I think we make a pretty good team.”

They stood there, wrapped in each other’s embrace, watching their children create memories that would last a lifetime. And in that moment, surrounded by love and laughter, a new Bridgerton Christmas tradition was born one that would be cherished for generations to come.

As the evening wore on and the children’s excitement showed no signs of waning, they began clamoring to open their presents. Y/N, now noticeably tired, rubbed her swollen belly and sank into a nearby armchair. She was glowing with the anticipation of their newest family member, but the day’s festivities had taken their toll.

“Mama, can we open our presents now?” one of the children asked, eyes wide with eagerness.

Y/N smiled wearily. “I think it’s time, but I need to sit down for a moment.”

Benedict, noticing her fatigue, quickly stepped in. “All right, everyone. Let’s gather around the tree and open our presents together, but let’s make sure we’re gentle and don’t overwhelm Mama. She needs to rest.”

The children, sensing the importance of their father’s words, nodded solemnly and moved to sit in a semi-circle around the tree. Benedict helped Y/N to a more comfortable position, placing a pillow behind her back and kissing her forehead.

“Thank you, my love,” she whispered, her hand resting on her belly.

“Anything for you,” he replied softly.

The children began to unwrap their gifts, their eyes lighting up with each new discovery. Benedict and Y/N watched, their hearts full as they shared glances of mutual adoration and pride. Each child took turns showing off their new treasures, the room filled with exclamations of joy and wonder.

As the last present was opened and the children began to settle down, Y/N felt a wave of contentment wash over her. Benedict wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close.

“This has been a perfect Christmas,” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

Benedict smiled, his eyes twinkling. “And it’s only going to get better.”

In the glow of the firelight, with their children nestled around them and the promise of new life on the horizon, the Bridgertons embraced the magic of Christmas, cherishing each moment and the traditions they had begun together.

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