#drawing people with large backs is still challenging

[inmyheaddd]

coffee sweetener — grayson hawthorne x reader

a/n: the way i have like 6 other fics i'm working on, this was so cute though I had to write it asap!! thank u sm for the req! wc: 1.8k summary: one of your regulars at your café, grayson— who happens to be insanely handsome, comes in today like usual. but strangely enough, things go a tad further than the surface level small talk you usually have.

a familiar suit clad blonde walked in the near empty cafe you worked in. there was a soft hum of some chatter, but not much, as the early morning sun filtered through the large windows.

some people glanced up from their tables for a second, and some people glanced up at him for a lot more than a small second. could you blame them? no, not really. 

his eyes immediately found yours as he walked up to the cash register which you stood behind, and you found yourself averting your gaze involuntarily. 7:14 AM the time read. there was only one thing that made the early morning shift worth it, and it seemed to be standing right infront of you now. 

today his suit was gray, you noticed. it made his eyes stand out so much more, you nearly stumbled over your words. “you again,” you said, narrowing your eyes jokingly and biting back a smile.

he smiled the tiniest smile, shrugging as if to say ‘what can i say’ before pretending to look up at the menu to order.

“what would you recommend today?” he spoke smoothly, a stark contrast to some of the other people that would come in and simply shout at you.

“why does that matter?” you teased, tilting your head to the side before you looked down at the cash register for a moment and realised you’d already started putting in his usual order. “you get the same thing every time.” 

“'there seem to be no specials, but I'm in the mood for a change.'' he said, his grey eyes doing a once over on you. god, how you wish you weren’t wearing that horrible work apron right now. ''I can be a man full of surprises.”

you let out a small chuckle, “i find that hard to believe.”

everything about him screamed precise and orderly. that was partly what intrigued you so much when you first met him. the fact that he was incredibly gorgeous wasn’t so bad either. 

you expected him to get a black coffee, maybe a croissant if he was feeling extra adventurous that day, but no a large americano and a muffin. he would also get a blueberry scone or two some days, but always get it to go, and never eat it himself.

you almost wondered if he was ordering for someone else, maybe a girlfriend. but again, no. he sat alone with just his work laptop, having his americano and muffin. 

“is that so?” he countered, a slight raise of one of his brows and an amused smile playing on his lips. 

you’d be lying if you said you weren’t smiling yourself. “very much so.” 

you were thankful there weren’t any customers in line behind him that would yell at you for taking too long. but even if there was a rude customer, you doubted they yell.

grayson had one of those sort of intimidating presences that made you think he was born to be a ceo or something. now that he’d been a regular for a couple months, that intimidation mostly wore off on you. you just thought he was a pretty cute guy with an obsession for suits. 

“i suppose i’ll have to prove you wrong then,” he said that in a way that made you think he proves people wrong very often. he adjusted one of his suits lapels, inadvertently drawing your eyes to his arms. “so i ask again, what do you recommend?” 

tearing your eyes away from his arms and back to his face, you asked, “you’re really going with this? okay, fine.” you raised your eyebrows like he had challenged you, but you still couldn’t wipe that stupid smile off your face. 

you rested your hands on the counter, “uhm,” you thought, humming slightly, “well, i usually get a refresher— like the strawberry or dragon fruit ones, or i get a hot chocolate.” you said, then a thought sparked in your mind. “oh! and a chocolate chip cookie. and a cake pop.” 

you bit back a grin— you did not get cake pops or chocolate chip cookies regularly, but the image of grayson with a cake pop or cookie made you want to laugh for some reason. 

“alright then,” he said, ''may i get a medium strawberry refresher, and a,'' he paused, saying the words like they almost pained him, ''two... two chocolate chip cookies, please.''

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

grayson left with his drink and cookie, sitting down at a table a bit further in the back, but he was still conveniently in your eyeline. he opened his briefcase, which you hadn't even realised he was holding. it seemed so natural for him to hold, you hadn't looked twice. you caught yourself looking at him frequently, and sometimes he would glance up from his laptop and lock eyes with you for a moment.

he came up to the counter a few minutes later, his drink finished and thrown away, and a cookie and a half left, adjusting his suit jacket with one hand, briefcase in the other. you fake sighed in annoyance as if his very presence was pestering you-- quite the contrary, really.

he only smiled in response.

''well?'' you said, wiping imaginary dust off of your apron, ''how was it? you sticking to the muffins?''

''I have to say, the refresher wasn't horrible. it was quite nice, actually.'' he said, and you gave him a teasing look that was like, 'told you so!' before he continued. ''however, the cookies were far too sweet. i’m sorry, you seem to have terrible culinary taste.''

you fake scoffed, painting the picture of being truly offended. ''okay, can i tell you a secret?'' you leaned forward, and he entertained you by doing the same, motioning for you to continue. ''yes, you're right. these cookies are absolutely horrible, i agree. but i make much better ones.''

amusement flashed across his eyes, like he guessed you had picked out the not-so-good snacks for him on purpose. “really?” he prompted, a dimple flashing in one of his cheeks as he smiled.

“yes,” you swore seriously with a smile that contrasted that no-nonsense tone, “really.” 

“i’d like to be the judge of that.” he said, his voice low and teasing and- god, you could listen to it forever.

“trust me, i’m not lying. i’ll bring some to work tomorrow, just remind me to actually bake them. i have such bad memory.” 

“and how exactly would i be able to remind you?” he tilted his head to one side slightly, a teasing glint in his eye like he could see where you were getting at, and was entertaining it. 

your heart was beating crazy fast, but it was time to finally make a move on this guy. the cash register flirting was simply not enough anymore. you hoped he felt whatever chemistry you were feeling too-- and that you weren't misreading things. then again, you almost failed the subject, so it wouldn't be surprising if you were still getting it wrong.

“why don’t i give you my number," you started, feeling your hands get clammy, ''and you could text me after my shift?” 

his dimples flashed a second time, his eyes doing another once over on you. okay, surely you couldn't misread that one.

you felt your cheeks get hot as he spoke once again, his voice so smooth and low that it fit perfectly with the serenity of the morning and café. “i think i’d like that very much, and that i'll be looking forward to tomorrow.” 

biting back a smile and ignoring the way your stomach erupted with seemingly a million butterflies , you somehow managed to say, “alright, then. i think i'd like it too.''

you wrote down your number on his receipt, ignoring the way your hands trembled with excitement and nervousness, drawing a little smiley face next to it.

holy shit, you were never like this. your heart raced as you watched his eyes find the bottom of the receipt and give you a tiny smile. you watched him sit down an his work laptop, then pull out his phone, type something in, and put it back in his suit's pocket.

ugh, you would break every rule and look at your phone right now, except you were on your last strike for using your phone in the middle of shifts, and you did not want to get fired from this little coffee shop for the sole reason of seeing that one blonde man every morning and having your usual banter. 

''wait,'' you called out, ''what are you going to do with the rest of the cookies? you said, ''don't tell me you'll throw those absolute delicacies away.'' you added jokingly, and grayson simply shook his head, looking down with a slight laugh with a single blonde strand of hair falling into his face.

''I'm keeping them for my younger brother,'' he replied, a fondness in his voice, ''he's quite something, with his extreme love for baked goods.''

you hummed in thought, suddenly realising this was the first time you'd heard about him having brothers. this was really the first conversation about anything that didn't involve small talk and café related things, and you found yourself wondering what it would be like to continue learning more about him. getting to know eachother.

''I think those atrocious cookies will change that love he has,'' you mumbled under your breath without thinking as you shook your head.

you heard grayson chuckle, ''what was that?'' he teased.

''god, i'm gonna get myself fired. forget i said anything.'' you groaned as you covered your face with your hands, already feeling your cheeks heat up again.

''that would prove very difficult,'' he replied smoothly as you put your hands back down. ''I find it near impossible to forget anything you say to me.''

if you thought your cheeks were heated a few seconds ago, they were blazing now. you averted your gaze for a quick second, but his gaze didn't leave yours.

chuckling slightly, you managed to speak without stumbling. "should i start worrying about all my bad jokes being permanently filed away?"

"bad jokes?" he quipped, "i've yet to hear one from you.'' he did not let up on his charm for a single moment, a laugh escaping your lips before he resumed. ''but if you insist, i’ll let you know when you make your first."

'''I'll see you tomorrow, then?''

you nodded, muttering a small 'bye' as you watched grayson step out of the café, the sound of the door chiming behind him.

the anticipation was unbearable, and despite knowing you were on thin ice with your manager, your hand inched toward your phone on the counter.

a quick glance over your shoulder confirmed no one was watching. you unlocked your phone, heart racing as you checked your notifications.

there it was—a new text, well, one from about 10 minutes ago.

Unknown Number:

Already counting down to tomorrow. 🙃 Don’t forget those cookies you talk of, I'm holding you to it.

you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you quickly saved the number, your hands trembling slightly. you almost let out a snort as his emoji choice before typing, glancing again to make sure the coast was clear.

you

i definitely won’t be forgetting now that you've texted I just may be looking forward to tomorrow too 🫣

you were thankful the place was practically empty, because surely you looked like a crazy person, smiling to yourself. you set the phone back down, trying to suppress the giddy warmth spreading through you. the day suddenly didn’t feel quite so long anymore.

taglist: @x-liv25-jamieswife @wish-i-were-heather @thecircularlibrary @whatsamongus @littlemissmentallyunstable @anintellectualintellectual @lovethornes @maybxlle @sheisntyou @emelia07 @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @charsoamerican @hxress23 @imaseabear @clarissaweasley-10 @off-to-the-r4ces @thelov3lybookworm @graysw1fe @lanterns-and-daydreams @hermesenthusiast @elysianwayy77 @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @apollosmusee @hijabi-desi-bookworm @goldi-1-graysons-version @saigonharrington @peppapigsposts @thoughtdaughter3 

[trippinsorrows]

midnight sun + two

authors note: really wasn't expecting the response and interest the first part received. thank you so much! 🥺 as previously stated, this is going to be heavy. please be mindful of your mental state before consuming this content.

words: 3.3k

warnings: angst, domestic violence, violence against women

song inspo: 'faithfully' by journey

one

It takes some digging. 

Requires blowing off some dust and the occasional angrily tossed objects, but he eventually finds it almost an hour into searching. The amount of time that could easily be used for other things, but none strike him as important as this. 

More dust has to be wiped off the box that he hasn’t seen or touched in over 15 years. 

Roman sits on the edge of the bed, careful with his movements, recognizing the fragility of the worn thing. Opened, there’s a strange feeling that settles over him seeing the contents, all drawings and artwork. But, it’s namely the largest item that lies at the bottom that evokes such emotions. Smaller pieces partially obscuring the view, slowly, his fingers move underneath it, gingerly pulling it out as he sets the box to the side and focuses on the item in hand.

A different time. A different person almost. Seeing the drawing of himself from that time in his life also brings up more confusing feelings.

Especially pertaining to the artist who created it for him. 

2003

Solitude has always been his companion, a preferred thing over most people in his life who don’t understand him. Who only mean him harm, pain, and betrayal.

That’s why one of the first things Roman did was confiscate and make the only loveseat in the common area his. A possession from day one that no one has seemed to question or challenge, largely because everyone knows why he’s here and subsequently don’t want to get on his bad side.

A smart decision.

It’s farther away from the rest of the seating options, another preferred thing that allows him to zone out with the help of the headphones over his ears. An escape. Isolation.

Solitude has been the only companion granted to him in this life. 

That and Rosalia. 

But, as she’s not an option anymore, so he settles for what remains.

Except, it’s short lived, because with expert peripheral vision, he’s witness to a scene unfolding. Roman doesn’t necessarily need to hit pause on his Walkman to see what’s going on, but he does it anyway. 

“Give it back!” Her voice is far too sweet, way too innocent. It makes him scowl. “Please!”

Roman directs more of his attention to the young girl he’s noticed in passing since his admission, the faded bruises on her face along with her bandaged wrists some of the first things to catch his attention.

It doesn’t take much to see why she’s there. 

She’s younger than him by almost four years at fourteen to his seventeen going on eighteen, but he also can’t ignore the fact that she looks older than what she is.

More developed than most girls her age.

And judging by the three pricks playing hot potato with her sketchbook, stupid looks on their equally stupid faces, he’d bet that’s why they’re messing with her. Sick enjoyment at the sight of her chest moving as she attempts to pry her book back. 

“Please!” She begs, and it only makes his scowl deepen. Her voice is annoying, but what’s more annoying is the fact that the fucking useless staff here are doing nothing to intervene. 

Not surprising though.

In Roman’s experience, adults don’t help out and protect children.

Just feed em’ to the wolves. 

Or are the wolves themselves. 

“You want it back?” One of them sneers, a haughty look on his pimpled face. “Show us your boobs.”

She freezes, terror rendering her still as she asks in a low voice, “w–what?”

“Yeah, show em!” 

“I bet they’re—”

Whatever was going to be said will never be known, it’ll never be known due to Roman decking the son of a bitch in the neck. The other dumbasses only further cement their stupidity by turning their glares onto him.

“You really fucked up.”

One goes to hit him, an easy dodge as Roman uses his elbow and rams it into the back of his head. The third is the most unlucky, Roman tossing him to the ground and pummelling him, a sick thrill filling him as he imagines someone else. 

Imagines it’s his piece of shit, abusive father underneath his unrelenting fist. Imagines it’s his blood spilling all over again, life fading from his pathetic body.

A sick fill, indeed. 

But, it’s short–lived, because security is yanking him off, yelling some shit at him that he doesn’t give two fucks about. 

“Get the fuck off me!” Roman overpowers the guards, sending them both to the floor and he moves to walk away, unsurprised that no one comes after him. Their goal was simply to separate and break up the fight, not penalize him for said altercation.

They know fucking better than to try that shit with him of all people.

The heir to the Bloodline Empire. An empire that now technically is already his with the “death” of his pussy of a father. 

A murder.

A murder done at his hands.

“Ummm.”

Roman has just sat back down on the sofa when he hears it again. That voice. Slightly less annoying but way too close. Because looking up, he sees she’s standing only a few feet away from him, hugging the sketchbook to her chest. 

And just like that, the scowl returns, “what the fuck do you want?”

She opens and closes her mouth, temporarily looking down almost in embarrassment. “I just….I wanted to say….thank you.”

Roman’s sneer falters just a bit. 

Thank you...

He can’t remember the last time someone other than his little sister uttered such words to him. 

If ever.

Confused as to whatever the fuck is coming up in him, he easily dismisses it and her. “Good. You said it. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

A glance at her face reveals a small frown that’s followed with her leaving  to walk away but not before she stops and turns around, a small, unsure smile replacing the frown. “I’m Solana, by the way.” He meets her gaze, warm locking with cold. “Solana Miller.”

And when she turns to walk away, it only makes sense he lets her do so. But, that’s not what happens. 

“Roman,” he’s offering for reasons unknown, weirdly settled in a sense by the return of her small smile. “Roman Reigns.”

—----

Present

Walking back into the coffee shop, it’s only then that Roman becomes more aware of just how much this place really does scream Solana. Soft, pastel colors make up the color schemes. Random artwork with color palettes that match the painting and positive quotes that match her.

It’s exactly the kind of place he’d expect to be hers. 

It’s when he walks over to the counter that he’s met with the one thing in here that is most definitely not Solana.

A young woman who looks like she either just walked out of a rave or satanic ceremony looks at him with icy blue eyes. Her black lips are curved into an almost mocking smile when she asks in an accented voice, “can I help you?”

Roman gives her a one over. She must be part of some damn work program. “Where’s Solana?”

The woman scoffs, crossing her surprisingly buff arms. It’s clear as day that she stays in the gym. “Why do you wanna know? I’m the manager. I can help you—”

“I don’t need you. I need Solana.”

He’s trying for the sake of not wanting to cause a scene at Solana’s place of business, but this Wednesday Adams looking bitch is really trying it. 

“How do you know her?” She suddenly asks, partially taking him by surprise. “I saw you here the other day talking to her. You two seemed…..friendly.”

It’s the fact that Roman didn’t notice this bitch that day as well as the fact that she’s snooping that has him putting her in her palace. “That’s none of your damn business.”

But, she doesn't cower away, instead metaphorically puffing out her chest. “Look, I know exactly who you are, and I don’t give a damn. Solana is one of my best friends. She’s already got one piece of shit man in her life. She doesn’t need any more.”

“You know her fiancé?” He asks, now interested in whatever information she might have. “Cody, right?”

She nods, a bitter expression on her face. “Unfortunately.”

Her response is very telling. “You don’t like him.”

The follow up answer is filled with an equal amount of disdain. “I don’t like any man who gets off on beating the shit out of women.”

It’s one thing to suspect, even know for oneself. But, it’s another to have it confirmed. Roman's fist forming at his side accompanies his clarifying question. “He hits her?”

She says nothing, and it’s then he picks up on the extent of her discomfort. She’s obviously unsure with how much to share and how much to withhold, even if she’s already shared more than expected.

“Look, Solana and I….” He fucking hates talking to people in general, especially about his personal life, but this woman clearly has information he needs to know. And while he’s certainly not above torture, it’s not the preferred route in this situation. “We were friends when we were younger, but we….we lost contact years ago.” He adds, voice genuine. “I have no intentions on hurting her.”

Never has. Never will.

“Solana won’t leave him,” she finally relents after a few minutes of silence. “She gets….defensive when you ask too many questions or try to call her out on all the bullshit excuses she makes for all the bruises and black eyes.” She shakes her head, a sudden sadness in her eyes. “He’s broken two of her ribs before, broke her nose, her her wrist, put her in casts. And she mostly chalks it up to bad falls.” Crossing her arms, she says in a quiet voice. “He’s going to kill her one day. I just….I just know it.”

When hell freezes over.

Imagining all the cruel and vile ways he’s going to dismember this son of a bitch, Roman inquires. “‘How the hell did they even get together?”

“She went to some fancy ass business owner thing about a year ago. They met there, and he pursued the hell out of her. At the time, she thought it was sweet. Looking back now, it’s obvious he was preying on her.”

Roman says nothing, taking in all of the information, something about that meeting, the fact that it was a business thing along with the name Cody, prompting him to ask. “Wait. Is her fiancé Cody Rhodes?”

She scoffs. “That’s him.” Roman looks away, cursing quietly. “Why?”

He remains silent, partially confused as to what Solana could have ever seen in someone like Cody but also now recognizing that killing him won’t be as easy as he initially thought.

Because Roman knew the moment he saw Solana react with so much fear just at the mention of this Cody person, that he was going to kill him. Further cemented with how jumpy she was.

��But, Cody Rhodes being the Cody in question massively fucking complicates things given the decades long truce between the Nightmare Factory and the Bloodline. The Factory doesn’t fuck with the Bloodline, and the Bloodline doesn’t fuck with Factory.

But, him killing Cody Rhodes, the fucking leader of the Nightmare Factory, will most definitely fuck with that truce. It’ll void it, thus starting a nasty, brutal war.

He can’t have that. 

The Bloodline can’t have that.

But, Roman also can’t have that bleached bitch beating on Solana. 

Or worse.

“I need to talk to her,” he announces, gaze on the woman who seems to be opening up more and more by the minute. “When is she scheduled to work again?”

Sighing, an answer is supplied that only pisses him off more. “She was supposed to come in today, but she called out sick.” Roman snarls. Sick, his ass. “She should be here tomorrow though. Works the evening shift.”

He nods, making a mental note to clear his schedule. “I’ll be here.”

She eyes him with skepticism. “Look, she’s got enough she’s dealing with. If you’re going to make things worse—”

“I’m not,” he interrupts, voice harsh, glare returning. 

And, she doesn’t back down. Doesn’t deter from a glare that would have most people cowering. One thing for certain, while Solana may be engaged to a monster, the woman before him is a different kind of monster. A useful one to have on her side. “Then what the hell are you going to do?”

Roman notices the tip drawer on the counter and pulls out his wallet, sliding a crisp hundred dollar bill and placing it in the jar. Returning his wallet back to his back pocket, he leans over just enough so he can answer in the calmest, eeriest voice.

“I’m going to rip Cody Rhodes apart limb by limb.”

—-----

His heavy, sweaty body plops down beside her, face up, his gaze on the ceiling. The sound of his loud, uneven breathing further exacerbates her discomfort, disgust filling her at the feel of his seed spilling out of her. 

Solana doesn’t hesitate to turn on her side, wanting nothing more than to get as far away from him as possible, to rush to the shower, to cleanse herself and scrub her body raw from the feel of him on her.

But, she knows how this goes. Knows that she has to wait for him to fall asleep before she can do that, has to ensure that he’s done.

And the minute she hears it, turns and sees that he’s in fact asleep, she peels the blanket off her naked body and makes her way to the bathroom.

Tempted to lock the door, it’s a declined decision knowing it will only wield a negative, painful outcome. 

Turning the knob and stepping under the hot water, Solana allows it to rain down on her body, soothing the lingering aches and pains from the most recent beating. She also doesn’t hesitate to take the shower head, angling it up to her vagina, doing her best to wash away his sperm. An unnecessary thing given the fact that she’s on birth control and always consistent with it, it just helps her feel better.

As best as one can feel in this situation. 

Standing under the comforting water until her body begins to prune up, Solana steps out, wraps a towel around herself and uses her hand to wipe the fogged mirror, providing a slightly cloudy view of herself. A view that immediately brings tears to her eyes. 

The bruises. The cuts. The internal injuries. The pain no one can see and only she can feel.

Tears streaming down her face, it’s impossible for her to not think of her. To not think of how she’s become the very same person she swore she would never be.

Her mother.

“God.” Solana jumps at the sound of his voice, naturally moving her hand to the knot on her towel that keeps her wet body hidden. He stands in the doorway, leaning, dressed in only boxers. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” Once a compliment that made her blush, it now only invokes nausea. “How much I love you?”

Another sickening thing, but not nearly as sickening as what she makes herself say next. “I—I love you, too.”

He makes a sound, walking over, Solana backing up when he tugs her to him, his hand gliding over her damp shoulder blade. “Say it again.”

A painful, tortuous thing. “I—I love you, Cody.” Delight fills his gaze, an infrequent but hopeful thing as she decides to take a risk, to shoot her shot in one of the few opportunities given. “B–baby?”

“Hmm?”

Her body naturally trembles as she powers through her fear and the terror that fills her being. “I was—I—I was wondering if…..if I could go visit my mom and sister.” He doesn’t say anything, but the movement of his finger ceases. “It’s just—I—I haven’t seen them in over a y—year, and she—my mom—I know she’s worried—”

“Solana, Solana, Solana.” And right then and there, she knows this was one of the worst things she could have ever done. “When will you learn?”

Before she can process what’s happening, before she can even fix her mouth to apologize, sheer pain courses through her body as he grabs her by her ear and slams the side of her face down on the bathroom counter. 

Her body crumbles to the floor as she feels the blood suddenly spilling from the side of her head. Cody crouches down in front of her, face turned almost animalistic, “do you think I’m fucking stupid!”

Crying, she shakes her head and attempts to keep the towel together. “No, no, of course—”

Solana cries out when he grabs her by her hair, pulling her to her feet, yanking her head back, one hand wrapped around her throat, restricting her breathing. “Do you think you can fucking try to leave me?”

She’s gasping, small fingers prying at his hand. An answer is practically impossible with the strength of his grip. 

“I own you! You understand me! You belong to me!” He shouts, once again slamming her face down on the counter. Solana is almost seeing stars, red liquid seeping down the middle of her face. “I fucking told you already. If you ever try to leave me, I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them fucking both!”

Another painful reminder that matches the pain multiplying through her body at his brutal, vicious assault. An evil smile crosses his face as he stares at her through the mirror. “Or, maybe I’ll just kill that bitch mother of yours, huh? Kill her and sell that pretty sister of yours to the highest bidder.”

Solana’s eyes widen, her fear extrapolating as she cries harder. “Please—please don’t—”

“Shut up,” he roars. A stinging punch to her side that would have her doubled over if not for his returned grip to her hair. “If I have to ever remind you of this shit again, I’ll slice you up and feed your body to the fucking dogs!”

A promise followed by him tossing her to the floor and a final kick to her side. “Sleep in here, you ungrateful bitch. I don’t want to see your fucking face tonight.”

Solana jumps when he slaps the light off and slams the door shut. 

The silence and loneliness is welcomed, a rare safe space in her world that has in a matter of a year become anything but.

It was stupid, silly of her to even try to think that she could get away with such a thing. Even if she truly had no intentions of trying to escape. Never would. Not if it means the unspeakable horrors being done to her are extended to the two people she loves the most.

Or worse.

She just truly wanted to see her family. 

Wants to see her family. Her home. The place that carries so many good memories, memories that fade with each day spent in hell.

The tears continue to cascade over, the hollowness in her chest and soul expanding by the minute.

Legs pulled to her chest, a long forgotten tune from such a different almost as painful time in her life returns to the forefront of her mind. Conjoined with the contact name still sitting unused in her phone. 

Journey

Lyrics from a song shared with her from the most unlikely person spilling from her mind and out of her mouth.

“Just a small town girl….” Soft singing accompanies a heavy weight that nearly collapses her chest. “Livin' in a lonely world….” It’s the most she can get out before her sobs overwhelm her. 

Left alone in darkness, it’s hard for her to tell where the rooms’ begins and hers ends. 

[alena-draws]

I’m currently re-animating Vash’s little dance from Episode 2 as a practice, which takes longer than it takes but is lots of fun because there are so many fun poses...and I get to draw Vash. Man, I love that beautiful boy.

So anyway! Here are some WIPs!

[gotta-winwin]

culinaryclasswars!mingyu x whitespoonchef!reader

a/n: culinary class wars will and always will be my roman empire and i can't help but imagine mingyu as a chef competing...

chef!mingyu already had a large internet following before coming to compete. he was widely known to korean netizens as the "househusband chef," famous for his charming looks and endearing persona.

chef!mingyu only joins the show after much persistence from everyone around him - telling him that it would be perfect to both connect with other chefs and to grow his own craft.

chef!mingyu enters filming the pilot, scared out of his wits at the sheer size of the production and the amount of highly respected chefs around him. as he watches more people walk in, the less he believes he's going to make it very far.

blackspoonchef!mingyu, whose very jaw drops at your entrance, rising up on a platform to greet them. he's always been a big fan of your work and your talent, silently mouthing to himself: she's even prettier in person.

blackspoonchef!mingyu works extra hard in the first challenge because he knows you're watching him. he pulls out all the stops, knowing this might be his only chance to impress you. to get you to notice him. in the end, it's both his intense concentration and skill that draw you closer to his station - and it's the bulging biceps and impressive technique that makes you stay.

blackspoonchef!mingyu, who seems to be silently watching you at all times, although he never approaches you during or after filming. you find yourself watching him back, entranced by his fluidity in the kitchen and the confidence that seems to ooze out of him. all your white spoon chef colleagues agree he's a formidable threat.

blackspoonchef!mingyu, who goes home every night after filming only to return to the kitchen, brainstorming creative recipes that would impress the judges. but most importantly, you. it's you he's thinking about while working, both trying to get your attention and your praise.

blackspoonchef!mingyu, who you quickly befriend during team challenges. he's easygoing and extremely fun to be around, making you crack up between shoots and bringing a permanent smile across your face. you find yourself less stressed whenever he's around.

blackspoonchef!mingyu's dreams are slowly coming true as the two of you grow closer. he's bursting from excitement just to be around you, let alone be your friend! he finds himself waking up fully ready to get back to work - competition stress gone and instead replaced by a bubbling feeling of .... is that love?

blackspoonchef!mingyu who can't help but grin whenever he's watching you compete. it's exhilarating to watch you in your element and all the cameras catch his whipped expression as he watches you intently. the hashtag househusbanddownbad trends on all social media platforms the day that episode airs.

blackspoonchef!mingyu who looks at you like you handcrafted each star and placed them in the sky yourself.

blackspoonchef!mingyu who's the first one up and clapping whenever it's announced that you've won your round, resisting the urge to run over and give you a hug. you're equally smitten as you beam up at him, proud that you've won and happy he's there to witness it.

chef!mingyu who's not beat up about the loss because at least now he can get your number and tell you his actual name. he's got a goofy grin as he watches you input your digits, breathlessly telling you that his name is mingyu. he watches you repeat the name and almost faints at the sound of it coming from you.

chef!mingyu who, despite losing, still visits the set every day to see you. he brings you lunch for your breaks, coffee for early mornings, somehow in tuned with your cravings and your needs. more often than not, he's there to drive you home after a long day of filming and cooking.

chef!mingyu, who is the first person you're looking for when you win.

chef!mingyu, who never ever would have imagined you'd ever like him back lets out a tiny gasp when you run into his open arms, going in for a kiss instead of a hug. he's frozen for a moment before realizing shit i should probably kiss her back. the moment is caught on camera, sending fans reeling at the swoon-worthy moment.

chefboyfriend!mingyu who cannot let you go the entire press tour.

[help-itrappedmyself]

Summoning Game Show

Masterpost

They are all in a warehouse fighting a bunch of cultists, trying to keep them from activating their summoning circle when it happens. One of the cultists manages to hit Red Robin across the face hard enough for blood to drip down from you cut. The blood lands in the summoning circle at Red Robin’s feet and he has a moment to realize he is standing in the circle before it starts glowing Lazarus green and sucks him in.

He lands with a yelp in a very large room. There is a podium at the front and people are starting to come in from the walls, but they aren’t human. They are also glowing lazarus green, and Red tracks a boy with white hair and a black suit as his tail turns into legs and he starts walking towards the podium.

Red looks up and the portal is still open above him, but It’s starting to flicker. He assumes that means it’s closing and starts trying to find a way back up there, but it’s to far from any walls, and the ceiling has nothing for the grapple to attach to, and he can’t get any further before Nightwing is falling towards him.

“Oh, shit.” Red mutters, getting out of the way. Of course, Dick rolls with it and pops up ready to fight.

“Red, are you okay?”

“ Fine, but we have no way back up.”

Dick turns to look at the portal, only for Hood and Robin to fall through as well, right before it closes.

Dick and Tim share a look as Damian and Jason pick themselves off the floor.

“Wonderful!” They all turn to the voice at the front of the room. “Now that everyone is here, we can get started! Welcome to the Infinite Realms. I’m Danny, your host for the competition. You are here because you tried to summon the Ghost King, Great One, Slayer of Pariah Dark, Ruler of the Infinite Realms. You shouldn’t have thought it would be so easy. He has brought you here instead so you can compete for the right to an audience. The rules are simple, each round you will compete against one of His subjects, and if you are successful, you will earn a clue in the final puzzle! There will be one round for each contestant to earn a clue. If you lose your round, the others play on without you. Only those still in the game at the end of the last round will have the chance to solve the final puzzle. Any questions?”

The vigilantes looked among themselves. They didn’t mean to be here, but this seemed worth at least getting more information on.

“What happens if we lose exactly?” Nightwing asks.

“You spin the wheel of dimensions, and then Kitty takes care of you.” 

“And… What if we don’t want to play?” Red asks hesitantly. 

There is a frown from Danny. The other ghosts in the room shared looks. Danny starts to flicker as he grows fangs and his eyes start to glow more brightly. 

“Are you trying to tell me that after finding, drawing, and successfully activating your summoning circle, after hearing the terms of engagement you have decided that your goal was not to meet the King, but instead to waste all of our time?”

“No! Nope, we are so ready to compete.” Nightwing states. “We’d love to meet the King.”

“Ah!” Danny calms back into a smile. “Then we continue!”

Danny nods to one of the ghosts, who leaves through a side door.

“Now you can decide who plays each challenge, but remember, each person can only compete in one round. The first three rounds are physical competitions. The first is a timed obstacle course. Since us ghosts have a natural advantage over you guys, this is a timed event rather than a race. However, since we still need to participate, Skulker will be chasing you as Boxy tries to distract you. Choose your contestant!”

Nightwing raises his hand.

Inspired by this post by @phantoms-world-and-more

[writing-mlm]

Hiii, can we please have more college!damian x male reader? Like a scenario where damian loves to draw reader but reader doesn't know this? Maybe friends to lovers? Idk your pick. The artist and his muse type of thing. Also, i LIVE for soft damian on this blog ong.

Forever my Muse

Summary: Damian has his finals coming up and he wants you to join-- at least that's his excuse to get you into the art venue. An artist needs their muse and for some reason, most of Damian's drawings include you in, naturally, he could fill museums with drawings of you. Pairing: Damian Wayne x Male reader WC: 5.8k

Dust-covered fingers were always something you had associated with Damian. Graphite, charcoal, pastels— anything he used to draw or even paint would inevitably stain his hands. It wasn’t intentional, and neither were the fingerprints he left on your stuff, or the paint you could never remove from your favorite sweater, but that didn’t stop him from apologizing. From buying you cleaning products and a new sweater; never mind it has never been worn in the year you’ve had it, Damian felt terribly sorry whenever he felt he’d stained something of yours. 

But never sorry enough to show you his drawings. 

You’d ask, you’d beg, but he would never give in. He’d show you when he was done, sure. You’d see the finished still-life drawings of whatever object had been in the line of sight, the paintings he’d done of his pets whenever he missed them, and the random sketches he did to loosen his wrist. But, damn, sometimes you wanted to see an unfinished drawing that wasn’t a warm-up. 

Even now, as the two of you are on the campus bus heading towards the music hall, he’s drawing. Sitting across from you on the bus, Damian easily adjusts himself to the movements of the bus as it jerks to a stop. He’s nice like that, you’ve never caught him off guard, he’s never fallen or stumbled in the time you’ve known him. 

Studying him, you wonder if he’s naturally so agile. You’ve seen him in your dorm's gym, during all-nighters you can sometimes see him running around campus, and once you had caught him doing one of those athletic challenges for some guy's video. He won. Of course. 

The bus comes to a complete stop and you look away, double-checking that it wasn’t your stop. It wasn’t. You knew that. But still. The need to check was far too great and you slipped back into a conversation with Damian. Only this time, you’re looking down at your phone to double-check the event and his eyes switch from staring at his sketch to staring at you. 

His eyes flicker between you and his drawing, erasing and adding lines where needed. He catches your eyes traveling up and he looks back down, working from memory as you start up a new conversation. 

Eventually, the bus reaches your stop and he carefully closes his book; he always worries he’d smudge his art, while he follows you out of the bus. 

It’s the end of the semester, ergo, it’s finals week. And for one of your music finals, everyone was to prepare a song and perform it. Truthfully, Damian doesn’t understand why you’d picked him to accompany you. He knows he’s not the best comfort, his demeanor often being the reason people don’t stick around too long. 

But, you reassured him. Telling him that his presence was more than enough for you. Knowing that he was somewhere in the crowd calms you down more than you ever cared to admit. 

The walk to the music hall isn’t short, but you can see the large building in the distance. The size is daunting on you as you see the crowd forming at the entrance. People aren’t allowed inside yet, but performers and their guests can head inside before anyone else. 

“I’m nervous,” You admit, wiping your hands on your shirt. “What if I fail?” You mutter, your eyes desperately searching to find solace in his green eyes. 

“You’ll do as you’ve always done,” He nods, looking ahead as you approach the building. “Exceptionally.” His sketchbook bumps against your folder of sheet music and you sigh through your nose, trying to calm down. 

“I’m so gonna choke,” Seeing your reflection in the glass, you feel as if you’d forgotten everything you learned. Every lesson, every mistake you fixed and learned from, the late-night practice performances with your friends. The song you’d composed nearly slips from your mind as you see yourself, walking in that suit and tie you’d worn several years ago. All of it left your mind and you felt like a beginner again. What even was a solfège?

“I'm trained in CPR.” He opens the door for you and gently encourages you inside, his fingers grazing your back. “You weren’t nearly as nervous for your accounting finals.” He notes, falling back into step with you. 

That’s another thing. Maybe that’s why you were so stressed. Double majoring was hellish. Twice the finals, quadruple the headaches. 

“Those were tests,” You scowl, showing the security your campus ID. “I’m going to be performing a live concert in front of nearly a thousand people. I cannot fuck this up, Damian. This is going to be posted for everyone to watch, too,” You ramble on. 

“Which you’ve done before, no?” He presses the elevator button and your heart hammers. You swear you’re going to pass out. He notices, of course, he does, and digs in his bag to find the fidget cube he keeps in there. 

“I have— thank you,” Taking the cube, he nods. “It’s just… I don’t know. Tests suck.” Rolling your thumb along the metal ball on one side of the cube, you stare at the numbers as they slowly tick down to the first floor. 

“That’s true,” He steps inside the elevator and you follow suit. “But you’ve made it thus far, you can go further.” He squeezes your shoulder as the doors close. There’s a silence in the elevator as it goes up to the second floor where you see your teacher waiting at the door to the waiting room, talking to a pair of students. 

“I can,” You affirm, dipping your head down as you smile. 

“You will.” 

—

You’re fifth in line to perform, watching a singer, dancer, another other pianist, and an opera singer go on before you go on did absolutely jack shit to help you. As you’re announced, you step onto the stage and try your best not to accept that there were thousands of eyes on you. Instead, you smile and wave as you walk across that large stage. Desperately looking for Damian in the sea of people. 

He’s in the front, right in front of where you could see when you glance up from the piano, you find out as you’re standing next to the piano seat. 

Damian’s eyes don’t leave yours, making eye contact with you as you fiddle with the buttons of your coat. He motions for you to stop and then does a breathe in breathe out motion with the same hand. Nodding, you blink away from him and hold your hands behind your back. Focusing on your breathing, you listen to the teacher as you’re done being introduced. 

The applause settles as you bow in, take a seat, and flip the page where your music sheet is. Slowly, you start. As a general music major, you weren’t restricted to just playing the piano. As emphasized by the microphone taped to your cheek. 

You aren’t the strongest singer by any means, you’re good for singing in the shower or on drives but you doubt you’d actually make a career off of your voice. What you hope will carry you is the piano, as you press each key your eyes flicker to Damian. He’s attentive, a smile on his face as you perform. 

Testing the waters, you glance at the people around him and they seem… pleased. Happy. Moved, even. You grin and return to staring at the sheet music. All of the notes flood back to you as you reach the last bit of the song, your eyes closing as your voice reaches a peak, holding a note. Then it’s just the piano, your voice echoing in everyone’s mind as the notes get slower and slower until you end it. 

Applause fills the hall and you stand up, taking a bow. Standing there, even if only for a moment, you can’t imagine why you’d been so nervous.

Collecting your sheet music, you exit the stage and hand the mic to the stage tech before leaving. 

When you’re nearing the exit, you spot Damian holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“When did you have the time to get these?” You laugh as he hands them to you. His eyes merely twinkle, refusing to give up one of his many secrets. “Thank you, they’re dope.” 

“You did it,” Damian reminds you as the two of you exit the building. 

“I did! Ugh!” Grabbing his shoulder with your free hand, you give him a little shake. “Thank you so much, you’re honestly the best. Was it good?” Falling into step with him, Damian doesn’t bother to fix his shirt. It’s hardly even moved, but you know he was detail-oriented in stuff like that. Hell, he hates it when he messes with his clothes. 

“It was mesmerizing.” He promises. “I do believe the woman behind me was crying.” Grinning, you stand at the bus stop, suddenly buzzing with excitement. Wanting to do it again, you start to imagine creating your own side business. Wedding musician, you can see it now. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” He avoids looking at you as he’s speaking. A rare occurrence on his part. But he does his best to look at you after building the courage. “I have an art showing next week. I understand the notice is short and you’re—“

“Send me the details.” You grin. His shoulders drop and he nods, clearly more relaxed. “I hope the attire is fancy. I got this fancy turtleneck I’ve been wanting to wear and slacks from my high school graduation just waiting to be worn!” 

—

With all of your finals out of the way, you finally had time to start removing the items from your dorm. One by one you removed posters and trinkets scattered across your end of the room. Pack your clothes into boxes, and save for enough outfits to get you through your two weeks left on campus. 

Damian was held up from finishing his art showing, unable to see you in person but he was more than happy with a Facetime call. With both your laptops placed in a space away from disturbing you, the two of you worked on your tasks. 

“I do need to be at the showing two hours early,” He tells you as you’re dragging the anti-suicide chairs to the closet, trying to see the top shelf. “But I’ll have arrangements to bring you to the venue.” 

“And my outfit is okay?” You ask, the chair wobbling as you stand on it. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. But hey, you’re not the one who installed a closet tall enough that only Shaq could see the top. “Because I can always swap out the turtle neck for a green button down— the silk one that Maddison made,” Always gave a fashion designer friend. She had used you as a model for of her projects a couple of months ago and with your measurements being unique to you, let you have it after she’d gotten her grade. 

“The button-down would be better suited,” He nods, leaning close to his painting before adding a tiny stroke. “The turtleneck is a little… on the nose.” Leaning back, he checks his reference picture before frowning. It goes away quickly as he picks up a bit of white and dabs it onto a dry brush. 

“I was afraid it was,” You laugh, grabbing a first aid kit from the shelf. Listening to him lightly brush the paint over the canvas, you toss the kit onto the bed and grab what little items are scattered up there. “Holy shit! Do you remember when that frat dude lost his frat ring?” 

“Unfortunately,” Damian glances at his screen, watching as you haphazardly get down from the chair. Nearly tripping, he wonders how you've made it this far in life without breaking a bone. 

“I think I did take it! Look!” Showing the screen, Damian looks almost impressed as you hold up a fraternity ring. It’s a shiny gold, likely fake but engraved with the initials of the Frat house. The two of you remember the guy had been going around to every single campus building with a missing ring poster. 

“What a thief,” He chides, setting his brush down and taking a physical step back from the painting. Harsh glares scan over brush strokes, ripping apart his painting bit by bit before he nods to himself. His glare morphs into a soft sort of gaze and he signs the back of it. 

“Is that your final painting for the semester?” You ask, the ring forgotten about as it’s tossed in a box of trinkets and you’ve moved on to ordering food. Probably Panda Express. Or maybe Chipotle…. really it’s whatever is closer and cheaper. 

“Hopefully,” He sighs through his nose, his paint box clicking shut. “I’ve been drawing and painting these past couple of days. My canvases take up an entire section of the art studio. I’m sure my professor cannot wait for them to dry and get glossed. Which I should probably start doing.” 

“How does that taste?” Setting your phone down, Damian’s face goes sour as he looks at you. “Personally, I think the gloss would taste tarty.” You add. “Or maybe like the frosting for Toaster Strudel.” Picking your phone back up, you continue your order. 

“Neither is correct.” He blinks. “It’s a toxin and filled with chemicals, it most likely tastes as good as acetone does, Hab—“ He pauses, and you look at him wondering what the issue is. “Habits of tasting chemicals shouldn’t be one you pick up.” He finishes his sentence with a bit of force. 

“I just love chemicals. Violin resin is my favorite.” Making a chomping noise Damian huffs. As you’re finishing up your order, you look at him. He’s halfway across campus and judging by the rack of canvases he wheeled over, he won’t be back until well into the night. Eh, it doesn’t hurt to ask. “I’m ordering some food, do you want something?” 

“No, thank you, though.” He shakes his head. “I have food from the court in case I get hungry.” He quickly adds. Humming, you place the order and scan over your room. The only things that need to get packed are things you’re still using. Now it’s just a matter of organizing the boxes and bins so you can still move around your room. 

“After the glossing, what’re you doing?”

“I have to write short summaries for each painting. No less than one hundred words,” He explains as he’s putting on a pair of latex gloves. 

“So, a breeze?” He laughs and nods. 

“I’m afraid I’ll go over the word limit,” He admits, sparing you a glance as you’re lugging a box to a corner of your room. “My paintings harbor a lot of my emotions and they’re far from short.”

“Real as fuck.”

— 

On the day of his art exhibition, you spend extra time in the bathroom. Making sure your hair is neat, and presentable, fixing your outfit, making sure you don’t stink. Anything and everything you could check over, you did. 

This nervous feeling was different from your pre-show nerves. Especially since you don’t even know why you’re nervous. Probably because you’d never actually gotten to see his paintings, at least the ones he was showing. He’d been ultra allusive about those, citing the exhibition would be the best place to view them. But even he was nervous and that’s a lot considering he’s Damian fucking Wayne. 

He texted you two minutes ago saying that the car was going to arrive within the next ten minutes and you rushed out to the front of the dorms. No need to lock the door behind you, since your roommate was busy sleeping and would stay in there until you came back. Plucking at your shirt, you watch a sleek black car pull up in front of you, and Damian texts you that the car is there. 

The ride is long, far too long for your liking anyway. But considering it’s in the middle of the city, it’s not unwarranted. 

The art… museum? What should you call it? The space where the exhibition was being held was a well-known art gallery— that’s the word! The gallery was well respected, talked about within art circles, and incredibly high-brow. Thank fuck you didn’t go with that turtleneck. 

There’s a woman in front of the gallery, greeting everyone who enters. She sees you and there’s a flash of recognition across her face. 

“It’s great to finally meet Damian’s muse,” She smiles as she shakes your hand. 

“His what?” You ask but Damian pulls you inside. 

“How was the ride?” He asks, his eyes darting between his professor and you. 

“Good but what did she mean?” You ask, looking around to see the other people around. Like your performance, it was open to the public and with Bruce Wayne’s son being in attendance, many people had showed up. Including his family. “Bruce Wayne is here?” Your head whips to Damian as you spot him in the crowd. 

“He is my father…” He trails. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Fuck no!” You gasp. “The knowledge of his wealth is burying me as we speak— but this is about you,” Turning to him, you smile. “Where’s your paintings? Those don’t look like your style,” Eyes flicker across the paintings and you can’t see Damian’s strokes, his colors or his lighting in any of them. A sort of pride swells within him, knowing that you’ve looked— studied his art enough to know that the ones around you weren’t his. 

“It has its own section,” He tells you, guiding you through groups of people and halls. “It’s going to be revealed in around half an hour. My professor insisted,” He stops at a section of the gallery covered by a curtain and two security guards. You never knew it was that serious, but damn. 

“Mr Fancy. Why don’t you catch up with your family? I’ll look around?” In truth, you were going to the nearest bathroom and making sure you didn't look stupid. 

“I’m more than certain they’d be more pleased if you accompanied me.” He shakes his head as you raise your eyebrows. “If that’s something you’d be comfortable with, of course.” 

“Sure,” Once more, he guides you past people until he spots his father and brother talking in a corner. 

“Father, Richard.” He calls as the two of you approach. “This is (Y/n).” Richard’s lips twitch as he fights back a smile, the smile only furthered curbed by his brother's glare. 

“Hello,” Waving at the two men, they reach to shake your hand instead. Bruce has a firm grip, probably tighter than it really needed to be but Richard is more than welcoming. He’s more than excited to meet you, although you can’t imagine why. 

“My other siblings are still in Gotham,” Damian explains, physically taking Dick’s hand from yours with a pointed look. “Although I’m surprised you didn’t bring Cassandra, father.”

“She’s here,” He shakes his head, glancing around for the mop of black hair. “In the bathroom, probably.” 

“Is that her?” You ask, looking at the woman in the corner. She’s standing there, downing a glass of champagne before returning to a conversation with a man. She looks like how Damian had described her, although he downplayed how intimidating she seemed. 

“Oh boy,” Dick huffs. “Let me go help her,” Excusing himself, you’re left with Damian and his father. The two of them talking with their eyes. 

“So, Damian’s told me you’re a double major,” Bruce breaks the silence and their weird eye conversation. He talks about you? Glancing at Damian, he’s making a point to look anywhere but you. That’s sorta cute— totally not in a romantic way, totally. 

“I am,” You nod, wishing a man with drinks would walk past you. “Accounting and a performing arts major.” He hums and there’s another beat of awkward silence. 

“From what he tells me, you’re excelling at both. That’s incredibly hard. Do you have any job prospects lined up for when you graduate?” He asks and you shake your head. 

“Not yet,” You admit, picking at your hands. “Since I'm not sure where I’d like to settle after I graduate it’s difficult finding places.” Bruce nods, quickly making sure Dick and Cassandra are okay. 

“Well, if your grades continue to stay or improve, Wayne Enterprises is always looking for accountants, especially one so esteemed.” He smiles at you, that sort of small smile that makes you feel more relaxed in his presence. A fatherly smile. 

“Yeah, praise from Damian is a lot.” Dick grins, leaning his weight on his younger brother. Cassandra agrees, leaning against the wall Bruce was standing in front of. “And he talks about you a ton!” 

“That’s enough.” Damian huffs, pushing himself away from Dick who frowns. “Let’s look at some of the artwork,” 

“You talk to your family about me?” You grin as he’s hauling you away from his family. He looks at you, clearly licking the inside of his mouth before he blinks and gives one strong nod. 

“Of course I do, it would be a shame to hide someone so talented.” He explains and then looks forward, his eyes swimming across the faces around him. “I do believe in your talents and my father is someone who can help them flourish; it would seem awfully cruel if I didn’t at least try.” You go to speak; to thank him but his attention is pulled away by the director of the show. 

“It’s time!” She gleams, ushering the two of you after her. 

There are already people gathered in front of his top secret exhibit, cameras and people wearing PRESS lanyards like the front and sides. Much like a moth drawn to a flame, they find Damian walking and try to hound him, only to be stopped by his family. They’re far more intimidating now but Damian pulls your attention from them and towards him. 

The two of you are in front of the whole crowd, the two guards holding one piece of the curtain and waiting for a cue to open them. 

“We welcome everyone to Damian Wayne’s very first art show,” The director says, her hand ghosting over his shoulder. He takes that as a sign to step forward, barely leaving your side as he explains his art. 

“Through My Eyes is a collection of various pieces I’ve created over the course of two years,” He explains. “The music that accompanies the art are pieces composed by my muse.” His eyes find yours as the curtains are pulled aside and for the first time, you notice the way he looks at you. The way his eyes never seem to want to leave yours, how he takes you in the same way he takes in the art around him. 

Then you hear it. More specifically you hear yourself. 

You hear the piece you’d played during your final, hearing your voice fill the spaces where people aren’t talking. Each key, and each note floods your ears as you turn to see his art. 

It’s you.

All of it. Each painting, each frame has something of you in it. 

“Holy shit.” You breathe, moving to the closest one. It’s a painting of you, wearing clothes you’d only seen in shows like Merlin, holding onto a statue of an angel. It’s almost impossible to not know where the inspiration had come from. After convincing Damian to go exploring with you and some friends, you’d come across a newly abandoned church with a large angel statue. On a dare, you pretended to dance with it. 

Sure, you’d seen the picture before but it was nothing compared to the painting. It looked amazing, you had never looked better. Your features were captured in the best way possible, you’d been posed in a way that made it seem as if you were guiding the angel in a dance. 

The description catches your eye next. 

One Last Dance wasn’t the first drawing of Muse, but it was the first drawing of him that I truly loved. He’d resparked a passion for painting for me. The painting had been on my mind for two weeks before I finally started to work on it, having it become my only focus for the two days that I worked on it became the norm for the next two years of my life. 

Muse doesn’t personally care for the Renaissance era, but it seemed fitting for such a painting. The feeling of dressing Muse in modern clothes didn’t ruin the drawing but it didn’t make sense, in my head their dance is accompanied by the sounds of the wings and their feet gliding across the floor. Just outside is probably a mob, unbelievable of a true angel. Muse would probably say that he was dancing to the sounds of Sleep Token and outside was a bunch of ‘angel fuckers’, but who knows. 

D.W

The next painting was smaller than the first, but it’s a close-up of your face. Your eyes are wide and you’re desperately pulling at your eyelids as a light twinkles inside of it. 

Blinding Gaze came about when Muse had gone to the eye doctor, fearing he was going blind. Turns out he was just extremely stressed to the point of temporary blindness. When we spoke about it, he joked that he was developing powers from that time he drank a sports drink mixed with a crushed-up Tylenol and he could shoot lasers from his eyes. While Blinding Gaze doesn’t follow his original plan of lasers, I imagine developing eye lights could be frightening. 

Blinding Gaze isn’t body horror, although I had intended it to be but I couldn’t bring myself to put Muse into that position. Even if it was completely fake. I did eventually remake the painting how I truly envisioned it, but I still prefer my Muse to the remake. 

Drifting to the next painting, you see yourself, dressed in your favorite smudged hoodie, dancing amongst the crowd. The people are drowned out in the colors of the background, nearly blending in meanwhile you’re ever so present. The light shone down on you in a way that made you seem like the main character in some movie, all eyes meant to be on you. 

A Night To Remember was undoubtedly one of the best moments of college thus far. Muse had been invited to a friend's party and insisted I come instead of remaining in the art room, drowning myself in oils and pastels. Although I’ve put his words in a more friendly manner. I hadn’t wanted to go, the noises and being pressed against unfamiliar faces was hardly something I ever enjoyed. But for Muse, I’d do anything he’d asked of me. 

Glued to him for the night, I found myself unreasonably drawn to him. I do not remember the song, in truth, I don’t remember much from that night aside from him. The way he danced, how he looked at me. How he looked in the room. I resented not bringing my sketchbook, but I would’ve been more out of place than I originally had been. 

Smoothening your shirt, you take a nervous glance around you. You’re unsure about how you feel, it’s a lot. You’ve never truly thought about Damian in such a light before, at least not to your knowledge. Sure, you’ve written compositions about him and sure, if you read between the lines in some songs they’re definitely about him. You and Him. 

Perhaps, without realizing it, you had made him your muse just as he had made you his. 

“I want you to see this one,” Damian says as he walks up behind you, finally free of people asking him questions. The music loops as he does and you count that there’s five songs on the set playlist. Each and every song was one you had created. Your song from the previous week plays again as you stare at him, smiling. 

“I’m your muse?” You softly ask, unable to remove yourself from the spot until you have gotten your words out. Damian dips his head down for a moment and wipes his nose. “You’re nervous,” The small tease makes his eyes roll and he clears his throat, the red settling from his tanned ears. 

“I want you to see this one,” He repeats and grabs your hand, gently guiding you past the people surrounding the room. They look at the two of you, watching as you walk up to a large painting in the center of the room. Clearly a last-minute addition but it seemed to be the focus. 

“Woah,” Is all you can say when you see the painting of you during your final. It’s painted in the same style as your favorite art era. The romantic era where colors were soft, even if they were dark. The painting itself had you in the center, a sea of people at the bottom and there are several ghostly figures of yourself, dancing across the stage leaving streaks of yourself at the top. The floor of the stage was covered in candles. 

“How long did this take you?” You ask, eyes darting between details and finding new ones each time you look. 

“Two days,” He shrugs. Slowly, you look at him and he looks back at you, confused. “I couldn’t sleep until I finished the painting. The way you looked during your final.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “It’s truly beautiful— you’re truly beautiful,” He adds, looking at you. 

“When you paint me like that I definitely am,” You laugh, looking back at the painting. 

“I only painted you through my lens. Perhaps your eyes aren’t as good as you think they are because the paintings truly do not live up to their references. You’re captivating and the way you’ve consumed my thoughts is honestly intoxicating.” His eyes twinkle as you look at each other. You don’t know what to say, honestly. You can stroke your ego a little, you could crack a joke, or you could bear yourself completely to him. But definitely not in a room filled with people. 

“Ah,” Dick breaks the silence. “You know he used to be a junior poet?” Grumbling, Damian looks over at Richard as he’s staring at the painting, sipping sparkling champagne from a flute glass while holding a cracker with cheese and jelly. Gross. Probably, you’ve never had it before. 

“I do believe I asked for a moment alone,” Damian gives a half-snarky grin and Dick shrugs. 

“A whole lotta people here, doubt you’d be alone.” With a sweeping motion, he gestures to the crowd around you. It’s not elbow-to-elbow crowded but you can hear at least seven conversations happening around you. 

“I suppose you’re correct,” He nods, following his brother's line of thinking. “Fresh air?” He asks you and you nod. 

There’s a park in front of the exhibit and it’s mostly empty, save for two kids and their parents but they’re clearly about to leave. Damian heads towards the benches but you pull him to the swings. There are three but one of them is tossed over the bar and you don’t feel like fixing it. 

Sitting with your back to the exhibit, you look over the trees and the playground. The sandpit with someone’s lost doll sitting down, a bucket behind it. 

“What did you think?” He spoke up after a minute had passed. The entire time he watched as you gently rocked back and forth on the swings, tempting yourself to actually swing. 

“You’re amazingly talented,” You hum, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Although, I already knew that. You’re like Michelangelo with everything you pick up.” Glancing at him, you smile when you see his hands. “You still haven’t cleaned the charcoal from your nails.” 

“No,” He blinks, his eyes staying closed for a beat longer than a blink. “Not of my skill level, (Y/n). Of the drawings. That you’re Muse.” He looks down at his fingertips and starts to pick at the bits of charcoal. “That you’re my muse.”

Softly you sigh before looking back to the trees. 

“What is there to think about? You’re my muse, I'm yours.” 

“You’ve written songs about me?” He asks and you sheepishly nod, refusing to look at him. “Which? If you don’t mind me asking,”

“Birds of a feather, I wanna be yours, and Golden hour. There’s more but they’re too embarrassing to admit,” Hearing him take a deep breath, you pick at your fingernails and slowly stop swinging.

“What now?” You ask, finally looking at him. He shrugs and starts to slowly swing. He thinks for a moment before he checks his phone. 

“When are you free? I can make reservations to—“

“Applebees or Red Lobster,” You cut him off and he looks at you, confused. “Applebees is once every so often, birthdays or celebrations. But Red Lobster? That’s graduation or date.” 

“You could’ve gone for a five-star restaurant, you know that, right?” He laughs and you shrug. 

“I heard they’re pretty shit. And I want to fuck up a seafood boil. Oh wait,” Blinking, you try to remember the Red Lobster menu. “Never mind, I don’t think they have vegetarian options. We could do Olive Garden or whatever vegetarian places you like. I’m not picky,” 

“And I am?” He teases and you roll your eyes. “Friday, at five. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to Olive Garden. And then to the movies to watch that new horror movie you’ve been wanting to watch.”

“That sounds perfect,” You nod and nudge your swing into his. 

“Can I admit something?” He slowly asks. “Forgive me if I’m being too forward but…” Watching as he licks his lip, you stop swinging. “May I kiss you?” 

“Yes.” You nod. Trying not to seem too eager, the both of you stand up and you watch as he raises his hands to cup your face. His fingers are warm, gliding across your skin as you hook one arm around his waist while the other holds his shoulder. “Do you want to lead?” You whisper as he looks at you, unmoving. His eyes dart down to your lips and he nods before closing the distance. 

His hands drag a little down your face, his pinky curving under your jaw before moving up into your hair. Slowly the kiss breaks and he dips back down for one quick kiss. 

“He’s been waiting months to do that,” Dick announces and Damian groans. You snicker and look behind Damian. Dick isn’t even looking, looking off into the distance before he’s sure that you’re done kissing before looking at the two of you. 

“Must he ruin everything?” He whispers to you before facing his brother. “I understand you have no concept of privacy, but this warrants that.” Dick frowns at the rudeness before he shrugs and points his thumb towards the venue. 

“They’re asking for you, thought I should come and get you before they spot you.” He explains through a sigh. “Would hate for our little demon’s kiss to end up on the front page. But, yeah,” He sighs and looks over at you. He stares at your face for a moment before he chuckles. 

“Take him to the bathroom, you got dust on his face.”

“It’s charcoal.”

[vampsywrites]

forest boy. PT.2

synopsis: while tending to neteyam and ao'nung's injuries, neteyam proposes that you learn some omaticayan healing techniques from his mother. ao'nung does not like this at all and informs his mother. now, both neytiri and ronal are trying to win you over.

pairing: ao'nung x fem! metkayina! reader x neteyam

tags: fem! metkayina! reader, neytiri and ronal fighting for their future daughter in law🤷, tradition being challenged, neteyam pining so hard, jealous ao'nung crumbs, arguments, adding some tension hehe, bonus sweet scene with neteyam

a/n: there are so many fics where reader pins for neteyam who's promised to another, but what if it was the other way around?

w.c: 2.6k | part 1

"Ah! Are you trying to heal me or finish me off?" Ao'nung grunts, flinching instinctively as your hands press against his cut lip. Rolling your eyes playfully, you dip your hand into a bowl filled with cool paste, smearing it across his bruised cheek.

"You can take it," you grin mischievously, applying a bit more pressure to his cheek, eliciting a wince of pain from Ao'nung. Tsireya giggles from behind you, her hands busy crushing a cluster of corals into a fine powder. "You could have used Rubrum coral instead of Heliopora. It stings less."

"It does, yes, but I think this ass deserves it after what he's done," you remark with a playful smirk. Then, you turn your attention to Neteyam, who sits in the corner. "Oh, and don't think you're exempt from this," you grin.

Neteyam chuckles in response. He leans back against the woven walls of the hut, raising his hands in mock surrender.

"Yes, ma'am," he concedes with a playful tone. You smile back, holding his gaze for a moment longer.

Ao'nung notices this and huffs, trailing his fingers up your jaw to turn your gaze back to him, "Can you just focus on patching me up?"

"Alright. Alright. I'm on it!" Shifting in his lap, you scoff and continue to apply the healing paste into his cuts and bruises.

Ao'nung watches intently, his breath held in anticipation as your lips clamp down on your bottom lip. Your brows furrow as strands of curled hair cascade over your face, framing your features. The focused and slightly disheveled look on your face draws him in, and he finds himself leaning closer and closer until his lips were hovering over the shell of your ear.

"You would make a great Tsahìk one day," he murmurs lowly, large hands running up the curve of your hips. Snorting, you continue to massage the paste into his chest, "Ah, shut it. You're just saying that."

"No. He is right. You would," Neteyam affirms, shifting closer until he was flush against Ao'nung's side. The Metkayinan boy shoots him a blank stare, shuffling away awkwardly with you still on his lap.

Ignoring the tension, Neteyam continues, his gaze fixed on you, "In fact, maybe you'd like to learn some healing techniques from my mother? It would be a nice way for you to—"

"We've been over this, forest boy," Ao'nung grumbles, his voice laced with annoyance. He leans back, distancing you from Neteyam's proximity. "She doesn't need healing techniques from your people. My mother offers her all the knowledge she needs."

You roll your eyes good-naturedly at Ao'nung's response. "Alright, alright, no need to get all worked up about it," you say with a playful tone, giving him a light pat on the shoulder before turning to Neteyam.

"I would love to! It would be nice to know how Omaticayans practice healing," you smile, earning a giddy grin from Neteyam in return.

Ao'nung raises an eyebrow, seemingly taken aback by your genuine interest. "Really?" he questions, a mix of surprise and skepticism in his tone.

With a nod, you maintain your smile. "I mean it. Learning about healing practices from different cultures can be valuable. Besides, it's a chance to bond and share knowledge."

Ao'nung's face contorts with a mix of unease and discomfort at the mention of the word "bond." His brows furrow, lips drawn into a tight line as a fleeting flicker of insecurity passes through his eyes.

Neteyam chuckles and nudges Ao'nung roughly. "It is her decision," he says with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The Omaticayan's words hang in the air, and Ao'nung's expression shifts. He didn't like the idea of you getting close to Neteyam's family at all, especially considering how forest boy over here looked at you with heart-eyes every time he saw you.

Ao'nung avoids your gaze, silently contemplating his next move. A plan begins to take shape in his mind, and he smirks.

Bathed in the gentle moonlight that filters through the walls, you find yourself inside the Sully's marui pod, accompanied by Neytiri and Neteyam. Excitement and curiosity brims up within you as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in closer to observe Neytiri's actions.

With a wry grin, he murmurs, "Sure, a collaborative effort sounds… nice."

She delicately scoops up some of the wax, cradling it in her hands. Then, with a gentle motion, she holds it up to the light, revealing its mesmerizing luminous properties. The soft glow of the orange wax enchants you, and you marvel at the beauty of this exotic substance.

Neytiri smiles at you softly, moving the wax down so you could prod at it. In the few weeks that they've been here, she has already grown a soft spot for you. Every day, as you spend more time together, she finds herself drawn to your endearing child-like curiosity.

For a fleeting moment, her gaze flickers towards her son, a knowing smirk gracing her lips as she notices the warm expression on his face.

She did not miss how Neteyam's golden eyes remained fixed on you as you engaged in lively conversation with her.

There was a flicker of longing evident in Neteyam's eyes as his mind begins to wander. He weaved fantasies of a future where you would be by his side.

And although his family has left the forest, turning the likelihood of him becoming Olo'eyktan nonexistent, his daydreams persist.

Vivid images fill his thoughts: images of you adorned with his clan's ornaments, draped in hues of greens and browns that contrast with the cerulean of your skin. He envisions you seamlessly blending with his culture, embracing the natural and tribal aesthetics that define the Omaticaya.

The warmth in his chest intensifies as he thinks and longs for all the possibilities, momentarily escaping the reality that lies beyond his control.

However, Neteyam's thoughts are abruptly interrupted as a figure emerges from the entrance, drawing his attention away from you. His gaze shifts to the imposing presence of Ronal standing by the door.

The Metkayinan Tsahìk regards them with a stony expression, emitting a low greeting. As she saunters into the room, hips swaying, she circles around Neytiri.

"I have heard from my son that you are teaching ways of the forest," Ronal speaks, clicking her tongue.

"I highly doubt such techniques would be of any practical use," The Tsahìk remarks with a hint of skepticism. Her eyes narrow slightly as she fixes her gaze on Neytiri. "Moreover, even if they were viable, where would you source the necessary materials? These are the reefs, not the jungle, after all."

Despite her agitation, Neytiri remains composed, meeting Ronal's gaze with unwavering resolve. "I am simply sharing my knowledge. Eywa provides for us abundantly, Ronal. Nature's resources are vast, and the variety of trees on this island offers a wide array of barks that can be utilized."

Ronal's expression twists into a sneer, her dissatisfaction evident. "My methods have served us well thus far. The ways of the water have their own wisdom," she retorts, her words laced with venomous pride.

As the tension lingers in the air, you shuffle forward, gesturing towards the vacant spot next to you. With a reassuring smile, you interject, "Exploring new methods can expand our knowledge and enhance our capabilities, my Tsahìk. It wouldn't hurt to embrace different approaches and learn from one another."

Your words hang in the air, offering a gentle invitation to Ronal, despite the resistance she displays. Shaking her head, Ronal moves squat by you. "Is that so? Well then what exactly have you learned so far?"

With critical eyes, she watches as you scoop the orange hued wax into your hands.

As you begin to explain, your words tumble out in a blurred speech, as you find yourself overly eager to share your newfound knowledge.

"This is Yalma bark," you beam. "It possesses remarkable healing properties. And the best part is, it barely stings when applied!"

You then pause for a while, your enthusiasm momentarily waning. A hint of upset crosses your features, before you quickly continue, "Unfortunately...the materials needed for it are found only in the forests."

"Which is why I truly wish for an end to this conflict," Neytiri sighs, her voice filled with longing. Her warm hand clasps over yours. "There is an abundance of it back home and I would love to show you more about our ways. My mother, the Tsahik, would be delighted to have you."

Ronal's eyes widen in alarm as she takes in Neytiri's words. The room falls silent as their gazes lock, the tension palpable. A stern expression settles on Ronal's face as she clears her throat, moving to stand before you two.

"Let me remind you, Neytiri, that this girl is under my supervision," Ronal asserts firmly. Her tone carries an undertone of warning. "She is Tsakarem. A position not to be taken lightly. She is my chosen successor."

Silence falls once more and Neteyam keenly senses the escalating tension in the room. With a nod of understanding, he swiftly makes his exit, recognizing the need to give you all space to navigate the delicate topic.

WIth the departure of her son, Neytiri moves to stand, her eyes meeting Ronal's with unwavering resolve. "Tsireya, your daughter, is also Tsakarem, is she not?"

With deliberate steps, Ronal saunters over, reaching out to place a hand against your head, a gesture that carries both possessiveness and authority. "Tsireya studies as well, but Y/N here has excelled in her learning. And I hope you have not forgotten that she is promised to my son."

"Oh, you have made that abundantly clear. I don't need to hear another one of your lectures," Unyielding, Neytiri stands her ground, her eyes narrowing at Ronal's admonishment.

"Then you would know that their path has already been laid out before them! I do not need outsiders like you meddling in," Ronal snarls, fangs bared.

"You hinder them," Neytiri counters, her voice growing more impassioned.

"A-Ah, it is very late at night," you say with an awkward laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm sure we are all exhausted. Why don't we take a moment to rest and gather our thoughts?"

Despite your attempt to diffuse the tension, the underlying apprehension remains palpable, casting a shadow over the situation.

With a huff, Ronal turns to leave the pod, bidding Neytiri a curt "Goodnight." Neytiri, clearly displeased, scoffs in response and moves further into the room.

With a sigh of resignation, you bow apologetically to the Omaticayan woman and obediently trail behind your Tsahik.

As you walk together along the intricate woven paths, Ronal turns to you, her expression grim.

"You understand where your duty lies, don't you?" she asks, her voice firm.

The moon casts its gentle glow upon the sandy beach, and a symphony of nocturnal creatures fills the air. Lost in your thoughts, you stroll along the shoreline, unaware of the soft patter of feet approaching, and the presence that looms closer.

Letting out another weary sigh, you nod your head in acknowledgement. "Yes, Tsahìk."

"Hey," a low voice greets and you turn to see a familiar forest boy before you. Smiling at him, you slow down to stroll by his side, "Hey you."

Neteyam smiles bashfully, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. A comfortable silence settles between you before he finally speaks, his accented voice carrying a slight tremor. "Do you usually take walks at this hour?"

"Mhm," you affirm, pausing briefly before answering in a hushed tone. "I do. It's peaceful at night… The air feels cooler, and it's a chance for me to unwind and let my mind wander."

"Especially since there's a lot of thinking going on up here," you chuckle, tapping the side of your head with your knuckles.

"And what about you?" you question.

Neteyam perks up, his tail swishing behind him anxiously. "Ah, I just happened to spot you from afar. I thought I'd join you…If that's alright."

"Of course, it's more than alright," you reply with a warm smile, genuinely pleased by his company. The moon's soft glow highlights his sharp features, casting a dreamlike aura around him. The two of you continue your leisurely stroll, side by side, as the rhythmic crashing of the waves provides a soothing backdrop.

Curiosity dances in Neteyam's eyes as he gathers the courage to ask, "What were you lost in thought about earlier?"

You take a moment to collect your thoughts, a tad bit touched by his attentiveness. "Oh. I'm just reflecting. The…'conversation' I had earlier with both Neytiri and Ronal left me in deep thoughts, pondering the choices and paths that lie ahead."

Returning the curiosity, you inquire, "What about you, Neteyam? Has something been occupying your mind lately?"

Neteyam lets out a soft hum, and the words escape his lips before he can fully comprehend their weight, "You."

As you take a moment to process his unexpected response, your heart flutters at his confession. The poor boy's face instantly flushes into a deep rich indigo, and his nervousness becomes palpable. In a hasty attempt to backtrack, he stumbles over his words, looking utterly endearing in his flustered state.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, breaking the tension that lingers between you. "No need to be so nervous, Nete," you reassure him, a warm and genuine smile forming on your lips. "Your answer simply caught me off guard, that's all."

The boy clears his throat, a hint of awkwardness lingering in the air as you continue your walk together. After a few minutes of ambling along the shoreline, a subtle change in the atmosphere prompts you to halt in your tracks. Looking up, you realize that you have arrived at the entryway of your marui pod.

Turning to face Neteyam, you feel a tender smile grace your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the connection that has grown between you.

In a swift motion, you close the distance between you two, leaning in to press a delicate kiss upon his cheek.

Then, drawing back slightly, you maintain eye contact, savoring the lingering intimacy of the moment. Neteyam's bright eyes were blown wide open, pools of golden bronze and sunshine yellow piercing through you.

"Thank you for the walk," you murmur, your voice tender and sincere. "I will see you tomorrow, yes?"

Dazed and pleasantly surprised by the sweet gesture, Neteyam hastily nods his head, a blush still lingering on his cheeks.

With a final, gentle glance, you turn away, stepping towards the entrance of your marui pod. The soft crunch of sand under your feet accompanies your departure, while Neteyam stands there, gazing after you with a mixture of awe and disbelief, his heart still running wild from the tenderness of your gesture.

As you enter the sanctuary of your marui pod, the fabric flaps fall shut behind you. And just as you begin to settle into the comforting embrace of your hammock, Neteyam's triumphant shout echoes through the air.

taglist. @iheartamajiki @mashiromochi

You can't help but let out a soft chuckle, the sound muffled by your palm as you cover your mouth, trying to contain the infectious delight that fills you.

[i-tripped-on-a-rock]

more low effort art of Alejandro and Noah!! I love them sm,,,, (I actually don’t like this drawing as much but it’s not horrible so I thought I would post it)

Some more of the fic out of context:

“The challenge begins in ten minutes! You kids have fun, I’ve got places to be!” Chris says into his large megaphone as the helicopter begins to take off. Noah rolls his eyes and hugs his arms closer to his chest. Cold and angry is never a good combination. Next to him, Alejandro scoffs quietly. Noah glances over at the taller teen, eyes still obscured by his sunglasses. Alejandro’s mask of “calm, kind, and flirtatious” is no where to be seen. The rest of the contestants are further away, and he hasn’t noticed Noah’s eyes on him yet.

“¿Qué ‘lugares’? ¿Una residencia de ancianos?” Alejandro mutters. He clearly didn’t mean for Noah to hear what he said given how quietly he spoke, and it took all of Noah’s self control to not burst out in startled laughter. He bites his bottom lip to suppress a laugh. His Spanish isn’t great-he’s barely conversational- but he understood enough. “What ‘places’? A retirement/nursing home?”

There was something about the way he said it that set Noah off. Alejandro had this air of irritation to him that Noah sees every morning when he looks in the mirror. He’d never seen the teen more unhappy to be here than in this exact moment, and it only made it more funny to him.

Every once in a while, Alejandro’s mask would slip up and Noah would get to see through his facade, even if it was just for a split second. He would make some sarcastic or mean comment, or just glare at a contestant. The mask was never down for more than a moment, but Noah noticed. Alejandro… he wasn’t that bad in those moments, if Noah was being completely honest with himself. The mask would slide right on the moment he remembers there’s people around, or when someone talks to him. It was like whiplash, despite how minor the changes were. It was almost impressive how much of a difference a few relaxed facial muscles and a charming smile could make.

Noah realizes he failed to suppress a snort at Alejandro’s comment when the other teen turns to look at him. Noah freezes like a fever in headlights as Alejandro stares at him. What surprises him the most, however, is that despite Alejandro realizing someone heard him, he hadn’t tried to hide behind his facade again. That irritating smile that Noah hates so much isn’t anywhere to be seen. Alejandro looked like he was silently speedrunning the 5 stages of grief before finally landing on confusion. It wasn’t until Alejandro began to speak that Noah remembers that he’s not supposed to know Spanish.

“Do you-“

“Sorry! I, um-.” Noah blurts out, frantically searching for an excuse and praying to any god that’s listening that his sunglasses are obscuring enough of his face to hide his panic, “I. I sneeze weird. I have mild anemia and get cold easily, and it’s already cold as hell here.”

Not a complete lie- he does mild anemia- but he’s basically rambling. Before Alejandro has the time to doubt or question him, Heather yells out to them.

“You two losers better get your asses over here! I will not have my win be delayed!” She’s stood further away from them with the rest of the contestants a bit away, stood in front of the beginning of the next challenge. Noah gladly latches on to the chance to switch topics

“Careful with all the cursing on camera, Heather! We wouldn’t want Chris to chop off all your hair again!” Noah calls back has he begins his trudge though the snow towards the challenge. He avoids Alejandro’s stare as he walks past and hopes he won’t push the issue. It’s too early into the game to be making mistakes, especially when it involves his biggest threat.

[xuchiya]

"stuck in this fairytale" || choi san || series || epilogue

| genre: prince! san. fluff. angst. adventure | mentions: cursing. | here's the first part

masterlist

ONE WEEK LATER...

The restoration of the kingdoms progressed slowly but steadily, like new shoots emerging from scorched earth. The JeoKang Kingdom began to bloom once more. Trees that had stood lifeless for years now swayed with vibrant leaves, their branches alive with the chatter of birds. The gardens, once barren, now boasted bubbling fountains and fragrant blooms. The people returned to their homes, their laughter echoing through the cobblestone streets. The kingdom itself seemed reborn, its essence transformed into something stronger, brighter, and filled with hope.

In the Jung Kingdom, trade flourished anew. After years of isolation, the gates stood wide open, welcoming merchants and travelers alike. Caravans loaded with exotic goods and medicinal herbs moved back and forth between kingdoms, rekindling alliances and friendships. The air carried the mingling scents of spices, dried flowers, and the faint metallic tang of coins exchanging hands—a testament to a future built on collaboration.

The Kim Kingdom radiated wisdom. Scholars filled its libraries, their heads bent over ancient tomes as they sought solutions for tomorrow's challenges. The people, guided by the kingdom’s sage leadership, found balance in their lives. “A wise man hears one word but understands two,” the saying went, and the wisdom of the Kim Kingdom was reflected not only in its governance but in the clarity of mind and health it brought to its people.

Finally, there was the Choi Kingdom. Though it would never be as it once was, it had begun to rebuild into something even better. The scars left by the curse remained, but they were now markers of resilience and growth.

As sunlight beams into your room, the morning light pours in through tall windows, illuminating the large bookshelf that San had personally commissioned for you. The golden rays danced over the polished wood, casting soft shadows that seemed to breathe life into the quiet stillness of the room. Your fingers brushed along the spines of the books, feeling the smooth leather covers and gilded titles, their intricate designs catching the light. Each book held a story, a piece of history, or a dream of what could be, their very presence filling the air with a comforting sense of possibility.

A small smile graced your lips as your eyes scanned the thick and thin pages of the books. There was something endlessly satisfying about the sight of books stacked neatly on shelves. It brought you back to childhood, where you often imagined yourself in a world of endless stories and knowledge. The scene reminded you of Belle—a kindred spirit and bookworm—who had tamed a beast and found love in the unlikeliest of places.

The thought drew a chuckle from you until it suddenly shifted to San, and your heart faltered for a moment, thudding loudly in your chest. Your smile faded into a look of surprise as a blush crept to your cheeks. It had been almost a week since San had come to your chamber at the JeoKang palace. His visits had been frequent enough to draw attention, though he had insisted on coming to "see the hero of the kingdoms."

You had tried to play off his visits as casual gestures of gratitude, but you couldn’t ignore the glances, the subtle warmth in his voice, or the way his expression softened when his gaze lingered on you. The hero of the kingdoms—those were his words—but through the eyes of their distant cousins, Yunho and Yeosang, you suspected there might be more to it.

You exhaled a shaky breath, trying to steady the sudden flutter in your chest. Your hand paused as it touched one particular book, different from the rest. The leather was worn, and its edges frayed, as though it had been read countless times. It was the book—the one that had brought you to this world. Your breath hitched as you pulled it from the shelf and sat on the edge of your bed, the weight of it settling in your lap.

The pages flipped easily beneath your fingertips, each one carrying the familiar scent of old parchment. You stopped at the place where you had left a bookmark weeks ago—the story of the first dragons created by Brigid, the goddess. Your heart tightened as you read, memories of recent events flooding your mind. The parallels between the tale and what you had experienced were too surreal to ignore.

One illustration caught your attention. A woman stood surrounded by towering shelves of books, her face streaked with tears. The library seemed otherworldly, filled with a golden light that softened its grand, infinite expanse. The details tugged at your memory, though you couldn’t quite place why.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

“Miss Brigid, Sir San is looking for you,” Seonghwa’s voice came from the doorway, his tone polite but warm.

You glanced at him, nodding as you reluctantly closed the book, though your fingers itched to read more. It had been so long since you and San had spoken—his days consumed by the kingdom’s restoration. This was your chance to reconnect.

“Is he alright?” you asked as you returned the book to its place on the shelf.

Seonghwa chuckled, his tone light. “More than alright. He’s been asking for you all morning.”

Walking down the hallway with Seonghwa, you noticed the subtle shifts in the castle—the softened tension in the air, the gentle smiles exchanged between guards and servants. It felt lighter, more alive, than it had a week ago.

Seonghwa cleared his throat, glancing at you. “I should thank you for everything you’ve done. Not just for us but for everyone.”

You looked up at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “There’s no need to thank me, Seonghwa.”

He stopped abruptly, turning to face you with an intensity that made you pause. “You haven’t just saved the princes’ lives. You’ve rewritten the story itself.”

Your brow furrowed as his words settled in. “The story?”

Seonghwa’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You have saved these people from meeting their doom, Miss Brigid. And afterall, you are a descendant of Brigid, aren’t you? The goddess who created the dragons, the keeper of balance and the justice maker. This was more than fate—it was your history unfolding before you.”

The realization struck like lightning. You had been so consumed by lifting the curse and uncovering the Choi family’s truths that you had barely thought about your own origins. Being a descendant. Now, pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Your mother’s fiery red hair that you thought was just natural orange hair, your father’s dark locks, and the inexplicable warmth you had always felt within yourself—all signs you had overlooked.

“I... I am,” you murmured, your voice wavering as the truth took root in your mind.

Seonghwa tilted his head, studying you. “You seem troubled. Have you been struggling to make sense of your past?”

You looked away, the weight of your thoughts bearing down on you. “It’s not that. It’s... I thought this was just a story. A fairytale. But it feels so real, like it’s more than that.”

Seonghwa regarded you for a long moment before stepping closer, his expression soft. “Sometimes, the truth hides in plain sight, dressed as a story to protect itself. But you have lived it, Brigid. You are part of it, and it is part of you.”

Your breath caught as his words resonated deeply. Was this world truly a reflection of your past, a mirror held up to show you who you were meant to be? Or was it something more?

“Is this... real?” you asked, your voice a whisper laden with emotion.

Seonghwa’s brows knit together, his own uncertainty mirrored in his eyes. “Does it matter if it is? What matters is what you do with it now.”

Before you could respond, the heavy oak doors of San’s office creaked open, revealing him standing at his desk. His gaze lifted, meeting yours, and for the first time in weeks, his expression softened into something almost resembling peace. And in that moment, surrounded by restored kingdoms and unanswered questions, you realized that whether this was a fairytale or reality, it was yours to shape.

When San let you into his office, your eyes immediately landed on the familiar faces gathered around a round table—Wooyoung, Yunho, Yeosang, Hongjoong, and Noella, with Mingi casually leaning against the wall in the corner. He waved enthusiastically, and you waved back, utterly perplexed by the sudden reunion.

“Are we recreating the Knights of the Round Table?” you joked, hoping to lighten the mood. While most of them looked at you in confusion, Wooyoung snorted, his laughter breaking the tension. Even after everything you'd been through in recent weeks—no, months— Wooyoung felt light as your sense of humor hadn’t abandoned you entirely. The sound of your humor warmed him. 

“No,” San answered, his tone both amused and serious, “but Yunho found something important.”

Curiosity piqued, you allowed San to guide you to the table, his hand on the small of your back. Your cheeks burning and your body sparks. It was when you reached the table, your gaze shifted to the centerpiece—a book surrounded by scattered papers, their edges slightly curled.

“What is it?” you asked, eyes darting between the group. Yeosang stepped forward, a small grin tugging at his lips. “It’s about your world and ours. Apparently, your world has a portal that connects to this one—and to others as well. These portals can only be accessed by those who share a connection to the universe.”

You squinted, trying to wrap your head around the revelation. “Which means…?”

Yunho stepped in, handing you a picture. Your breath caught in your throat the moment you saw it—it was the very illustration Aven had shown you back at your mother’s house.

“This…” you began, your voice trembling with shock. “This is the one Aven gave me.”

Yunho nodded. “Aven wasn’t just a guide in your world. He was Brigid’s messenger. Whenever her lover, the True King Jeoyoung, was away, she sent Aven to deliver messages and look out for him.” He gestured to the picture in your hands. It also brought you back to how you met Aven— the zoo’s eagle. It didn’t leave your shoulder, many of the zookeepers lured him with various snacks and foods but to their avail, it stayed on your shoulder. 

“Aven isn’t just the only one who stayed on your side.” Wooyoung whispers. You look at him, confused as to what he is pertaining to. He gave you another illustration yet it was just a polaroid. It was you, Wooyoung and Jongho.

Your eyes burned from the tears and your nose clogged at the sudden rush of emotions. Wooyoung had told everyone about Jongho’s sacrifice. That night, every kingdom assembled and lit up lanterns to offer their gratitude to Jongho. You couldn’t sleep that night because of what happened, Jongho is someone you hold dearly in your heart. That little bear that stood lost in the crowd. 

“Jongho was Aven in my universe.” You whisper, your thumb brushing his gummy smile. Jongho stays beside you whenever Wooyoung is occupied with his works. Jongho keeps you safe whenever you return from your night classes to your dorm. Even if San had come along the scene, he still kept himself present in your eyes.

San noticed your shaking shoulders and pulled you to his chest, “He is written amongst the stars. The one you point at night.”

Now, the illustration seemed even clearer. Your eyes focused on the image—a castle, a dragon, and two figures standing side by side. Brigid and King Jeoyoung. A small bright star at the far right corner of the illustration.

“That’s not you, nerd,” Wooyoung chimed in, breaking the solemn silence. He smirked as you rolled up the paper and smacked him lightly on the head. “I know it’s not me,” you retorted, voice slightly muffled from the clogged nose as you try not to suppress a smile. “But my grandma and I do look alike.”

“Of course she’s your grandma!” Wooyoung countered, grabbing a nearby paper, rolling it up, and swatting you back. The room collectively groaned as the two of you bickered although relief from your light impact on the topic about Jongho. San stepped between you, snatching the makeshift weapons from your hands. “Enough. Brigid, you’re uncovering answers about your past. And Wooyoung, focus!”

“You two seriously…” Seonghwa muttered, shaking his head.

You turned back to Yunho, an apologetic smile on your lips as he chuckled, shaking his head. You were eager to redirect the conversation. “So, you’re saying I traveled here because my great-grandmother was Brigid’s daughter?”

Yunho nodded solemnly. “Their story ended mysteriously, leaving few answers. But since you’re here…” He motioned for Hongjoong, who handed you a book.

“This,” Hongjoong said, his voice calm and steady, “was stored in our library. It’s written by your great-grandfather, recounting Brigid’s life and her legacy.”

Your fingers trembled as you took the book. The cover was worn but familiar, as though it had been waiting for you.

“So… I can go back and forth between this world and mine?” you asked hesitantly, the initial thought of having two worlds that you can travel as portals existed. An awkward silence fell over the room. Most of them avoided your gaze, save for Wooyoung, who, ever confident, spoke up. “Even if you’re connected to both, a life you belong to will stay rooted where it is.”

Your heart sank at his words, looking around to confirm what Wooyoung said. “So… I can’t?”

Mingi shook his head slowly, the solemn expression on his face making the reality even harder to bear. The weight of the revelation hit you—this might be the last time you’d see this world, this other version of yourself, or the people who had become so dear to you.

“Each universe holds its own imperfections,” Noella said softly, her smile tinged with bittersweet understanding. “Not everything works out the way we want, but each world functions as it should. Pain, imperfection—they make the universe what it is.”

Her words lingered in your mind as the group fell quiet. Then Wooyoung’s voice broke the silence. “Nerdy girl…” You turned to him, noticing the uncharacteristic seriousness in his expression.

“You might have the chance to go home,” Your heart lifted slightly at his words, “We’re going home?!” you said, optimism lacing your voice.

But Wooyoung didn’t smile back. His solemnity deepened as he shook his head. “No… “ His eyes look around as though the final news or whatever vibe you failed to notice from the beginning dawns at you as this meeting was not all about your family tree line.

Your face pale as you look at Wooyoung. You studied his face, searching for any sign of doubt, but all you saw was quiet conviction. His breath hitch as another set of fresh salty tears were in the corner of your eyes. His nose had burned from the upcoming tears, “I-I’m not coming with you.”

His words stopped you cold. “What? What do you mean, Woo?”

“This is my home,” he said firmly, gesturing around him. “This is where I belong.”

Wooyoung sighed, the weight of his decision evident in his eyes. “It may sound selfish, but I grew to love your world—being a normal person, a college student, hosting parties, making friends. But my only reason for being there was my mission. Hongjoong gave me a vision, a glimpse of what he saw. The answers were in your universe, and I had to find them. Now that I have finished my part and you save us all… I have no more reasons to go back.”

A lump formed in your throat as his words sank in. The time you’d spent together, the bond you’d built—it was all coming to an end.

“Wooyoung…” you began, your voice trembling, but he cut you off with a small, sad smile.

“I’ll miss you nerdy girl.” You swallowed hard, nodding as tears blurred your vision. Saying goodbye to this world, to him, felt like losing a piece of yourself. But as you glanced around the room at the faces you’d come to love, you realized that your journey had been about more than lifting a curse or uncovering your past. It was about discovering your strength, your place, and your connection to both worlds.

“Even if I leave,” you said softly, “I’ll carry all of you with me.”

Wooyoung grinned through his own tears. “And we’ll always be here—rooted where we belong.”

As you clutched the book to your chest, you knew that no matter where you went, you’d never truly be apart from this world—or the people who had changed your life forever.

The meeting had ended on a solemn note, leaving you feeling as though the weight of the universe was pressing against your chest. As San walked you back to your room, you clutched the ancient book tightly. The leather cover felt cool under your fingertips, but the knowledge it held burned in your mind. Each step felt heavier, the reality of your situation sinking deeper with every stride.

You couldn’t help but think about the people you'd come to care for in this world—the bonds you'd formed, the laughter, the struggles, and the unexpected moments of peace. Would it all disappear the moment you stepped back into your own universe?

As you entered your room, you stopped in front of the bookshelf San had crafted for you during your time here. Its polished wood gleamed softly in the dim light, filled with books and trinkets from your adventures. Your fingers ghosted over the edges of the shelves as your vision blurred.

San lingered by the doorway, his arms crossed but his expression open, watching your hunched shoulders and faraway gaze. He hated seeing you like this. A part of him wanted to say something, to reassure you, but how could he? The reality was as cruel as it was undeniable—you belonged to another world, and no matter how connected you felt here, this wasn’t your home.

With a deep breath, he stepped inside. “Hey…” His voice was soft, almost hesitant.

You turned slowly, your eyes meeting his for a moment before you let yourself lean into his chest. His warmth grounded you, a temporary solace in the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside. The steady beat of his heart was a contrast to the erratic rhythm of your own.

“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly.

San rested his chin atop your head, his arms wrapping around you protectively. “I know,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to feel sad about leaving us. You’ll always carry a part of this with you.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with tears clinging to your lashes. His hand came up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. “Wooyoung said there are people who look exactly like all of us in your world,” He said, yet you shake your head in disagreement as a frown settles. “But it’s not the same. The life we’ve lived here... it’s different.”

San gave a small chuckle, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Then make a difference,” he said, tapping a finger gently between your brows to ease the frown forming there.

“What do you mean?”

His expression softened as he cupped your face, his thumbs lightly grazing your jaw. His gaze held yours, sending a shiver down your spine as heat rushed to your cheeks. “If you want things to change, you take the first step. Change begins with you. Whether here or in yours, the journey starts with one choice— it's yours to take and risk.”

The sincerity in his voice struck a chord deep within you. For a moment, the ache in your chest lightened. But the thought of leaving this world, leaving him, still clung to your heart like a vice.

“San…” you began, but the words caught in your throat. He smiled faintly, his hands lingering on your face. “Brigid,” he said softly, then paused. “Or should I call you by your real name?”

Your eyes widened in surprise. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up, especially now. The sound of your real name slipping from his lips made your heart flutter unexpectedly, and a small, playful smirk crept onto his face. The Choi San smirk—the same mischievous expression, from yours and this, he wore whenever he and Wooyoung teamed up to prank Jongho.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, despite yourself. “How do you always manage to make my heart race?”

“Because you already won my heart.”

Before you could say more, San’s gaze grew more intense, his hands steadying your face as he whispered your name again, this time with a reverence that made your breath catch. The space between you vanished as his lips pressed against yours in a kiss so soft, so full of unspoken emotions, that it left you dizzy.

Your hands instinctively found his wrists, your fingers curling gently as you gave in to the moment. The kiss wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was a quiet exchange of everything you both couldn’t put into words. His touch was warm, grounding, yet bittersweet, as if he was memorizing this moment in case it had to be the last.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed as he let out a shaky breath. “No matter where you go,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, “you’ll always be a part of this world.”

“And... you’ll always have a place here.” He said as he guided your hand towards his beating chest. Both of your eyes locked once again. Tears welled up in your eyes again, but this time they weren’t solely from sadness. There was something else—a mixture of gratitude, love, and the faintest glimmer of hope.

“San…” you whispered, your voice steady despite the emotions threatening to spill over. He smiled softly, brushing his thumb along your cheek one last time before stepping back. “You’ll be okay,” he said gently, his voice tinged with the reluctance to let you go.

As he turned to leave, your hand ghostly reached out for him but pulled back, you clutched the book tighter to your chest, your gaze lingering on him. He turns around, “I’ll see you again, my sapphire.”  Until he disappeared down the hallway. Alone in your room, you let out a deep breath, feeling both the weight of the decision ahead and the comfort of knowing you wouldn’t face it alone—not truly.

For even if this chapter of your life was ending, the memories and connections you’d made would stay with you, guiding you through whatever came next. As new tears streaked down your cheeks, you whimpered softly, squinting against the bright light that suddenly enveloped you. Instinctively, you raised your arm to shield your eyes, but the brilliance was overwhelming. Closing your eyelids became your only refuge.

When the light began to fade, you slowly lowered your arm. For a moment, you lingered, dazed and unwilling to accept the quiet truth settling in your chest: the pain of parting. It felt like the weight of everything you’d experienced crashed down on you at once, leaving you hollow.

A voice suddenly broke through your haze.

“Oh? You’re here?—Hey, why are you crying?”

Startled, you turned toward the voice and froze as arms wrapped around you in a tight embrace. The scent of cologne tickled your nose, bringing with it a bittersweet comfort. When the person pulled away, holding you at arm’s length, their worried eyes scanned your tear-streaked face.

“I’ve been searching for you for the past two hours!” they said, frustration laced with concern.

You furrowed your brows, confusion swirling in your mind. Slowly, you glanced around, noticing the Victorian-style room was gone. In its place were the familiar colors of your university. The huge ceiling fan spun silently overhead, and the muffled hum of students echoed faintly in the background. You were surrounded by bookshelves, their spines a comforting reminder of the library you frequented.

Looking back at the person before you, your gaze settled on their worried eyes. A faint smile tugged at your lips despite the tears that refused to stop.

“I... I’m okay, Mingi” you whispered, the words as much for them as for yourself. It was at that moment, you totally forgot why you were standing there inside the library and why you have tear stains in your eyes.

Heck you don’t remember why you have a book about “Stuck in this fairytale” on your hand and the page was bookmarked to where two people share a moment and the last thing that guy said is, “I’ll see you again, my sapphire.”

The following weeks passed in a blur. Though life had returned to normal, a strange sense of déjà vu lingered in your heart. It was as if the world was nudging you, preparing you for something.

Yunho had burst inside the library, startling the students and the librarian shushing him as he sheepishly apologised and rushed towards you both worriedly after Mingi found you in that library, dishevelled and confused. At first they thought you were so immersed in the story because of the bookmark to the two people kissing.

But they weren’t expecting you to react in a way that is out of yourself. “I— I don’t know … I don’t even remember having this book.” You whisper as your finger traces the outlines of the said prince of the story. A tinge of familiarity tickles your brain yet you couldn’t place a finger on it.

 Both Mingi and Yunho stare at you confused and concerned as tears run down your cheeks. That day, they have to drag you to the nearest arcade place to distract you. It was successful despite the harsh winds of November hitting your face when you stepped out of the library. The wind was comforting even if it nips your skin, you look around as it just drapes around you in a warm way.

A week goes by and when you entered the university campus, Mingi had pushed you into joining the student council because of your steadfastness and stubbornness along with your fierce look. That was like weeks after your weird encounter inside the library. You knew about these two boys distracting you in whatever you were going through and you were thankful for that.

Back to where Mingi had written your name in the list of the student council. It was ridiculous at first because you weren’t that competitive but when you saw your opponents, it was like a sudden burst of fire or determination flared inside you. 

And that is where the first time you met Wooyoung. He is loud yet his voice is fierce and strong. It was during a heated student council meeting. He stood out immediately, his energy and charm commanding the room. He caught you watching him and gave you a grin that made you feel both seen and challenged. Something about him felt... familiar, though you couldn’t place why.

“Fire playing with fire does get you burned but hey … “ He sticks his hand out, a smile on his lips, “Friends?”

You chuckle, gripping his hand as you shake it gently, “Friends, Wooyoung.”

Months have passed and you, along with your new friends, Wooyoung and Yeosang— that you met during your Christmas break. He works part-time in a museum that your mother took you to. He works to explain the illustrations. It was that day when the museum wasn’t that busy as always and you found yourself wandering around the goddess area as your mother yaps on one of the statues with your aunt. 

“She looks like you.” A voice said. You turned and saw someone the same age as you, also staring at the illustration. If it were a different person, you would laugh and thank them politely but this person made your eyes widen and blush crept in your cheeks.

“I— Thank you?” He chuckles, turning to you. His side profile seems so perfect already but seeing his entire face plus the red spot on his cheek, it was that moment you have seen a statue alive. 

“I meant it to be true. She looks like you, the curls and the redness of your hair.” He explains. You return your gaze to the illustrations and to be exact, the guy was true. It did look like you in some angles that your eyes gaze a little too long. “She is Brigit, she’s a goddess of the hearth, forge, and sacred flame.” 

Nodding, yet your head tilted to the side when you noticed a creature behind her, it was something in your head that had been tickling you. Pointing, “Is that a dragon?”

He hums, “She gave birth to the first breathing dragons— actually before it was dragons, it was called …”

“Pseudodragons.” Your voice overlaps with his to which he finds shocking as he watches you stare with a frown on the illustrations. He walks up to you yet maintains the distance between you two, “It seems like you know more about this than I do …”

You turned to him, inside you were in confusion but there was a pull that this is going on the right path, “Perhaps … I do.” 

Senior year arrived with its relentless demands, and your role as head of the student council kept you busier than ever. And as soon as you mentioned bloody works, you were walking around the campus to find Wooyoung because he decided to ditch at the last minute.

Grumbling, you huff as you turn down the corner and approach the open area where students go around in finding their designated clubs. As you pass by a desk, Jongho raises his head to place a banner on their table which is the student council.

You weren’t quite aware of the new member of the student council after your senior— Seonghwa— gave his position to you as the head chief of the student council. Jongho has been part of the student council for quite some time during the Christmas break, immersed in his responsibilities when he notices you, looking lost but determined to find something or someone. Before he had a chance to offer help— it was you who approached him but in a different matter— you’d hurried over to him, grabbing his arm just in time to pull him out of harm’s way as one of the string lights hanging above came crashing down where he’d been standing.

The moment left him stunned, but you only brushed it off with a simple, “You’re not hurt, are you?” He nodded slowly, still processing what had just happened, while you let out a relieved sigh, you were about to speak when Wooyoung appeared behind you, tackling you with his usual playful energy. Jongho heard you laugh as Wooyoung’s arm draped around your shoulder, pinching his side in response to his antics and it sent calmness in his whirlwind mind.

“Oh Jongho! You met my friend here! This is your head chief—” You elbow Wooyoung playfully as you look at Jongho, sticking your hand out with a smile on your lips. 

“Nice to meet you Jongho.” When your hands clasp, an electricity zaps between you two. Both of you must have felt that electricity as you stared at each other with wide eyes. It was like something clicked in your mind that is yet to be known.

New Year’s came and went in a blur, and soon February arrived, bringing with it a campus draped in red hearts, pink ribbons, and mischievous little cupids seemingly floating over your head. The festive decorations felt like a personal affront as you groaned, dodging a massive bouquet of red roses that nearly hit you square in the face. A guy rounded the corner excitedly, oblivious to the near-collision as he hurried to surprise his girlfriend.

It wasn’t the romantic atmosphere itself that irked you—though, admittedly, it might have been a little of that. The endless barrage of chocolates, squeals, and hand-holding couples was grating.

"Seems like someone woke up on the wrong day," Yunho teased, leaning casually against the lockers with a knowing smirk. Beside him, Mingi, Wooyoung, and Jongho chuckled, clearly enjoying your irritation.

You crossed your arms and stopped in front of them, huffing dramatically. "Oh, hush! If I could abuse my position as head chief, I’d ban Valentine’s Day on this campus altogether."

Your indignation only made them laugh harder, and you retaliated by kicking off your shoe and playfully throwing it in their direction. Mingi barely dodged, holding his sides as he doubled over with laughter.

The moment was interrupted by Seonghwa, who appeared with a regal air, followed by Hongjoong. With a flourish, Hongjoong handed you a paper bouquet, while Seonghwa dramatically slung a glittering sash over your shoulders.

“Make way for the Queen of Hearts!” Seonghwa announced with a grin, drawing curious stares from passing students.

You blinked in surprise, looking down at the sash’s glittery letters spelling out the title. "Wait—what? Where’s this coming from?"

“Where’s the crown?!” Seonghwa called theatrically.

As if on cue, Yeosang appeared from the far end of the hall, carrying a delicate crown adorned with red and gold accents. He approached with his usual quiet confidence, gently placing it on your head and adjusting it until it was perfectly set.

“Perfect,” Yeosang said softly, stepping back with a satisfied nod.

The boys erupted in cheers, with Mingi and Wooyoung hyping you up so loudly it was impossible to hide your embarrassment. The attention from nearby students only made you retreat behind the paper bouquet, your cheeks burning.

“Alright, alright, let’s take it to the club room,” Hongjoong interjected, ever the responsible one, shooing the group toward a less crowded space.

As the group began moving, Wooyoung suddenly broke away, “You guys go ahead. I’ve got someone to meet!”

You furrowed your brows at his departure, curiosity sparking, but decided to let it go. You’d pry it out of him later, knowing Wooyoung couldn’t keep a secret for long. Back in the club room, Yeosang placed your crown, sash, and bouquet carefully on one of the tables before settling into a seat. His art and calligraphy classes kept him on the other side of the building most of the time, which explained why he often seemed like a rare guest among the group.

Seonghwa, always one to blend work with banter, perched himself on a table and gestured toward a stack of junior applications for the student council. “Head chief,” he began with mock seriousness, “what’s your verdict on the next batch of council hopefuls?”

You leaned on the edge of the table he sat on, scanning the neatly organized stack. "Honestly, it’s not just about their qualifications. It’s about their will and determination to balance the responsibilities of handling each club while keeping up with their studies."

Seonghwa nodded thoughtfully, his expression serious for a moment before a grin broke through. "You’ve been hanging around Hongjoong too much. That’s exactly what he’d say."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Being surrounded by this lively, supportive group had turned what could’ve been another Valentine’s Day to dread into something memorable.

As you were engrossed in the papers in your hands, Yunho let out a curious, amused sound that broke your focus. His sudden noise pulled your attention, and you turned to see him gazing out the window, his expression equal parts fascination and bewilderment.

“An eagle!” he exclaimed, pointing outside.

Your brows knitted together in confusion as you followed his gesture. Perched on one of the tree branches outside, a magnificent eagle sat perfectly still, its sharp eyes locked on the room. It didn’t move or flinch, even as the group began to stir around you.

“That’s odd,” you murmured, stepping closer to the window.

The boys crowded near the glass, each one squinting at the bird as if trying to decipher its intentions. You stood behind them, your curiosity piqued. The eagle’s presence felt deliberate, its intense gaze focused unwaveringly on all of you.

“Damn, this is creepy!” Mingi said, breaking the tense silence.

You chuckled softly, but your eyes remained fixed on the eagle. There was something about it—something strange and familiar. You let your gaze drift over its sleek feathers, its curved beak, and the way its piercing eyes seemed to follow your every move.

You tilted your head to the side, testing its reaction, and to your surprise, the eagle mirrored you, tilting its head in unison. A spark of unease fluttered in your chest, quickly replaced by a growing warmth. Your heart began to race, pounding harder with each passing second, as though something deep inside you had been stirred awake.

The room around you seemed to blur, your ears ringing faintly as an invisible force pulled you inward. Time slowed, and your surroundings melted away.

In a blink, you weren’t in the club room anymore.

You found yourself in a grand bedroom, lined with tall bookshelves that stretched toward a ceiling adorned with an intricate Victorian design. The faint scent of old parchment and polished wood filled the air, grounding you in the peculiar space. Your breath hitched as you took it in.

The room felt like a memory—something buried deep within you.

A soft creak broke the silence, drawing your gaze toward the door. Slowly, it swung open with an almost theatrical deliberation. Your pulse quickened, and you turned to face whoever, or whatever, was on the other side.

The sound of Wooyoung’s voice snapped you back to the present before you could make sense of the vision.

“Hey guys, I want you all to meet the newest member of our group,” Wooyoung announced, his voice tinged with excitement.

You blinked, disoriented but drawn to the scene unfolding before you. Wooyoung stepped aside to reveal a figure standing in the doorway.

He had striking red hair that seemed to glow under the sunlight streaming through the windows. Tall and poised, he carried himself with the regal air of a prince, bowing gracefully as if he were greeting nobility.

“This is San,” Wooyoung said, throwing a casual arm around the newcomer’s shoulders. “He’s one of my closest friends through my mom. Thought it was time for you to meet him.”

As San lifted his gaze, his eyes locked onto yours with startling intensity. For a moment, the world seemed to pause. His lips curled into a small, knowing smile, and his eyes held a glimmer of recognition—as if he’d been waiting for this moment.

��It’s nice to meet you again, my sapphire,” he said, his voice smooth and resonant, carrying a weight that made your heart skip a beat. The words struck you like a bolt of lightning, your chest tightening as memories, emotions, and fragments of something familiar surged forward. It all clicked—the faces, the connections, the inexplicable feelings.

You weren’t just reliving your past; you were stepping into it all over again. But this time, in your own time and path.

And this time, you vowed to cherish every moment, whether things felt too good to be true or overwhelming to comprehend. You reminded yourself to believe that everything happens for a reason. Meeting people who fit perfectly into your world, who understand you deeply, or experiencing stories that surpass your wildest expectations—all of it had already begun unfolding.

Exaggerating these moments, highlighting their significance, felt necessary because they were pieces of something greater. They were reminders that life, in all its unpredictability, is a story worth living.

Life back then may not be the same as the life you have now, but what makes it extraordinary is that you were the one who started it. You made the choice to step forward, to embrace the unknown. Let it flow, wherever it may go. Let it be what it’s meant to be. And most importantly, learn from it.

In doing so, you found not just a story to live, but a reason to thrive.

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔫𝔡

taglist: @passerbyforfun . @seongwars . @candied-czennie . @ffenjoyerdazme . @jiwoongsblondehair

[guiltyasdave]

making forts under covers

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

A/N: Written for Mandy's Sweater Weather Writing Challenge by @she-likesorchids using the "Let's just stay in bed" prompt. This is my first time writing about Joel and also my first time writing at all in over a year, so I'm a little nervous, but I really wanted to put this out.

Word count: ~1.9k

Summary: You and Joel wake up to a gloomy fall morning and all you want to do is drink your morning coffee and stay in bed.

Warnings/Tags: post outbreak, Jackson era, fluff, unprotected p in v (don't do it, this isn’t the apocalypse), fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, so many pet names, Joel is a menace, tiny hints of dom!Joel but he's very soft, able-bodied reader, explicit 18+ content, MDNI! (let me know if I missed any)

You blink your eyes open to the gloomy light of an early fall morning and the sound of rain against the window. The air in the bedroom has a slight chill to it and you burrow deeper under the covers.

Joel is still asleep, laying on his side turned towards you.

You marvel at the sight of his handsome face, for once relaxed, his brow unfurrowed and his breath going slowly. You rarely see him like this; usually he's the one that rises before you do when you sleep over, waking you up with a cup of steaming coffee and a soft kiss to your forehead, mumbling, “G'mornin'” into your hair. Your relationship is still relatively new, and you like this routine that is slowly forming between the two of you, but you could also get used to waking up to him like this.

You take in his face for a few more moments, a small smile tugging at your lips, before you quietly slip out of his bed. Goosebumps errupt on your bare skin and you tug on the flannel that Joel discarded on the chair in the corner last night, enjoying the way that his smell clings to the fabric and engulfs you.

You pad down the stairs to the kitchen and busy yourself with preparing coffee for the both of you, then wander into the living room while it's brewing. You stop in front of his bookshelf and run your hands over the wood carving of an owl that you've admired several times before. The ability to craft something so detailed out of a simple piece of wood fascinates you, especially when you think about Joel and his large, strong hands, using them to make something this delicate.

You fill two cups of coffee, reveling in the feeling of comfort and cozyness that the smell of the hot liquid always brings you, then carry them back up to the bedroom where Joel is still asleep. You set one cup on his nightstand, take a sip from your own one and slip back under the sheets to snuggle up to Joel and nuzzle your face into his bare chest, inhaling his scent and enjoying the warmth that is radiating from his body.

Joel grumbles and wraps a strong arm around you, encompassing you further in his warmth and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head as he mutters, “Mornin' sweetheart,” his southern drawl more pronounced and his voice still heavy with sleep.

You shyly smile up at him, grateful that you're one of the few people who are allowed to look past his rough exterior and to catch glimpses of the gentleness inside him that one only get to see when you're this close to him, and whisper, “Good morning,” before stretching up in his arms to reach his mouth with your lips.

His grasp around your waist tightens and you giggle, pecking his lips again before you lean away and say, “I brought you coffee, for once.” He sits up against the headboard, pulling you with him until you're leaning against his chest, one of his arms slung around your shoulder while he picks up the cup with his free hand and lets you do the same, before he leans down to kiss your forehead again and murmurs, “Thank you, darlin'.”

You both sip on your coffees for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet morning. His fingers draw lazy circles on your arm and shoulder, his eyes falling down to the flannel that's halfway slipped off. “Nice shirt,” he drawls into your ear and you giggle.

“Thanks, it's new.”

He chuckles and tugs you closer as he finishes off his coffee, places both of your cups on the nightstand and carefully cups your face, tilting your chin up to kiss your mouth. The feeling of his big roughened palm on your cheek, combined with the gentle way he touches you, has butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

Joel deepens his kiss, his tongue dipping out and licking against your bottom lip, causing you to whimper softly and open your mouth for him as heat starts pooling inside of you and he pulls you on top of him.

“C'mere, darlin'.”

You melt into him as his strong arms wrap around you, his scent engulfing you and he's running his hands down your sides, leaving a trail of heat over your body as he slides the flannel completely off your body and dips his hands under the tank top that you slept in. Your lips connect again and you mewl into his mouth, your hips grinding down on him and his hold tightens around your waist, pressing you onto his growing hardness.

“Shhh, I got you,” he murmurs as his mouth moves down to your neck, nipping and sucking at the delicate skin there, causing you to shudder and sink your nails into his bare shoulders. He separates his mouth from your skin to push the tank top up and off your body, revealing your breasts and your already pebbled nipples. He groans softly and leans forward to suck on the soft skin there, your back arching and pressing yourself closer to him.

“Joel, please...” you whine, “I need...”

He leans back, his hands back on your sides, his thumbs brushing just below your breasts.

“Yeah? What d'you need, baby?”

You rock your hips against him, feeling his bulge press against your panties and another whimper falls from your lips.

“Need you Joel, please...”

It's almost embarrassing, how quickly he gets you to this point, but you can't bring yourself to care, not when he's this close, with his hands all over your body and his painfully handsome face right in front of you.

He smirks and pulls you into him again, murmuring, “Good girl, asking so nicely,” before he seals his lips back over yours and kisses you until you're breathless and squirming against him before he flips you over, his face hovering above yours. His hand travels down to your underwear and dips beneath the fabric, finding you already slick and swollen with need. He circles your clit slowly, making you gasp and buck your hips up against his hand.

“You're so pretty like this. Just ready and waitin' for me, aren't you?”

His hand trails down further, one finger dipping into your entrance.

“Y-yes, need you so badly, please Joel...”

He smirks, adding a second finger and slowly pumping them into you.

“I know, baby. Don't you worry, I'll take care of you. You're bein' so good for me.”

The praise makes you keen, the fact that this usually so stoically quiet man can't stop running his mouth when you're together like this, while he's reducing you to a blubbering mess that can barely get any words out.

You eagerly slip your hand into his underwear, wrapping your fingers around him, causing him to hiss and thrust into you particularly hard. You grab at his boxers, pulling them down his hips, wanting him as close as possible. He chuckles at your impatience but indulges you, the look in his eyes telling you that he's just as desperate for you as you are for him, helping you to get rid of his underwear and tugging yours off of you as well.

Joel grabs his hard length and slides it through your slick folds, causing you to moan and arch your hips up into his touch. He leans down and kisses you again, his cock nudging at your entrance as he whispers, “You want it, sweetheart?”, to which you respond with an eager nod. He tuts, cupping your face in his large hand.

“Words, baby. Tell me. Tell me what you want, how much you need it.”

You whine softly, feeling yourself blush at the thought of putting your desire into words.

“I- so much, Joel. Please, I- I need you to- to fuck me, please?”

You bite your lip and he groans softly, murmuring, “Good girl,” against your mouth as he pushes into you in one hard thrust, filling you to the brim.

You cry out as your walls clench around him, trying to adjust to the sudden intrusion, to the way he always feels so big inside of you, and the exquisite bliss that only Joel can bring you is taking over your body. Your hands grab at his shoulders, your nails digging into the skin and moans of his name falling from your mouth as he pounds into you with long, deep movements. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking hard and biting down on your skin, before soothing the sting with his tongue.

His arms wrap around you and he holds you close while he keeps thrusting into you, whispering into your ear.

“Fuck, you're such a dream... Feels good, yeah? This what you wanted?”

You nod frantically, one of your hands scratching down his back while the other grabs at the curls on his neck as you're barely able to form words.

“S-so good Joel, fuck, 's perfect...”

He hums in smug agreement, his thrusts becoming even deeper and his fingers sliding between your bodies to toy with your clit. The heat inside your body threatens to spill over at his touch and you moan loudly, your earlier inhibitions about voicing your needs wiped from your mind.

“Yes! Just there, please- please dont stop, oh god...”

He's rubbing precise circles over your clit, keeping his gaze on your face as your eyes glaze over, your moans growing even louder.

“That's it, good girl. So tight around me, fuck... Show me how pretty you come for me, go on. I know you can.”

Your jaw falls slack and your whole body trembles, your walls clenching rhythmically around him and soaking him in your wetness as your orgasm washes over you. He growls at the feeling of you pulsing around his cock and pounds into you a few more times before he pulls out and spills himself over your stomach.

He stills and his head falls forward, both of you panting hard and not moving for a few moments. He leans forward to kiss your cheek, smiling at your blissed out expression, before he gets up from the bed and pads to the bathroom. He returns with a washcloth and cleans you up, gently stroking your sides and making you hum happily.

When he's finished and collapses back beside you on the bed, you turn around, wrapping the both of you up in his blanket and pepper his face with kisses. “Good morning indeed,” you grin and he huffs, ruffling through your hair and pulling you tighter into his embrace.

“You got anything planned today?” he asks after a moment of peaceful silence and you shake your head.

“Nope, I'm all yours.”

“Good,” he smiles, letting your head rest on his chest and pulling the blanket up to your chin, so that you're entirely shielded from the slight chill in the air. Gloomy light filters into the room and you can still hear the rain splattering against the window. Joel kisses your forehead softly.

“Let's just stay in bed, then.”

banners/dividers by @saradika <3

[wildflowerluver]

all i need to hear

aaron hotchner x fem!reader

aaron’s comfort is all you need

cw: one bed + nightmare trope, friends to lovers-ish, nightmare, case details, reader gets injured

wc: 3.8k

༺♡༻

everyone’s allowed to have a tough case. 

j.j. experiences it most with children and rossi with people he’s dealt with in his earlier times at the bau, but you, nothing really seems to stop you. it’s remarkable, really. 

this case seems to be the exception.

the team is sent somewhere in colorado. it’s a small town, nestled in the forest though the mountains prove to be a bigger challenge in locating evidence that the p.d. had indicated.

your anxiety flares when garcia presents the victim list while you’re on the plane. you had left in such a rush that there was no prior debriefing in quantico.

they look like you. 

same hair color, eye color, all of it. 

subconsciously, you know these details aren’t exclusive to you but the uneasiness can’t be shaken. even emily raises an eyebrow in your direction. 

“-we need to get started right away when we land,” hotch’s voice breaks you out from where you’ve zoned out after staring at the pictures. “the unsub is progressing rapidly. we have no time to waste.” 

it’s a miracle you know where to go when you arrive. you missed hotch handing out assignments and chose to follow j.j. and hotch closely instead. you’re still on edge. no one else seems to pick up on your mood and for that you’re grateful. 

the weather doesn’t help either; rain and thunderstorms all week. great for catching an unsub.

____

you’re exhausted, everyone is.

two straight days of work with little time to rest was seriously impacting the cognitive abilities of the team. it happened on certain cases, very rarely, but still occurred.

hotch had stopped the team on the second night, ordering everyone to go back to the hotel to get some rest. hotel rooms were limited and rossi won the drawing for the only single room. everyone else seems to find their pair naturally.

that leaves you paired with hotch who doesn’t say much as you head towards the elevator. he picks up on your body language of not wanting to speak. 

you’re still anxious, on edge. it’s not the sleeping arrangements or the sleep deprivation, it’s the case. 

everything around you is moving too slow or too fast. you can’t even control it. one minute you’re stepping off the elevator and heading towards your room with hotch and the next you're stopping in your tracks at the sight of the room.

one bed.

it’s large enough to accommodate the both of you but your heart flutters at the realization you would be sharing a bed. you don’t say anything and neither does he. two adults can share a bed. it’s not a big deal.

your mind is already drifting back to the past two days.

hotch maneuvers around your frozen form to put your bags in the right spots before he turns to you.

“y/n?” 

you don’t hear him.

“y/n” he tries again, this time placing a hand on your shoulder.

you flinch, though you try to play it off with a roll of the shoulders.

“do you want to take first shower?”

you nod, muttering a quiet ‘thank you’ as you gather pajamas and head in. you try not to think of the case as you shower, though your mind can only drift to one place; aaron. you’re sharing a bed. it’s an odd pairing, given you usually room with emily or even spencer and especially with how you feel about hotch; something only emily knows about.  

you slip into bed without another word to the man in the room. exhaustion creeps in your bones and you know you can chalk your quietness to that.

staying awake to ensure that the sleeping arrangements are okay seems like the best idea. you shut your eyes, promising to yourself that you were just resting until he was finished. you loll off to sleep to the sound of hotch’s shower.

aaron exits the bathroom to see you asleep. you’re curled up on your side of the bed, arms wrapped in a protective manner around yourself.

he knows you're not feeling well, not on a work level but a personal one too.

aaron promises to himself that he’s going to look out for you.

__

you shoot up, clawing at the sheets to push them off of your now sweaty body.

it couldn’t have been later than two in the morning and the terror from the nightmare jerks you out of the very little sleep you’d gotten.

breaths turn ragged as you collapse out of bed and onto the floor. you press your forehead to the carpet, hands clutching at your heart that feels like it could burst out of your chest at any second.

it wasn’t a horror nightmare, per say, but rather a psychological one; where everything just feels….off. adding onto the emotions of the case, everything was becoming too much.

the sobbing comes next.

between the gasps for air and your bawling, it was only a matter of time before aaron woke up. at first, he thought you were simply getting up to use the bathroom. but, the thud on the floor proved him otherwise.

“y/n?”

he must’ve said your name multiple times. it doesn’t seem to register until he’s kneeling down in front of you.

“y/n?” aaron tries again. “can i touch you?”

you don’t respond verbally. squeezing your hands around your head feels like a better option, safer.

his hands find yours, gently removing them from the grip on your hair. he doesn’t let go, doesn’t let up his pressure in the slightest. 

aaron only lets his right hand go from where they hold yours. he keeps his left hand resting on your wrist. his next task is to get your head off of the floor. he moves to cradle your cheek to lift your head up, but your voice stops him.

“aaron-” you stutter. “aaron i can’t breathe.”

“hey hey, sweetheart look at me,” you’re in a state of such panic that the pet name doesn’t even sink in. “match my breathing, okay? deep breath in, deep breath out.”

his instructions make you feel like a child; like you’re at the doctor and they just placed a stethoscope on your back.

but you suppose that’s his job, that’s your job.

you don’t know what’s happening to you.

you never have night terrors, especially not ones on cases.

it takes a few minutes for your breathing to steady. you keep your eyes on aaron, blinking back the tears that are still welling up. you can finally breathe easy and aaron considers that the first step in helping you.

you’ve moved from your prior position of being curled on the floor to settling against the wall, half propped against the ac unit and the other half against aaron’s chest.

it feels odd, wrong, like you aren’t supposed to be this intimate with your friend boss. feelings aside, the embarrassment sets in quickly.

aaron knows some things off when you press your forehead into your knees.

“i’m sorry.” your voice is weak, small.

aaron raises an eyebrow. “what for?”

“i woke you up, i’m sorry. i swear this doesn’t normally happen. i don’t know what caused it. i’m really really sorry for disturbing you,” you ramble off an apology.

“y/n, it’s alright,” he reassures. “i promise.”

you keep your forehead down. for once, aaron feels like he is unable to profile you. the rule the team point in place aside, he can’t tell if you’re flushed with embarrassment or still feeling uneasy from your dream. 

“what makes you feel better when this happens?”

his question is with good intentions but your face turns even more red.

“pressure,” you answer honestly. “i usually sleep with a weighted blanket but it gets too heavy to bring so i left it.”

aaron goes quiet and you think you’ve gone too far. you’re already sharing a bed, you’ve already had a panic attack in front of him, and he’s already seen you cry.

“let’s get to bed.”

he extends both hands to help you to your feet.

when you’re both standing, he doesn’t let go of your palms, but rather guides you over to your side of the hotel bed.

aaron’s hand stays on the small of your back and lifts up the covers to help you in. if you weren’t still terrified, you would have blushed. you lie down and peer up towards the older man.

“pressure, right?” you can hear the underlying tone of permission in his voice.

you hum.

his movements are slow to provide you plenty of time to stop him. but, you don’t. he finally settles behind you, pulling your body to his so there’s barely any room.

instinctively, your arms wrap around his that rest on your stomach.

it shocks you at what aaron was doing. you were cuddling. never in your life had you thought you’d be where you were right now. you want to convince yourself so badly of how unprofessional the situation is, but you just can’t. between the terror you were feeling and your unanswered feelings, cuddling with aaron felt like a dream.

“hotch?” 

he hums into the back of your neck, signaling to you that he’s still awake.

“thank you,” you whisper.

he squeezes you and pulls your body a little closer to his.

“i’ll be right here when you wake up.”

a promise. and for once, you think it’ll stay true.

true to his word, you wake up still in hotch’s arms. you’ve shifted slightly in the night, however; hotch’s arm had snaked under your head to hold you in a makeshift hug. you feel selfish in wanting his alarm to never go off so you can stay like this.

you’re dreading the stereotypical awkward conversation that’s going to come out of all this but in the moment, you don’t care. you’re still embarrassed from your nightmare and hotch filling the void of your weighted blanket was making you feel better.

the bliss ends when aaron’s alarm blares. you quickly shut your eyes, wanting to savor it as long as possible. you feel him shift from behind you, gently pulling his arm away and propping himself up on his elbow.

“y/n, y/n,” hotch shakes you awake. 

you groan, feigning sleep as you sit up and rub your eyes.

“how’d you sleep?”

“better with you there,” you admit.

your words slip out before you can even think. it felt natural to say, like it was a given. hotch’s face stills before slipping into a soft smile. “good, i’m glad.”

silence falls over the room. you’re still close, you with your legs crossed and him laying on his side. he’s below you and you think about how easy it would be to lean down and press your lips together. you wonder if he's thinking the same and the second you see his eyes flicker down to your mouth, you legitimately consider going for it.

but, there’s a knock on the door. turns out you might’ve stayed in bed longer than you realized.

“come on! we gotta get going!”

you sigh.

back to work.

_____

garcia gives the name and address of a potential suspect.

hotch sends you and morgan to the house with a ‘call if you find anything.’

you step away to gather yourself, ensuring that your gun is in your belt and you have your phone on you; simple procedure. you don’t miss how hotch and morgan talk quietly among themselves, the unit chief seeming to be giving instructions. you know they’re talking about you.

morgan doesn’t mention it when he walks over to you. “ready to go?” he doesn’t use a nickname. strange. 

you nod, looking back over at your shoulder to hotch who still seems to still have his eyes trained on you. “yeah i am.” hotch takes one step in your direction.

“be careful.” 

his words are directed at you.

anxiety stabs at your stomach. 

___

hands are pressing to hold your cheeks.

your ears are ringing. everything is too quiet. the blurred figure in front of you is moving their lips, if they’re talking, you can’t hear them. 

it takes a couple long, slow blinks for your surroundings to even make sense. 

you were in the suspects home. you and morgan had gone to do an interview. one he opened the door, he saw you and grinned. you can’t seem to forget the way he made you feel just hours ago. like you were next. he had decided to run not too long after that. you chased him. anything after that was beyond you. 

“y/l/n, are you okay? what happened?” 

you know that voice.

hotch. 

you peer at his now focused face and tilt your head. it takes a moment for you to figure out how to speak. your tongue feels fifty pounds in your mouth. “why wouldn’t i be?”

“you’re bleeding.”

the warm sensation on your forehead seems to set in. oh. something happened.

“something happened,” you voiced.

“something happened,” hotch repeated 

you aren’t at your best. it’s clear to everyone, not just him.

“let’s get you to an ambulance.” hotch helps you to your feet, securing an arm around your waist to help you walk. you’d been knocked out. it was a miracle you were walking and talking as quick as you were.

the ambulance is fuzzy. the lights are too bright. it doesn’t help that it’s late morning and the sun is shining. hotch notices you squint your eyes and uses his palm as a visor with enough room for the emt’s to work.

“no concussion. no hospital. we’ll patch her up with some zipstiches and she’ll just need to take it easy.” you really hope hotch, or anyone, is listening to the emt’s diagnosis and instructions because you can’t.

you’re cleaned and cleared in no time. the pouding doesn’t seem to cease. 

“where’s the team?”

hotch takes a seat at the back of the ambulance next to you.

your knees bump together and thighs press against each other. you’re close.

“they’re at the precinct. we got the guy. he knocked you out. morgan went after him.” he’s talking in simple sentences that are easy to understand.

“oh.”

you couldn’t even help with the takedown.

“you’re cleared to fly,” hotch starts. “we’re heading home tonight.’

thank god.

the drive back to the precinct is spent in silence. you can feel hotch’s gaze on you but you stare out the window. you don’t feel like talking to him, about anything. the team greets you with soft smiles or a squeeze of the shoulder. morgan collects you in his arms, muttering an apology about leaving you behind. you nod into his shoulder. no big deal.

the plane ride back to d.c. and drive to quantico goes by before you know it but you still don’t feel well.

the guy was caught. why were you so on edge still?

the bullpen is suffocating.

it’s a silent agreement that everyone would stay later to finish their reports. some adrenaline had yet to wear off and finishing the initial case report would greatly lessen the workload for tomorrow. 

you stare down at the top of the paper.

just write your statement, it’s not that hard.

everyone around you seems to delve into their work. the pen scratching sends you into another spiral about the case. 

your head hurts.

hotch exits his office, titling his head when he notices you still at your desk.

“y/n? what are you still doing here?” he questions.

it takes you a moment to process the words before blinking twice and looking at him. “was doing my report,” you mumble. the bullpen is eerily quiet.

had everyone already left? did you not even notice?

two hours had passed. for you, it felt like twenty seconds.

you look back towards your report.

you hadn’t even been able to write your name.

hotch walks down the steps and heads to your desk, abandoning his bag on the floor. 

“i think you and i are both aware something happened this case,” his voice has dropped the authoritarian tone. it’s lighter, the one he uses when talking to someone emotional on cases. you supposed that that’s you right now. “it’s okay to have off cases, y/n. we all have them.”

that’s not it.

you want to explain so bad.

you trust him, with your life if it ever came down to it.

“hotch i-” you’re shaking, tongue going heavy in your mouth. it’s easier to drop your head and hide from his burning gaze.

you press your palms to your pants, desperately trying to wipe off the moisture that’s cumulated. hotch appears in your eyeline as he kneels down in front of you. “what’s going on?”

tears form at your waterline.

“hotch i’m scared.”

your voice is hushed.

“i can’t shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen. cases have made me anxious before but never scared.”

he squeezes your hand. “i’m right here, y/n. we caught the unsub. nothing is going to happen, i promise.”

you shake your head, eyes snapping around to check your surroundings. “that’s it. i know we caught the unsub and i’m still so paranoid. we’re alone in this bullpen and i still feel-”

you feel sick.

admitting your emotions is hard, especially in the bau. you profile human behavior for a living, you would think you would be able to manage your own.

“come home with me tonight,” hotch voices. “you’re in no state to be alone.”

he doesn’t minimize what you’re feeling, nor does he try and force you to dive further into your terror past the initial confession. 

you nod, releasing your hands to brush your hair out of your eyes. “right,” you start, “i’m not.” helpless, that’s all you can feel.

“you know it’s not like that.”

you become acutely aware of your interlocked hands. 

hotch sighs. “jack is away for the weekend with jessica so my apartment is empty. i would feel a lot better if you were there at least for tonight.”

you would too. 

“okay.”

hotch helps you to your feet, grabbing both yours and his bags and shoving the file into it. it can wait until tomorrow. he guides you out of their building and to his car.

___

you’ve been in hotch’s apartment before. only a few times, though, when you’ve watched jack.

it’s how you remember it. it feels like a home. jack’s drawings and tests cover the fridge and artwork sits in frames on the walls. 

“do you want to watch something on tv? or we can go to bed,” hotch asks after only a moment and you weigh your options. as much as you want to stay up, the adrenaline from the case has already started to wear off.

“bed,” you answer quietly. you’re unsure of where you’re going to be sleeping. it feels awkward to ask. 

you pick at the cuticles to distract yourself from the silence.

“if you’re more comfortable, i’ll make up the couch,” he offers.

no. no. no.

“absolutely not,” you laugh. you realize how your tone sounds and take a stride over to him, leaning against the wall. “i slept really well when we shared the hotel room.” it took courage to admit that.

“so you’ll sleep in mine? with me?” he sounds hopeful.

you don’t want him to think you’re throwing yourself at him.

“hotch-.”

“aaron,” he corrects you.

right. you aren’t at work. still, referring to your boss by his first name when you’re so used to his last feels odd. but then again, so did cuddling.

“aaron,” you spoke. the last time you had used his first name was when you had your nightmare. “are you sure?”

“i am.” 

you smile. “then we can share.”

aaron guides you to his bedroom, pointing out where the ensuite is and handing you an extra toothbrush. you get changed in the bathroom and splash some water on your face. you were sharing a bed for the second time - this time by choice.

he’s not in the room when you exit. you assume he’s somewhere else in the apartment, locking things up. you slide under the covers, choosing the same side you did back in the hotel room.

your phone buzzes on aaron’s beside and you pick it up to read the message.

take the day off tomorrow and get some rest. you all deserve it.

you smile. usually aaron gives you a late start after cases. a day off is a luxury.

you can hear his footsteps padding down the hallway and you rush to put your phone down. aaron enters the bedroom, smiling in your direction at the site of you curled in his bed and places a glass of water he’s holding down.

“how are you feeling?”

you peer up at him.

he’s standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed and eyes boaring into you.

“better,” you admit. it’s not a lie, you feel safer at his - with him. 

“and your head?”

your fingers drift up to where the bandage lays. it feels like days ago that you got hurt when it was merely a few hours prior. “it hurts a little but i’ll live.”

“well hopefully the medicine kicks in soon,” he adds. “i also think getting some rest would help.”

“i could get some rest if someone would get in bed.”

he raises his hands. mock defeat. 

aaron then moves to lay down in bed, leaning over to turn the light off.

you can still make out his face from the moonlight that pours in through the window. he’s looking at you, waiting for you to say something.

“i forgot my weighted blanket.” there’s a hint of amusement in your voice.

aaron beams.

“come here,” he spoke.

you waste no time in all but launching your body at his. he’s on his back and you curl into his side, head on his chest and legs intertwined with his.

“is this okay?” you ask earnestly.

“more than okay,” aaron answers. 

you hide your smile in his neck, toying with the hem of his t-shirt. “going shy on me?” his tone is teasing. busted. you pull your head back slightly and peer up at him.

“i’m really proud of you, you know,” hotch starts. you raise an eyebrow. “for this case i mean. i don’t know, you seem like a lot doesn’t affect you and when it did, you still prevailed.”

the deep blush that spreads across your cheeks is thankfully hidden by the darkness.

“really couldn’t have done it without you,” you try and emphasize the last part. it’s true, you really wouldn’t have been able to stay together if he wasn’t there.

aaron stiffens and for a minute you think you misunderstood his prior words.

“i’m here for you, always.”

“promise?” 

he leans down to press your foreheads together.

“i promise.”

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part one)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter one: drawing from life

series masterlist | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: ellie volunteers joel to model for a drawing class on campus. you find someone worth dreaming about.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), unnecessary descriptions of joel being beautiful, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn, joel miller wins girl dad of the century via unanimous vote (for this chapter) -> masturbation (f), intense feelings of loneliness, existential rumination

word count: 7.2k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: some good ol' work up, necessary to explain the rated r plans i have for them. ive been terrified of writing a series but i'm also tired of editing everything down to be one-shot appropriate, so today we try. im full-swing into my fixation era and on my 'i cant be loved + ive known how to love you for 1,000 lifetimes' bullshit. this fic is as self indulgent as they come, but i hope you can enjoy it! and for those of you willing to trudge through this with me, i love you.

read on ao3

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.”

Susan Sontag - On Photography 

───────

A halo of hot light falls through the pane of glass above the sink. Joel’s got one eye pinched semi-shut, trying hard to focus on not burning himself while he drains boiling water out of a pot of pasta. 

When he woke up this morning, the blinds on every window in the house had been strung up to the lip. He’d barely gotten a hand around one of the strings in the glass frame above the couch before Ellie appeared out of nowhere to literally slap his wrist, ‘I’m drawing’. Still groggy, he tried to challenge her, ‘Do they all have to be open?’, to which she patiently explained—for what she probably feels is the millionth time—that she needed the extra light, and if she had them all open when she started, they’d need to stay that way until she was done. 

So he left her to work, knowing she’s got midterms to finish, walking around with his eyes closed until he felt his way back into his bedroom. He came out once for coffee, and not again until dinner. This is their weekend.

Joel spoons out some of the food into bowls, leaving them to stay warm by the stove before he steps into the dining room. He stops himself half-way, hanging back in the archway to give his daughter another minute as the last shreds of strong sunlight start to wane out.

Ellie’s right where he left her: at the table, cross-legged in her chair with an eraser-less pencil held tightly in her fist. She’s hunched over a large pad of paper, the back of it lifted at an angle under a pile of old books and dog-eared tool catalogs. The sketchbook she uses as a reference guide is propped up on the corner of her left knee, leaned against the edge of the table. She rifles between two pages of it, eyeing some of the quick sketches—visual notes, as she puts it—that she took in class to help her navigate the larger, more detailed version with ease. Silent save for her short huffs of breath, she’s concentrated, wrist-corner lifted to not misplace any graphite. Her process is always the same; a little creature of habit.

She’s wearing her headphones, the cord winding dangerously low, threatening to dip into a cup of water she’d placed in the empty triangle between her lap—the same one he’d seen her with six hours ago. She hasn’t even touched it, still full nearly to the brim. He wonders if she’s gotten up at all. The girl works herself a bit too hard, he thinks, always falls head first into whatever project she’s working on, nothing if not like her dad. The corner of his mouth tugs up so tight it hurts. What is he going to do without her?

He just stands there, feet crossed on top of each other and arms in a twist over his chest, and watches her while she’s not looking, knowing she still gets shy sometimes when he catches her like this. She’s the sweetest reminder of everything good Joel’s ever done; another life he’d gladly offer his own for. 

It’s always come naturally—to be what someone needs of him—in a way that transcends reward or expectation. 

Joel had been his brother’s primary caregiver first, from birth and then well into their adulthood—always around to bail him out of jail or lend him money he didn’t have. Because he cared. Loved him. He couldn’t ever really say it, always had a problem with the wording, but he knew that at least some of what he wanted to explain had come across. He can see it in the way Tommy is with his own family.

His brother has Maria now, and the kids, and seeing how happy Tommy could be in spite of their upbringing was the first time Joel had ever put his priorities into question. Somewhere in all the caring-for he did, he’d forgotten about himself; the possibility of having his own wife and child and home. He’d always ached for that, deep down, but didn’t even know it was an option until he saw it happen. By that point, he wasn’t sure if he could do any of it, or if he even had the time to start. Then came Ellie.

She entered his life when a close friend of Tommy’s had died unexpectedly and no one came forward to claim her, unknowingly giving him a second chance; one he worked to make count. She was tough to crack at first—also like him in that way—but the love had always been there, waiting its turn after all the awkwardness and misunderstanding and adapting before finally showing its face. She’d needed him then, as much as his brother had all those years ago, carrying on the torch of purpose that Joel so feverishly searched for. 

He rolls his eyes at himself; he’s been having too many misty-eyed moments about her lately. It’s so unserious, the actuality of it; of being her dad. Going to work and the supermarket and museums, being there to chaperone field-trips and take one-thousand mostly-blurry photos of her graduation. But it’s been everything to him. He’s desperately clung to the five years of her life that she’s shared with him, and he’s so proud to witness it, but he knows she’s getting to a point where she needs to be her own person. He’ll miss her when she’s only home for summers, then only home for Christmas, then only home once in a while—so he holds on to every bit, and tries not to think about what’s next for him. 

He walks closer to her, tilting his head to try and steal a glance of what it is she’s working on. He catches a glimpse of the face of a woman, a portrait from shoulders-up. She’s pretty, with a soft and thoughtful expression, looking downward off the side of the pad. From what he could make out between the movements of Ellie’s hand, she even looks a little shy. His daughter rubs at the cheeks and nose of the girl on the paper, imitating the shadow-less areas where light would fall. Joel is mesmerized by the way she creates so effortlessly, like breathing. 

Without moving her head, she pulls a tiny white bobble out from her ear, “I know you’re watching me, weirdo.” 

Joel laughs, wet and thick in his mouth with the emotion he’s still climbing down from, “Is this how you treat me when I’m trying to feed you?” 

She smiles, he can see the fat of her cheek rounding out even from this angle, “You should’ve just said that.” 

Ellie leaves her set-up untouched, just getting up and moving down to an empty seat while Joel goes to bring the food out. 

She shifts around in her seat, feet folded again on the flat of it, eating too fast—ill-mannered—and it reminds Joel of all the nights they spent at Tommy’s for family dinner, right at the beginning, back when they’d just begun to become close. When she’d push his patience with her behavior to see if he’d say something, to see if he still paid her mind—he always did, still does, “Jesus Christ, kid. Have I taught you nothing?”

She holds back a laugh, mouth full of tomato sauce, “You love it. I’m charming.” 

He snorts, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet for only a few minutes before she breaks it again, “Speaking of how much you love me, I need to ask you for a favor.” 

“Oh no,” He jokes, “What now?” 

“Remember those drawings I turned in of you last month?” She starts pushing around the last bite of her spaghetti, never a good sign, but he nods anyway for her to continue, “Well my teacher really liked them. And there’s been an issue with finding people to sit for the drawings. Sooo,” she really drags it out, “I signed you up.”

“What do you mean, you signed me up? For what?” 

“To model,” Joel’s mouth pops open in an immediate attempt to oppose, but Ellie’s quicker, “Didn’t you say you’d always support me in school?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Joel finishes his plate and then they’re both just clinking their forks against porcelain for a heavy eightnineten seconds before she gives it another shot.

“C’mon, seriously. I’ll get extra credit if you do it,” She lets out a long sigh like she can’t believe she has to explain anything more than that, “My professor teaches a Monday session for the master’s program and they need people. It’s just one time.” 

“Ellie. It’s Sunday. How are you gonna tell me this now?” 

“Please, you just sit there for, like, two hours while they draw you and you don’t have to talk. That’s two of your favorite things. Three if you consider that you’d be helping me out.” she looks at him with a sticky-sweet smile, eyes crinkled—like she knows she’s getting away with it. 

She might be. 

“Why don’t you ask one of your friends to do it?” Joel gathers up their plates from the table to carry them into the kitchen. Ellie picks up their still half-full glasses as an excuse to follow him.

“Because we all have class together tomorrow on the other side of campus. Plus, you’re easy to draw and—” 

“Hey.” 

She ignores the flat look he shoots her, flipping on the sink, “That’s a compliment, by the way. But really, it’s no effort and you’d be getting me into a good place with my professor ‘cause she’ll be super grateful. The budget’s kinda tight this semester.” 

“Then what am I payin’ for, if you’re gonna make me do this stuff myself?” It’s a half-hearted dig—he’s mostly annoyed because she probably already figured out he’s going to agree.

Her little smirk graduates to a shit-eating grin, she knows it, “Best dad ever.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Just because I knew you were gonna say that, I actually signed you up for two.”

───────

Joel stumbles out of the elevator, filing hurriedly through groups of students with a new-found purpose now that he’s managed to make it to the correct floor. Ellie made a point of not mentioning that he had to be at the school at 7:30am until she was saying goodnight to him a few hours ago, because she thought it would dissuade him—she was right—so now he’s running late on top of everything else. 

He’s got the little scaled-down, splotchy-printed version of the campus map gripped tightly between his hands. Room 14B is seemingly only two turns and one corner from where he stands—if he’s holding it the right way. He wants to ask for directions, but he feels too out-of-place to set aside his embarrassment. He’s older than at least half the staff, and some of the attendees are even younger, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of looking incapable, as foolish as it is. He wishes Ellie would have just offered to show him where to go before she headed off to her own class. 

For someone who prides themselves on their ability to parent, he feels hopeless now without his daughter; not for the first time, but it’s especially harsh considering the circumstances. It hurts something bittersweet, to think about how much more they’ve bonded since he started working less and she decided to live at home her first year of college (though it’s coming to an end sooner than he’d like). Again, too many sad thoughts, and she’s not here, so he trudges on. 

He walks in two more circles before he finds the right place—down a fucking hallway and hidden behind a door he didn’t know he was allowed to open, of course. A woman with long, dark blonde hair is sitting at a desk by the door when he enters. She doesn’t look up at him.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry I’m late. My—uh. You teach my daughter? I’m here for—” 

“Ellie’s dad,” She cocks her head without meeting his eye, “Late? You’re about twenty minutes early, she told me you probably would be.” 

She knows me too well, the brat. He chastises her in his mind but outwardly he corrects himself, “Yes, right, sorry. I’m a little turned around.” 

“That’s alright. There’s just a waiver you need to sign, and you can get undressed in the bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a cover-up to wear until I come to grab you.” 

Right, he’d have to be naked. He already knew that—sort-of—having seen dozens of Ellie’s sketches from semesters past. He knows the students don’t see it that way, knows that they’ve all drawn the same things so many times they would be desensitized to his nudity. They’d probably all be desensitized to him as well; in their eyes, he was just a reference, as familiar as any of the memorialized piles of fruit or arrangements of glass that Ellie's also brought home. 

Still, Joel feels a wash of anxiety come over him. He’s more than comfortable in his body, after putting it through so much, but this degree of vulnerability is severe in comparison to vanity or sex—it’s a state of living he hasn’t participated in for a long time. He doesn’t like to be seen, and being documented—having physical evidence of how he’s interpreted by others—makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t looked in a mirror for more than a moment in months, but it can’t be that bad, right? Ellie’s always given him a favorable light, but he worries she has a bias beyond belief. What if he sees something about himself he doesn’t like? What if everyone’s been able to see it all along?

Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the woman is still talking, “We have a scheduled break halfway through class. You can leave then. Next week it’ll flip and you can come for the latter half so they can finish.” She slides the form and a swath of black fabric across the table, and almost like she can sense his apprehension, finally raises her head to give him a meaningful look, “Thank you again for doing this. I know it can feel weird, but it makes a difference for them. There’ll be a joint show at the end of the month, too, with Ellie’s class.” 

He just offers her a little nod of his head, thank you, signing the form and padding to the bathroom to unceremoniously disrobe in an empty stall.

It’s just two hours. 

───────

If they make you take another figure-drawing class, you’re going to scream. 

You’d think this far into a second degree, the school board would stop requiring you to take what is essentially the same class every semester. Sincerely, the only thing that changes is how long the session runs and what number follows the class title. It’s getting old. 

To be fair, it’s not necessarily that you dislike drawing—it provides a pretty firm foundation for your personal work to stand on—it’s just tedious. Nothing is inspiring about assignment-based work, especially when they’ve decided the only way you can prove your skill-set is to make you draw the same three objects five-thousand ways. 

But it’s not up to you. 

So here you are again, two weeks from spring break, back in this frigid building after surviving another forty minutes of traffic, body still stiff from fighting the urge to fall asleep at the wheel. 

It’s important, you remind yourself, to show up and put your fullest effort into everything, no matter how much you don’t enjoy it. Even if just to prove to yourself you can still finish things.

Coming back to school was an idea you’d toyed with for years after graduating. 

There had been a lot of pressure on you to go in the first place, from your parents and your teachers and your nightmare of an ex, because according to them you’d get nowhere without it. After enough pressure and in a need to appease them, you folded and went; suffered every long night and pushed through every period of self-doubt and smiled for every ‘worth-capturing’ moment right up to the end. And then when it was over, gone faster than you could comprehend, you felt like something was taken away from you, even with how low it had made you—the worst kind of stockholm syndrome. 

In an attempt to keep some momentum, you were over-eager for more right out of the gate. There was an initial need to continue, because you’d been reliant on academic structure just by the nature of familiarity, and maybe a little ill-prepared to face who you were without guidance. Without the instruction of someone with two degrees and a smoking addiction and no teaching license. Now it sounds silly, but then you spent a few too many nights uncontrollably looking into post-grad institutions or internship programs, googling professors and reading forums for first-hand accounts. 

Then, after a year, the thought of continuing got a little less exciting, and you became comfortable in the freedom of nothing after being in school your whole life. So you pretended to research, emailed everyone about how great the options looked, signed up for one-on-ones you didn’t show up for—until people stopped asking. 

It was at that point that you finally had the time to process what you were doing and why, and accepted that you didn’t have to have all the answers, despite what everyone had led you to believe. Truthfully, you still had no idea who you wanted to be and that’s okay—living with it and living alongside it weren’t mutually exclusive. You just took time to practice being yourself—sucked up the embarrassment and did the work, little exercises in unleashing yourself onto the world instead of letting every experience be done to you. If you were going to do anything anymore, even something like continuing your education, it had to be on your own terms, to try it all in the effort of self-discovery.

So yes, applying and getting accepted and attending every class—even this one—this time around was for you—to better yourself instead of just filling an expectation. You’re determined to make good on the opportunity.

And it has been better, so far. You even have friends this time around. Okay, two, and one of them is your roommate, but it's more of a support system than what you had going into undergrad.

You say yes now, too; not to everything, but to more than before. Which is maybe how you got roped into getting ‘introductory’ drinks later this evening with everyone, now that more people have joined the program as winter thaws out and it’s easier to commute. It’ll be nice to swap ideas and catch up and maybe even get laid instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling and willing time to pass. That thought alone is enough to keep you here.

It’s just two hours.  

The room this semester is a little bigger, at least; probably the only perk that moving up so gracefully from Drawing II to Drawing III had earned you. It’s still unfortunately just another classroom; windowless to protect it from outside influence and drenched in fluorescent light to create a controlled environment. Old, stained art horses form a circle in the center of the space, crowding around a painted-gray wood pallet like an audience. A metal stool sits atop the make-shift stage, providing a seat for the subject. It’s clinical, the way the elements come together; a perfectly disarrayed scene that’s been neatly curated to emulate every ‘socratic seminar’ model you’ve seen in education since you can remember. Always the same.

You’re hoping for someone new today to rest on the chair; the department has been in less-than-preferred financial standing lately, so you’ve seen the same faces interchanged for  most of the term.

Your professor is at her desk when you make your way in, greeting you with a grin despite the tired look on her face. A hardworking woman, the shadows under her eyes gave her a beauty you could only explain as determined. You knew she cross-taught for both sections of the department, and you respected her for it. It couldn’t be anything short of a struggle to toggle between those modes of seriousness—to have the patience to answer the younger students’ unending questions and the passion to keep the post-grads engaged. 

Moving to get a seat as far on the outskirts of the cluster as possible, you watch as your classmates arrive slowly until all the slots are filled. No one really talks, probably all similarly bogged down by the early start and the cold weather outside. Ian, your friend who’d invited you out tonight, waves at you from four horses down and you halfheartedly nod back at him. 

“Good morning everyone, we’ve only got two more classes after this until your week off, so we’ll make this next one a two-parter and have critique on the twenty-first. I want you guys to focus on composition more than anything else,” She turns in her seat to write some names on the board behind her, “We’ll go for two hours then break. If your name’s up here we’ll have a conversation about your thesis. The rest of you can go.” 

Thankfully you’ve been spared this time—granted another seven-nights-straight writing the segment of your thesis that was meant to be finished two months ago. Your brain hurts inside of your skull. 

You set up your little station, sketchpad raised against the easel, body straddling the drawing horse as you fiddle with some dirty erasers in your pack. 

You can hear the slap slap slap of the model’s feet on the concrete floor as they enter—a long gait paired with hard, thudding steps; probably a man by the sound of it. Tall and heavy. 

“Okay guys, we’re starting,” She winds up the dial on a plastic kitchen timer and sets it on the edge of her desk, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be making a few passes throughout and we’ll exchange thoughts.”

You roll your neck, knowing the model tends to take a minute to find a comfortable position, and that people watching didn’t do anything to help. A tempered soundtrack—the poorly contained buzzing of the clock and the moan of the air-conditioning—plays on in the background. Your leg is asleep. It’s cold in here. You count to thirty in your head. That’s enough time, right? You shift again, stretching your arms once more just in case.

Looking up, you peer over the side of the easel to get a quick look at the model’s pose and immediately do a double take. 

It is a man.

He’s sitting on the chair, facing the girl a few seats down from you so that you can only see him from a three-quarters view. He has one long, thick leg pushed against the lower bar of the stool, the other one, closest to you, hiked up on the seat, folded so that his knee points towards the ceiling. His arms are crossed, hugging his erect shin with his wide back wrapped over his thigh, effectively shielding the ‘naked’ parts of him from view. He looks shy, but not uncomfortable; either like he’s done this before or he’s accustomed to protecting himself—to hiding. 

The frame of his body is captivating; he looks strong but used, little nicks and scars littering his shoulders and hands. Weathered. As you make your way up his torso, you find it’s a similar state of experienced, tan profile and neck bearing the slightest difference in color from the soft of his side, and you can see the faintest curve of a hem-shaped tan-line across the dip in his shoulder. Little wisps of gray-dusted brown curls frame the edges of his face. He’s beautiful in a gentle way, with a dark, heavy brow that leads into the sharp slope of his nose, plush lips pursed like he’s concentrating. 

Part of you feels bad about staring, but it’s easy enough to disguise it as working, so you map him with your gaze again and again until you can still see him when you blink. It takes the constant movement of your classmate’s hand sketching something in your periphery to remember you’re being timed. 

You choke out a cough, repositioning your body and grabbing some charcoal. 

The way you usually approach this task is simple: get down the general gist of the body, careful to keep out the details of the person in favor of capturing light and weight—there’s a graded challenge to be considered, after all. 

Yet as you watch him, you decide you can fulfill the requirements in a way that gives him more room to exist. You crop the drawing tighter, paying careful attention to the landscape of his face; the hills of his cheekbones and the valley between his lips. You want to immortalize him. 

You’re suddenly deeply concerned with the history that’s woven itself into the shape of him, in what happened to make him look this way. It seems like life has been useful to him, but that he’d had to grow from something to make it so—like he had to work for it. He’s the living manifestation of his own grief and enjoyment and passion, and you want to know all of it.

Countless minutes pass as you take him in and spill him out, fingers moving quickly to recreate the weighted feeling of his posture, exhausted and heavy, muscles held together on the string of bone that runs through the center of his back. You write him down, again and again, flipping to a new page half-way through to get in one last version of him—one for yourself. 

You’ve never seen him before, but you see part of yourself in him. He mirrors the anxious peace you’ve been operating under for the last few years, humming with energy but willfully stagnant. It makes you feel seen, less burdened by your recent inability to connect—he makes you want to keep trying.

You wonder if he writes or draws or makes, and if he’d show you. You want to hear him talk. You want to see the other side of him, literally and metaphorically. You want to feel—

The tinny ring of the alarm sounds off, and you’re taken out of the fantasy. 

The second drawing is only really half done, but you didn’t make it with the intention of sharing it anyway, so you flip back to the original to hide it.. 

You try not to watch the man when he stands—remembering that just because he’d been hidden before doesn't mean he wasn't naked the entire time—maybe more for your sake than his. You peek around the room instead, taking a healthy, albeit competitive, glance around for other interpretations of the man; did they see him too, the way you do?

When you look up to take a comparative look, he’s gone. You’re a little disappointed, admittedly, but there’s still one more chance to interact with him, and you can make up for it then. You start to pack up your things in an effort to make it to the parking lot before the crowd. A sudden rise in the volume level in the room tells you that the shock of the early morning has started to burn off. You try to tune it out, so much so that you don’t hear someone walking up behind you. 

“Wow.” It’s a man’s voice, deep and smooth. You pivot in your seat. 

It’s him, in all his communal-robe wearing glory, even more gorgeous from head on. It’s a pleasant surprise, this reveal; his beauty is evenly distributed, like a handwritten note that extends into the margins or when a movie’s ending is just as good as the start.

“Oh. Hi. Thank you.” You feel exposed, like you got caught doing something bad, even though there are ten other people in the room with even more detailed portraits of him.

“Can I see the other one, too?” 

“What?” 

“You flipped your page. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Did you make two?” 

You just nod, shocked that he was watching you back, peeling back the paper to reveal to him the unfinished drawing. He won’t question it if you don’t give him a reason to. 

“Are you gonna finish it?” He asks, eyes rolling over it with an intense curiosity.

“Uh, probably not. I don’t like it as much as the first one.” Maybe lying your way through this would provide better reasoning than ‘I wanted a part of you that no one else could see’.

“Can I have it?” 

When you can’t find something to say fast enough, he just continues.

“I’m sorry, is that rude? If you’re just gonna get rid of it, I’ll take it. It just… looks like me. I mean they all do, I’ve been told I have a ‘simple face’,” He coughs awkwardly in acknowledgement of his own tangent, “I just mean to say that it feels a lot like me. If that makes sense.”

“You’re actually very visually interesting.” Is the first thing you can think of, and fuck, did that come out really fucking wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s better if he takes it, if it’ll stop you from fumbling, “But yeah, you can have it.” You pull a little plastic mail-tube out of your bag, ripping the drawing free from its perforated tether and rolling it in on itself. 

The edges of his mouth pull up, a cute little thing, free of laughter or judgement, “Thank you. I’m Joel.” One of his hands drapes across his stomach, palm spread over the knot of the wrap—he’s holding himself at length again. Why? 

“Hi Joel. You seem to know a fair amount about this whole thing. Not your first time, then?” You offer him your name in return, and he parrots it back—guard still up, still standing too far away. 

“It is, actually. The closest I’ve come to this is sitting in the yard for my daughter,” He watches as you slide the drawing into the cylindrical case, “You’re very talented.” 

“Thank you.” It feels weird to hear the praise twice, “How’d they get you to pose for no money? I heard the department’s a little strapped. I’ve been subbing in for the undergrads too when I can.” 

“My daughter volunteered me, she’s on the other side of the program. Your teacher was giving out extra credit.” He takes the roll when you pass it to him, going out of his way to grab it from the middle, his thumb grazing yours. Your skin heats up where he’s touched it, and you look down at the floor, suddenly nervous. 

“Wow, this is the first time I’m hearing anything about that.” You continue to pack away items into your bag, “I’m owed quite a lot if that’s true.” 

His face falls in on itself in a wince, “Oh. Didn’t mean to do her in like that.” You can feel him looking at you for a few beats too long, and his eyes narrow like he’s about to say more. 

In the same moment, as if summoned, your professor turns on her heel, walking over to your bench. 

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay without it. I’ll see you next week, right?”

He shakes a little, releasing his stare, and throws a thumbs up in your direction with his protective hand, “Yeah, see ya next week. Nice to meet you.” 

───────

After another four-hour class and a too-long nap and a break for dinner, everyone from this morning joins together in a few cars to head to a bar downtown. You meet up with Ian, who offered to drive as a bargaining chip, because he knows by now that you’d back out if you had to show up on your own.

The bar is dark and divey and perfect for being overly-observant in secret. You’ve warmed up to this crowd enough, but you’re still on plus-one basis with a lot of them, Ian serving as your invitation. You like to just listen to them at first during these outings, strategically planning your involvement so you don’t feel put on the spot when they give you a turn.

It’s a lot like being in class; the group of you occupying a dimly lit corner, a round-table of bodies, with the person in the center alternating as the topic changes. Tonight you stay at the furthest end.

You cling to the single tequila soda you ordered, watery and flat by now with pea-sized ice chips bobbing around in the center to avoid the heat of your fingers. You watch them swim, tipping your cup to see them swirl in a frenzied circle until they disappear. 

Some guy from your English class—Andre or Andrew or who cares—is talking at you, making his best attempt at what you think is supposed to be flirting. It’s really just him asking your opinions on his five favorite books, not hiding his disapproval when you mention you haven’t read one or the other. 

You watch Ian, who left you twenty minutes ago in search of the bar-top for another drink. He’s caught now on his third conversation on the way back, maybe thinking he’s doing you a favor by taking his time. You try relentlessly to catch his eye instead, and he bounds over without question when he sees you. The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty, and the English-class-guy spooks at the sight of what he probably thinks is competition. So much for that.

“Having fun?” he prods when he slips in the chair beside you, already aware that you are absolutely very much not having fun. 

Ian’s a nice guy, and he means well. You met him a week into your first semester—almost a year ago now—at orientation, because your last names were the beginning and end of the line of their respective letters. He was from somewhere in Canada, studying photography with a minor in painting and drawing. He’s maybe a year or two older than you, though you’ve never asked to confirm; tall and long and pretty, for lack of a better word, with big eyes and a permanent split in the little bangs that cover his forehead. He’s the first man in years you’ve been comfortable around, never initiating anything or pushing too hard for your friendship. All in all, no one’s been as welcoming to you, except the person you literally live with, and you’re happy to let him drag you out if it means he’ll continue to look after you the way he does.

“Of course, when have you ever known me to have a bad time?” 

“No luck with Adrian?” Adrian. You were close.

“Just likes to hear himself talk, I think. I wasn’t interested in being an audience.” 

He hums, “Someone else on your mind?” 

“Like who?” You lean the lip of your cup against your mouth.

“Saw you making eyes at the model today,” He teases, nudging you in your rib when you take a sip of your drink so that you keel over slightly. You sputter, unamused with the tactic to get you to fess up.

Was it that obvious?

“Isn’t that the point of the class?” 

“Yeah maybe, smartass, but that’s not what I meant. I saw him talking to you, saw you give him a little gift,” He bobs his eyebrows at you suggestively, “Excited for him to come back next week?”

“So I can stare more, you mean?” 

“So you can get his number.” 

“Ian.”

“I’m just saying you should try and find someone outside our section of the building. No writers, either, obviously.” He gestures to where Adrian is already trying his shtick on some girl from your class.

“He’s a little too old for me, don’t you think? His daughter goes here.” You muse. He’s mostly right about you needing to expand your reach, but you won’t let him off that easily.

“Maybe. But if you don’t care, and he doesn’t care, what’s it matter? He’s not too old to fuck you.” He makes a face and you roll your eyes. 

The thought is nice, but you know forging relationships is unlikely when you’re concerned, at least as of late, “I don’t want to spend my night talking about people I’m not going to fuck.” 

“Whatever you say.” He slinks out from his seat, mumbling something about a glass of water. A few steps away, he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re not doomed, by the way,” the asshole can read your mind, “You can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to like people.” 

And then you’re alone again. 

It’s like that for another hour, small attempts at chatter and meetings until you realize you’re too tired to fuck anyone, let alone continue to sit upright. Being up so early this morning took more of a toll than an hour nap could fix, and you're begging Ian to take you home. He agrees, spending the trip trying to plan another outing later in the week before everyone’s gone on vacation.

You give him a sleepy goodbye when he pulls into your apartment complex, making sure he’s still going to class tomorrow before letting him drive away. Once you’re inside, slipping quietly in through the front door, you realize your roommate isn’t home. She’s probably still in a late class or at her boyfriend’s or somewhere else. You enjoy the quiet enough to not think about it too hard.

The five sips of tequila-mostly-water has settled into your stomach by now, making you a quarter-second slower when you strip all your clothes off and climb into bed. 

You twist under the sheets, and after a while your skin starts to feel too hot, even in the cold air of your room. Breathing deep, you try to think of something boring to get your mind to still, but when you sense the sleep about to take over, it switches.

You see his face behind your eyelids, the man from today, strong and pretty and delicate, remembering all your favorite details—the length of his fingers and the depth of his voice. You curse yourself for assigning this importance to him. He’s just another page in your portfolio, if you even keep him, yet you can feel a slow heat bubble up at your core when you remember the stretch of his body under the robe. It’s okay to be taken with him, you think, he’s objectively gorgeous. 

Your conversation with Ian replays in your head—less about his sincere advice and more about how you need to get laid. It’s been too long; maybe you are just horny, and maybe taking care of it just this once could be enough to stop this hollow interest from growing. 

You reach a hand down under your blanket, the tips of your digits pushing into the slit of your cunt. You’re wet, arousal tacky and pooled so much that the light pressure you meant to be exploring with is enough to have you accidentally slipping inside. Okay, he’s really hot. So what? Was it really that bad if you thought so?

You dip a finger further in, timid at first; you’re used to keeping quiet for this kind of activity, and even though your roommate was gone when you got here, it doesn’t mean she hadn’t come in in the thirty minutes of rolling around you’d done before giving into your desire. You lay your free hand over your mouth just in case, teeth biting into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep yourself quiet. 

You slide in a second finger to the knuckle to join the first, the light stretch of it enough to make you pant. You see him again, hard and soft and beautiful. You think about what his skin would taste like, if he’d let you sink your teeth into the sinew of his neck. It feels weird to know what he looks like without his clothes, and you’re weirdly proud of yourself for holding back from seeing him fully; it's easier to dream about that way. You wonder how he’d present himself to you, how he’d want to fuck you. You imagine him winding a hand around the hinge of your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft of your cheeks. Would he be gentle? Would he make it hurt? You suspect either would be too much. You feverishly palm your clit, hips canting in an effort to climax. The pictures flash faster—his cock in your mouth, his tongue in your cunt, the way he’d spit and grip and hold—and you’re coming, drooling over your hand as you hear him say your name in your mind. 

You take your hand away after a minute, breath pushing out heavily from your nose. It’s fine, you needed to do it, just one time. No shame in that. It’s out of your system now. 

And if you see his face one more time before you fall asleep, it’s probably an afterthought.

───────

By the end of the week, you come to a horrible conclusion. 

It starts the next morning when you take your sketchbook out, itching to get a handle on the many writing assignments you’ve been dutifully ignoring, hoping for an outline or a free-flow of ideas. Nothing comes to mind. You draw a little bit to fill the space while you think, just a mess of material on the page, strokes of your hand that leave barely anything behind. 

Then on Wednesday you’re at your laptop, typing with one hand while the other one slides against the wood of the dining table, down and around in a loop, mimicking the same shape each time. 

And again last night in the shower, letting the shame of a different semi-failed night-out wash over and off of you. You slosh your foot around in the water in the basin below, catching it as it runs down and pools, ankle dragging in a tiny, controlled movement. 

It’s not until now that you put it together.

You’re sitting at your desk, with creative materials at your disposal this time, trying to make sense of what it is you’re forming. You find that no matter the medium, your hand automatically makes a single hard line. The same line, from memory. It’s negligible at first, just a light press of pen or pencil or crayon, until it drags down, down, down. It’s not until you lift your utensil that you recognize it. The hook of a nose and the crest of a top lip. 

A hard pit forms in your stomach, blood draining from your head to gather in the center of your chest, a blooming sickness of obsession you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re drawing him. You’ve been drawing him. You know this feeling, have participated in this kind of behavior. These are the actions that cause the humiliating dregs of attraction to bleed over into fixation—juvenile and universal and unavoidable.  He’s going to be a problem.

[venvellan]

da2's arishok is a good villain. if you have a fundamental understanding of the qun and listen to his thought process, the things he does makes sense. he uses the qun to justify slaughtering kirkwall's people, which is utterly inexcusable and what makes him a villain, but his character is complex enough to make dealing with him that much more thought provoking. he sends agents to kill petrice because she was killing his people, he doesn't give up the elves because they committed their lives to the qun, no matter how recently they converted, and he refuses to leave without the tome (and isabela) because his idea of justice hasn't been done. his logic makes sense, generally, though it is wrong on more than one occasion. he isn't moral, but he is methodical.

i feel this way about solas, too. i like da2's arishok for the same reasons that initially draw people to solas, i think. when we meet them, i find them interesting and educational to talk to, someone worthy of respect, and someone very honorable in their own way. similarly, many of my issues with solas compare with flaws in the qun/the arishok.

solas asserts that all of his beliefs are correct, and we're never allowed to challenge him on any of it. if he has high enough approval, he'll approach you to go, "yknow, i thought you were all [insert prejudice or stereotype] but YOU showed me that some of you guys are actually okay," which is NOT what it looks like for someone's beliefs to be challenged.

brief aside, i want to be fair in that we don't get this opportunity with many of the companions, and it's not even an inquisition specific issue. the dialogue format is agree, joke, be mean, and it's flawed, but it works in the majority of interactions. we don't really get to engage in nuanced discussions with characters, but there are positives and negatives to the system overall. it is possible to challenge and shape a character within this dialogue system (i.e., garrus vakarian) but in dragon age that really only comes in the form of harden/unharden. it was a little more doable with origins' system, but it really hasn't been a huge part of any dragon age game. most characters' beliefs remain largely unchanged by you regardless of how you play.

solas also possesses a strong sense of duty and purpose, though what duty he has, what his true goals are, he keeps hidden as long as he can. the most damning comparison though, to me, is how willing he is to destroy the world and bring back "his people," while the qunari fight to conquer the world and homogenize society into "their people."

in any case, with both him and the arishok, you can see the wheels turning in their heads. you can see why they do what they do, even if it's wholly immoral. it makes their threat a lot more personal, a lot scarier, psychologically, that a "normal" person, who doesn't want to cause suffering, can hold such specific beliefs and such strong conviction that knowing that they'll hurt people doesn't give them any pause. the root of their motivation is understandable. solas wants to right his wrongs, at his core. the arishok implicitly believes that the qun is safer, better for its people than life outside the qun. we can see that they're taking it too far, but they don't care. it makes them good villains.

"i am not corypheus, i take no joy in this." sure, which is a very similar sentiment, emotionally, to the qunari sense of duty. you can say you don't enjoy it all you want, you're still committing genocide. you can hate the qunari all you want, but you fight with their ferocity, their unshakeable faith in their own cause. their need to "do what's right," no matter who's caught in the wake.

i understand why people like solas, i go back and forth on it myself, but i don't think he's all that different from the arishok in method and motivation. they're each thrust into a world so different from what they believe is "right" that they demand it change around them. if we had to kill the old arishok, then if solas refuses to give up, he will have to die. he doesn't get to do genocide just because he's romanceable. he's a good character, he's a good villain, but he's not a good guy, and unless he stops before he does any real harm (which he will not do), he should share the arishok's fate.

[lipswoaface]

sean diaz + daniel diaz modern hcs

i kind of forgot this was exclusively modern at the end just ignore that LMFAO

- sean has no social media presence whatsoever

- a lot of people from school follow him but he only follows lyla and his track team back 😭 popular loner energy 🥀🐺

- i feel like if sean went to hs now hed be sm more popular esp w girls but hes rlly humble so he doesnt see it at all

- hes stupid and just thinks theyre being nice

- it gets on lylas nerves bc he refuses to believe anybody wants him 😭

- all his stories are like fireworks he posted when he was thirteen that he never bothered to delete

- its titled Highlights bc he doesnt know how to make an aesthetic instagram

- if anything, if he posts now its skate videos, drawings, or funny pics of daniel

- sean def takes 0.5x photos of daniel where his eyes go two diff directions and threatens to send them to lyla whenever he starts acting up

- daniel always throws a tantrum and esteban gets mad and tells sean to delete the pics (he doesnt)

- speaking of daniel he def got wayyy into skibidi toilet

- daniel tries to explain skibidi toilet n sean just tunes him out and says “uh huh” every so often

- hes those impressionable kids that gets into literally anything on the internet. among us, squid games, ROBLOX FOR SURE. sticky ipad baby energy overall!

- sean plays roblox with daniel on very rare occasions. i can imagine daniels avatar is decked out with limited items and sean is a bacon haired woman 😭

- daniel has definitely swiped estebans card a couple times under his nose for his robux…

- daniel purposely chooses games hes good at to watch sean struggle and die over and over again

- daniel watches weird kid youtube videos like… among us 24 hour challenge with spiderman and elsa giving birth kind of videos. sean gets really pissed off partly bc theyre rotting daniels brain and partly bc daniel always put it at max volume in the living room

- once sean gets paid he always goes thrifting. he fs goes to the bins and finds dirty dookie drawls every weekend 😭 but its worth it bc he finds cool shit

- as a skater boy i feel its obligatory for him to wear those afflication types of clothing as well as ironic graphic tees

- sean def wears baggy jeans in 2023 🙅‍♀️ none of that straight leg jeans from the game!!

- he also probably loves those ironic wolf shirts w the galaxy print n thinks theyre so funny

- sean also buys clothes in his style for daniel from the thrift n records 360s of daniel in his skater outfits

- “can i go play roblox now?” “no u have to cover ur nose when u turn around”

- got a buzzcut and surprisingly it looked really good

- esteban, daniel, lyla, and practically everyone else in his life kept making fun of him for being bald and would rub his head like a genie bottle tho

- daniels go-to is “well- well at least i don’t look like… look like caillou!” bc i imagine he tries to make funny comebacks but always stutters in the middle 😭😭

- eventually grew it back out bc he got annoyed at everyone making fun of him. they dont see his blond album cover early 2000s vision 💔

- daniel has no room to talk bc sooner or later he goes to the barber and gets a fucked edgar bowlcut

- sean laughs until he can barely breathe 😭 when lyla sees she TRIES to cheer him up about it but its too late

- even esteban laughs a little but only when daniel cant see bc he knows how much itd hurt him

- back to the blond album cover… sean LOVES music. his playlists are hours long

- i feel like he indulges in a super LARGE range of music likeee from bad bunny to deftones to pinkpantheress

- everybody hates it when he has aux and boos him off

- when esteban orders mexican food, sean and daniel both get horchata. sean dgaf if hes grown he still loves it!!

- i imagine esteban slowly stopped enforcing mexican food and culture overtime. bc of this, daniel knows barely any spanish and has 0 spice tolerance. sean always makes fun of him bc he goes gets water after a couple hot cheetos

- daniel tries to recreate those videos of people eating carolina reapers in hot sauce to prove a point and almost dies

- sean absolutely LOVES halloween. horror movies, costumes, the weather, everything abt it

- a part of him always gets jealous of daniel bc hes no longer considered trick or treating age anymore

- lowkey hed be willing to pull up in a full body costume just so he can trick or treat again

- when watching horror movies, sean will get way too immersed and start judging the people in the movies 😭

- daniels not allowed to watch but he peaks around the corner when estebans not watching

- “why the fuck is she just standing there? RUN! WHAT THE FUCK DUDE?!”

- “language mijo”

- he acts like he cld fight off the killer and explains his mastermind plan during the movie

- he doesnt admit it but he gets jumpy after a horror movie 😭 esteban and daniel take advantage of this every single time

- sean daniel and esteban are a tight knit family REGARDLESS of sean’s moodiness and daniel’s annoying gen alpha brainrot theyre so 😢

yes im aware that 2016 wasnt tjat long ago but i dont want to imagine sean diaz enjoying dank memes and saying boi 💔

[leviathanleva]

Sugar Bomb

Pairing: Findlay 'Hazard' Docherty x Fem!Reader

Description: Going from light brown to platinum blond can be a challenge. So Hazard comes to you in search of help. And typical you can never seem to say no to the bloke.

[2.1 k words]

Chapter 3

Hazard was a hero. You didn’t care what the rest of the world thought of him or what was said on the news. In your eyes, he’d always be a hero, a sweetie who helped others and would tear the world down for his family, which included you.

Anything he ever needed, you were on it like a hawk. His arm needed a check-up, you’d make Touch-Up drop everything to see to him, he craved something specific – you were already at the grocery store, Maisie needed a check-in with the vet – you were in the taxi with the pup and on your way.

Anything for the big blond doofus, anything.

So when he came to you one early December morning with a box of hair bleach and a bottle of toner shampoo, he didn’t even need to ask before you were donning rubber gloves and guiding him to the bathroom. Supposedly it had been an embarrassing request for him since Susie was the one who always helped him and she was currently out with BoomSlang.

You’d told him you didn’t mind in the slightest when he ruffed out an apology and offered to do it himself. You’d declined, none of that please, you were here and you were more than happy to help.

“You sure, daftie?”

Of course, you were sure, you’d lick the dirt off his boots if he asked you nicely.

You reassure him with gentle words as you sit him down in the kitchen chair you’d dragged to the bathroom, take the box of bleach from his hand and skim over the instructions.

Light brown roots were peeking at the base of his fluffy locks, you try to picture him with that color and in your mind he looks as lovely as ever. But platinum blond was his choice and you’d adore him no matter the spectrum of his hair. So you get to work, mixing the bleach and combing through the platinum fuzz, you make a mental note to add oil in an attempt to soften some of the damage that’s been done, Hazard wouldn’t mind, you were sure of it.

“Thanks, bonnie.” He speaks in soft syllables, watching you buzz around him like a little bee through the large, stained bathroom mirror.

A sheet is draped over him to keep his hoodie from being soiled by the bleach before you take the bowl and begin to carefully lather his roots.

“Don’t, Haz.” You say through a light laugh as you keep your eyes centered on the crown of his head. “Not for this.”

There’s a pause where you see the gears in his thick skull turning, you glance at the mirror, see him in thought and leave him to his contemplations while you continue to work. It’s serene, you relish in the trust he has in you to do his hair, and to most people, it might not be much, it might be a hassle if anything, but to you…this is what you’ve come to live for.

Brief cozy moments with him, a shared look, a hushed conversation about the traditions of your hometowns, a quiet moment where you just exist together in harmony. Anything that had to do with him was a treat, even if you did your best to keep that information to yourself.

“Findlay.”

“Sorry?” You sputter and look up in question.

Your hands are still over his scalp and for a moment he regrets drawing your attention away from the pleasant tingles your fingertips are bestowing onto his skin.

He’d say magic hands, but then again he didn’t want to inflate your ego too much.

The Scotsman nudges you with the back of his wrist to keep doing your thing and you do as requested.

“Ma name is Findlay.” He repeats and catches your eye in the mirror “Nevar told ya.”

He’s waiting for a reaction and you wish you could have offered more than the throaty laugh that ripped past your teeth.

“What’s so funny?” Hazard rasps defensively, straightens up in his seat like a fussy child and it only makes your bubbling laughter harder to contain.

You put the now-empty bowl of bleach next to the sink and rest your elbows against the backrest of the chair while trying to stifle your snorts. The look on his face is picture worthy, the frown that shows a glint of his large canines, the confused sheen to his whiskey-colored orbs. It almost looks like he’s flustered. It’s all too much, the poor thing, you’re such a bully.

“No, ah. Wait. I’m sorry.” You manage to spit out between jolts and press the inside of your elbow against your aching stomach. “I’m sorry, Haz. I’m sorry.” When the giggling fit subsides, you straighten your back and wipe a stray tear from your eye. “Findlay is just…such a cute name, y’know? Sugar sweet.”

His mortified visage has you wanting to laugh all over again, but you refrain. Instead you coo softly at him and switch from having your arm on the backrest to planting both of them against his broad shoulders.

“Sugar? Sweet?” He stammers out and you nod with a wide smile and bottom lip between your teeth.

“And, you know, you’re not exactly the sugar-sweet-looking type.” You add and nonchalantly sift through his blond locks to check how far along his roots have come.

“Damn right, I ain’t!”

“But then again,” You begin with a genuine look of adoration. “you are a sweetie at heart. You saved me, after all, took me in. Saved a lot of others too.”

There’s a split second in which something flashes across his features, a hint of something vulnerable and soft-hearted because that’s how he was. Then he shakes it away and gives you a slap on the wrist for your transgression of making him go mild.

“Bah, yer ruinin’ ma style!”

“Right. Sorry, handsome.” You chirp and urge him to stand briefly while you turn the chair around before ushering him back on it. “You’re a big scary anarchist.”

“Aye, tha’s more like it, wifey.”

You choke on spit at that and nearly slip and crumble to the floor. The large smile in the mirror tells you Hazard’s more than happy with your reaction.

After a minute to compose yourself, you turn on the tap and guide his head back until his hair is directly under the running water.

Whatever sibling love had been fluttering between the two of you was shot down after that simple sentence, never to return. You were thrust in the murky waters of a new territory now and suddenly you become self-conscious of everything – your hands in his hair, your worn clothes, your messy appearance, his lingering glances.

“Where’s this coming from, Fin?” You inquire hesitantly while keeping your attention on washing out the bleach and not on the smug look plastered on his face. Even through the gloves, you can feel the warm water toasting your fingers. Soon enough the foamy substance clinging to his locks is all down the drain and you slip your gloves off before reaching for the toner shampoo.

The Scotsman doesn’t answer you immediately, too caught up in the pleasure of having his scalp gently massaged while you tend to him like he’s made of porcelain. He likes the nickname too, he likes the way you treasure him as if he’d break when you were the weak and fragile one between the both of you. You always have had a tendency to go by everything he asks of you, spoiling him rotten even though he’s done nothing but shelter you for a month or two.

Gratitude is uncommon to him and so so addictive coming from you.

“Ya don’t remember, daftie?” He asks more surprised than anything and opens his eyes long enough to gaze up at you. “I asked you t’ marry me.” He smirks as you lock your brows together in thought, trying to recollect an event that you’re pretty sure never happened. “And ye’ said yes.”

Wracking your brain comes off short, there is no such memory tucked away anywhere in your skull. Blinking yourself back to the present with a frown tugging at the corners of your mouth, you think maybe he’s mistaken and the proposal had been for the benefit of someone else, Susie maybe.

“Do I have memory loss or something?” You tilt your head in disbelief at his teasing words. Your hands cease their fluent movements and a displeased whine threatens to erupt from Findley’s throat. “I don’t remember you ever asking me that.”

“An bpósfaidh tú mé. Remember?” He says casually and the memories flood your mind and choke the air in your lungs. You forget how to breathe, function, everything, even blinking, as you stare down at him with a blank visage. “Aye, das’ what it means.”

Well, shit.

Your face feels hot, your cheeks are on fire. You open your mouth to say something, but aside from a mild squeak, nothing comes out.

It had been a night of drinking, you had both been under the influence, he hadn’t meant what he’d said, he couldn’t have. There was nothing between you but platonic love, a deep caring for one another, but nothing intimate. You were suffering a crush because he’d saved your life and he was just the usual flirty, overly friendly Hazard. There was nothing more to it.

And it hurt, him flirting like this, saying such things when he didn’t mean them, but you bit your tongue back from scolding him every time because you enjoyed his willingness to give you attention.

You liked to imagine that there might be chance…but every time intimacy of any kind was just beyond reach, only a hair away, he’d pull back with a laugh and clarify he’s only messing around. That’s why you always believed he saw you as a little sister and nothing more.

You wish you could reciprocate with no strings attached, but you couldn’t, and so, you suffered in silence. Right now was no different.

A light nudge to your hand removes you from the depths of your whirring thoughts and you turn your eyes to Findley’s, finding them searching your face for a sign that you were still there.

“I’m just messin’ with ya, lass. Don’t need to take it so serious.” He says, picking out his words carefully because in his mind, he’s fucked up somehow. “We ain’t really married.”

His intent was to reassure you, but seeing the grim expression etched on your features, he’d failed at even that. You weren’t bound to him, you weren’t his property, you didn’t even need to see his mug if you didn’t want to. He wasn’t a looker, he knew that much, but seeing your thunderstruck face after jokingly mentioning being married to one another did puncture a wound somewhere beyond his ribcage.

It hurt, seeing you like this.

“Yeah.” You nod once, avoiding his gaze as your voice wavers. “I know.”

You decide to focus on finishing up his hair and getting the hell out of the bathroom before it gets even more awkward. Mouth shut and hands working, you knead the shampoo in his blond locks, gentle but hasty, rushing as much as you can.

There was only the sound of gushing water and the slosh of gooey hair being treated, neither of you spoke for a while, anxious to make the other even more uncomfortable.

But your fingers were like magic and the more you massaged him the more he melted into the chair until he was nearly purring. All self-consciousness went out the window as you continued your delicate work, if only you knew he was like putty in your hands.

A soft moan manages to slip past him and a shiver runs down your spine at the pleased sound. Then you feel him stiffen and re-open his eyes as his serene expression hardens.

“Sorry…” He mumbles under his breath, and doesn’t dare look at you, instead stares up at the lamp with immaculate concentration. “Just don’t…stop, ye?”

You scoff, grateful for the shift in mood, the strain in the air dissipating, and you reach for the conditioner you know is his because you know mostly everything about him. You bought him the stupid thing after all because that’s what you did, you took care of him even if he caused you pain from time to time.

But was it really his fault? He was just being himself, you were the one pining over him. Your heart was the one out of line, the pain was your own fault, not his. He was just friendly old Hazard and you were gulping down all his hints and daring comments like a woman starved.

“I won’t.”

<<< Chapter 2

Chapter 4 >>>

Masterlist

[solargeist]

I’m thinking more abt the Xelqua stuff , this is quickly becoming incomprehensible to anyone but me, but anyway, weird one shot AU of grian being a strange kid found by young watchers in training

-Aether and Flora find little Grian while on a Watcher challenge/task/whatever in a magic forest. He looks like 5 years old and doesn’t know his age. Flora says to leave him, these woods are dangerous so it’s probably a trap, Aether says look at him he doesn’t even have shoes.

-They bring Grian along, mostly carrying him, he seems content with this, but doesn’t rly explain what he’s doing here.

-they all sleep in a small hollow dead tree, Grian tucked away in the back of it. It’s not easy sleeping in a small space with a child, especially when you have wings and he keeps stepping on them

-they have eggs for breakfast. Grian doesn’t like them, so he points out you can eat these glowing mushrooms growing here, and he takes a bite before anyone can say anything. Aether almost has a heart attack and makes him spit it out, he says it’s fine because he’s eaten them before.

-they ask him who his patron is, he proudly exclaims its Xelqua, the saint that leaves destruction, the one almost forgotten abt. The child’s confidence is exactly like you’d expect from Xelqua

-when it rains, he cries and tucks himself under Aether’s wings, he really hates lightning, he says people die when there’s lightning, but doesn’t go any further into that. Waiting out a storm in a hollow tree also sucks, so much.

-When they eat meals, Aether has to repeatedly remind Grian to sit still and not wander off, saying ‘Ah’ when she wants him to turn his attention back and take a bite of food. Flora says that’s gross, sharing a fork, and Aether reminds her they’ve done the same thing before, but Flora says thats different.

-One day the three get cornered by a large creature, it’s mouth snapping at them as their legs kick and hold the jaw back, neither have a moment paused enough to try and fight, stuck on defence in a small corner. Grian—far too happy sounding—loudly states he’ll handle it, he points a small finger at the beast, and a thin purple line appears, shooting directly between its eyes. Portal magic, this young ? A tiny strip of brain teleported to who knows where, in an instance, to the sound of breaking glass. The creature drops dead, pouring blood. Aether and Flora stare at each other, Grian eagerly waits to be told good job.

-Aether and Grian pray before meals, to different saints. Flora does not

-Grian sees Flora fishing one day, he tells her there’s a better way, she tells him to go away he’ll scare them off. Grian sits by the edge of the water, wide eyed with his hand hovering above the surface. He quickly stabs down and pulls out a fish, fingers digging into it and eyes faintly purple, but he looks back and smiles widely waiting for approval.

-They walk past little saint statues at the bed of trees, so small they blend in with the mushrooms, Xelquas not there so Grian doesn’t care

-Aether and Flora get lost, they have a vague Watcher challenge to find a building in these woods, but the trees are too tall, too thick, they can’t fly and look around. They ask if Grian could possibly draw a map, he lives here right? He draws a straight line in the mud and doesnt elaborate.