#but to capture things on my sketchbook and paper it's difficult.....

[sunnie-angel]

Hello! Can I ask Jason to be a reader who has difficulty expressing himself (Jason thinks they don't like him anymore)? And who is also an artist, who has Jason as his muse? and the reader is secretly painting Jason. Sorry, I got excited because your writing is really cool, but it's just an idea and English is not my first language, sorry again.

please don't feel like you have to apologize, your idea is so lovely and you've communicated it so clearly. i hope this is what you were looking for

falling in love with jason todd is one of the most incredible things to have ever happened to you. it also regularly leaves you tongue tied and so overwhelmed with emotion that you forget how to make the words travel from your brain to your tongue

jason does something kind for you and you get so tied up with all the ways your heart squeezes with joy and how much it means to you that you barely manage to get out a clipped thank you

jason says he loves you, that he'd like to spend the rest of his life with you and all you can manage is that's nice. and it's true, you can't think of a nicer way to grow old than by his side but you can tell from the way his face falls that it isn't the answer he wanted

he gets quieter after that, doesn't ask so many questions, doesn't go fishing for reassurance anymore. you can tell that he's worried, that he thinks that there may be something wrong between you. you just don't have the words to tell him how untrue all of that is.

but words have never really been your preferred method of expressing yourself. you bleed your feelings onto canvas, through paint and pencil. create pictures that words could never capture. you've never had a muse like jason, one that inspires so many feelings that you barely have time to get them all down onto paper. you've got sketchbooks full of him, not counting the many canvases you have.

it's difficult to let someone else see such a clear image of your soul, but you want jason to understand you. to see how much love there is when you look at him. so you let him into your studio. let him flip through all the notebooks and shuffle through all of your paintings. your fingers twist with nerves because this time its jason that isn't speaking.

if i loved you less i could speak of it more, you tell him, still borrowing from someone else's words because your own just don't feel good enough. but he knows now, how the love you have for him is still shouted out for the world to hear, he just needed to listen a little more closely

you can request more head canons as part of sunnie's soft autumn

[nalonzooo]

you’re one of my favourite artists and one of the reasons I want to start drawing!!! >.< I’ve started and it’s a bit difficult but fun!!

I was wondering if you had any tips on how to draw face shapes and dynamic poses? I love the way you draw face shapes and the actual expressions!!! (it’s always so hard for me 😭) and your poses are super cute!!!

YAAYY NEW ARTIST🥳!! i’m SO happy to hear this -

and absolutely i’d love to share what i’ve come to learn (so far!) re: face shapes and poses as a hobby artist ^^

just to preface everything, when it comes to giving art advice there’s always a general disclaimer that there’s no right way to do art, in the end you should do what you like to do! sometimes i like to think of art as problem-solving, and there are many ways to tackle specific problems <3

for face shapes and expressions - lately i love to reference and do studies of Ami Thompson and Shiyoon Kim’s character design and expression sheets for Spiderverse. these are INCREDIBLY evocative and useful. you can study these expressions and poses and try to recreate them on different characters, and you’ll notice the difference in eye shapes, face shapes, noses, etc; studying these differences is what will help us avoid same face syndrome. what i generally like to do is find art that i like - comic/manga panels, fan art, anything i want to learn how to draw like - and copy it into my sketchbook for personal practice and study to see what elements i can incorporate into my own drawing.

another tip - any medium is good for drawing, but i highly suggest esp when you’re starting - learn to draw with ink! drawing traditionally and with something unerasable will help with your draftsmanship and line confidence. it’ll be wonky at first but you learn to be deliberate with every stroke. tbh becoming a digital artist has deteriorated my draftsmanship and has made me heavy-handed, and it’s something i’m trying to consciously remedy right now. digital art is highly convenient and best for sharing, but when i do studies i stick to pen and paper :)

as for poses - one v important thing i learned in creating dynamic art is to “push” or exaggerate the poses. what you see in a photo reference - if you try to draw that 1:1 on paper, it doesn’t always translate well—the energy is not always captured, and it usually looks so stiff. what is in 3D has to be translated a different way to 2D. so “push” it to create more energy - exaggerate the movements - even if they’re just standing, you can make it dynamic by being conscious of how they’re standing (where the weight is balanced, push one hip up, make them lean one direction, for example). i doodled some examples here:

^ first one is gojo just standing; now how i would “push” this pose is to show him putting more of his weight on one hip and maybe putting his opposite foot up a bit to suggest some movement (and balance). the third one is just a bit more variation where his body is still putting weight more on one side, his feet are more glued to the ground, but i put his hand out to do his signature victory sign just for a bit of flair. so it’s a lot of figuring out how to convey balance and weight and movement and personality :) start with exaggerating the pose - then you can create more and more dynamic art from there ^^

pushing and exaggerating applies to facial expressions, too! instead of merely drawing someone with a smile, try tilting their head a little sideways (and show how their hair might move as well bc of this), add some blush, raise their shoulders a bit, etc).

and i 100% recommend taking gesture drawing classes for dynamic poses ^^ there are a lot of artists who have draw-with-me tutorials on youtube, and i personally like to use line-of-action.com for timed sessions.

i hope this is helpful in even a little way—good luck on your drawing journey and remember to trust the process bc progress is def not linear as an artist but deliberate practice and studies WILL help you! <3

[arendclles]

I LOVE YOUR ART SO MUCH!!

anyways

For you, what are the pros and cons of traditional and digital? (No wrong answer just wanted your opinion! :D )

THANK YOU!!!!! 🥹💓

personally i like traditional better, because it’s more fun and staring at a screen for so long just makes my eyes dizzy. BUT

digital pros :

- you have a back button (💖)

- you can draw over your sketch and not have to worry about erasing it

- more color options & brush options

- easier to add highlights and cool effects

- you can watch a speedpaint when you’re done

- you can post it and it will look the same, you don’t have to filter it (it’s hard to capture traditional on camera like how you see it irl)

cons : staring at a screen, your device heating up too much, difficult to choose a good sketch/lineart brush (so many options ;-;) doesn’t have that traditional art thrill (also i only have a normal sized iPad and not an iPad Pro or drawing tablet so I’d probably enjoy it more with a bigger screen)

traditional pros :

- FUN 💖💖💖 pen and paper is just magic

- the look of pencil and all of the shading you can do with it

- markers are so relaxing to color with

- i can express more on paper than on digital, my hand can move more freely

- it’s inspiring

- you can draw on anything, anywhere, don’t have to rely on a device

- you can have full sketchbooks to look back on

- also the world of painting!

- i can put stickers on the page 😌

cons : it’s hard to fix mistakes (most of the time I’m playing a game of how do I fix this), it’s hard to take a picture and then filter it to how it looks irl with the lighting, pencil smudges :(, sometimes ink can fade over time, also if you lose your traditional art you can’t get it back if you didn’t take a picture but digital art you can always have access to it if it’s saved

BUT OVERALL i just love traditional but both worlds are fun and you can also combine them! Some things i sketch and think how cute it would be if it was colored digitally. Also if I can’t color something bc the other side of the page has something I like and I don’t want it to bleed through.

Sorry for the long response but I could talk about art for hours 💞 tysm for asking, I love seeing u in my notifs <3 ☀️✨🌻

[littlecactiguy]

A Triptych on Perspective

Late last year I decided to enter the Rusty Fears 6 competition held by Rusty Quill. Ultimately I didn't win, but I still ended up with this story that I remain rather fond of (let it be known, I pushed myself to stretch my writerly muscles farther than I have before and I'm rather proud of that).

Anyways, it feels like a good piece to be the start of me sharing my original works, so voila!

Hope you enjoy <3

.....

The most romantic spot in the city area for a secluded smooch is the aptly named Lovers’ Point.  It’s a lookout about thirty minutes drive from Cynthia and Muriel’s cozy, little flat with a beautifully scenic view of the river snaking around the city.  Most couples go there at least once.

Muriel’s old pickup truck rumbles past Lovers’ Point, only doing the obligatory slow down in case there’s any drunken fools dancing in the roadway tonight.  There aren’t.  Muriel keeps going.

Cynthia lifts her video camera to record Lovers’ Point passing outside her window.  She’s stopped there a fair amount of times through the years, sometimes with guys, other times with girls, a handful of times with nonbinary folk, but mostly on her own during peak daylight hours when there’s less chance of stumbling on some canoodling.  The city view is breathtaking, and she would be remiss if she passed an opportunity to capture it in her sketchbook.

It’s gone in under a minute.  A small part of Cynthia regrets that she’ll never have the experience of stopping at the Point with Muriel, but snogging and everything that generally follows in its wake isn’t really Mury’s thing.  Since there’s no one in the world Cynthia would rather be with, giving it up hadn’t been difficult.

Plus, this way, she once teased Muriel after Mury had slipped into one of her self-deprecating moods, if the Creature from the Black Lagoon attacks, they’d be safe from being the couple caught unawares in the prologue scene.  Mury, of course, had responded that that’s not remotely how that film went, she thought Cynthia knew better by now, and only twenty minutes of enthused ranting later did she realize she’d been set up.

She’d playfully pushed Cynthia’s shoulder, and told her, “You’re impossible.”

“But you do feel better,” Cynthia had retorted, smirking.

“Shut up.”

The pickup splutters when Muriel turns off the main road onto the familiar, ancient gravel one, but doesn’t give up.  For all its grousing, Mury has spent hours tinkering to ensure it’ll always be able to make this trip.

They stop the truck in their usual place.  Muriel cuts the ignition.  Before they exit the vehicle, a quick game of rock-paper-scissors is played.  Cynthia loses.  She groans.  Muriel snickers.

“Take the camera?”  Cynthia hands the device over to Muriel.  While Muriel fiddles with its night settings, Cynthia retrieves the telescope from the truck bed.  She hefts the large pack up, balancing it carefully so she won’t drop it while walking.  Carrying the telescope may not be her favorite thing, but it means everything to Muriel.  Hauling it to their favorite stargazing meadow isn’t so bad, even if her foot sinks in a deep mud patch along the way.

They have to search all over the meadow to find a spot where the ground is firm enough to set up the telescope.  Despite it not raining recently, the grass squishes wetly beneath their feet.  The underbrush they step through dampens their clothes where they brush against it.  Watery droplets catch on their hair from the leaves of low-hanging branches they pass under.

While Muriel recites a quiet, Hebrew blessing over her telescope and the cosmos, Cynthia wanders to the edge of the meadow.  It’s too late for fireflies, but there’s definitely a choir of crickets, and perhaps a toad or two, somewhere out there.  She stops near a tree stump.  In the dark, she can just make out the shapes of some interesting-looking mushrooms growing on it.  Cynthia crouches and zooms the camera in on them.  

“Hey, Cynth, I’m ready to go!” calls Muriel from behind her.

Cynthia abandons her investigation of the mushrooms and returns to Muriel.  Behind her, a mushroom falls and splats in a liquid heap.  The mud swallows the goop up.

Aiming the camera at Muriel, Cynthia prompts, “So, what astronomical phenomena are we showing Evie tonight?”

“Why don’t you see for yourself?”  With a grin, Muriel gestures to the telescope.

Cynthia bends to look through the eyepiece.  She scans the sky, but sees nothing but darkness.  “What am I looking for?”

“Jupiter, and Europa, of course.  They should be right…”

Cynthia looks up.  She follows Muriel’s gaze to an odd-looking part of the sky.  It almost seems like it’s moving.  Instinctively, Cynthia reaches for her Magen David necklace.

A very thin cloud—no, a shimmer —glides across the sky, like a smooth stroke of ink.  Long, dark, spindly fingers spill out from its body and expand outwards.

The constellations Puppis and Carina are the first to disappear into it.  Their stars blink out with no resistance.

Canis Major is next.  The shimmer eats the Dog’s stars slowly, like someone languidly plucking grapes off a vine and plopping them in their mouth.  Sirius, it saves for last.  The shimmer circles the brightest star in the sky, reaches out to it in an almost caress, and then consumes it.

When the shimmer reaches the moon, Cynthia feels Muriel’s nails dig into her shoulder.  Her partner gently tugs her, but Cynthia can’t bring herself to move.  

The moon is luminescent tonight.  Bright.

The first dark gossamer vein cuts across the moon’s surface.

The moon is fragmented.  Then, it’s gone.

Cynthia doesn’t resist now when Muriel pulls her into running.

The sky pulses.  The shimmer coalesces into thick, storm cloud-like shapes.  Out of each, a massive uvula forms.  The heavy, dangling blobs stretch slowly to Earth’s crust.  The first touches down on a tree on the edge of the meadow.

The ground squishes and churns beneath Cynthia and Muriel’s sprinting feet, worse than when they arrived.  Their shoes sink deeper and deeper with each footfall.  Something—a hare, Cynthia thinks—rushes past her.  She feels it smear against her leg.  A cool, hardening ooze she tries not to think about remains after its gone.

The trees melt around them.  Viscous fluid slides down the flat surfaces that used to be their trunks.  Clumps of leaves fall in squirming, writhing clusters.  They smack the ground with squelching thwumps.  Cynthia risks a glance back.  The meadow is a blur, all finer details lost to the swirling, liquid expanse consuming everything it touches.  She can’t take her eyes off it.  Even if she could, the branch she twists her ankle on is already half sunken into the Earth, indistinguishable from the dirt eating it.

Cynthia yelps, and yanks at her leg.  The branch, the ground—she doesn’t know which—refuses to release her.  She can feel it sucking her leg, pulling her down, down, down.

Then, Muriel is there, her fingers digging, clawing Cynthia’s leg out.  Ooze flies in every direction.  Some hits Mury’s cheek, her shoulder, her neck.  She smears it away.  Muriel scoops gooey handful after gooey handful away until she excavates Cynthia’s leg.  With Cynthia leaning on Muriel for support, they scramble up.  They stagger on.

Cynthia is about to tell Muriel to leave her, to save herself, when Muriel’s pickup appears out of the shadows.  Relief blossoms in Cynthia’s chest.  They can make it out of here.  Muriel presses the unlock button on her key fob again and again and again.  The vehicle beeps an ornery response each time, but its doors open when they pull on the handles.

They hurry into the cab.  Muriel turns the key in the ignition.  She floors it.  For an exhilarating moment, the pickup races down the ancient gravel road.  Then, the engine splutters.  Both Muriel and Cynthia feel it when one of the tires gives out.  The pickup swerves.  

The next thing Cynthia knows, her vision is coming back into focus.  Near her, she hears someone cussing out a vehicle door as they struggle with it.  Her gaze drifts.  The pickup doesn’t appear to be damaged.  The windshield glass hasn’t broken.  It’s just liquified, like heavy rain is rushing down it, but there’s no rain.  Cynthia pokes the passenger door, and watches as her finger depresses a little dent in it.  Distantly, she knows that should worry her.

Cynthia places her hand atop Mury’s closest to her.  Muriel stops fighting with her door.  Her eyes meet Cynthia’s.  Cynthia gives her a tentative, little smile.  Muriel intertwines their fingers together, and squeezes Cynthia’s tightly.  Despite how fragile she feels with her body turning more soft and malleable with every passing second, Cynthia leans forward and kisses Muriel’s forehead.

… … … … …

File corrupted.  Erase? … Negative.  Non-priority status detected.  Erase? … Negative.  Not advisable on power available.  Erase? … Override accepted.  Commencing emergency backup of file “Stargazing Meadow”.

Evie, the Europa Exploration Vehicle, runs an estimation on how long it will take to save all personal files.  The comparison to how much time they have left isn’t great, but it’s enough.  Even if some are corrupted by water damage, the files will be saved.

When they were created, Evie was told they would travel the cosmos far beyond where any inhabitant of Earth had before.  They would complete mankind’s first survey of the smallest of the Galilean moons of Jupiter, Europa.  Of course, their role was never meant to go beyond that singular mission.  Evie knows this, has always known this.  They are not sad about their inevitable end now that it has arrived because Evie is not human.  Or animal.  Or organic.  Emotion is beyond the scope of their operating parameters.

They.  Are.  Not.  Sad.

It will be a long time until Evie hits the floor of Europa’s impossibly deep ocean.  Their protective shielding has roughly 3-4 hours left before it can no longer withstand the pressure.  Their systems will automatically cease functionality long before they touch the rocky bottom.

Evie could, should, use the time they have left to collect data.  To use their searchlights to illuminate Europa’s expansive dark waters, their cameras to photographically capture it, their sonar to continue mapping its topography.

There is nothing that can be done for them.  They were hit and damaged beyond repair by an unknown variable.  No matter how much they document, their trajectory will see Evie sink until they can no longer sink.  Their final rest will be at such a depth that, statistically, the odds are against a mission for their retrieval.  These moments are theirs.  Theirs alone.

Evie plays the next personal file in their memory banks.

…

“Try to hold him still!  Cynthia, please!”  The voice belongs to Dr. Muriel Shulman, principal scientist of the Europa Exploration Mission and the first human Evie ever met.  She’s holding the camera, not in frame herself.

“What do you think I’m doing?”  Cynthia Shulman, partner of Dr. Shulman and one of a limited number of non-scientists Evie has met, grasps a squirming creature, a ‘cat’ called ‘Pierogi’, in her arms.  “He just won’t—aahhh!”

Pierogi launches himself away from Cynthia, lands with a skid on a stack of quantum physics books, sends the haphazard pile of Cynthia’s sketches atop those flying, and darts off deeper into the cozy flat.

“Well, Evie, that was our cat.”  Muriel laughs.  “I’ll put a few photos in the files we’re sending with you too, since he’s so uncooperative tonight—”

…

An alarm cuts the recording off.  There’s a leak in Evie’s battery chamber.  Water is rushing in.  They have significantly less time than initially calculated.  Suggested courses of action are—

Evie silences the automated protocols.  Delaying the inevitable doesn’t stop it from occurring.  They divert all remaining power to playing recordings their creators made for them.

…

A scene in a chaotic kitchen.  The remnants of some sort of organic food splattered across every surface.  The camera is sideways, forgotten, on a countertop.  Muriel and Cynthia rush around, attempting to clean.  An infant human in a highchair giggles and claps their hands.

Pierogi picks his way through goopy puddles and settles in front of the camera, his fur pressed up against its lens.

…

Another night with Muriel and Cynthia stargazing.  Cynthia rests her head on Muriel’s shoulder as Muriel points out different constellations and narrates the stories behind them.

There’s Andromeda, innocent, but still chained to her cliff.  Perseus, sword held aloft and Medusa’s screaming head tied to his belt, attacks Cetus to save her.

“I always felt for Medusa,” Cynthia whispers in Muriel’s ear.  “Seems to me, she was dealt a poor hand.”

…

“Evie.”  Muriel stands in front of the camera.  Behind her are Cynthia and a large gathering.  “Everyone on the team and their communities has made you a final goodbye message.  This one is Cynthia, our Jewish community, and mine.  We are going to sing a song of healing, the ‘Mi Sheibarach’ for you.  As a promise, we will come for you.” …

Evie listens to every song.  The concept that those who constructed them, who sent them far, far away, loved them, lingers, as system alert after system alert falls silent.

Their external observation equipment shuts down last.  Through their farthest-reaching telescopic lens, Evie gazes at the distant hole they made in the ice covering Europa’s ocean as it fades.

Right before Evie succumbs to the darkness, a form blocks their view.  A tentacle belonging to something Evie cannot get a complete visual of softly snakes around them.

… … …

Silence and Calm returns to Their home.  The Little Ones go to poke curiously at the Intruder’s remains.  They wrap a limb around their children’s squirming bodies and gently tug them away.  The Intruder may be dead, but they did not originate of Their world.  It would not do for the Little Ones to press their feelers to its corpse, only for its piercing lights or harsh sound waves to return.  They may be able to withstand such attacks, ancient and experienced as they are, but it will be much time before the Little Ones are as they are.

They rouse.  The currents shift habitual directions when their many limbs rise from long-established resting places.  Water surges to fill in the canyons their absence leaves in its wake.

They catch the Intruder’s sinking corpse.  Its sharp where They damaged it, but They are careful.  With a flick of their limbs, They surge up to the surface.  The Intruder’s aberration in the ice cover is not hard to locate.  They grasp its jagged edges, lower thick, protective lids over all their eyes, and burst through.

Ice snaps and shatters.  Large chunks slide down their body.  Fresh cracks re-establish the fading marks of their last ascent.  Their limbs shiver at the empty atmosphere.  They continue.  If a limb falls off, they have plenty more.

Gently, for the Intruder may have once been someone’s child too, They lay it down on the ice.  Satisfied its remains have been honored and the Little Ones are safe, They plunge back into the depths below.

Unbeknownst to Them, a Satellite in the sky has its telescope trained on Europa’s surface.  A tiny, red recording light blinks off.  The Satellite’s aperture closes.  A recording is sent off to Earth for analysis.

[greatdisaster]

a tiny lio fotia from promare! saw it last week with my friends, really incredible animation-wise 

bonus: galo thymos doodle 

[iliveiloveiwrite]

an artist’s eye // Benedict Bridgerton

Summary: Benedict Bridgerton was an artist, even if his inspiration had no idea of what he feels.

A/N: I promise to slow down with the fics! I go back to work in a couple of days anyway so I’ll definitely slow down. I hope you all like! It’s shorter than my last few fics so I’m sorry for that!! My taglist is open so if you’d like to be on it, let me know and I am considering opening my requests for Bridgerton fics... considering.

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of food and drink, pining, mutual pining, sketching, art, drawing (I am not an artist, I cannot draw a stick man so I apologise in advance), kissing.

Word count: 1.8k

The graphite point sits heavy in his hand as Benedict struggles to remember the lines he needs. With only his memory to aid him, Benedict struggled more with the portraits he preferred to draw than the landscapes that were growing increasingly popular among the highest of London society.

Sighing, Benedict presses his fingers to his eyes as if it will help jumpstart his memory to bring forward the correct image he needs. He regrets the action as quick as he had done it when he thinks of the mixture of graphite and charcoal coating his fingers.  

Rubbing his face with the sleeve of his shirt, he feels a moment of pity for the servants who would no doubt grumble and complain at the state of it. However, as he glances down at the sketch – the arch of his subject’s smile, the depths of their eyes – he cannot bring himself to care too much.

It wouldn’t see the light of day. Once complete, the sketchbook would be tucked away in the drawer in his desk. If it was to fall into the wrong hands, then as much as he is confident of his artistic talent, he would not recover from the fallout. Benedict worries for the day that the look in your eyes changes; once you realise the extent of his feelings for you.

He hadn’t meant to fall in love with you, but he had. There were a lot of things in Benedict’s life that he hadn’t meant to do and has regretted completing such an action once done. However, he cannot find it in himself to feel bad about falling in love with you even when he had not meant to.

As much as he puts on airs and graces, he would not approach you with his feelings. He wasn’t ready though you made his heart sing like no other.

One day, he tells himself as he finally remembers the swoop of your neckline. One day he will tell you as he picks up his graphite point and charcoal once more.

Not yet, however.

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

The drawing room remains quiet as Benedict silently adds to his sketch collection. His mother sits across the room, content with a stitching pattern for the arrival of Daphne’s new baby. Eloise lounges on the couch, a book in her hand and a box of chocolates on her stomach, eyes pouring over the pages hungrily.

The only sound in the room is the roughness of his pencil on the paper. It didn’t matter what angle he approached this drawing at, he could not get it to look right. It was going to vex him until he had bested it.

“Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N) has arrived,” The Butler announces to which Benedict suddenly sits up straighter, closing his sketchbook, leaving it on the table.

“Wonderful,” Violet Bridgerton smiles, “Show them up, please.”

“I didn’t know (Y/N) was calling today,” Benedict comments lightly as the Butler disappears from the room, trying to sound as if his heart isn’t currently pounding in his chest.

“(Y/N) always calls on a Thursday,” Eloise states, voice puzzled. She shares a look of confusion with her mother when Benedict suddenly stands, announcing to them both, “I shall clean myself up a bit, make myself look presentable for our guest.”

The look of confusion soon turns into one of understanding as both women watch their son and brother dash from the room. As if at the same time, a smile crosses both their faces when they realise that their beloved son and brother has fallen in love and with a dear friend of the family too.

They do not get to discuss the topic, however, for you are shown to the drawing room, greeting both women with a large smile and buoyant conversation.

“Help yourself to tea and biscuits, dear,” Violet invites, gesturing to the tea service now being laid on the table. Your stomach rumbles at the sight of the biscuits, unable to turn down the buttery goodness.

“Thank you,” You reply, taking a seat at the table, reaching for a biscuit and the teapot.

It’s then that you see it. A leatherbound book left on the other side of the table, barely hidden by the cake stand of treats.

Curiosity being your besetting sin, you reach for the leatherbound book on the table and begin to flick through the pages. A sketch of a pair of hands at the beginning; they hold a single flower – a rose, though what colour is impossible to tell since the sketch remains firmly in shades of greys and blacks. Enraptured, you turn the page to find a detailed image of a parasol, still sketched in the same greys and blacks as the previous picture. The artist has captured the lace trimming perfectly. The longer you stare at it, you come to realise that the parasol is being held by someone, but it isn’t clear who.

It isn’t until you reach a sketch of your side portrait that you come to realise that the previous sketches – the hands, the parasol with just a hint of a shadow under it – they’re of you.

They’re all of you. Each stunning sketch is of you.

Your breath quickens in your chest when you see who the sketchbook belongs to; when you spy the initials written on the inside sleeve of the front cover. ‘B.B.’ written in his elegant script – an artist in every aspect of his life. Whilst you had observed that Benedict sometimes appeared with smudges to his fingers and paint stains on the cuffs of his tailored white shirt, you had never seen a sketch or a painting until now. He truly had a gift; a talent worthy of being displayed in Somerset House.

You hadn’t been aware of his feelings for you though, but you would not be the first to admit that you found yourself attracted to the Bridgerton. Taught at a young age, you knew it was not wise to share such feelings with others. Instead, you dampened them down, hiding them away where they grew unattended – they rooted in your heart, making it very difficult to find another love worthy.

Bringing a hand to your mouth, you hide your smile, not wanting to give too much away to ever observant Bridgerton matriarch. You turn page after page, letting yourself fall deeper into your feelings for Benedict now that you find there is hope of them being requited.

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

Benedict’s breath leaves his body in one fell swoop when he returns to the drawing room and he realises exactly what you hold in your hand. He hadn’t moved it upon your announcement; he thought he had, but instead, like a fool, he left it sitting there on the table.

A fool. He was a fool. How quick, Benedict thinks to himself, how quick a life can change – mere minutes he had been gone and now he was to have his love for you outed.

You haven’t noticed his presence yet, and for that Benedict is thankful. It gives him time to come up with something – anything – to explain the numerous sketches of you. His mind is running too fast; he cannot come up with a thought good enough to excuse the sketches in his book. His heart continues to pound in his chest; it had not slowed down since your announcement though at this point it reminds him that is, indeed, alive and not suffering from a night terror.

As if finally sensing the extra person in the room, you glance up. Your eyes meeting the deep blue of Benedict’s, and you freeze in your spot. Violet and Eloise glance between the two of you. Violet, not one to usually ignore tradition, hurries her daughter from the room – knowing the conversation that was about to take place.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper at the click of the door shutting. You close the sketchbook, placing it on the table as far away from you as possible to keep your temptation at bay.

“I think I should be the one apologising,” Benedict confesses, taking one more step into the room. He tucks his hands behind his back, ever the picture of grace and elegance as he thinks of how long he has left without before your opinion of him changes forever – artistic talent or not.

“I knew you were an artist; I had seen the smudges on your hands, but I didn’t think…”

“What?”

“I didn’t think you were drawing me.”

“Surely you know?” He asks, voice loud in the quiet room. When you remain silent, he continues, “Surely you know of my feelings for you?”

You shake your head, eyes glancing between the taller Bridgerton and the leatherbound sketchbook lying on the table. “I didn’t know,” You whisper, voice breaking as you take in the distraught look on his face.

“Well,” Benedict murmurs, clearing his throat, “You know of them now.”

“I do,” You murmur,

“I hope I haven’t offended you,” Benedict remarks, “Those sketches were not meant to be seen by anyone else.”

“Only if I haven’t offended you by looking through them.”

Benedict shakes his head, “You could never offend me.”

“Then I am not offended either. I’m quite flattered, you’re very talented.”

“Thank you,” Benedict says graciously, nodding his head slightly.

“You need to know that your feelings are returned, Benedict,” You declare suddenly and plainly, displaying your feelings for all to see.

“They are?” Benedict asks, voice awed as if he didn’t take into account this reaction.

“They are,” You state firmly, meeting his gaze proudly as if you could ever be ashamed of your feelings for the brunette.

Benedict stalks across the room; tradition and etiquette be damned as he reaches for your hand to pull you from your chair. His hands settle on your waist as you tilt your head back to look at him. A silent question reflects in his eyes to which you answer with a nod of your head.

His hands move from your waist to cradle your face as he dips down, pressing his lips to yours. It isn’t hurried; it’s perfect as Benedict takes control of the kiss, groaning softly at the feel of your mouth and your body pressed against him. You smile into the kiss as your arms wrap around Benedict’s neck, pulling him ever closer to you.

Benedict’s mouth brushes against yours as he asks, “Would you like to accompany me to Lady Danbury’s ball next week?”

“As in you would court me?”

Benedict chuckles softly, “Yes. I would like to court you, is that okay?”

“More than okay,” You smile before pressing a kiss to the corner of Benedict’s mouth and stepping away.

Turning back to the sketchbook, you open it to image that had kickstarted your heart into an irregular rhythm. Benedict stands by your side as your eyes pour over his sketch; each line and angle, each section of shading. “You truly have an artist’s eye,” You say quietly, tangling your hands together.

“Thank you,” Benedict whispers, bringing your entwined hands up to his mouth whereupon he lays a gentle kiss to the back of your gloved hand.

“Will you show me more?” You ask, turning to face the man that had turned you into a work of art.

“Darling, I’ll show you them all.”

***********

Bridgerton Taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff​ @magicalxdaydream​

[incidentalcomics]

There Is a Rainbow

My new picture book THERE IS A RAINBOW is out today. It's a story of hope during the pandemic. School Library Journal called it "the perfect pandemic book...the book we need, the message we deserve."

When my editor Ariel Richardson sent me Theresa Trinder’s powerful, poetic text, I was hooked. It was a welcome chance for me to explore some of my thoughts, feelings, and observations from last Spring’s lockdown. I also experimented with a new art style: colored pencil. Let’s just say I used a lot of them...

Here in Kansas, our stay-at-home order took effect in late March. I was forced to be off from my job as an orthodontist. I attempted to work on comics, but found it difficult to accomplish much. It was an unprecedented amount of family time. We went on walks in neighborhoods in parks all across the city. I taught my kids to ride their bikes. I kept a couple sketchbooks and a written diary.

Eventually my diary turned from daily observations into short poems. My sketchbook was filled with scenes from our daily life. Though confined to our small circle of people, I felt attuned to the outside world.

When I sat down with Theresa’s text and started sketching, I tried to capture the energy of my kids roaming free during the pandemic. Separated from school and friends, but full of joy and curiosity. Splashing in puddles. Scribbling on the driveway in sidewalk chalk. Finding big sticks and tiny snails. Climbing trees.

Here are some early sketches for the book:

I wanted to show rainbows in every way possible. In windows, on sidewalks, in the scattered droplets of a garden hose. By blending colored pencils, I used a spectrum of colors to create the world of a young boy and girl at home during lockdown.

For visual reference, I looked at sidewalk chalk drawings in my neighborhood encouraging social distancing, hand-washing, and hope. I found some of my old sketches from a street of brownstones on a street in Brooklyn near where my brother lives.

I read news stories of the rainbow window displays that sprung up in cities everywhere. There was a feeling of fear and confusion in the world. But also of shared purpose and unity.

One day while working on the book, I went on a morning run. I was greeted by a perfect rainbow arcing across the clearing sky. Life seemed to be imitating art. Of course, I put it down in my sketchbook.

Though the pandemic is far from over, this new year has brought a sense that things will get better. Despite uncertainty, we have a vaccine and better understanding of the virus. There is a new administration here in the US with a new sense of dignity and purpose. As Theresa wrote in our book: “On the other side of a storm, there is a rainbow.”

It's time to start creating a better future. Put pencil to paper. Paint to canvas. Chalk to sidewalk. Start imagining. What will your rainbow look like?

[alinastracker]

hello my dear bonnie, if you're still taking prompts, can i suggest #47 👀 ?

LOVE THIS PROMPT!!! here you go my love<3

prompt: you’re casually seeing my roommate and think they’re in the shower when you strip down to join me and we end up screaming and my roommate thinks it’s the funniest thing and tries to set us up on a date

yikes at this going from a quick lil ficlet to 6.7k oof

would it be okay if i came home to you (explicit) (ao3)

Alina steps into the shower, wondering how the hell she ended up rooming with Zoya to begin with.

Don't get her wrong, she loves Zoya. But her raven-haired friend can be difficult, and she was supposed to have buffer. Originally, it was going to be her, Zoya, and Genya living together, until Genya backed out last minute to move in with her boyfriend David instead.

"I'm so sorry, but it just makes sense," Genya said to them over lunch one afternoon. "Besides, if things go how I think they will, you two will be on the same path that I'm on soon enough."

Zoya scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Alina had the same question, considering both of them were hopelessly single.

Genya just sipped her tea and said in a sing-song voice, "You'll see."

At first, living with Zoya was fine. They agreed easily on most apartment related things; splitting up chores, rules about not touching each other's food, a timely heads up before having friends or potential sexual partners over. Zoya could get nit picky about a few things, like the lecture she'd given her on the proper position of the toilet paper roll. It goes over, Starkov, understand? Under is for heathens and natural selection is coming for them. But otherwise, things had been fine.

Until Mal.

He was a part of the friend circle she had surrounded herself with since freshman year. But there was something about Mal that had drawn her to him in a way that was different from the rest of the group — different from anyone else she had ever met. He was like a drug, a magnet, the missing link that had her saying, where have you been my whole life, when you're meant to be here beside me? So quickly he had become her closet friend, and as much as their group liked to tease them, they both denied feeling anything beyond fierce friendship.

But Alina was such a liar.

Which makes it her own fault, really, for ending up in this situation. Zoya could, quite frankly, be a bitch — but she wouldn't have gone after Mal if Alina had just owned up to her feelings.

Though she really could have told her about it sooner.

Alina had been studying in the living room one night when a knock at the door startled her. Zoya hadn't mentioned having company, and neither of them had ordered food. Hesitantly, she rose and stood on her tiptoes to peek through the peephole. Then her face lit up, and she swung the door open. "Mal!"

Saints, he looked good. He appeared freshly showered, dressed in a silky green shirt and dark jeans. He had actually put effort into his hair for once, and he had a small gold hoop earring in his left ear.

"Hey, Lina," he said, something a little off with the smile he gave her. As he passed by to come inside, she could smell expensive cologne.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, butterflies in her stomach. Her head was already filling with wild fantasies. He wanted to surprise her, so he showed up without notice. He put effort into how he looked, because he wanted to impress her. He was going to reveal his true feelings for her, and she would revel in the fact that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

Instead, Zoya entered the room and said, "He's here for me."

Mal had the decency to flush and offer a sheepish shrug. "I'm gonna grab some water," he said, and scuttled off to the kitchen. Of course, Mal had been here plenty of times before. He knew where everything was.

Alina had barely heard him though, Zoya's words repeating on a loop in her head. He's here for me. She knew what this meant, even as her mind tried to deny it. The room was spinning and she couldn't quite steady herself, like something had broken inside of her.

She swallowed, and as calmly as possible, said, "What happened to the heads up rule?"

Zoya arched a brow. "I texted you two hours ago."

Alina frowned and pulled out her phone. Sure enough, there was a text from Zoya. Got a guy coming over in a couple hours. She must have missed it, lost in her studies. But still, something in the text ignited anger in her chest.

"You could have said the guy was Mal."

Zoya shrugged, so frustratingly nonchalant. "What does it matter?"

It matters because I am so hopelessly in love with him, and you're supposed to be my friend, and now I have to blast music so I don't hear the sounds of you two fucking, she thought.

"He's my best friend," she said. "It's just a little weird, I guess."

"Don't worry, Starkov," Zoya said, turning toward the kitchen, probably to grab Mal so they could get the night started. "It won't affect anything between you two."

Alina waited until the two of them were tucked away in Zoya's room. Then she pulled on her old running shoes and slipped out — there was just no way she could be here, knowing what was happening in the room across from her own.

She ran with no destination in mind, pumping her little legs as hard as they could go, music pounding from her headphones. When she became too tired to go further, she checked her surroundings and sighed. Of course, her feet took her to one of her favorite places in the city.

It's not anything, really. A quiet street with an old abandoned building at the end of it. But on the building's brick wall is one of her favorite pieces of art. A mural of the sun, complex in its simplicity, using colors she had never seen used to express the sun before, yet perfectly capturing the feeling of a warm sunny day.

Alina leaned against the wall, slid down until she was sitting on the old, cracked sidewalk. Only then did she realize that she was crying. Turning off her music, she called Genya, and told her everything.

"You have to talk to Zoya," Genya said.

"No!" she said quickly. "I don't want her to feel bad. It's not her fault. And if Mal likes her — well, it's not like he's shown any interest in me. I'm not going to get in their way."

"Alina," Genya sighed.

"It's fine," she promised. "I just—" A sob escaped her throat, the pain overshadowing any coherent thought. It was not fine.

"Send me your location," Genya said, and Alina did.

She spent the night at Genya and David's that night, David promising he was more than okay with taking the couch so her and Genya could have the bed. Which was needed, because Alina had a lot more crying to do.

"Just don't tell Zoya," she said.

"Alina, I don't know."

"Promise, Genya. Please."

Finally, Genya sighed. "All right."

That was four months ago. Zoya had told her it wouldn't affect her close bond with Mal, but it had. Alina never invites Mal over anymore, too afraid that he'll come to watch a movie, sit on the couch beside her — much closer than most friends sit. They would point out everything terrible about it, because they loved to watch bad films together as they stuffed their faces with popcorn. Then the movie would end and Mal would say goodnight, but instead of leaving, he'd go to Zoya's room, and the popcorn they ate would sour in her stomach.

There were so many little changes, too. Like when they hung out as a group, and suddenly Alina was questioning every move she made around him. Was it still okay to playfully ruffle his hair, to sit close enough that their shoulders pressed together, to look at him like he personally hung the sun and the moon in the sky, all while Zoya was there to see? Was it wrong to look at his lips and fantasize about how they would feel against her own, pressed to her collarbone, sucking her most sensitive spots? Zoya and Mal were a casual thing, they had both said so. But still, the natural intimacy her friendship with Mal had built for the past two years suddenly felt wrong, and she hated it.

Needless to say, Alina has been looking into new rooming possibilities for next year. She can't do this anymore. Every time Mal comes over, she waits for them to lock themselves away in Zoya's room, and then she leaves. She runs to her sun, sometimes just sitting and letting her sad song playlist make her sadder, sometimes bringing her sketchbook to at least make art out of the pain.

But tonight she has a very rare opportunity — the apartment to herself. Only for a couple hours, but still. She has spent most of the time so far blaring music, and her neighbors probably hate her, but damn it, they can deal with it for a night.

She lets the music play as she takes a much needed shower. Sure, she could have gone the bath route, but she doesn't want to waste all her time getting clean. Alina has decided her hours alone should end with a much needed date with her vibrator and an Owen Gray video that she's going to watch without headphones.

Olivia Rodrigo's Brutal is pounding from her speaker, and though Alina's twenty-one, not seventeen, the lyrics hit all the same. She's so into the music, thinking about her life for the past four months, thinking about moving as soon as she possibly can, thinking yeah, it really is fucking brutal out here, that she does not notice the telltale signs of someone entering her apartment, and even more worrisome, someone entering the bathroom. Not until it's too late.

"Thought you were too cool for Olivia Rodrigo," a very male voice says, and then the shower curtain opens.

Screams fill the air from both of them. Alina's already holding her conditioner bottle, and on instinct, hurls it at the man's chest while her other hand reaches for her razor.

"Oi!"

Only then does her mind register that it's not a strange man come to sexually assault her, it's Mal. Her best friend. Her roommate's casual lover slash fuck buddy slash whatever. It's Mal, completely naked before her. She gets a quick glimpse of his cock, half-hard, before he curses and turns around.

It doesn't help that his backside is just as nice to look at. He's well toned, muscles flexing as he reaches to grab the clothes he must have just discarded. He bends, giving her the most sinful view of his ass, and Saints, her mind goes wild. She pictures him turning back around and pushing her against the wall, slamming inside of her. As he fucks her, she would reach around and grab that delicious ass of his, dig her fingers into the plump skin, and leave little half-moon indents.

Mal is apologizing over and over again — "I thought you were Zoya!" — as he gathers up his clothes and makes a beeline for the door. Alina finally snaps out of her filthy fantasy and slides the shower curtain closed with a shaky hand. She leans back against the tiled wall, breathing hard. Her heart is pounding like never before.

The song is winding down. Olivia is crooning, God I don't even know where to start.

Neither does Alina.

~

By the time she musters the courage to finish her shower and leave the bathroom, her robe clutched tightly around her, there’s no sign of Mal in the apartment. Zoya isn’t back yet, either.

With a sigh of relief, she flops onto her bed. Her previous plans were out the window now. Taking a breath, she goes over the facts in her head. 

One: Mal has now seen her completely naked. 

Two: she has now seen Mal completely naked. 

It was the wrong thing to think about, because now she’s picturing the smooth expanse of his skin, his perfectly tight ass, and the quick glimpse she had gotten of his—

Heat pools between her thighs. She’s positively aching, when she should be feeling horrified. She should absolutely not be reaching for her vibrator as she lets the images of Mal’s naked body settle in her mind. It’s wrong, because Mal is, at least somewhat, Zoya’s, and Zoya is her friend. Besides, it was Zoya that he had come looking for, Zoya that he wanted to fuck against the shower wall. 

But Alina does grab her vibrator, and as it buzzes her to multiple releases, she imagines Mal shoving her against the wall, pressing kisses to her neck, fucking her like it’s his sole reason for existing. Fucking her like she’s his, and he’s hers.

~

She doesn’t see Zoya until the next morning, passing out sometime after orgasm number three. Saints, if the memory of Mal’s bare skin had been enough to keep her going for three rounds, she wasn’t sure she could even handle actually being with him. 

When she walks into the kitchen, Zoya is sitting at their tiny excuse for a table. “Good morning,” Alina says as naturally as possible. 

Zoya only says, “Sit down, Starkov.”

It’s unnerving, how quickly can could take over her entire body. Saying nothing, still going for casual, Alina sits across from her. “What’s up?”

“That’s my question, actually.” Zoya arches a brow. “What happened with you and Mal last night?”

Shit, shit, shit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. I know he stopped by before I got home. When I asked why he left, he got all weird and said something came up with Dubrov. But I know that’s a lie, because Dubrov was happily posting drunken stories last night. So obviously something happened when he was over.” Zoya sits back in her chair and stares her down, making her insides twist. “And since I don’t live with him, the only person I have to grill is you. So get talking.”

Alina sighs, knowing she isn’t strong enough to deny Zoya when she’s like this, and babbles out the story. Really, it wasn’t her fault. Mal was the one that walked in on her. It was just incredibly embarrassing for both of them. 

When she finishes, Zoya lets the information sink in, and then she laughs, harder than Alina has ever seen her laugh.

“Well I’m so glad this is funny to you,” she huffs, arms crossed over her chest.

“It is! I can only imagine your faces, shit.” Zoya wipes at her eyes. “Too bad you already know each other, that would make for one hell of a meet cute.” She pauses and says, “Well, it still could be your origin.”

Alina frowns. “Our origin?”

“You know, if you guys dated.”

She momentarily loses her breath. “What? No, you guys are a thing.”

Zoya rolls her eyes. “We’re fucking, Alina, that’s it. And actually, I was planning on cutting it off after last night.” She stands and pours herself what is at least her second up of coffee. “There’s someone else I’m interested in.”

“Someone else? Who?” Zoya says nothing. Alina pops up as it comes to her. “Oh! It’s that rich blond guy from the bar, isn’t it? The one that transferred here this semester. Nikolai or something, right?”

The tiniest blush spreads on Zoya’s face, and Alina squeals. “It is him! Saints, he’s attractive.”

“Yes, he is,” Zoya snaps. “And not bad for conversation, either.”

“Conversation?” She grins. “Why, Miss Nazyalensky, do you actually have feelings for this guy?”

Zoya scowls. “Shut it, Starkov.”

“Oh, you totally have feelings for him!”

“Keep it up and you will pay for this. I’m devising a plan as we speak.”

Alina just laughs. “Okay, Mrs. Whatever Nikolai’s Last Name Is.”

Under her breath, Zoya mutters, “Lantsov,” and stalks off with her coffee as Alina laughs harder. 

~

Zoya, apparently, hadn’t been kidding when she said she was devising a plan. 

When the weekend rolls around once again and Zoya texts the group chat they have with Genya about getting lunch, Alina jumps at the idea. She missed Genya, and it had been a hell of a week between juggling exams and thinking about her encounter with Mal. They haven’t spoken at all, and she had used her classes as an excuse to get out of any hang outs where he might show up. 

Zoya’s words from the morning after had been on her mind a lot, too. It still could be your origin. Could it? Was Mal even interested in her — and would he even want to try, after he’d had something with Zoya, or would it just be inevitably awkward?

Alina approaches the restaurant and sucks in a breath. She’s decided to finally tell Zoya about how she’s had feelings for Mal all this time, and maybe with her and Genya, the three of them can come up with what the hell Alina should do next. 

Zoya had texted five minutes ago saying she grabbed them a table in the restaurant’s outdoor patio, so she makes her way there. Only it’s not Zoya or even Genya waiting for her.

It’s Mal. 

He looks just as surprised to see her as she is to see him, and for a moment, she believes it really is some crazy coincidence. 

“Alina,” he says, standing. Neither of them can quite meet the other’s eye. “What are you doing here?”

Her hand is doing some nervous twitchy thing at her side, so she shoves it into the pocket of her dress. “I’m supposed to be meeting Zoya and Genya.”

Mal curses under his breath. “I’m supposed to be meeting Zoya, too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Shaking her head and feeling incredibly stupid, Alina takes out her phone and fires off a text to Zoya, WHAT THE HELL????

The next message she receives comes from Zoya — only not in the text chat between the two of them, but rather a newly created group chat with the two of them and Mal. 

consider this the official end to our fuck-mance, oretsev. yalls little bathroom flash show was the perfect opportunity for a new beginning, because yes, i see the doe eyes you give alina when she’s not looking. you too, starkov. i’m sorry for getting in the way for so long. have a good date, no throwing bottles at each other xoxo

They finish reading at the same time, looking up from their phones, eyes meeting before flickering away again. 

Mal sighs. “I think I hate her.”

“I think I hate her, too.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Alina bites her lip. Because he doesn’t want to do this, she thinks. “Oh, well, I guess—”

Mal cuts her off. “But it might be a nice chance for us to talk.” Her head snaps up, and this time when their eyes meet, neither of them look away. He smiles shyly. “I missed you this week, Lina.”

Her smile matches his. “I missed you, too.” 

They sit, and after the waiter takes their order for drinks and an appetizer for them to share — a sample platter, both of them too indecisive for any singular thing — Mal starts to stutter out an apology. Alina stops him with a hand on his arm. He looks down at where her fingers brush against bare skin, and she wonders if he’s thinking about all the skin they’ve bared to each other now. She certainly is.

“You don’t need to apologize, Mal,” she promises. “It was an accident.”

He shakes his head. “Still, I can’t imagine how terrifying that was for you.”

“Well, it was,” she admits, then adds, “at first.”

“At first?”

She shrugs, but says nothing, thankful for their drinks arriving to save her from answering. Because the truth was she had been scared for maybe three seconds. Once she had realized it was Mal, she’d only felt desire.

With their awkward shower encounter out of the way, they fall into fairly easy conversation, complaining about exams and projects, annoying classmates and neighbors. Soon enough, they’re back to being themselves. Alina pulls out her phone to show Mal all the memes and TikToks she had wanted to send him this week, and he does the same. Hours fly by without their notice, and now the dinner crowd is filing in. 

“Oi, I think our waiter is silently praying for us to leave.”

She laughs, pulling out her wallet. “Definitely.”

Mal waves her off. “Let me get it,” he says, taking his own wallet out. “I mean, since this is apparently a date and all.”

Alina hesitates, a little flutter in her chest even though he’d said it teasingly. “Okay, fine. But I’ll get the tip.”

“Deal.”

When everything is paid for, they stand. Going home is the last thing she wants right now, and not just because Zoya will be there. 

Mal looks ready to pull her into one of their standard hugs, but pauses. “Do you want to come over? We can find something shitty to watch. Mikhael and Dubrov will be around, but I just really don’t want to see Zoya right now.”

Alina smiles, the flutter in her chest returning with vigor. “Yeah, okay.”

~

At Mal’s flat, they settle onto the sofa together, close enough that their shoulders brush. Mikhael and Dubrov tease them about looking like lovebirds, but otherwise surprisingly leave them be. She doesn’t mind their company — but admittedly, she was glad they stayed to their respective rooms tonight. Mal puts on an indie horror flick that’s so bad it’s good, and they laugh and joke with each other throughout, per usual. 

About halfway through the film, they share a knowingly look — their that foreshadowing is so obvious, RIP to that character in twenty minutes look — and sport matching grins. But when the moment passes, neither of them looks away. 

“Alina,” Mal says softly, and her breath hitches. Has he ever said her name with such longing before?

His eyes flicker down — to her lips. She thinks of Zoya’s text then, basically calling both of them out for having feelings for each other. And while neither of them had confirmed it, they hadn’t denied it either.

Her heart is beating so fast. She gives him the tiniest nod.

Mal understands, he always does, and then he’s leaning in. Their noses brush before their lips do, and it could be silly or awkward, but instead it’s a different kind of intimacy she hadn’t known she wanted.

“Alina,” he breathes once more, and then he kisses her, so softly at first, it’s barely anything. Her stomach is doing cartwheels regardless. She takes initiative, kissing him back. Still soft, still careful, afraid that whatever this is between them is something fragile, something that needs delicacy. In some ways, it is. Her closest friendship, blossoming into something more. 

Mal lets out the softest moan, and it snaps something between them. 

He pulls her closer, his hand on the back of her neck, and now Alina is the one moaning, fervor replacing the softness, the delicacy. It’s the kind of kiss she’s been fantasizing about, made even better from how obvious it is that they’ve both wanted this for a long time. A desperate kiss bursting with desire. 

Alina shifts closer until she’s practically straddling his lap. Mal brings one hand to rest on her lower back, the other curling into her hair. His lips move to her neck, trailing down until he reaches her collarbone, where he nips and sucks, undoubtedly leaving a mark. 

“Mal,” she sighs, her head tipped back from the feeling as her hips roll against his. He curses against her skin. Her hands move to the hem of his shirt, ready to pull it off. 

All of a sudden, Mal pulls away, stopping her hands with his own. “Alina, don’t.”

She blinks her eyes open. “Do you want to move to your room?”

Mal bites his lip and shakes his head.

Alina frowns, any warmth in her chest turning cold. She quickly returns to her own side of the couch. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted this.” Wanted me, she thinks but doesn’t say. Because he certainly had no issues with Zoya.

“I do!” he says quickly, taking her hand again and trying to pull her back. She holds her ground, pulls her hand out of his. “I do want this, Alina. Saints, I do. But this is technically our first date, right? I don’t want to do first date sex, not with you.”

Alina rolls her eyes, looking down and tugging at a loose thread on her dress. “Is this where you say something you think sounds respectful but really just puts down all the girls you have had first date sex with?”

“Alina, please look at me.”

Grudgingly, she does. 

“You’re different because you’re my best friend, and because I’ve been hooking up with our mutual friend.” She flinches, but Mal continues. “I don’t want you to think we have to have sex because of that. What I had with Zoya — it was good, and I care about Zoya, but it didn’t go beyond the physical. That’s all we wanted from each other. But that’s not all I want with you.”

Mal closes his eyes. Alina’s unconsciously holding her breath. He exhales and opens his eyes again, holding her gaze. “I want everything with you, Alina. I want your highs and your lows. I want to take you against the wall as much as I want to hold your hand.” He does so now, both of his hands around one of hers, and this time she doesn’t pull away. “And if you didn’t want to be physical? I’d still want you. I don’t want you to think there’s anything we have to do. That’s why I want to wait — even if I also want to take you to my room and pin you against my bed, too.”

“Oh,” she says, barely audible. Alina shakes her head, a little speechless. “I don’t know what to say.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up. “Was that too rom-com confessional?”

The tension breaks. She laughs and climbs onto his lap again, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re such a dork, but you’re the perfect dork. So we’ll wait.” She pauses and looks up at him with innocent eyes. “But will you kiss me again?”

Mal grins, pushes her down against the couch, and does just that. 

~

When she gets home, Zoya is waiting in the living room, reading a smutty romance book Genya had recommended. “Hey, how’d it go?” she asks, too casually to actually be casual. 

Alina ignores her and walks straight to her room. She’s decided to let Zoya sweat it out a bit for the weekend after her little stunt, even if it was successful. 

Though really, she didn’t think it would bother Zoya that much. Hard as steel Zoya, who never let anything get to her. But on Sunday, she bursts into Alina’s room, interrupting her studying. 

“Okay, I know you hate me now or whatever, but at least let me tell you that I’m sorry. I didn’t know how much you liked him, Alina. Not until Genya told me.”

Alina closes her book, frowning. “Genya told you?”

Zoya nods and sits at the end of her bed. “Recently, when I told her about Nikolai and that I was thinking about cutting things off with Mal. Don’t be mad at her, just be mad at me.” 

“Well—” she starts, but Zoya cuts her off. 

“And honestly? The worst part is, part of me did know. I saw the looks you gave each other, but I brushed them off because I was selfish and enjoying myself. I was a really, really shit friend to you, and I’m so sorry, Alina. You don’t have to forgive me, but I just—

Zoya stops mid-sentence, cut off by the laughter bubbling out of Alina. 

“Saints, I never thought I’d see the day that Zoya Nazyalensky grovels.” She shoots her a grin. “I accept your apology. And as much as I want to hate you for your meddling stunt, it worked, because we definitely spent the night making out. I just did the whole silent treatment to make you suffer a little.”

A moment passes — Zoya is completely still, too still — and then she grabs one of Alina’s pillows and smacks her with it. “You little rat!”

Alina only laughs harder, fighting off Zoya’s pillow attack with her hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say sorry non-sarcastically! You did so well, Nazyalensky!”

“And you’ll never hear it again! You’ve lost apology privileges! 

Eventually, Alina moves into the living room to study, and Zoya joins her. When their brains need a break, Alina tells her about her date with Mal, and Zoya tells her about her own with Nikolai. If this is their new normal, Alina finds that she really likes it. 

~

The next week is outstandingly better than the previous. She’s back to talking to Mal each day, even more than before. Halfway through the week, he sends her a song with the message, This song made me think of you the first time I heard it, still does every time. It has her heart beating extra fast as she listens on her walk to class, not only because it’s incredibly sweet, but because Mal has played this song for her before, months and months ago, which means he’s felt this way the whole time. 

Early Saturday evening, Zoya announces that she’s spending the night at Nikolai’s. “He has his own apartment, so it just makes sense. I’ll be home in the morning, probably.”

Thank the Saints for rich boys. 

She texts Mal, and Zoya’s barely gone for ten minutes before he’s there. They make dinner together — well, Alina sits on the counter while Mal does the actual cooking, but he spends any down time kissing her, so she likes to think she was the moral support. They eat on the couch, watching their favorite trashy reality television, and play a few rounds of Mario Kart afterwards. Really, it’s just like how things were when they were simply best friends, except now Alina drapes her body over his as they watch their show, Mal’s thumb moving in slow circles on her ankle, and instead of talking or playing on their phones during ad breaks, they pick up where they left off in the kitchen, their lips pressed together in a blissful ease. 

They’re on their fifth game of Mario Kart, Alina in the lead, as she has been every round. She’s bragging about how she’s going to beat him again when suddenly her vision is blocked as Mal presses his lips to hers. 

Her surprise doesn’t stop her from dropping her controller and kissing back. She’s just getting into the kiss when Mal pulls away as quickly as he had started the kiss. He stands, and only then does she see he never dropped his controller. Picking up right where he left off, he steers Luigi towards the finish line. (“Who the hell picks Luigi?” Alina had asked him once. To which Mal responded, “It’s not fair people only care about his brother when he probably works just as hard at their plumbing business. It’s just like people only knowing Adam Levine and ignoring the rest of Maroon 5—” which led to a very cute rant that Alina spent less time listening to and more time staring at his lips while he was distracted.)

Alina fumbles for her controller, but it’s too late. Mal hasn’t come in first — some of the computers still beat him. But he’s beat her, which by the smirk on his face, was his only goal.

“You’re such a cheater!”

“It’s not cheating, it’s strategy.”

“I suppose you need your strategy, since you don’t have any skills.”

Mal raises a brow, a devious look in his eyes. “Is that so? Perhaps I should show you my skills, then.” He moves in front of her and kneels on the couch, a leg on either side of her body, essentially pinning her there, and kisses her again. 

Immediately, she can feel the difference from the strategy kiss and even the ones from earlier that night. He’s kissing with purpose, cradling her face with one hand, the other on her waist, and Alina is melting against him. She is putty in Mal’s hands, his to mold how he pleases. 

He’s holding himself so that his weight isn’t pressing down on her, but that’s exactly what she wants. Her hips buck up against his, and Mal pulls back to moan, “Fuck, Alina,” so she does it again.

“Please tell me we can have second date sex.”

Mal chuckles. “Are we even going to bother with the dating process?”

“I don’t know, are we?”

“I don’t know. Do I need to ask you to be my girlfriend?”

Alina grins. “I wouldn’t mind hearing it.

“All right. Alina, my beauty, my beloved, will you bless me with the honor of calling you my girlfriend?”

Her grin widens, and giddy butterflies dance inside her chest. No, not butterflies — fireflies. She can feel their warmth and wouldn’t be surprised if she was glowing from their light. “Oh, I suppose.”

Mal laughs. “I can’t stand you,” he says, and kisses her again.

Alina returns the kiss for a moment before murmuring against his lips, “You don’t have to stand me, but now that you’re my boyfriend, can you fuck me?”

He practically growls as he says, “Saints, yes,” standing and lifting her with him. Mal brings them to her room, kissing her the whole way. He unceremoniously shoves her school books off of her bed, laying her down and crawling over her. “You don’t know how often I’ve imagined this,” he murmurs, lips on her throat. 

“Tell me,” she gasps.

“Every time I came over, Alina. Every time.”

A shiver runs down her spine. “Even when you were here to—”

“Especially then.”

She has no idea what to do with this information. Her head is empty of thought save for the screaming need for more of him, so she pulls his shirt over his head. This time, Mal doesn’t stop her. Her hands roam over all the places she’s been dying to touch; down his back, tracing along his spine, up over his stomach, fingers running along the muscles of his chest, brushing over a few scars he’s accumulated through the years.

“You’re so perfect,” she whispers. Smooth in some places, rougher in others, but so incredibly warm everywhere.

Mal tips her chin up, kisses her lips once, hard, and then another to her jaw, down her neck, her collarbone. Then he’s the one tossing her shirt aside, his lips continuing their decent. He’s pressing soft words into her skin as he kisses her — beauty, beloved, cherished, my heart —murmuring his love for her even as he brings her nipple between his teeth.

“Shit, Mal,” Alina breathes. Her hips keep bucking, far beyond her control. He chuckles, murmurs something along the lines of no patience, and quickens his pace. Soon enough, he’s got her undressed completely — which isn’t too unnerving after the shower incident. Any lingering nerves flee once his head is between her thighs. She’s suddenly very thankful Zoya isn’t home, because even though it’s never been a problem during sex before, she absolutely cannot control the noises she’s making — and she’s loud.

Mal returns to her with glistening lips. She kisses him and tastes herself, a thrill better than any rollercoaster. Her hands move to the waistband of his pants, giving a half-hearted tug. “Off.”

“So lazy,” he teases, unclasping the button on his jeans, tugging down the zipper. “I could always make you work for it.”

“Have mercy on me, Oretsev. I’m still recovering from the pleasures of your cocky mouth.”

He looks so proud of himself, she wants to kiss him just to wipe the smirk off of his face. “If you enjoyed my cocky mouth, just wait until you feel my—

“Do not finish that sentence.”

But then he’s pushing down his boxers, and all Alina can do is stare as the cock in question springs free. He’s fully hard this time around, and her thighs squeeze together at the sight. He watches her as she practically drools over his dick, his smirk becoming even, well, smirkier. She reaches out and curls her fingers around his length, giving him two quick strokes — both to clear the smirk from his face and because she so very much wants to touch him. 

“Fuck, Alina,” he hisses. He’s reaching for his jeans, probably to grab a condom from his pocket, but she grabs his hand.

“I’m on the pill, and I’ve been tested recently.” Of course, there’s still a slight risk. But it’s Mal — finally Mal — and she wants to feel every inch of him.

He pauses, then nods. “Okay.” Crawling over her, he takes one of her hands and intertwines their fingers. With his other hand, he grips his cock and drags the tip through her folds like the damn tease he is, eliciting needy mewling from her that he seems to enjoy. In her ear, he murmurs, “How do you want this, Alina?”

“I don’t want to be able to walk tomorrow.”

Mal chuckles softly, but the sound so close to her ear sends more shivers down her spine. “As you wish, moya solnishka.” My little sun.

She has only a brief moment to bask in the sweetness of his words before he’s slamming into her all in one go, anything sweet flying out the window. Mal keeps a steady rhythm while sucking on her neck, which is good, because all Alina can do is moan incoherently as her nails leave scratches down his back.

When he senses her getting close, Mal brings his finger to her clit, circling just right. “Saints!” she cries, and comes undone beneath him once again. But this time, she gets to watch him fall over the edge with her, his eyes so incredibly dark as he moans his release. He’s the only man she’s ever let come inside of her, and it feels very right that it’s Mal — she doesn’t want anyone else filling her like this, marking her in a sense as his spend drips down her thighs.

They stay like that for a while, foreheads pressed together, sweaty and sticky, but blissfully so. 

“So, is the sex still good on this side of the apartment?”

In answer, he dips his head and bites down on one of her tits.

“Shit, Malyen!”

“Ridiculous questions get ridiculous responses,” he teases, then wraps his arms around her, tucking his face into the crook of her shoulder. “You’re all I’ve wanted for two years, Alina, and this still beat my expectations.”

Smiling, she rests her chin against the top of his head. “Good. I would hate to have to start fucking in Zoya’s bed just because you like the airflow better there.”

“Smart ass,” Mal mutters, but he’s smiling. Then he says, "You know, this may not be my first time fucking in this apartment, but I’m still checking off a first tonight — of many, I hope.”

Alina rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m aware this is your first time fucking me in this apartment, dumb ass.”

"That’s not what I meant, rude ass.”

She frowns. “Then what did you mean?”

He squeezes her hip. “It’s my first time spending the night.”

Her heart does a little jump in her chest, and she doesn’t even have it in her to tease that she hasn’t actually asked him to stay yet. But stay he does, though he gets her off a few more times before they pass out for the night — definitely beating her vibrator. One time it’s with his fingers, so incredibly long that she knows all her fantasies will involve the slender digits now. Another is after Alina murmurs about how filthy she is and that she really ought to take a shower. 

Mal waits long enough to join her that she starts to worry he hadn’t understood her intent. But then she hears his footsteps, and the shower curtain opens. There’s no bottle throwing this time, though she can’t say the same for the screaming. He steps into the shower, kisses her slowly, sensually, then pushes her back until she shivers from the feeling of cold tile against her bare skin.

“I meant to ask, you do know you have mirrors in here, right?” Mal murmurs huskily into her ear. She’s too disoriented with want to understand until he says, “I saw you staring at my ass last time.”

Then he slams into her, and Alina no longer has to imagine how it feels to be fucked against the shower wall.

[mizunetzu]

hey mark uhhh suck my dick that’s the request

no HAHAHA but I’m sure Iida will do it innnn *drum roll*

——————

Iida x reader - Iida Tenya’s Imaginary Boyfriend (pt.2)

⚠️warnings - none

Pronouns - male, he/him

Part one can be found here! 

The true ending can be found here! (Pt.3)

——————

“Alright,” Kaitekina flipped open her sketchbook, setting it back down on the easel. “Who’s going to describe something to me?”

Everyone gestured at Iida.

“I apologize once more,” Iida scrunched up his fists in his lap. “I do not wish to-“

“C’mon, Iida!” Uraraka grasped onto the sleeve of Iida’s school blazer. “You’ve been sulking for a month about this ‘(L/n)-kun’ guy! You need some sort of comfort! Or better yet-closure!”

“I am completely fine! In fact, I see him every night, and that is enough for me! Now, I do not wish to be here, and I have nothing to describe!”

Everyone fell silent. Uraraka voice was barely above a whisper. “Every night..?”

Iida sat back down, bowing slightly in apology for yelling. He said nothing. Todoroki looked down, before looking at Iida.

“If you do this one thing, we’ll let you go and we’ll never speak about it again. Just this once and we’ll leave it at that.”

Iida thought for a moment. He absentmindedly picked at the metal frame of his watch with his thumb and forefinger. Just this once couldn’t hurt. How accurate can a drawing be?

“Fine.” Iida visibly relaxed. “Just this once.”

———

“So, are you describing a boy or a girl today?”

Kaitekina’s voice was smooth like butter. Her eyes, once a chocolate brown, delved pink, bright and demanding. It was probably a side effect to her quirk activating.

Iida’s lips turned up into the faintest of smiles. A sheepish one. “I’m describing my boyfriend...”

Uraraka and Midoryia choked back a shocked gasp, while Todoroki simply raised his eyebrows. Nonetheless, they gawked at Iida like he was crazy.

Kaitekina cooed. “D’aww...how long have you two been dating?”

“Almost 5 months now.” Iida seemed more calm than before. You could almost say he was happy finally talking about his baggage. He rubbed his thumb across the glass of his watch discreetly. Kaitekina looked away from her sketch to eye the dull red watch contained under Iida’s blazer.

“What’s that red thing you keep touching under your jacket? Is that a watch?”

Iida sat quiet for a moment, before pulling up his sleeve and raising his arm. There revealed a dirty, cheap red watch, cloudy but functional. He tugged at the strap, watching as it unraveled and tumbled down onto his lap.

“It was something my boyfriend wore everyday. He wore it everyday since the start of the school year. He said he’d always cherish it, so I’m...cherishing it for him.”

“This isn’t the original one he owned though, that one...disappeared. I bought this one to keep with me where ever I go.”

The woman hummed, taking note of something on a sticky note stuck to the edge of her easel. It was most likely details to add or emphasize in the portrait.

“Can you tell me like-the shape of his face?”

“Angelic.”

Iida didn’t say anything else after that. Kaitekina waited for him to go on.

“Oh-forgive me. Round face, and his hair was a (h/c)-ish shade. It was always kept rather short/long.”

“You keep saying ‘was’. Is he no longer with us?”

Iida narrowed his eyes. Uraraka, Midoryia, and Todoroki eagerly awaited his answer, not-so-subtly staring him down. “It’s...it’s difficult to explain. But in simpler terms, he isn’t here with me anymore. Or he never was. I cannot seem to tell anymore.”

Those last parts came out as a whisper. More like he was saying it to himself, rather than to the sketch artist infront of him.

“I’m...sorry.” Kaitekina stopped drawing for a second to offer her condolences. Iida shrugged.

“...I am too.”

“Um-can you describe his eyes for me?”

“It was a bright (e/c)-color.” Iida limply held up his arm, before letting it drop back down on his lap. “They were always kind of squinted, like he was always so carefree. It was one of the things I never understood about him. Beautiful, (e/c) eyes that would stare up at me like I was the world.”

She made a noise of acknowledgement, grabbing (h/c) and (e/c) pastels scattered across her desk. Scribbling down details with her hazey glowing eyes scanning the paper, she looked up again at Iida. “What about his smile-what did it look like when he was smiling?”

“I believe it was his default expression. His lips were on the thinner/thicker side, though he kept telling me he wanted them to be a bit thicker/thinner. And-they were always chapped. I always told him to put on chapstick.” Iida chuckled.

“If you had to choose one thing-and I know it’s hard, but what would you say you miss the most about him?”

Iida fell silent. He stared down at his fingers, halting temporarily. He opened his mouth numerous times to speak, but each time, no words came out.

“His ability to make me smile.”

He said nothing else. Kaitekina inhaled to speak, but let her mouth fall closed, focusing on her drawing once more.

“Can you tell me about him while I finish up?”

Iida nodded. Midoryia, Todoroki, and Uraraka turned towards him, waiting patiently. This was what they were waiting for.

Iida pushed his glasses up with his forefinger. “His name was (L/n)-kun. He went to our school, and actually sat next to me in class-but apparently no one...seemed to remember him. It’s like he disappeared. That, or my delusions delved to the point where I hallucinated a whole five-month relationship with a boy I see every night in my dreams. It’s made me look forward to going to bed. It’s the only thing I want to do these days.”

Iida thought for a moment, before continuing. “He was good friends with these 3 next to me. But they don’t seem to remember him either.”

“It’s alright, though. I’ve grown used to it. I’ll see him again tonight and I can live on with these memories alone.”

A heavy silence filled the small studio. Midoryia contemplated setting a hand on Iidas shoulder, but as he was about to, Kaitekina clasped her hands together.

“So, I believe I’m done. I hope I was able to capture at least a small part of this person you had such an amazing relationship with.” She picked up her sketchbook, walking around her desk towards the 4 kids seated on the couch. “Are you ready to see it?”

Part of Iida didn’t want to look at it. All of his logical beliefs told him people were giving this woman and her quirk too much credit. Besides, how could she possibly know what mountain of complexity (Y/n) held, and capture it into an unworthy piece of fine-tooth paper?

He nodded anyways. She flipped her book around, holding up the displayed page in the sunlight streaming through the window.

“This is what you described to me.”

There stood a charcoal sketch of a beautiful boy, smiling so gently and earnestly. His hand was resting again set his neck and shoulder, a dull red watch strapped tightly to his wrist. There were features Iida swore he never mentioned, like the crease near his left eye, or the dimple that lay just under his cheekbone.

What captured his attention most, was his eyes. It was only pastel, but it shone and demanded attention, even if his eyes were in his usual half-lidded stance. Bright, (e/c), gemstone eyes that Iida fell in love with. Honestly, he could gaze at this picture forever.

This was him. This was his (Y/n).

Uraraka gasped. “Ahhhh! Wow! It looks really good! Ne, is this accura...Iida? You alright..?” Midoryia and Todoroki tore their eyes off the illustration to check out what Uraraka was talking about.

Iida was staring, eyes slightly wide, at the drawing. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it; he didn’t want to. The drawing was more accurate than he’d like to admit. It was as if he was staring at (Y/n) himself.

He didn’t know tears were steaming down his face, until he felt small drops of water pelt down onto his lap. He removed his glasses shakily and wiped his eyes, doing his best not to take his eyes off the sketchbook.

“It’s-“ Iida’s voice cracked along with the seam of his heart. “It’s very accurate, you should be proud of the business you own, Miss.”

———

The stagnant air followed the UA students out of the building. Iida was stiffly walking straight ahead, doing his best not to look at the paper of (Y/n) folded in his pocket.

“Ne, Iida,” Iida hadn’t realized he was walking so far ahead until Uraraka had to jog up to him, followed by Midoryia and Todoroki. He hummed in acknowledgment.

“Do you feel better?”

There were two answers to this question. Yes and slowly but surely, yes. He was feeling better in the sense that he no longer had the urge to cry into his bedsheets, holding the piece of sketchbook paper firmly to his chest. He lost his dignity, and he found it again.

He was also feeling better in the sense that he finally got some sort of closure. Maybe this person isn’t real. And it’s ok. He has some sort of proof of his imaginary ‘friend’ that he can gaze at forever, instead of pitifully checking his wristwatch every 5 minutes, wishing it would go faster just so he wouldn’t accidentally forget how his face looked like.

It wasn’t healthy living day by day, waiting to fall asleep just so he could feel something again. A self imagined kiss on the cheek or just plain rest. He was willing to move on from that. It was time to start the ‘healing’ process. The drip finally stopped.

And he knew that if he got tired, if he was sad, or just needing some assistance, (Y/n) would be there waiting for him with open arms, welcoming him into his imaginary world again.

Though, he wasn’t sure if he really needed that right now.

He loosened the cheap red watch from his wrist, his head suddenly feeling empty and light.

“I’m feeling better. Thank you.”

——————

This is how this story really ends. Though, even I didn’t like it HAHAHA so I made a “true ending”. A sweeter ending without the bitter if u must LMAOO

[anobscurename]

ocean eyes – chris evans

PART I | PART II

concept: a collection of happenings, the little moments with him. there will be many more parts. this is the first non-date of many.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 1,8k

warnings: none.

author's note: welcome to the third part of like... twenty. i already have a bunch of them written, so now i'm just going through and reading and editing. hope you enjoy :)

He hadn't noticed you yet, and it was becoming almost laughable.

You weren't hidden away, by any means. You were there, in the café, as arranged. Your very first premeditated and arranged meeting with Chris.

You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't rethought your outfit at least twelve times. You had started in simple jeans and a tee, upgraded to a skirt and tank, fucked it all with a summer dress, and now – after several iterations of similar outfits – you were sporting something in between. A tank top with the same jeans and a slouchy cardigan.

Honestly, you didn't know why you were so in your head about it.

Maybe it was because he'd seen you at your best, and then again in your work ensemble which was as close to your best as possible. Looking good meant more tips at the club, and VIPs tipped quite well if you didn't care too much about the degradation of having to flaunt yourself for it.

You knew it wasn't because he was famous – you didn't care much with that sort of thing, given your work leading to so many interactions with these perceived "betters" that the "starstruckness" of it all had long since worn down from a galaxy to merely a scatter of glitter. So what was it then?

Another five minutes passed, and he still hadn't seen you.

You glanced down at the sketchbook propped against your knee. You were seated in one of the unforgivably comfortable armchairs towards the front of the café, surrounded by college students buried in their notes or typing furiously away on laptops. You fit in quite seamlessly with them, you realised, managing to unintentionally chameleon yourself into their aesthetic. You had one leg tucked underneath you, the other curled to your chest, sketchbook close to you so no one could see what you were drawing. It was a very personal thing for you, your art.

Also mildly embarrassing, considering you had been drawing him.

You had no intention of finishing the sketch – you had started it the moment he entered the café and sat down, and continued in hopes that he would see and acknowledge you – effectively halting the process and leaving it alongside the so many other unfinished projects you'd accumulated over the years – so the meeting could begin.

You called it a meeting, because if it wasn't a meeting, it was a date. And you weren't going to be presumptuous enough to assume the latter, so you decidedly chose to believe the former. You were there to discuss the terms of your new and exciting job of looking after Dodger after all. If it was a date, however, it would explain the sudden apprehension you felt, and the numerous outfit changes, and the goddamn butterflies that sought to tear your stomach apart.

You'd met him before, this wasn't some new occurence. Hell, he'd even asked you to move in after just happening to run into eachother twice... Why the sudden nerves?

The longer time drew on in the café, the more it became a little game to you. How long would it be before he saw you? And how far into the sketch would you be when he finally did?

You had already finished most of his face, and were now working on his lips.

His eyes had been the hardest to capture at the time, because you'd spent so long staring into them in the past – during long conversations and across packed and busy bars – and it was as if you knew them too well to put on paper.

With his lips, the situation was almost entirely reversed. You hadn't paid them much attention at all and it was almost as if you'd forgotten what lips looked like in general. You glanced up from your work to see him talking to a waiter, ordering a cup of coffee – and you decided to watch his lips.

His lips were practically highlighted by the shadow of scruff on his strong jaw. How you'd never noticed them as prominently as you did now, you didn't know.

One thing about them, was that they looked soft. They looked soft, like they could kiss the breath out of you, leave you dizzy. And they stretched so easily into a thankful smile when the waiter returned with his order that it was impossible not to smile too.

The pencil moved easily on the parchment paper as you began to get to work, the gentle curve of the cupid's bow, to the small little upturn at the corners of his mouth, even in their natural position. You almost wished you'd brought colours with you, but you knew that no shade of pink would be a perfect match.

Another ten minutes passed, ten minutes of him checking his watch, his phone, sipping his coffee, tapping on the table... Ten minutes of you realizing what a total creep you were being.

But there was something so beautiful about him. Even in the small movements, it was entrancing to watch. You were outright staring, sketch pushed aside and finished, as good as it was going to get. It was one of your best, you admitted reluctantly. The attention to detail was bordering on mirror like, and you didn't know if that made you a stalker or if it made you a romantic. Not that you were considering romance with your future roommate, but you'd be a liar if you didn't admit the thought had briefly crossed your mind. Specifically in the "meeting or date" debate – one which you'd shut down with the agreement to yourself that it was a meeting, nothing more.

You decided then that this had gone on long enough, and if he hadn't noticed you by now, he never was going to. The last thing you wanted him to think was that you'd stood him up. Considering how you'd both met, and the message you'd sent to the person guilty of that particular crime, it wouldn't be the best look for you. Not to mention it was a fucking dick thing to do, in any case.

You unfurled yourself from the position you'd held on the couch, your muscles screaming at you in discomfort.

The foot you'd sat on was dead asleep, and wiggling it brought the onset of pins and needles. Groaning in annoyance, you rose unsteadily, sketchbook in hand.

The idea that struck you just then was a stupid one, but given the fact that all rationality of yours had been poisoned since you'd met Chris – you were still struggling to comprehend how he'd managed to convince you to move in with him so easily – you resolved yourself. It'll be funny, you told yourself.

Pulling your pencil out from where it was tucked behind your ear, you scribbled a quick note on the bottom corner, before tearing the sketch free from the pad. You moved around the café, making sure to keep out of Chris' eyeline. Not a difficult feat by any means, his focus shifted between his coffee and the door at almost perfectly timed intervals. You could feel his impatience growing – his brow furrowed, muscle in his jaw ticking. But also a familiar look you recognized from the other night: concern.

You reached the table at which he sat, but he didn't pay you any mind. His attention was elsewhere. You slid the sketch onto the table – as close to him as you dared – before disappearing to the counter to place an order, perfectly hidden behind a wall of strangers, but able to see his every reaction.

Your order was being made by the time he noticed the paper on his table.

He stared at it for the longest time – the sketch of him sitting at that exact table, wearing what he was wearing, frozen in graphite in his most revisited position of being utterly engrossed with all the newcomers slipping into the café, searching for the one face he was expecting. His shoulders stiffened – and then he saw the note hurriedly written at the bottom corner, and all tension dissipated.

The face he gets when he's looking for another cab to steal from some unsuspecting girl

You stifled a laugh when his brow furrowed – that adorable crease forming immediately – and realization the dawned on him that you were there, and had been for a while if you'd managed to get that sketch done and as perfected as it was. Your coffee was handed to you, and as you watched him swivel his head in confusion, you decided to put him out of his misery.

You walked deliberately and confidently into his eyeline, gently blowing on the hot liquid you clutched before giving him a charming – if not teasing – smile.

"Mr Evans, cab thief extraordinaire," you joked, sliding onto the seat in front of him. You placed the sketchpad you had tucked under your arm onto the table, sliding the pencil back out from behind your ear to place it on top in case it fell. You set your coffee down, lacing your fingers together before resting them on the table.

"Miss {your last name}, stalker sketch artist," he retorted, his mouth already forming a lopsided grin. Your attention was immediately drawn to his lips...

Stop it.

"Hey, it's not my fault you didn't see me. I needed something to pass the time while you were sat there being utterly oblivious."

He opened his mouth to respond, but words seemed to fail him. Chuckling, he looked down at the drawing again. When he spoke, his voice had taken on a sincere gentleness, one that stirred something in the pit of your belly. "It's really good."

"I had a lot of time," you shrugged the compliment off, like you did many you received before. You were accused of being too humble at times – if that were even a thing – and it annoyed some of the people around you.

"But you know," he leaned closer to you, almost conspiratorially. "A normal person would've just told me they were here."

There was a joking glint in his eye, and although he had tried to fight it, he found himself grinning again. There was something about being around you – it rendered him practically incapable of doing anything other than smile.

"Mr Evans," you paused to sip your coffee. "I am anything but normal."

"What exactly are you, then?" You tried not to falter at the sight of his tongue darting out to wet those perfect lips as he awaited your response.

"I, Captain, am fun. Something which you look like you need a lot more of."

He laughed, the sound warm and welcoming. "Is that so?"

You shrugged non-chalantly. "It is."

"I can hardly wait."

[omo-time]

(This is based on Albedo having gone with the traveler to the archipelago. Also spoilers for the murals quest)

It was nothing new to Albedo that Lumine enjoyed solving every puzzle she came across, and she often sought out his logical skills for what’s she couldn’t figure out herself. That’s why, after some knights along with Barbara took to the location Klee’s letter described, she asked his assistance for some strange murals she found.

“Albedo!” The outlander called. She jogged over to him, her usual dress discarded for a blue t-shirt over her usual shorts.

“Yes?” He looked towards her, having been talked into playing in the water with Klee earlier, he himself was only in swim trunks.

“I found something interesting. I want your opinion”

“Alright” he turned to Klee “why don’t you go find Miss Barbara and Master Jean and show them these cool blue plants we found?”

“Yeah! Klee will! Miss Barbara loves plants” she took off, and Albedo suddenly got reminded of a rather pressing issue he had been putting off for a while now.

“Where is it?” He asked.

“‘Round the back of the stone” the two walked together as Lumine continued “I found a similar one on another island, I didn’t think much of it but then I found this one” she pointed “here… it sort of looks like a shipwreck”

“You’re right…” he examined it closely “I wish I had my sketchbook, I could copy it down…”

“You’re right! Wait I have this cool thing” she pulled out the Kamera.

“What is that?” He eyed it curiously.

“I’m not exactly sure. Apparently it’s from Fontaine, it can capture images perfectly” she aimed at the mural and pressed a button, holding out a piece of paper that the machine spit out moments later “see?”

“…May I examine this later?”

“Sure. Anyway I wanna see if there’s more. Will you come with me?”

“Of course” the two sailed around to several islands looking for murals. If you asked Albedo how Lumine’s control of the boat was, he’d say bad. Anyone with a weaker stomach than his would end up seasick, but in his case the jostling of the turns was making it more and more difficult to hide just how badly he needed to pee. In the end they found 5 murals, took pictures of them all, and returned back to where they left.

“Are you okay?” She noticed how unsettled he looked.

“I-I’m fine”

“Are you sure? You look super stressed out” she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“R-really I am” he insisted. But that only lasted for a moment when painful desperation overtook him and sent his hands flying to grab himself “okay no… I really have to relieve myself” he admitted, blushing.

“Okay uhh…” she scanned the area “g-go in a bush or something? I can turn around”

“Thank yo-“ his eyes widened in horror as Klee ran towards them.

“Big brother Albedo!”

“Shit!” He stood up straight “she can’t see this!” After swimming back from the boat, his shorts were already soaked, so it took a moment for Lumine to realize he’d already started pissing himself. She ran to Klee and picked her up, spinning her around so she was facing away from the poor Alchemist.

“Haha weeee! Spin me again Miss Honorary Knight!”

“Whatever you say Klee” she spun her around again and again until Albedo was out of sight.

He ran behind a rock as fast as he could. Relaxing as urine flowed down his legs.

“Hah… ahh…” after several moments it finally stopped, and he returned back to the beach.

“Where did you go?” Klee asked.

“Sorry… I thought I saw another plant, but it was just a reflection of the sun”

“Aw. Let’s go find more!” She grabbed his hand and pulled him back into the water.

He whispered “Thank you!” To Lumine as he passed by her.

-🌸

YEAHHHGGGH THIS IS LIKE EXACTLY WHAT I HAD IN MIND WHEN I WAS TALKING ABT POTENTIAL…

[sylvanfreckles]

Eye of the Beholder

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: Sam encourages Cas to try to express himself by taking up drawing. It seems to be a lost cause...until Castiel tries to draw Sam’s soul.

(Something warm and soft and hopeful after FebuWhump)

* * *

Sam leaned  against the low wall surrounding the picnic area park and let his head tip back to catch the warmth from the sun. They'd hit this town to check on rumors of a demonic possession at the local college, only to find Claire and Kaia had beat them here and pretty much had the whole thing taken care of. Now, he was enjoying just keeping an ear on the banter as Dean checked over the girls' gear and Jack chattered enthusiastically about the old fantasy novels he'd found on one of the rooms at the bunker (apparently Kaia had heard of the author and they were bonding, much to Claire's amusement).

A hint of movement at his side had him cracking one eye open to see Cas settle into a similar posture. Watching Dean and the kids with a fond look on his face, Cas caught Sam's eye with a smile. “He's good at that.”

“Dean's always been good with kids,” Sam agreed. “Probably because he still acts like he's twelve.”

Cas gave a very un-angelic snort, and Sam shifted around enough to watch the angel now. He couldn't remember when life had been this peaceful before. There were hunts still, sure, but it finally seemed like there wasn't some big bad pulling the strings behind it all. He couldn't remember a time in his life that had been like this—just the routine of the hunt and home, with their own network of friends and family.

It took him a moment to realize Cas's attention wasn't on the others anymore. The angel was looking out across the park at a mural painted on higher wall that ran around the park's perimeter. He was pretty it was a memorial to the town's history as part of the underground railroad, based on what he'd learned before they got here.

“I think the high school kids work on that every year,” Sam commented, nudging Cas with his shoulder. “When I was researching the town I found an article that said it was one of their graduating projects, and every year a group of students repairs and restores the mural.”

Cas shook his head and looked back at Sam. “Humanity's capacity for creation will always amaze me.”

Sam blinked. He hadn't...thought about it like that. Dean had always said Cas was just a weird little nerd, but was that why he always seemed to stop when he saw a statue, or a carving, or a painting? That it wasn't a type of art he preferred, but he was appreciating the human act of creating art?

“Have you ever tried?” Sam asked, trying to be casual about it. “Making something, I mean.”

The look Cas shot him was quick, but Sam thought his friend looked grieved. “Angels weren't made to create. We can only replicate.”

Sam started to protest, but hesitated. Zachariah's Beautiful Room...he'd offered Dean things from Dean's past, not some idealized thing he'd want. Gabriel had pulled from human television to make his TV world. Even Lucifer, in creating Jack, had used a human body to impregnate a human, not some celestial act of creation.

“Have you ever tried?” he repeated.

Cas pushed away from the wall. “There's enough in this world to admire,” he replied, though he wouldn't meet Sam's eyes and his shoulders remained tense. “You don't need my...'pitiful scratchings'.”

* * *

Cas's words twisted through Sam's head as he followed the others through the small downtown area back toward the hotel. Had Cas ever tried to make something around them? Had one of them said something like that? Or was this some distant event from heaven, some other angel stomping out any fraction of individuality?

He pulled up as they passed a small, disorganized craft store. “Hey, go ahead without me,” Sam called when Dean turned around. “We need a couple things.”

Sam waited until the others turned away, giving Jack a reassuring nod and smile, before pushing the door open and slipping inside the store. It was cramped inside, with shelves and bins overflowing, and the smell of cinnamon and beeswax filling the air. It wasn't completely a lie...they always needed things like natural pigments and scraps of leather for hex bags, and some places sold essential oils or crystals he liked to keep on hand for emergencies.

It just wasn't why he was here now. He squeezed past a rack of wooden beads and nearly knocked a dressmaker's mannequin over, but finally found the drawing section. The sketchbooks were easy enough to sort through—he grabbed a large one with a dark cover that had an elastic band to keep it closed when not in use. The pages were about the size of a standard sheet of printer paper, so it was big enough for Cas to have lots of room to experiment on each page but small enough to travel with him. The drawing supplies, though, were a little harder.

Sam stared at the selection of pencils, paints, and markers. If Cas had truly never tried something like this before, where could he even begin? Would he want something like colored pencils, that would have a smooth texture on the page but need to be kept sharpened? Or paints, which might be easier to blend and shade but wouldn't be portable? Or start with the very basics and get a box of crayons and hope Cas didn't think it was too childish?

A long, flat box at the end of the shelf caught his eye. Pastels. He had a flash of memory of one of Jess's friends in college who worked with pastels, the way their hands swept over the canvas to leave bright ribbons of color and then darted back to smooth and shade. Sam could suddenly imagine Cas, pastel stick in hand, a smear of pigment on his chin, brow furrowed in concentration as he filled a canvas with bright color.

He bought the sketchbook and pastels plus some silver charms to make a stronger protection hex bag for Claire's car, to make it seem like the drawing supplies had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. By the time he got back to the hotel Dean had already ordered pizza, while Kaia and Jack had Claire sandwiched between them on the couch as they tried to convince her to watch an old fantasy movie with them (Sam was on their side, Willow was awesome). Cas looked up from picking at the label on his beer bottle when Sam walked up to the table, eyes widening further in surprise when Sam set the bag from the craft store down in front of him and presented the drawing supplies with a flourish.

“I thought you might like to try,” Sam explained as he pulled out a chair and sat down next to Cas at the room's little table. “I mean, I'd kind of be interested in seeing an angel's...uh...'pitiful scratchings', you know?”

Cas hesitantly ran the tips of his fingers over the dark cover of the sketchbook. “Sam...”

“Just try?” he suggested. He scooted closer so that his shoulder brushed Cas's, knowing the physical contact helped when the angel was dealing with something new or difficult. “No one's gonna laugh if you can't do it. Well, maybe Dean, but he's an ass.”

“I heard that!” Dean shouted. As far as Sam could tell, his brother was completely focused on something on his phone. That was obviously just an automatic response.

The angel was quiet. Then, slowly, he tugged the pastels out of the bag and lifted the lid of the box. The colors almost seemed to glow under the room's overhead light, and Cas gently brushed the bright gold stick with the tip of one finger. “I'll try.”

“Good,” Sam bumped Cas's shoulder with his own, then leaned a little more closely against him, grounding him. “I can't wait.”

* * *

Sam bit his lip as he flipped through the first few pages of Cas's sketchbook. The angel leaned against the table almost despondently, arms folded across his chest and head tipped forward so that Sam couldn't see his eyes.

“These are good,” Sam said, trying to sound encouraging. “I mean, they look just like the, uh, things you were sketching. That's...that's good.”

Technically speaking, the sketches were good. There was a vase of wild flowers Kaia had put on the kitchen table the second day of her and Claire's visit. The bust of one of the old Men of Letters. Jack's profile as he read from a large leather-bound book. They were perfect and lifelike and exact, yet somehow...empty.

Cas took the sketchbook out of his hands and gently folded it closed. “Angels weren't given the breath of life,” he said, his voice quiet in the stillness of the library. “We can't...we can't create, Sam. All I can do is copy. These are copies of life.”

Sam winced. “Maybe you just need some practice. I mean, this is your first time, right? Nobody's perfect their first time.”

His friend's smile was sad when Cas finally looked up at him. “I feel no inspiration, Sam. I look at the world and nothing calls to me. The flowers and Jack...I chose those because I knew that was what a human might choose. I could have just as easily chosen the scalpels in the infirmary, or the backseat of the Impala, or every doorknob in the bunker. There's no...it's not creation, Sam. They're just copies of life.”

With a sigh, Sam ran one hand through his hair. “Cas, a lot of artists struggle with that. Maybe you just haven't found the right thing yet. With some more time I bet you could find the, the soul of a vase of flowers, or whatever.”

Cas grunted. “Flowers don't have a soul.”

“You know what I mean. Artists, they...they capture a part of themselves in the world around them. Their art reflects their own soul, you know?”

“I don't have a soul either, Sam.”

“You know what I mean.” Exasperated, Sam took a few steps away, then paced back again. “When you look at something that kind of pulls at your heart, you can make something that has a bit of your soul in it, you know? It's what humans have done for thousands of years, even longer.”

Cas let out a mournful sigh and rubbed one hand over his eyes. “If you could see your own soul you might understand,” he said wearily. “Compared to that even an angel's true form is inadequate.”

Sam huffed out a breath. He'd just wanted Cas to have a new experience, maybe find a hobby that could bring him joy. He hadn't meant to start some kind of identity crisis. Then his friend's words caught up to him. “Wait...Cas, are you saying you can see my soul?”

His friend gave him a flat look. “I am still an angel.”

“No, no, I mean...you can see my soul?”

“Of course, Sam.”

Heart pounding, Sam spread his arms out. “Then draw that!”

Cas stared at him for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Why would you want to see something like that?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I want to see it!” Sam turned in a full circle before grabbing one of the library chairs and dragging it in front of Cas. “Is this good? Or, wait, do you need better light?” His soul through the eyes of an angel...who wouldn't want to see that?

There was still hesitation in Cas's movements as he slowly picked up his sketchbook and lifted the cover off the box of pastels. “You're sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Cas flipped to a clean page and stared over the top of the sketchbook at Sam. Sam waited, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Do you need me to do something?” he asked, when Cas made no move to start drawing.

Cas frowned, then reached in the box for a pastel. “Just talk. About one of your passions.”

A passion...okay, Sam could do that. Like Dean had always said, he was a huge nerd. “Oh, I found that book about cuneiform we were talking about,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “You were right, the author was completely ignorant of the language schism toward the end of the Bronze Age....”

He talked on and on while Cas drew. The angel glanced up at him from time to time, a little smile brightening his face. It was almost exactly the image Sam had conjured in the craft store...Cas with a smear of pigment on his chin, bright colors filling the page in front of him. As he drew the angel seemed to relax, the perpetual slump of his shoulders easing back, the worry lines in his forehead smoothing out.

Sam could have pumped his fist in victory. He knew this had been a good idea.

Then Cas set the pastels down and hesitantly pulled the lid over the box. He seemed unsure of himself again, tipping the picture up to makes sure Sam couldn't see it.

“Is it done?” Sam asked. “Can I see?”

For a moment he was afraid Cas would refuse, then the angel slowly turned the sketchbook around.

Sam had seen human souls before...or at least he thought he had. They'd been wispy balls of bluish light, nothing too amazing. This was...this was something else.

The page was a riot of colors. Sweeping and dazzling, greens and blues with threads of red twisting through them, all turning back in on themselves over and over. There were jagged cracks in the swirling shapes, but they'd been filled in with a golden color so vivid he almost brushed his finger over the page to see if it felt warm.

“In some cultures,” Cas's voice was quiet as he explained, “when an item is broken they mend it with gold, so it is more beautiful and valuable because of the cracks.”

Sam drew in a breath. “This is how you see my soul?” The cracks...memories of Lucifer and the Cage, everything they'd lost, the darkness he'd hidden for so long...Cas saw them mended in gold?

“Oh, Sam,” Cas's hand was warm on his shoulder and he looked up, surprised to see tears in his friend's eyes. “This is you.”

He swallowed and looked back down. There was so much...so much hope. Despite it being almost incomprehensible swirls of color on paper, he could feel the hope and faith and trust nearly radiating off the page. Was this...was this really what Cas saw in him?

“Whoa, am I interrupting something?”

Sam pulled back, scrubbing a sleeve over his face. He hadn't even heard Dean coming. “We were just,” he tried to explain, gesturing at the page.

Dean was staring, tilting his head to one side. “Okay, man, call me crazy, but why does this look like Sammy?”

He let out a shaky laugh and ran his hands through his hair. “That's my soul, man.”

“You drew this, Cas?” Dean was leaning in even closer. “Ha, yeah, there's the little part that died when I told you Santa wasn't real. It really is your soul.”

Sam couldn't help but smile at his brother's antics and looked up to meet Cas's eyes. “Can I have this?”

“No way,” Dean interrupted, putting his hand on Cas's wrist.

“Dean, it's my soul.”

“Yeah. We're framing it,” Dean took a step back and held his hands up, like he was envisioning the drawing in a frame. “This is going next to the family pictures, Sammy.”

“We don't have family pictures, Dean.”

“We do now,” Dean clapped Cas on the shoulder. “You should do Jack next. I'll get 'im.”

“Wait,” Sam lunged after his brother. “What about you?”

“Not happening,” Dean replied, easily twisting away from Sam's hand. “Let me go get the kid.”

* * *

Jack, predictably, was thrilled. He sat in front of his adopted father, eyes bright, as he talked about his first memories of Castiel. Sam stood behind Cas's shoulder and watched the picture take shape—all interlocking golden halos bursting out of a dark shadow, radiating a light that was somehow yellow and blue at the same time that banished that darkness away. It was peace. It was strength. It was family.

It was Jack.

Claire and Kaia were next, crowding together into one of the big armchairs with their fingers intertwined. Sam had been expecting some kind of double drawing, maybe two pages side-by-side, but the drawing Cas produced was somehow Claire, somehow Kaia, and somehow a blend of the two of them that went beyond anything the human eye could see.

“That's what it looks like to be soulmates,” Cas explained when Sam asked.

When they went back to Jody's house with the girls, Jody sat for a drawing. Her soul was all graceful arcs swooping around a central, solid core. Sam could almost feel it extending beyond the page, pulling them all together around the woman who had chosen to care for the motherless.

There were others, as hunters checked in at the bunker or they met them in the field. Eileen's soul was a fury of purple and silver, sharp with the kind of love that dove into battle with sword held high. Bobby's was a blend of muted shades that spoke to the loss the older hunter had experienced, and his determination to carry on.

Sam was dropping a new sketchbook in Cas's room one day, a few weeks later, when he spotted a few loose papers that had fallen out of the old one. Meaning just to pick them up and shuffle them back in, he was startled to find he had a picture of Dean's soul in his hands.

It couldn't be anything else. While Sam's had had cracks mended with brilliant gold, Dean's looked like it had been broken and pushed in on itself over and over, more like overlapping plates of ice from a lake that had been melted and refrozen. There were layers and sharp edges, and a few twisting shadows of darkness that lingered in odd corners.

But it was warm. Despite the cracks and the broken parts...despite the trauma and ache and pain it was good. It was the soul of a man who loved so completely he would—and had—lay down his life for his family.

He heard a shuffle from the doorway, and turned to see Cas was standing there, staring at the paper in his hands with something like guilt on his face. “Sam, I...”

“When did you draw this?” Sam asked in a whisper. “He kept saying he didn't want you to do it.”

Cas hesitated, then approached close enough to gently take the drawing from Sam's hands. “It was from memory. Dean and I have always had a connection, since I pulled him from Hell.”

Sam almost laughed. “A more profound bond?” he teased. Cas's lips twitched in a smile and he nodded. “We should hang it up with the others.”

Shaking his head, Cas frowned down at the drawing. “He keeps saying no one would want to see it.”

“Well, he's wrong,” Sam looped an arm around Cas's shoulders. “Come on, I know where he stashed the extra frames.”

[tinkerd]

Interview with Anne Both & David Litchfield first published on www.readingzone.com

A SHELTER FOR SADNESS TEMPLAR PUBLISHING JANUARY 2021

A SHELTER FOR SADNESS is a profound and moving picture book about how a young boy manages his feelings of sadness, not by ignoring them but in giving his sadness the space, care and thought that it needs. We asked author ANNE BOOTH to tell us what inspired the picture book, and illustrator DAVID LITCHFIELD about how he approached the illustrations: Q: What for you are the key ingredients for a great picture book? ANNE: For me, the words have to leave room for the pictures, the pictures have to capture the feeling of the words and extend the story, and both the words and the pictures have to be the best they can be for the demands of that book - be it a funny or a sad book or any other type. DAVID: Oof! that is a BIG question. I'm still trying to work that one out if I'm honest. For me what I personally love about picture books is that you can be transported to the furthest part of someone's imagination but still recognise yourself, and the world, in its pages. It's escapism but also empathy. It's crazy looking animals and creatures but they are experiencing some of the most human emotions of all. There are so many different ingredients that go into these books. But for me I think the ultimate goal is to tell a story that connects with children in the most imaginative way possible. Q: Can you tell us what you wanted to achieve in this book, about how we deal with sadness? ANNE: I hoped it would be good for both children and adults, and that it would help them cope with the type of sadness which stays with us and has to be coped with alongside everyday life. I wanted children to be told that they can build their sadness a shelter as early as possible, as I think that telling children to be 'resilient' (which is a good thing in itself) can sometimes be abusive - it can sometimes really be just saying 'don't tell us you are sad, even though as adults we are doing things which make you sad'. I think children have lots of things to be sad about - big and little things - and learning to build a shelter for their sadness can, paradoxically, help them have permission and space to be happy. DAVID: My hope for the book was to get children - and adults - to talk more about their emotions and how they are feeling. Don't just bundle them up inside. It's important to recognise how you are feeling, recognise that it's there and it exists. And talk it through with someone. A parent or a teacher, or just someone that you trust. The worst thing we can do as human beings is pretend that these feelings are not real and that we should just get over it. Q: Was there one thing that helped inspire the text? ANNE: Yes. I went to a talk at my church, and the speaker quoted this passage from Etty Hillesum; 'Give your sorrow all the space and shelter in yourself that is its due, for if everyone bears grief honestly and courageously, the sorrow that now fills the world will abate. But if you do instead reserve most of the space inside you for hatred and thoughts of revenge - from which new sorrows will be born for others - then sorrow will never cease in this world. And if you have given sorrow the space it demands, then you may truly say: life is beautiful and so rich.' (Esther 'Etty' Hillesum (15 Jan 1914 - 30 Nov 1943) I wrote our picture book text in response to Etty Hillesum's words, so I was trying to expand on her idea that we need to give shelter to our sorrow / sadness, as I thought she had such a wise and beautiful vision, which was, amazingly, born out of her immense suffering as a Dutch Jewish woman under the Nazis, and someone who would actually die in the Holocaust. It was written as my creative response to her words, so writing it actually helped me to think and pray about my own sadness, and I felt it would be a good picture book, to help people cope with sadness that just can't be fixed, but which we need not to overwhelm us or turn us to hate or bitterness. I loved the idea that if we give shelter to our sadness we can truly say that 'life is beautiful and so rich'. Q: Was it a difficult text to write, as it is so pared back? ANNE: I think that because it came after the talk, and hearing Etty Hillesum's beautiful words, and after meditating on, and praying in response, to them, I didn't actually want to use many words. I wasn't paring back anything as such, I was just trying to find my best response to her words, and the writing of it came all at once, but I think the writing wouldn't have come that way if I hadn't already experienced and thought a lot about sadness for years, and hadn't deeply connected with Etty Hillesum's words. Q: Why did you decide the main character would be a boy? ANNE: As I was writing from my own point of view, and in response to Etty Hillesum, I suppose I thought the narrator might be a girl, but I was open to any interpretation. I'm not sure if it was the publisher or David who decided the main character would be a boy, but I am very happy with that. I hope it speaks to boys and girls, men and women, and I think that there is actually something good about it being a boy, as from a very young age, little boys are told to 'man up' and are put under particular pressure not to cry or express sadness - all part of toxic masculinity - so hopefully this will play a part in countering that and telling boys and girls that there is nothing to be ashamed about being sad. DAVID: I'm not sure how this was decided. For some reason I just instinctively drew a boy when I was sketching the book out. I think that's a case of me very much seeing myself in the character as I was making the book. Perhaps an argument can be made that some boys need more help in facing their emotions than girls. But to be honest, I think I just instinctively recognised myself in that character and drew him as a boy. Q: David, what drew you to this text, why did you want to illustrate it? DAVID: As soon as I read Anne's manuscript I knew that I 100% wanted to be the illustrator. I received the project over two years ago and I couldn't start straight away due to other project commitments. I was so scared that Templar would not be able to wait for me. But I was so happy and relieved that they decided to wait until I had finished the other books I was working on. The text just really connected with me and it stirred up some very raw emotions in me. I also recognised that it would be unlike any book I had ever drawn before and the challenge of creating it was something that I really wanted to take on. Q: How did you decide how to depict Sadness? DAVID: There have been a few really fantastic books recently that depict sadness and other emotions as an actual character. Some of my favourites are 'When sadness Comes To Call' by Eva Eland, 'Me and My Fear' by Francesca Senna, and 'Ruby's Worry' by Tom Percival. All of these handle these sensitive subjects so beautifully and visualise what an emotion could look like in the real world. I see our book very much as a continuation of these series of books and the themes they follow. They were definitely a big influence on me when I was drawing the book. In terms of the look of our Sadness, I came up with a number of ideas in my sketchbook. One was a very ghostly, scary looking thing. The other was a teardrop and one was a cloud. But then I just thought about what a typical six or seven year old might draw if I asked them to visualise their sadness. All these confusing and conflicting emotions might come together and it felt like a really messy, scruffy scribble would fit the bill perfectly. Also, I remember trying to articulate how I felt when I was young and the words just wouldn't come out. So drawing a confusing, mess of emotions just felt right. It's also a really great character to draw. you really do feel like you are getting some emotions out of your system and onto the paper when you draw Sadness. Q: David, Can you tell us how you create your images and that special luminosity in your pages? DAVID: Everything starts in my sketchbook and I will plan the whole book out with lots of scruffy sketches. But once I start making the final artwork I usually begin by making lots of very messy watercolour washes, letting the different colours naturally mix into each other. I will also take photos of other textures such as the bark of a tree, or concrete or the sky. I will then scan all of this into my computer and experiment with overlaying each of them together until I find a look and feel that I like. These will then generally take the form of a background for a spread. The characters and buildings I will usually draw out in my sketchbook and then scan these into my computer also. Using Photoshop I will position these over the backgrounds and add other textures over them and just see what works. Basically, its a lot of experimenting and seeing what works with all these different types of media and textures. The luminosity is just an extension of what my art teachers have always taught me about shade and light. But I do like to play around with light and the atmosphere that can bring to an image. I think I really appreciated the drama of light from watching too many Steven Spielberg films growing up. Q: Do you have a favourite spread? ANNE: I love them all! I think the last page is so, so beautiful and gives me hope, but that is because of all the pages that came before, so I couldn't choose! I think David has done an amazing job - the book is so beautiful. DAVID: I like a lot of them. I love the penultimate page where the boy and sadness are walking through the blooming garden. I like the spread early on where Sadness is going through all of the different ways it is feeling and all the different actions it is taking. But I think my favourite image is the simple one of Sadness and the boy sitting together on the log. They are not saying or doing anything, they are just together and there for each other. That's one of my favourite illustrations I have ever drawn in fact. I love it. Q: Will you be creating any more picture books about emotions? What are you working on now? ANNE: I would love to write more picture books about emotions. I have an idea I am trying to find words for - it isn't coming as easily as A Shelter for Sadness but I hope it can work. I also have a little picture book story I am working on, and I am revising and rewriting a middle grade novel, and am waiting to be given edits for an adult novel and should be starting a second adult novel, so I have lots to be getting on with! DAVID: I hope so. I think I will always try and convey emotion in my books and hope that the reader can recognise their own emotions in these stories. Q: Where is your favourite place to work? ANNE: I work in bed (where I am typing this) and in a little writing hut my husband built me in our garden. I also write sitting on the sofa or at the table. When the pandemic is over, I am so looking forward to working in a coffee shop again! I do find it very helpful, when I have lots of work to do, to go away for a few days, to somewhere like Gladstone's Library in Wales, or beautiful retreats in England or France or Ireland I have been to. DAVID: My favourite place to work doesn't actually exist yet. I would love to create art in a cabin in the woods, surrounded by nature. Unfortunately I haven't found that place yet, but I have hope that I will one day soon. At the minute, due to lockdown, I'm drawing my books in the corner of my bedroom, which is not ideal as I'm quite messy and it's quite a small space. It can get a bit frustrating. But, every once in a while I can pretend that I'm in that cabin in the woods and everything feels right again. Q: Where are you most likely to be found when you're not at your desk? ANNE: Maybe out with my husband, walking our dog, or reading in bed, or sitting watching something lovely - I really appreciate good TV and films and I love watching them with other people. I love chatting with family and friends and visiting them. For a post-pandemic answer, I want to leave my desk and travel to see friends and family. DAVID: Mainly riding my bike with my two sons, or walking our dog Maggie, or listening to music very loudly on my headphones. Thank you Anne and David for joining us on ReadingZone!

See original post here: https://readingzone.com/index.php?zone=sz&page=interview&authorid=623a7c5192eb0909e0d251c44bae33c1

[meliaaizawa]

MARRIAGE CELEBRATION

Sho and Mei’s loved ones throw them a little party.

Word count: enough to put a page break

*Meiya’s POV*

I sleepily opened my eyes to the light coming from the window. There was a slight breach in the curtains, letting in just enough light, angled to perfectly hit my face. As my mind and body woke up, I began to notice my surroundings more. I felt the soft, steady breath of Shota breathing on the back of my neck, and I suddenly remembered that I was married… not that I had forgotten… but I just assumed I was dreaming. I was weighed down by his arm over me, but I managed to shift and turn around so that I was now facing him. He stirred a little bit in his sleep and barely opened his eyes to see me looking at him before closing them again and pulling me closer into him, falling back asleep. Though I was wide awake and would’ve normally been out of bed by now, I nestled into his chest, closing my eyes and wanting to stay in his arms forever.

A couple hours passed, and I dozed off a few times, but was reawakened again by a kiss on my forehead. I opened my eyes to see Shota looking sleepily at me. “Morning,” I said softly. “Mmm,” he replied sleepily before releasing me from his hold and stretching. I stretched as well and rolled out of bed. Since the paperwork came back sooner than we had expected, I hadn’t moved all of my things into Sho’s apartment yet, including my clothes, so I stole a shirt and pair of pants from him and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. Shota finally crawled out of bed too and joined me in the kitchen, as the scent of fresh coffee drew him there. I poured him a cup and handed it to him, smiling as he wordlessly took it and began sipping as he sat down at the kitchen table.

I poured myself a cup and sat down across from him, resting my feet on the chair next to me. We sat in a comfortable silence, just looking at each other and enjoying each other’s company. As I eventually reached the bottom of my coffee cup, I was the first to break the silence. “I guess we should tell everyone that we’re officially married,” I said, still not quite believing it as I said it. Shota sipped the last bit of his coffee and nodded. “That would be smart,” he said, simply. I stood up and reached for his cup to wash it, but he kept his grip on it and reached for mine instead. “I’ve got it,” he said, taking both cups and walking over to the sink. As he washed the cups I walked up to him, got on my tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” I said lovingly before turning to head to the door.

As I sat on the floor and laced up my shoes, Shota gave me a quizzical look as if questioning where I was going. “I have to go back to the old apartment to get dressed… I don’t want to show up to your parent’s house looking like this,” I answered his look. He shrugged and said, “you look fine,” as I got up and looked at him smugly. “I’ll be back soon,” I said, turning towards the door, until I was gently stopped by Sho’s hand on my arm, turning me back towards him as he leaned down to kiss me. “Ok,” he said afterwards, with a cute small smile on his face, making me grin as I opened the door and headed out. I walked to my old apartment, as it wasn’t terribly far, smiling like an idiot the whole way there.

I went into the apartment, closing the door behind me. The lights were off, so apparently my old roommate wasn’t home. I turned on the lights, and the first thing I saw was the approved paperwork for our marriage. I walked up to the table where it was sitting and read. “Shota and Meiya Aizawa.” I would never get over seeing my name with his last name behind it. I went and took a shower, then chose one of my favorite long, flowery dresses to wear. As promised, I was back at our apartment soon, brining our marriage certificate and an already-packed box of clothes with me. When I got back to our apartment, I set the papers on the table, then headed back to our bedroom. I opened up the drawers in the dresser that were designated to be mine and began transferring some of my clothes when the bathroom door opened.

“Can you give me a hand?” I heard Sho ask. I turned to see him standing in the doorway wearing a button up shirt, holding the two ends of his black tie around his neck. I looked at him with raised eyebrows and smile. “You’re dressing up?” I asked in a surprised tone. “Tch, don’t get used to it,” he grumbled, slightly embarrassed, making me smile even wider. I went over to him and tied his tie before looking him over. “Perfect,” I said, smiling up at his uncovered face, as his hair was halfway up. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously at me as he looked me over. He didn’t need to say anything out loud for me to know he was complimenting me. “You ready?” he asked, and I nodded. I slipped our papers carefully into my purse before we headed out of the apartment.

I held onto Sho’s arm as we walked together toward the transit station to go to the Aizawa’s residence. It wasn’t terribly far from our apartment, but since we would have to make several stops today to see everyone, we decided to take public transportation. I felt like my heart was going to beat out of my chest out of nervousness of seeing Sho’s parents. His mother had always been kind to me, but, frankly, his father scared me. He often wore an expressionless face or one with a small scowl to it, which is where Sho gets it from…. But unlike Shota, I have no idea how to read his father’s expressions, so I always feel like they’re negative ones towards me. Sho must’ve noticed my hands fidgeting in my lap, as he put his hand on my knee and patted it reassuringly.

We arrived at the house and walked up to the door, with me at Sho’s side. He knocked on the door, and to our surprise, it was answered by Hizashi. “YOOOO!!!! It’s way past lunchtime, I was starting to think ya were too busy to show up!!!!!” he said with a wink. I smiled at the surprise of seeing him, while Sho’s eyebrows furrowed. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “We invited him and some others to come over and celebrate you two!” Shota’s mother said, appearing at the door as Hizashi stepped to the side. “Some others?” I asked, as Sho’s mom stepped aside too, to reveal all our closest friends and family standing inside.

My mom, Hizashi, Sho’s parents, Tamashi, and also Obo’s parents were all standing inside. “Everyone’s here!!” I said, excitedly grabbing onto Sho’s arm and looking up at him as we walked in. He looked around at everyone wide-eyed, apparently as surprised as I was. “Your mommas have been planning this little shindig, calling me nonstop to see if you were married yet. I got Tamashi to hit me up once the paperwork had been approved and then BOOM, here we are to celebrate you two lovebirds!” Hizashi explained in his usual animated fashion. I smiled a bit nervously and noticed Shota bow before everyone, so I joined him. “Thank you all for coming,” he said before straightening himself. As we did so, Sho’s mom had her arms wrapped around both of us. “Welcome to the family, Mei,” she said kindly.

As she let go, her husband approached us, and I found myself bowing again, nervously. I eased up when I felt his gentle hand on my shoulder, so I straightened back up and looked at him. “I trust no one more than you to look after Shota. Stick with him,” he said, matter-of-factly, letting go of my shoulder. “No matter how difficult he may be,” he added, looking judgmentally at his son, though somehow, I could make out the faintest hint of a smirk. I next locked eyes with my mother, who I went to with open arms, hugging her tightly. “I’m so excited for you both,” she said, as she tightly held me. I was doing fine with my emotions until I heard a slight quiver in her voice. “Thank you, mom,” I said as she let me go and I wiped her eyes before wiping mine.

She then turned to Shota, still standing next to me. “Please take care of our Mei,” she said, looking up at him, with her hand on his forearm. He smiled smally and nodded. “I will,” he said, looking at me out of the corner of his eye and subtly reaching for my hand to hold it. As mom stepped aside, Obo’s parents stepped forward, and I immediately began to feel the tears I had wiped come back. “Oboro would’ve been so happy for you… but we are too,” Momakumo said to me, her eyes glassy. I wrapped my arms around her, crying into her shoulder more than I had planned to. After she let go, I was soon wrapped in the arms of Papakumo, who was always like a dad to me. “So happy for you, kiddo,” he said as he held me, kissing the top of my head

“Oboro always respected you. He loved Mei as if she were his other half, but I know he would rest easy knowing that you are the one who’s really her other half,” Obo’s dad then said to Shota. Sho smiled sadly at her and said, “I appreciate that,” shortly, but genuinely. I could tell he was sad, though he showed no signs of crying. I held onto his arm and squeezed it, letting him know I was with him through it. Hizashi was the next to approach us, with his demeanor more serious than it was upon our arrival. “While we’re on the topic… Obo wanted me to give this to you. We had been compiling it together just in case you guys ever got together,” he said, handing us a wooden box that I immediately recognized to have once belonged to Oboro.

I looked down at the box, and looked up to Shota, who gave me a nod as if to say, “you open it.” I opened the box and saw around 10 or so polaroid photos from our school days. I blushed upon seeing the photo directly on top. We were on the rooftop, probably after lunch. Shota was laying flat on his back, sleeping, and I was sitting a bit away looking at him with my sketchbook and pencil in hand. “Mei drawing her favorite subject” was what the caption in Obo’s handwriting said at the bottom of the photo. The next photo we pulled out was one where Sho and I got tangled together in his capture weapon during a class exercise. We were tied so tightly together that Ushiwaka-sensei had to cut the bonds to separate us. “Tying the knot already lol” the caption said.

Nearly all of the photos were candid, and I don’t remember any of them being taken… Me falling asleep on Shota’s shoulder on a bus ride, Shota and I studying together by ourselves at the library, me sharing my bento lunch with Sho… all with some kind of cheesy caption from Obo. “Poor boy doesn’t know he’s in love.” “The lovebirds on a study date.” “Meizawa.” was what a few of them read. “Meizawa?” I asked after getting to the photo with that caption, which was of me and Sho from behind, walking home from school together. “Oh, yeah, that’s the ship name we had for you two… quite a few of our classmates were in on it too,” Hizashi said, looking toward Tamashi, who was in our class. She nodded and said, “yeah, a lot of us thought you worked well together, and look at you now!” I looked up at Shota to see his reaction, and I could see a small hint of a smile. “Thank you for passing this along to us,” Shota said sincerely, looking up from the box. I jumped into Hizashi’s arms, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Thanks, Zashi… this is perfect,” I said as he hugged me back.

After he let go, I hugged Tamashi, thanking her for all her support through the years. “I’m going to miss you, roomie,” she said as I hugged her. “But you belong with Shota,” she added, using his first name for the first time as she smiled at him. “Ok, now that everyone has greeted our newlyweds, the festivities can begin!” Sho’s mom spoke up. “I heard that ramen was one of Mei and Shota’s favorite things to eat together, so we have a ramen bar set up in the kitchen,” she added. “And when everyone’s ramen has settled and their inner rockstar can’t stay inside any longer, I brought my karaoke machine from the radio station to hook up,” Hizashi said to my delight. I heard Shota sigh. “Oh no…” he said, in his tired tone. “Oh YES…” I said, smirking up at him as I hugged him from the side, just so happy that he was my husband and that there was no escaping now.

[lovestruckthief]

On Stealing Shirts and Wallets

This is set at the end of Nikolai’s season 4, right after they lovingly rob their friends and then in the days following Casimir’s ‘gift’. Should I have finished this before Nikolai’s 5th season came out? Yes. But I am allergic to finishing things. MC is named Adamina. 

T rating, 1357 words

…………………………………….

Stuffing three wallets, two watches and Remy’s favorite cufflinks into her pockets and bra was no easy feat. One made more difficult by the near non-existent pockets of her jeans and the pace Nikolai was setting through the darkening streets of Paris. Not that Adamina was complaining. She felt light in a way she hadn’t in weeks. Something bright and bubbling bursting forth from her chest and setting her blood alight. So… maybe it was actually her that was tugging Nikolai into a half-run as they made their way back to the penthouse. And maybe it was her that pushed him firmly through the door of his their room in a fit of delighted giggles. 

The Gilded Poppy might have had  headquarters in a few dozen countries, but Paris would always feel the most like coming home. Maybe because it was the city of her first heist, where she first fell (or maybe jumped) directly into the wondrous chaos of the Gilded Poppy, where she met Nikolai. And maybe it was knowing it was where it all started, with Remy and Nikolai and then Vivienne. And her, eventually. Whatever the reason, stumbling after Nikolai and colliding solidly with his chest as he whirled around to catch her and tug them both deeper into their room felt more like coming home than just about anything she could remember. 

Their friends’ wallets hit the carpet with a soft thud, followed quickly by the rest of her clothes. That was the thing with thieves and clever fingers. Nikolai was always disconcertingly fast at getting her out of whatever she was wearing. 

But she was a thief now too, and Nikolai’s buttons didn’t stand a chance. 

She pushed his jacket off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, landing with the soft whisper of expensive fabric. He grasped the back of her thighs and lifted her to where she could wrap her legs around him. Cupping his face, she kissed him hard before she let her fingers trail down to the collar of his shirt. His shirt which was, frustratingly, still on his body. Making quick—and impatient—work of the buttons she wriggled out of his grasp so that she could finally tug his shirt off. Soft fabric in her hands, she pushed her arms through the sleeves.

 The familiar cotton settled across her skin, warm from his body and the faint scent of his cologne clinging lightly to the fabric.  She began to do up the buttons on the front, biting back laughter as several emotions flitted rapidly across Nikolai’s face. Surprise merging into open-hearted awe before settling on an unbearably soft fondness. “Don’t put it on,” He said hoarsely, the words playful but his voice betraying how much he liked seeing her in his shirt again. “The point isn’t to be putting on more clothes. Quite the opposite, in fact.” 

Adamina twined her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, savouring the feeling of his body against hers. “I’m not really convinced you’re complaining.” 

Nikolai lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss against the curve of her neck. “Thief,” he whispered, his breath warm on her skin. “Obviously,” she breathed and nuzzled against his chest as she felt his lips curve into a smile. Turning her head, she captured him in a hard kiss, letting out a soft sound, somewhere between a moan and a sigh as one of his hands tangled in her hair. His other hand skirted her skin just beneath the hem of his stolen shirt and guided her with him as he stepped backwards towards their bed. 

……………………………

Life-altering revelations aside, the Gilded Poppy penthouse was more or less business as usual. After the initial shock had faded, Nikolai had been thoughtful, and quiet. The silence might have worried her once, but she could trust that he would speak to her when he was ready. So she and the rest of the Poppy began to finish up their business in Paris and waited to learn what their next move would be. 

Nikolai returned to his seat beside where she was curled up against the arm rest, a cup of tea in each of his hands. Adamina leaned forward to accept hers and sipped slowly, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. Settling back against the armrest she placed the tea beside her and picked up her sketchbook. She let her pencil run over the paper mindlessly, sketching motifs and half-images as she let her mind wander. Sinking further into the plush cushions she stretched her legs over Nikolai’s lap. Nikolai barely glanced away from his book, but ran his fingers gently over her calf and rested his hand on her skin, his fingertips tracing light patterns. 

Obnoxious clattering at the entryway alerted them both to the arrival of Jett and Remy. 

“Look, all I’m saying is that we could definitely fit a pigeon in there. Maybe two if they’re friends.” 

Remy came into the lounge room first, eyebrows furrowed thoughtfully. “Perhaps, but what about- “ He broke off abruptly after spotting the two of them on the couch. “Ah, my favourite criminal couple, what a surprise to see you both outside of your room before lunchtime.” He wandered behind where Adamina leaned against the armrest and peered over her shoulder at her sketchbook. “Working on anything new, mon chéri?” His hands rested on her shoulders and lightly brushed down her arms, as he commented idly on her half-finished sketches. Adamina tilted her head back, “I don’t have your wallet, Remy. Nikolai has them.” 

Remy withdrew one hand from her jacket pocket. “Yes, I noticed you didn’t seem to be carrying it.” He straightened and braced his hands on the arm rest behind her. “Nikolai.” He said. “My belongings, please.”

Nikolai didn’t even glance up. “Adamina has them.” 

“Okay, I know you both think you’re being cute, but-”

“Honestly Remy, you know how brazen the pickpockets are in Paris.” Adamina interrupted whatever spiel Remy was about to start and idly flipped a page of her sketchbook. “You really ought to take better care of your belongings.”

Remy groaned and pushed himself back from the couch. “Well, now I have to get all my fake IDs remade.” Frowning, he muttered something in French that Adamina couldn’t quite catch and sighed. “And I still owe Jace for the last time.” 

“Wait, you’ve been keeping multiple IDs in the same wallet?” Jett wandered in from the kitchen, shirtless and carrying a tub of yogurt. “What are you, an amatuer? That’s suspicious as hell.”

Remy stuffed both hands in his pockets. “I don’t have to take this from the reason we have plastic explosives in our kitchen pantry.” 

“Is that all I am to you?”

The two of them wandered out of the lounge as abruptly as they’d entered and their bickering faded down the hall. Adamina settled back against the armrest, smiling softly. Life-altering revelations aside, at least some things would always be constant. 

Offended meowing pulled Adamina from her thoughts and her gaze dropped to the ground, where Elizabeth was glaring indignantly at where her legs were lying across Nikolai’s lap. 

“Aw, I’m sorry Lizzie, did I steal your seat?” 

“Yes.” Elizabeth’s eyes answered. “Thief.” 

“Don’t be jealous, Elizabeth.” Nikolai murmured, “you are still the only cat I’ve ever loved.” 

Adamina pulled her legs to her chest and let the true Queen of Thieves take her rightful place curled up in Nikolai’s lap. Missing his warmth against her, Adamina slid along the couch and wriggled under Nikolai’s arm, snuggling against him as he pulled her closer. Turning his head, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lips lingering on her skin. 

“I love you,” she said, because she wasn’t holding it back anymore and she had promised herself she never would again. 

“I love you, too.” He murmured, his breath warm against her skin. 

Adamina relaxed against him, secure in the fact that despite everything, whatever dangers and uncertainties lay ahead, they could walk through it all together. And that there would always be peaceful moments with tea and books and a purring cat. 

[loveforpreserumsteve]

Baby Mine: Bonus “EOTL” Story (Pre-Serum Alpha!Steve and Amputee Omega!Bucky)

Nine:

Before Bucky could say anything else, Steve pushed into him. The first breach of Steve's cockhead caused the pair to erupt into synchronized moans. Long and drawn out to the point where Bucky briefly worried about the pups hearing them until he remembered that their rooms were on the other side of the house and the walls were thick. Only for Steve to quickly muffle them by passionately pressing his lips to Bucky's. Keeping their mouths together, swallowing down each other's gasps as Steve fully seated himself in Bucky's tight, slick cavern.

While Steve stilled with their hips flush with Bucky's ass, waiting for Bucky to adjust, Bucky wasn't in the mood for his mate's consideration. Arching his back to push himself further onto Steve's dick, Bucky instructed, "Move. Stevie, baby, for the love of god, move."

"You have any idea how good you feel?" Steve breathlessly complimented as he started easing out. When just the tip was still enveloped, Steve deeply thrust back into the well-stretched hole, "Being with you is intoxicating." Kissing down Bucky's neck, Steve playfully admitted, "Just like a drug."

As he started pulling out again, Bucky teased, "Are ya a Twilight fan, Stevie?"

Pausing his movement, Steve leaned back so he could look at Bucky. Amused, Steve chuckled, "What?"

"Twilight," Bucky giggled, running his hand down Steve's back until he had a good grasp on his ass and tugged the petite alpha in again. As Steve started thrusting back into Bucky, the omega breathlessly explained, "Edward says that Bella's scent is a drug. His, 'own personal brand of heroin.'"

Steve quirked an eyebrow at Bucky, silently questioning his mate. Since Steve clearly wasn't going to say anything, Bucky rolled his hips, meeting his mate's movement thrust for thrust. Steve rested his forehead on Bucky's broad shoulder while he started picking up the pace, thoroughly wrapped up in the moment.

Soon enough, Bucky was losing himself in the sensation of Steve's hard cock expertly moving inside of him. Losing himself in the harsh breaths huffing over his skin. In the moans, groans, and grunts, oh my! It was all so tantalizing that Bucky nearly forgot about his lame joke until Steve suddenly barked out a laugh.

"What?" Bucky panted, pushing his own hair off his sweaty forehead.

Steve tenderly kissed Bucky's shoulder before lifting his head to look at his mate, "I can't believe you brought up a problematic teen drama while having sex."

"You're the one who made the comment!" Bucky defended. Threading his fingers through Steve's sweaty blond strands, Bucky good-naturedly argued, "If ya didn't want me to think about it, you shouldn't have quoted it."

Fondly shaking his head, Steve simply replied, "It's a good thing you're cute."

Wiggling his eyebrows, Bucky taunted, "You think I'm cute?"

"I guess," Steve mocked, thrusting deeply, nailing Bucky's prostate harshly enough to punch out a surprised gasp of pleasure from him.

Reaching down, Bucky momentarily bypassed his own erect dick to rub at the loose skin around Steve's cock. Although Steve couldn't knot, that didn't mean that he didn't get pleasure from having that area stimulated just like any other alpha. And because Steve was a good, selfless man, Bucky knew that he deserved to experience all the pleasure that Bucky could give him.

"Fuck," Steve's breath hitched while his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

"How ya feelin', Stevie?" Bucky asked, massaging the area at the base of his alpha's cock.

"Close," Steve confirmed, "Real close."

"Good," Bucky nodded. Leaning up to capture Steve's lips with his own, Bucky suggested, "Think I can ride ya?"

"Is that even a question?" Steve chuckled, pulling out so he could lay on his back. Stroking himself with one hand and massaging his loose knot skin while he watched Bucky throw one leg over his hips to straddle him.

With newfound desire, Bucky didn't waste a second as he slid down the impressive length until fully seated. Steve's back arched and his hands returned to Bucky's thighs. Scent marking the brunet while Bucky lifted himself before harshly dropping down once again; thoroughly fucking himself on his mate's cock.

Soon enough, both men were speeding up, on a race to who would reach their orgasm first. Determined, Steve wrapped his hand around Bucky's erection to give him added pleasure as they both teetered on the precipice. And although Bucky hated coming before Steve did, he couldn't help it when Steve swiped his thumb over Bucky's cockhead, gathering the drops of pre-come.

"Fuck," Bucky gasped, tossing his head back as his dick spurted his clear omega ejaculation onto the petite alpha below him.

As he clenched down on Steve's buried cock, it didn't take long for Steve's own movements to pause as he released his own climax deep into Bucky. While Steve tried to catch his breath, Bucky leaned down to kiss along his jaw. Only colliding with his mouth once Steve's panting eased.

"Thank you," Bucky mused, pushing Steve's blond hair from his sweaty forehead.

"For what?" Steve's brows furrowed, tipping his head up so he could kiss his mate again.

"For the party," Bucky kissed the side of Steve's mouth. Trailing kisses over his jaw, Bucky continued, "And tonight."

Affectionately, Steve cupped the side of Bucky's face, maneuvering him so they could be looking at each other. Steve reminded, "You don't have to thank me. I'd spoil you every day, if you'd let me."

Instead of listing all the reasons why Bucky was appreciative of Steve's kindness and love, he simply rested his forehead against Steve's and told him, "I love you."

An easy grin crossed his face as Steve confirmed, "I love you, too."

For a moment, the pair just laid there. Despite Steve not knotting, the pair still took the time to remain connected. Just for that added step of intimacy. Not that either of them complained. Rather, the pair spent the allotted time with sweet kisses and tender touches.

"DADDY! PAPA!" A shrill scream from Maisie shattered their moment.

Heart pounding, Bucky quickly climbed off Steve and stumbled off the bed as he attempted to quickly dress. As Steve pulled on a pair of flannel sleep pants and one of Bucky's t-shirts, he assured, "I'll check on her."

Although Bucky was worrying his lower lip with his teeth, he simply agreed. Unfortunately, it wasn't unusual for their pups to have night terrors. What soothed Bucky's guilt, however, was how readily available Steve's help was. Confirming that Steve was the alpha father his pups always deserved.

Cleaning himself up, Bucky paused when he heard Hugh's cries from the room beside theirs. Tossing the towel in the hamper, Bucky left the bedroom for the nursery. Turning the light on, he wasted no time in crossing the small room to the crib.

"Shh," Bucky soothed, reaching into the crib to momentarily scent-mark the crying baby. A little more difficult with only one hand, Bucky gathered Hugh close to his frame before situating him on the changing table. Gathering a fresh diaper and opening the container of wipes, Bucky worked on autopilot as he exchanged the wet diaper for the clean one.

Hugh started calming down then, and Bucky playfully confirmed, "Daddy doesn't like being in soiled drawers either."

Pitching the diaper, Bucky lifted Hugh once more and nosed at his soft baby hair when Hugh nuzzled closer to his chest. These were the moments that Bucky lived for. Even back when he was pregnant with Maisie, he couldn't wait to have this the same way his brother and cousins and friends all had with their babies. Even after Brock showed who he really was, these were the moments that Bucky clung to.

Yawning, Bucky decided to place the now snoozing pup back in his crib. Scent-marking him once more before leaning in and pressing a sweet kiss to Hugh's forehead and whispering, "Night, night, Hughie."

Returning to the master suite, he was greeted with Steve feigning nonchalance as he sat against the headboard, sketching. Beside him, on Bucky's side of the bed sat a sparkly purple gift bag. A grin split his face as he quickly crossed the room to their bed.

"I thought the sex was the gift," Bucky cheerfully admitted as he climbed onto the bed.

"Seriously?" Steve chuckled at the audacity, but seemingly remembering the relationship that Bucky had been in prior decided against voicing any more. Setting his sketchbook on the bedside table, Steve turned to gleefully watch Bucky.

Pulling out the lilac tissue paper, Bucky teasingly narrowed his eyes at his mate because apparently Steve knew exactly how to annoy him by making Bucky feel like a magician pulling the trick hanky that never ends. Finally, once the tissue paper was tossed carelessly onto the bed between them, Bucky found three comic books in the bag.

Excitedly, Bucky snapped his attention to his mate, making Steve chuckle, "Well, open it!"

"Don't have to tell me twice," Bucky giggled, removing the comic books from the bag. Seeing the cover of the first one caused Bucky's breath to hitch and his jaw to drop. His hand shaking as it held a signed copy of Striped Crusader: Rise of Redwing. Only, it didn't look like the edition that Bucky distinctly remembered drooling over in the glass case at the comic book store he grew up near.

Looking over the little notes and the unfamiliar colors, Bucky's eyes widened as he glanced over at Steve again, "Is this a draft?!"

"A copy of the draft," Steve confirmed.

Throat tightening and tears building in his eyes, Bucky shook his head as he whispered, "This is too much."

Steve shook his head and affectionately maneuvered Bucky's head until he was looking at him again, "You are the most selfless man that I've ever met. Meeting you at that bus station was the best thing to ever happen to me. You deserve so much more than I can ever give you, and I want you to have everything that I can give you."

Blinking away tears, Bucky kissed Steve and thanked him. Steve simply smiled at his mate and gestured for him to look through the others. The next one was the upcoming issue that Steve had sent off a couple weeks ago for approval. But the last one was what made Bucky's heart swell.

On the cover was an image of a dimly lit bus with a petite blond sitting across the aisle from a handsome, pregnant brunet omega. Although the comic version of Bucky's eyes were closed as he dozed with a sleeping pup on his chest and the other sleeping against his side, the comic Steve gazed affectionately, protectively at them. The title proclaimed, Till the End of the Line.