#expressions so I’ve been doodling him in my sketchbook

[wormzandgutz]

updated human plagg a bit

[sapphire-heart-tippy]

Sugar Crash Void Bash: The Fanfic!

The direct sequel to: The Sapphire Heartverse

Chapter One: Candy Coded

chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5 chapter 6 chapter 7 chapter 8

Last entirety edit: 9/04/2024

“Ramón!” The brunette man calls from the kitchen, “Your breakfast is going to get cold, Foofy!” Ice sighs and places a paper towel over the two freshly cooked, fluffy pancakes dolloped with butter, and a side of over easy eggs. 

“Need any help, Vans?” Tippy asks zeir husband. Vanilla pouts a little bit, 

“Go get your son.” He points.

In his room, 15 year old Ramón is on his computer chair listening to music and doodling a little in his sketchbook. Tippy opens the door,

“Mi hijo,” Ze knocks on the panel. Ramón turns around a little startled, then takes his headphones off,

“D-daddo! Good morning! I was just about to uh… yeah.”

“Get your cotton-candy-headed self in the kitchen before your pops sends you to the void.” Tippy teases Ramón. Ramón gets up from his computer chair and looks down at his dad with a chuckle. Tippy looks up at him,

“When did you get so tall?! I swear, we might have to get you a bigger doorway,” ze follows Ramón to the kitchen, “or a bigger house, heheh!”

“What’s this about a bigger house, sweetie? I’m not making any more renovations to this place until you give me a garden.” Vanilla points a spatula and gives his husband a warm chuckle and a smile.

“Papa, do you have to wear that apron every time you cook?” Ramón sits down at the table with an exaggerated eye roll as he takes the paper towel off of his plate.

“Yes, I do, young man. Eat your food so you can get taller and annoy your dad even more.” Vanilla dusts some pancake flour off of his purple apron with violet hearts on the pockets. He adjusts his hair bun and brushes his long left bang behind his ear. Ramón notices this and remembers something he’s been wanting to say for years. Vanilla pulls off his apron, getting ready to eat breakfast with his family. The teenage boy finishes chewing and swallows his pancake, then lightly points his fork at his papa,

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, pops. How come your right bang is so much shorter than the left? It’s been like that forever.”

Vanilla looks at his son, frozen. His mouth is open a little and his eyes are just a bit wide, Vanilla is stuck in place for a moment. The brunette looks to his lower left then his upper right,

“Uh… ah. Well…” Vanilla daintily folds his apron, fidgeting with it, “I… I’ll have to tell you when you’re older.” 

“Huh? How come?” Ramón asks before drinking some orange juice. Vanilla sits next to Tippy and kisses the top of zeir head.

“Well, Foofy… It’s a long story. A very long, boring story that you might not want to sit through.” Vanilla fidgets with his hair and doesn’t make eye contact with his son. Ramón has a feeling something is up, but leaves it alone.

After Tippy leaves for work at the art studio, Vanilla drops Ramón off at his high school.

“Alright, Foofs, have a wonderful day at school. Don’t cause trouble now!” Vanilla smiles at Ramón. He leans over and kisses his son on the cheek, much to Ramón’s dismay.

“Papa, don’t!” The pink haired boy turns around to look out the window in case anyone might’ve seen. He whips his head back around to his father, “I’m not a little kid anymore, you can’t just… kiss me like that, man.” Vanilla’s brows frown,

“I’m sorry…” Ramón opens the car door and Vanilla speaks, “You’ll always be my little boy. No matter how old you get.” 

Ramón sighs,

“I know, pops.”

“Ramoooooooon!” One of his friends playfully howls at him.

“Gotta go! See you at home!”

“Okay, Foofy, I lo-” Ramón closes the door on Vanilla. The brunette is stunned for a moment. He brushes his longer bang behind his ear and drives away with a very hurt expression.

“There he is!” One of Ramón’s friends, Jared, pats his back. Jared is a tall, lean yet muscular teenage boy with a box fade hair style, gold dangling earrings with stars at the end, and very dark brown eyes, “Are you still gonna hang out after cheer today?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan anyway, but it’s subject to change.” Ramón smiles and playfully shoves his friend. They both walk inside the building. Alex, another one of Ramón’s friends walks besides the two boys. She is a chubby teenage girl with straight blonde hair down her back, light blue eyes, and braces,

“Did you see the new episode of Space Train Violence last night?! It was the best one yet!”

“You say that about every episode! Even the one where they stood on the moon and didn’t do anything.” Jared tells her with a laugh. Ramón opens his locker and sets his backpack inside. Jared leans up against the locker next to Ramón about to say something. Suddenly his eyes widen and he smacks Ramón on the back a few times to get his attention.

“Dude, what?” Ramón turns around to see Cobie, his crush approaching the two of them. Cobie is a goth teenager with spiky black hair, blue lipstick, dark eye makeup surrounding their dark purple eyes. They walk towards Ramón, causing his heart to pound. Jared suppresses a laugh. He stretches and speaks,

“Oh yeah, I just remembered I have to be over here or whatever. Hi, Cobie.”

“Hey.” Cobie waves gloomily at Jared. “Hey, Ramón.”

“Hi. Uh, ahem, hi. Cobie.” Ramón clears his throat.

“I found these rat bones behind my house. I was lucky enough to find the skull too. I was thinking about adding it to my collection.” Cobie tells him, showing him the skeleton in a shoe box. Oh man, they are so cool.

“Y-yeah, that sounds awesome. Uh… so how is your half of the project coming along?” Ramón asks them.

“It’s going well. I hope you don’t mind that I put a spiderweb design on some parts.” Cobie closes the box.

“I think that’s really cool.” Ramón smiles at them. They look at him with a blank expression, but it’s still obvious that they enjoy his company. Cobie is about to speak, but suddenly, the box is smacked out of their hands. The box and its contents spill all over the floor. The person who did that also slams Ramón’s locker shut,

“Ew! There were bones in that thing!” 

“Ryan…” Ramón grits his teeth. Ryan is a tall, muscular yet chubby and pale, strawberry blonde teenage boy with blue eyes.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than be a douchebag?” Ramón sighs with a scowl.

“Wow, so hostile for no reason!” Ryan laughs. He tries to intimidate Cobie by pretending he’s going to attack them. When they flinch, Ryan laughs even harder. He turns back towards Ramón, “What? What?”

Ramón grits his teeth, and winds up his leg about to kick Ryan in the face. Unfortunately the headmaster walks down the hallway. Ryan gives her a fake smile and bows to her,

“Good morning, Miss Lewis. You look lovely today.”

“Good morning, Ryan.” She smiles at him, then sneers at Ramón, “Morning, Mr Ice.”

“Good morning, Miss Lewis.” Ramón says.

“Mhm. Have you been getting control of that menace of a stand?” She narrows her eyes at him. Ramón is about to speak to defend his stand, but suddenly she turns to see two other teenagers attacking one another, “HEY!” She sprints over to them at lightning speed, “No stand fighting in the hallway!” She grabs them both with her stand’s mechanical arms and pushes them away from each other,

“If I catch you using your stands to fight again, you are both getting detention!”

Ramón, Ryan, and Cobie watch this happen. Ryan turns back to Ramón and flips him off as he walks away. Ramón angrily bites his teeth and shakes his head. 

After school

Ramón and Jared head to the gym to cheer practice. The cheer captain Lillie, a teenage girl with long lavender box braids tied into a ponytail, bright pink lipstick, and dark brown almost pitch black eyes, blows a sparkly pink plastic whistle,

“Alright, everyone!” She claps her hands, “Let’s get this party started! Ramón! Have you been practicing those backflips?”

“You know it.” Ramón tells her. Jared elbows him in the shoulder,

“Hey, ask her about the thing- actually I’ll ask her about the thing- Lillie!”

“Yeeees?” She asks with a cheerful smile. Ramón tries to get Jared to stop talking, but he persists,

“Ramón’s stand can glitch people in and out of existence. Can he use it for our next performance?” Lillie taps her pen with a fluffy pink end against her cheek,

“Hmmm… I don’t know. Is it a destructive stand?”

“U-uh,” Ramón looks around at the other cheerleaders, “Well… I don’t actually know. I mean- uh… Sugar Crash-”

“Ooooh, Sugar Crash! I like that name! Sorry, go ahead.” Lillie giggles.

“Uh… well… like I said, I don’t know what else he does. The only thing I know how to do now is uh… well… uh, okay okay,” Ramón steps in front of everyone, “Let me show you.”

The teenage boy takes out his stand Sugar Crash. Sugar Crash is a pastel pink robotic looking stand. He has an angular helmet on his head, right-triangle eyes with blue scleras and black pupils, a soft angled cube torso, with teal, pink and green beams connecting his purple mechanical hands. The torso has a heart shaped hole in the middle with a swirling pink vortex with a light blue singularity. The torso is also connected to a spiked and more sharp angled cubic bottom. Sugar Crash levitates with small pink, teal, and green rings coming out of the bottom cube. 

Lillie smiles as Ramón continues to introduce them all to Sugar Crash. Ramón leaps into the air to perform a backflip, and Sugar Crash causes him to glitch out of existence. The other cheerleaders ooh and aah at what happened. Suddenly they hear his voice, which sounds just as glitched and distorted as he once was,

“I’m still here,” Ramón speaks and they all look around the gym for him, “But at the same time I’m not. It’s hard to explain… down here.” Ramón’s voice is normal now. His head and torso are coming out of the floor. The matter around him is glitched and looks distorted, Ramón is also just a little distorted, his image is jerking around as if he is a corrupted video game character. One of the teens covers their eyes because it’s difficult for them to look at. Lillie frowns her brows and smiles,

“That’s so cool! But I don’t know how we could incorporate that into our cheer. Especially if it could be harmful to other peoples’ eyes.”

“O-oh, no no!” Ramón floats up quickly and goes back to normal, “We wouldn’t have to do the floor thing, but phasing in and out of existence could be part of our routine.” A few of the other cheerleaders look at each other. One of them gets a worried look and speaks,

“I-I dunno… it seems, like, kind of dangerous…” Another one chimes in,

“Yeah, what if one of us gets stuck in the ground or a wall?”

“Yeah! And what if we get stuck in the void forever?!” Another speaks up. Ramón tries to settle them down. They all start talking about stand users with void powers and how they’re always dangerous,

“I had a cousin who had a void type stand. He went crazy and ended up sealing away half of his family into the ether! Never to be seen again!”

“That’s awful, I heard there are some people who can call the void at will and destroy everything in their path.” Another says.

“That’s horrible!”

“In my opinion, people with stands like that shouldn’t be allowed to-”

Lillie blows her whistle, getting a little upset,

“Alright!” She claps her hands, “Let’s get back to practicing our cheers for the game!” She gives Ramón an apologetic look. They all practice their original routine until it’s time to go home. 

That night

Ramón has his cheek pressed up against his palm, playing with his dinner with a fork. 

“Foofy?” Vanilla asks his son sweetly. Ramón looks up at his papa with a small,

“Mmm?”

“Is everything alright? Did something happen at school, Foofs?” Ice asks his child.

“Yeah, you okay, chiquito? You look kinda sad.” Tippy asks, joining in with a warm expression.

Ramón looks at his papa, then at his dad, then back at his papa. Ramón grimaces a little then leans back in his chair,

“Uh… it’s uh… you know, like…” He waves his hand around, “puberty.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” Tippy nods, while Vanilla has a feeling something else is going on. Ice tightens his lips into a line with worried brows and scratches his jaw a little bit,

“You know you can always come to us if there’s anything bothering you.”

“I know.” Ramón tells them, “Uh… I need to do my homework. Big test tomorrow, so I have to get on that.” He gets up and heads to his room.

“W-wait! Foofy, you didn’t finish-” Vanilla picks up the plate and tries to bring it to Ramón, but his son closes his bedroom door. His shoulders drop and he brings the plate back to the table. Ice sighs deeply and slumps down into a chair.

“Hey…” Tippy walks over and wraps zeir arms around zeir husband, “He’s just going through a phase where he wants to be independent. Let him have his space for now, okay?”

“I…I know, sweetie.” Ice touches Tippy’s hand which is resting on one of his shoulders, “He’s growing up too fast. I remember when he could fit in my arms. He was so tiny. I would look down at him while rocking him and he would look at me with those big brown eyes…” Vanilla smiles, fondly remembering his son as an infant, “I would smile at him and he would smile back… I used to fall asleep with him in my arms on the couch.”

“Yeah, and you spoiled him rotten to the point he couldn’t sleep without you!” Tippy playfully pokes zeir husband’s nose, “Ramón would cry all night until you would hold him. He sounded so pitiful, he just wanted his papa…”

“He needed me, Tippy.” Vanilla covers his mouth. Tippy touches Vanilla’s cheek,

“I know and now you need him.” Ze pats Ice’s cheek.

“Hm? What do you mean by that?” The brunette asks. Tippy chuckles,

“You don’t want your little boy to grow up just yet.”

“Well, what parent wants their baby to grow up?” Ice pouts, making his husband laugh,

“It’ll be okay. Maybe you and Ramón can hang out one day. Maybe take him bowling or something and have a Papa and Foofy day!”

“I would love that so much, but…” Ice’s eyes are downcast, “I don’t think he wants to be seen in public with me.” He adjusts his hair bun and tucks away the loose strands, “He pushed me away when I kissed his cheek…”

“Listen here, Lucky Charms,” Tippy wraps his arm around his husband’s shoulders, “I’m serious when I say just let him have his space. Go ahead and wait until Sunday, that way it’s after the game, then ask if he’d like to hang out with you.” Ze kisses Vanilla’s cheek, “You know! Just get to know your kiddo all over again.”

“Maybe you’re right, Termite.” Ice gives zem a small smile and kisses zeir forehead. 

Sunday

“Foofy?” Ice gently opens Ramón’s door. The teenage boy is sleeping soundly in the top bunk of his desk-bunkbed. Vanilla hears his son peacefully breathing in his slumber, this makes him smile. The brunette thinks back to when he would watch Ramón sleeping in his crib, so worried and so protective of his child. The man clears his throat and speaks a little louder,

“Foofs?”

“Snrrrkkk- huh? What?” Ramón stirs awake. The teenage boy leans up a little too fast and bonks his head on the ceiling, “Ouch!” He rubs his head. 

“Oh! Are you alright?” Ice leans forward.

“Y-yeah… uh, hey, good morning, papa. You need me for something?” 

“Hmhm, well… I was thinking,” Ice leans on the door pane with a warm smile, “You and I haven’t had any ‘papa and son’ time together in… hm… a long while. Perhaps you and I could…” Vanilla’s voice trails off as he notices his son’s wincing face. This hurts his feelings quite a bit, however he continues, “Could, er, go bowling. If you’d like. Just you and me?”

Ramón grimaces and looks at his papa for a few uncomfortable moments,

“Uhh.. oh, dang, uh… I don’t know, man. I’m a little sore from cheer yesterday.” Ramón stretches, rubs his neck, and nonchalantly looks away. 

“I see…” Vanilla’s eyes are downcast. “If you ever need anything, Foofy, please let me know.” Ice’s honey sunset eyes gaze up into Ramón’s.

“You got it, pops! I’ll be fine. Honest.” 

“Mnh.” Ice nods at his child with a small smile as he gently closes the bedroom door.

Ramón waits a few moments after his papa leaves before breathing a sigh of relief,

“Glad that’s over…” The pink haired boy rips off the blankets from himself and slides down the ladder and sits down at his desk. Ramón puts on his headset and starts up his computer. After a while, he hears his other friends and speaks,

“Heeeeyy! So, are we still on for the mall today?”

Unbeknownst to Ramón, his papa stayed right outside the door and could hear everything.

“What? No, no I’m free. Yeah, my fathers said it’s okay… cool, I’ll meet you both around 2.”

Vanilla twirls his left bang around in a vain attempt to comfort himself. Ice sighs softly and gives one last glance at Ramón’s bedroom door, before finally walking away.

To be continued…

[spookyheaad]

Well well well, I return once more

And Tesoro/Stella thoughts are taking my brain hostage once again; so I have lots to share!

@goldenshowman it’s been a while my friend, more goodies to share!

So I got into the show/comic book Invincible while I was away and all I can say is you need to read that god damn comic/watch that show. I read it all in a month and then met the comic book artist at NYCC back in October and I basically threw my money at him (Artist is Ryan Ottley, for those who are curious).

Point being is that I’ve taken massive inspiration from his art, it’s just so good, I wanna eat it; absorb it. The way he draws poses, teeth, expressions, and gore are unparalleled. It has so much life and dimension! I’ve been particularly caught up with how he draws teeth and how much it adds to his expressions, so I’m deciding to implement it into my own style! Been doing a lot of practice with it on Tesoro recently.

Also got some new sketchbooks and markers and am dabbling more in traditional media again.

Also got a little art notebook so I can occupy myself while at work!

I also have a ton of cute Tesoro/Stella interactions that I’ve sketched out in the last day or two; their happiness makes me happy ☺️

I believe this was from back in March, just a Tesoro doodle page (bottom left corner: he doesn’t like your music taste).

Last two: dynamic posing! Not very fond of the left one, need to tweak it a bit, and the right one? All that needs to be said is that there is a special place in hell for that flamingo bastard.

[kurtmustdie]

Previous | Next

Been a hot minute since I’ve posted sketchbook pages mmmmafjkskfowicc

1st- some Hobie doodles I did one morning I uhhh… don’t remember what led to these I think I was just bored in class and still waking up (like the headshot though like whoa?? Also the writing on the top is just me keeping track of my place in the Spider-Man 2099 comics don’t mind that—)

2nd- some more doodles cat Miguel that’s all I have to say

3rd- finally drawing my Spider-Man OC for once I’ve been neglecting him for no reason I’m so sorry— I drew him right after he was taken in by the Spider Society because he had an awkward phase lmao

4th- more doodles of him I’m really happy with these expressions and poses they fit him really well

5th- more warriors au doodles probably because I can’t get it out of my head that Jess would (depending on if this is her first child or not- I assume it is) come to Miguel a lot for parenting advice SHE WOULD SHE TOTALLY WOULD THEY ARE BEST FRIENDS.

And the 6th one is just a zoom in of my 3 favorite drawings I did >:)

[wastelandmoony]

Déjà Vécu: Chapter Six

Chapter Six: People Like Us

Characters: Remus Lupin/Reader, Sirius Black/Reader (no use of y/n), James Potter, Petter Pettigrew

Summary: Remus is hiding something, but what?

Warnings: Minors DNI, 18+ only!, angst, anxiety/overwhelming feelings, language

Read on AO3

Companion Playlist

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Somebody was yelling.

The words were scrambled in the haze, but there was no mistaking the tone of fear.

Her ankle was throbbing, and the intake of air was a struggle for her burning lungs.

The world began to slowly fade back to life, the words of the screaming individual becoming clear.

“—I told you, she wasn’t ready!” James was livid.

Another voice countered, “It wasn’t my fault! She’s the one that went into a nosedive, I tried to catch up and grab her!” 

Someone directly overhead snapped at the others, “Shut it! Both of you! She’s coming to…”

As her eyes fluttered open, the fuzziness of the bright day stung as it came into view. Remus was leaning over her, concern settling in-between his brows. James and Sirius popped up behind him, the latter biting his nails nervously.

“Don’t move too quickly,” Remus said quietly, “you hit your head pretty hard.”

She blinked a few times, looking around to find Peter sitting down by her knees, examining her hurt ankle. He poked it with his wand and she hissed.

“It doesn’t look broken, just sprained maybe…” Pete said calmly. 

Sirius leaned over him skeptically, “…and how d’you know that, Mungo Bonham?” 

“Mum’s a healer, I helped her a bunch growing up,” Peter blushed, looking up at her and ignoring Sirius’ prying gaze, “I can cast a basic stabilizing charm, it won’t fix it immediately but it’ll keep your ankle steady enough to help heal on its own. It’s either that or we go to the Infirmary…”

She shook her head vehemently. Already thoroughly embarrassed enough, the last thing she needed was a hospital visit on the second day of school.

Pete nodded a confirmation, waving his wand over her ankle and muttering an incantation. She immediately felt her ankle tighten, like it had been wrapped in plaster. 

Remus looked at her less-pained expression, “…Better?”

“Definitely,” she moved to get up, and James immediately grabbed her.

“Go slow,” he said, gripping onto her arm.

She stood up to full height, patting James’ hand to let him know it was okay to let go. He backed off slowly, resigning to carrying her bag that Remus had brought down from the stands.

“James, really, I’m alright,” she laughed as he looked back at her warily. 

He led the way back towards the castle, the others following slowly to keep pace with their now limping friend. As they crested over a sloping hill leading to the main entrance, Sirius lingered beside her.

“…I thought you had died or something. I saw you start to dive and when you couldn’t regain control…I tried to get to you, really I did—“ his voice was quiet, breaking slightly under the weight of the earlier events. 

“Sirius, it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have tried to best you, not on my first time,” she put her hand on his shoulder, “I can’t however, promise that I won’t completely annihilate you on my second.”

His blue eyes shot to hers, a smirk growing on his lips, “You want to go again?”

“Of course,” she laughed, “buckle up, Black, I’ll be doing laps around you in no time!”

———

The rest of the day was spent in the Great Hall; James, Peter, and Sirius playing rounds of Exploding Snap, while Remus read quietly and she drew doodles in a small torn up sketchbook beside him. Every so often she would catch Remus glancing over at her work, quickly averting his gaze a moment later. 

“…You’re quite good,” he finally whispered, leaning over to observe one of her profile studies of James. 

“Thanks, it’s just a little hobby I’ve always done. My mums an art teacher, so I was basically born with a pencil in my hand,” she giggled. 

The sun was going down as Remus set his book on the table, stretching his arms above his head, “I think I’m gonna check out the library before dinner, wanna come?”

“Yes, please,” she leapt up a little too quickly, a jolt of pain shooting through her ankle causing her to yelp. 

“I’ve got you,” Remus gripped her elbow, “Hold on to me.”

She linked arms with him, leaning slightly into his side as they left the hall.

Remus led her down the winding corridors, passing by so many closed doors that made her wonder what mysteries they concealed. 

“How do you know where to go? We’ve only been here one night,” she said, amazed at his navigation.

“I may or may not have snuck out last night midway through the ‘Great Gryffindor Quidditch Debacle’,” he smirked, “If I had to listen to James yell at Peter about Puddlemere United one more time, I would’ve set my bed on fire.”

As they approached the entrance to the library, Remus let go to hold the door open. She muttered a small thanks, stepping through the vestibule into the largest collection of texts she had ever seen. 

Remus stood beside her, mouth slightly agape as they both took in the vaulted ceilings, glowing candles, and the seemingly never ending rows of bookshelves. They began to wind their way through, grabbing any book that piqued their interest. When they each had a sizable stack, they retired to a small alcove where a few armchairs sat. 

For the next few hours, they didn’t do anything but read. It was within this time, that she finally understood why she liked Remus so much: he was easy. Being with him was effortless; he didn’t push her, didn’t show off, he just existed alongside. An equal. In turn, she did not feel the need to perform for him, to make herself into anything other than her own genuine self. They could sit in silence for hours, and be perfectly content with each other’s company. 

A small older witch with an annoyed expression tapped on a nearby shelf to get their attention, “Library’s closed for the night, you’ll have to pack it up,” she grumbled. 

Remus closed the potion book he was engrossed in, placing it on the table and rubbing his eyes, “Merlin, what time is it?” He glanced at his watch, “Well, we’ve missed dinner…”

“We can always sneak into the kitchens if you want?” She offered, adding her book to the pile on the table. He gave her a confused look in return.

“They’re next to my common room,” she laughed, “I have to go back that direction anyway, so you can come with if you’re hungry, I’ll show you where they are.”

After putting their respective stacks of books away under the scrutinizing gaze of Madam Pince, they set off in the direction of the lower floors. This time, she led the way, retracing their steps from earlier, but continuing down until they came to a set of wooden doors a few meters down from the familiar pile of barrels that led to the Hufflepuff common room. She had overheard a few older students talking about the kitchens last night at dinner; according to them, the house elves had an exceptionally good relationship with Hufflepuffs, as long as the students were respectful and polite (something that came naturally to most Badgers).

The elves in the kitchens jumped at the chance to serve them, shoving anything they could into their arms, including sandwiches, cakes, fruit, and chocolates. 

Remus was amazed, laughing openly as they left the kitchen after thanking the elves multiple times over. 

“I dunno if I can carry all of this back up to my floor!” He looked over the haul in his arms. 

“Wanna eat in my common room? It’s right there,” she gestured to the barrels with her head.

“Am I…allowed?” He asked.

She shrugged, “As long as another Hufflepuff invites you, yeah.”

They stopped in front of the barrels, and she placed a few items on top of Remus’ pile so she could remove her wand and tap the password. He watched as the tunnel opened, nodding at the impressive sight.

“Ours is just a verbal password,” he admitted, “They change it every few weeks.”

She explained how to tap correctly, warning him that the wrong rhythm would discipline the attempting party, though she was still unsure what exactly the punishment was. 

Remus was awed by the common room. He spent a good few minutes gawking at the copper potted plants lining the balcony, and the dancing cacti that flanked one of the doors. They chose a spot by the fireplace and dumped their food onto the carpet, sitting down and devouring the small feast the elves had curated. 

As they split the last bit of chocolate, she leaned her head against Remus’ shoulder.

“Are you still upset about being a Hufflepuff?” He asked quietly.

She nodded into his neck, “A little…this helped though,” she motioned towards the remnants of their makeshift picnic. 

“Amicitia,” he whispered into her hair.

“What…?” She lifted her head to look at him.

“Amicitia,” he repeated, “it’s our password. Seventh floor, look for the portrait of the Fat Lady.”

She stared back at him, stunned.

“Remus, you don’t have to do that. We’re not supposed to just let anyone know the way in—“

“You’re not just anyone,” he interrupted, “You’re our friend. You’re welcome there any time.”

His face was serious as he stared back, the light from the fireplace dancing in his hazel eyes. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him for the first time since they met on the train. He smelled liked chocolate and old books, and was so warm that she wanted to curl up and fall asleep right then and there. 

“Thank you,” she whispered against his shirt.

———

September 6th, 1971

Remus wasn’t at breakfast.

He wasn’t at dinner the night before either.

She waited for him outside of their shared Charms class, eventually being ushered inside by an impatient Professor Graves. Immediately following Charms she hurried to the Great Hall for lunch, hoping to find Remus sitting amongst their friends.

He wasn’t.

She sat next to Peter at the table, who was looking incredibly glum. 

“Everything okay?” She addressed the group rather than just him, more so implying her interest in finding out where their missing friend was.

“Well, Petey here,” Sirius pointed over at the boy next to her, “has somehow misplaced his Transfiguration textbook already, and we have class in an hour. He’s sulking because I refuse to let him borrow mine.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, “Here Pete, you can borrow my copy, I won’t need it until later this week.”

She dug through her bag, brandishing a red leather book that she swiftly handed to her friend with a smile. 

“He’s never going to learn if you keep helping him!” Sirius whined from across the table.

“What’re you, his father?” She snapped back.

He glared at her, “What’s got you all riled up today?” 

She looked at each of their faces, “Have none of you noticed that there’s someone missing from this table?”

The three boys glanced between each other, eyes falling to the empty space on her other side. 

“Oh, you mean Lupin?” James said through sandwich bites.

She rolled her eyes. Are all boys this thick, or was it just these three idiots?

“He got sick last night before dinner, something about his head he said—“ James continued.

“—went down to the hospital wing. I guess he’s still there,” Sirius chimed in, seeming very unconcerned for his friend’s welfare.

She stared at them, appalled by their calm attitudes, “…and none of you thought to check up on him?”

Peter piped up, “I was going to see him after lunch—“ “—no you weren’t, Pete, don’t be a brown-noser,” Sirius sneered.

“I can’t believe you…” her voice was rife with disappointment, “…some friends you are.” 

She rose from the table, snatching up her bag and stalking out of the hall. 

———

Remus was sitting up in the hospital bed when she approached, downing a potion and depositing the empty vial into Madam Pomfrey’s waiting hand. He looked normal, except for the dark circles beneath his eyes. 

“Hey,” she smiled at him as the matron left his bedside, “I missed you in Charms, Professor Graves gave me your homework by the way…”

The smile he returned was tired, and up close she noticed how pale he looked. 

“Remus…what happened? Are you alright?”

He nodded slowly, swallowing dryly, “Yeah, I’m okay. I just felt a little…under the weather, so I stayed the night down here. Madam Pomfrey said I’ll be good to leave in about an hour or so.”

Something in his tone made her uneasy, but due to his fragile state she didn’t want to pry. 

“Anything good happen while I was gone?” He asked with a grin.

“Just the usual—oh! I forgot, James tried to talk to Lily again last night at dinner and she dumped a bowl of mashed potatoes on his head,” she giggled at the memory of butter dripping from James’ messy hair all over the floor.

Remus groaned, “I would’ve paid to see that. I’m so tired of hearing him talk about her, it’s been a bloody week since he met her and he’s adamant she’s the future Mrs. James Potter. Poor girl…”

She sat at his bedside for another 30 minutes, watching as the color slowly returned to his face. At a quarter to, she stood up and grabbed his hand.

“I have Potions in a few, are you sure you’ll be okay to get back to the common room by yourself? I can stay if you—“

He shook his head, “No, I’ll be fine, really. I’ll see you at dinner?”

She nodded, giving his hand a squeeze before leaving. 

As she emerged from the doorway of the infirmary, she physically ran into James. 

“Christ—Potter, what’re you doing?” She adjusted the strap of her bag that had fallen in the collision.

“I uh…I heard what you said back there. In the Great Hall…about us being terrible friends,” his gaze fell to the floor, “You’re right, you know. We should’ve been with him—“

“—Just promise you’ll get him back to the tower in one piece,” she raised her hand to cut him off, still annoyed from earlier.

James nodded, regret and determination settling into his features. 

As she turned to leave, she looked back at him, registering his sagging shoulders.

“James—“

He made eye contact before walking through the infirmary doorway.

“—thank you,” she smiled softly, a sentiment he returned before disappearing to care for his friend. 

———

October 29th, 1971

“—Two rolls of parchment on how to treat a werewolf bite by next week!” Professor Sharpe called as the mixed group of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws dispersed. A vast majority of them groaned loudly at the homework, it was Halloween weekend and no one was planning on studying. Along with the various house parties, there was the annual celebration tonight in the Great Hall, something she was looking forward to, especially after Remus and James promised they’d sneak her into the Gryffindor table (they’d been working on transfiguring her robes scarlet for a few weeks now).

The rest of the day’s timetable was empty, so she headed up to Gryffindor Tower. The boys had double potions that morning, something she knew they dreaded each week, so she mentally prepared to deal with Sirius’ bad attitude that seemed to always linger long after class ended. As she ascended the staircase to the seventh floor, James and Sirius came running from an adjacent corridor.

“What’s going on?” She stared at them wide-eyed as they jumped down the stairs she was standing on.

“LUPINGOTINTOAFIGHTWITHSNIVELLUS!” Sirius’ excited words ran together as he bounded down the stairs.

She whipped her head around to James, who had paused a few steps down from her.

“Remus punched Snape, he’s in McGonagall’s office,” he motioned for her to hurry, and she ran after the two of them. 

———

The three leaned against the stone wall against Professor McGonagall’s door, waiting for Remus to emerge.

“Tell me again, coherently, what happened,” she calmly stated.

“We were in Potions, and Remus was grouped with Snape, Lily, and Mulciber,” James explained, “Sirius, Pete, and I were working on our draught and the next thing we know—“

“—he fucking clocked Snivellus in the jaw!” Sirius exclaimed, mimicking a right hook. 

She rolled her eyes, “Please stop calling him that…did you happen to hear what caused Remus to hit him?”

James stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head, “No, we’ve no idea. We looked up and they were both on the floor, Remus was just going at him…”

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t surprised, though she didn’t think sweet, quiet Remus had it in him. Nobody liked Severus, except some of the Slytherins of course, but no one had ever resorted to violence against him; something bad must have happened for Remus to snap like that. 

The heavy wooden door opened, causing the three of them to push off the wall quickly. Remus walked out with his head down, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“So?!” Sirius cut to the chase. 

“So what…?” Remus deadpanned, walking past his friends and back towards Gryffindor Tower.

“What happened with McGonagall?” Sirius clarified, the three of them jogging to catch up to Remus’ long strides.

“I have three weeks detention, starting the 4th,” He wasn’t looking at any of them as he continued walking, and she noticed the bruise forming around his left eye. She knew better than to push him when the others were around, better to wait until they were alone. 

Sirius though, didn’t share the same thought.

“What even happened? I was cutting up a sopophorus bean and all of a sudden, boom! You’re on the floor absolutely annihilating Snivellus,” you could hear the admiration in his voice.

“—He called her a mudblood,” Remus stopped walking and turned around to face them.

She immediately met his eyes, her stomach dropping, “…what?”

“Mulciber. He called Lily a mudblood, and Snape didn’t defend her or say anything to him, he just…laughed,” Remus began to walk up the stairs again, leaving the other three to soak up the reality of the situation.

James broke the brief silence, “Don’t worry about it, Lily’s strong, she can handle someone—“

“You don’t fucking get it,” Remus’ voice rose, spinning on his heel at the portrait of the Fat Lady, “You’re pure blood, you’re perfect, you’re acceptable. You’ve never had someone look at you like you’re subhuman, like you’re something unworthy of a normal life—“

“Remus, mate, that’s not what we’re—“ Sirius held up his hands.

“DON’T TRY AND ACT LIKE YOU UNDERSTAND!” Remus yelled, “DON’T TRY AND ACT LIKE YOU GIVE A SHIT ABOUT WHAT PEOPLE LIKE SNAPE, AND MALFOY, AND MULCIBER, AND  THE MAJORITY OF THE WIZARDING COMMUNITY SAY ABOUT PEOPLE LIKE—”

They all went silent, as Remus paused at the top of the stairs, eyes blazing and chest heaving.

She took a step forward towards him, “…people like who, Remus?”

His eyes were golden when they met hers, the molten color shocking her to the core.

“—People like us,” and with that, he disappeared through the portrait hole, leaving the three of them dumbfounded on the stone landing.

[circusgoth-dotcom]

The Dork Who Fell To Earth

Ship: Peter Quill x Gabriel Layson, familial Dale & Gabriel

Word Count: 1545

Summary: Another one-off AU, this time involving a crossover between my romantic ship with Peter Quill/Star-Lord (Marvel) and my familial ship with Dale & Allison (Tucker & Dale vs Evil). At least, I planned for this to just be one fic, but it might become a series if I get more ideas. Anyway, Peter Quill has been marooned on Earth and Gabriel gets to play nurse. CWs for food mentions, injury mentions.

Tag List: @canongf @rexscanonwife @futurewife

Gabriel was sitting on the porch, drinking a Pepsi and doodling in his sketchbook when Dale pulled up in his truck. He immediately hopped up, excited to greet his father figure, only to become concerned by the expression on Dale’s face as he approached.

“Hi, Dale! What’s wrong?”

“Hi, Gabriel, how’re you?” Dale squeezed his arm affectionately, still with a less-than-happy look on his face. He gestured back toward his truck. “I-I saw this guy kind of stumblin’ around in a field and y’know, I just wanted to see if he was okay, so I pulled over and I went over to him. He’s all scuffed up and his head was bleedin’ something fearsome, I didn’t- I didn’t want to leave him there so…”

Looking closer at the passenger seat of the truck, Gabriel now noticed a man sitting there with his eyes closed and a pained expression on his face.

“Oh damn, that’s scary. You want me to help bring him inside? We can put him in my room for now.”

Dale nodded and Gabriel went over to open the door. Up close, Gabriel couldn’t help but think he was kind of cute, even with all the scratches he suffered from. Curly brown hair, a moustache, slightly chubby and wearing a dark red leather jacket. Supporting the stranger on either side, Dale and Gabriel brought his half-conscious self into the house, settling him into Gabriel’s bed.

“Should I call Allison??” Dale asked as Gabriel returned from the bathroom, a roll of gauze in hand.

“I think you should wait until her lunch break, but yeah, she should probably know before she gets home…” They sat on the edge of the bed and began wrapping up the man’s head, stopping the flow of blood from his hairline. “Where do you think he’s come from?”

“I mean, from the looks of his clothes I’d say he’s from the city, at least.”

Gabriel shifted the man and took off his jacket before finally letting him rest his head against their pillows, pulling the duvet up over him. “I suppose we let him sleep for now. We can ask him questions later.”

Dale nodded, wringing his hands. “Y’know, I’ve still got stuff to do… do-do you think you can handle looking after him while I’m gone? I hate to leave you here with a stranger, but… errands.”

“I mean, yeah, that’s fine.” Gabriel shrugged as they exited his room. “Not like he’s going to be able to do much if he’s a criminal, he’s completely out of commission. Besides, you and Allison have done plenty well teaching me self-defence.” He grinned and playfully bumped against him.

“We sure did, heh. I can’t never- can never?? Can never tell you enough how proud I am of you. You know that, right?”

“Yes, and it’s frankly embarrassing!”

The two hugged before Dale left and Gabriel was alone in the house again, though not really this time considering the stranger in their bed. Having nothing better to do, they brought their drink and sketchbook inside and began preparing for when the man would awaken. He gathered pain medication, ice packs, and heat packs, then set out the ingredients to make grilled cheese sandwiches. By the time he was done cooking, the man still hadn’t awoke, so he brought his own sandwich and a magazine into the room to wait, settling into a beanbag chair in the corner.

He was about done when the man in his bed began to shift. Gabriel set aside the magazine and hopped up, padding to the bedside. “Welcome to the land of the living. Looks like you took quite a tumble.”

The man grunted, lifting his head slightly and reaching up to gingerly touch the bandages. He opened his eyes, squinting, and Gabriel was startled to find they were the most brilliant aquamarine colour he had ever seen. “Where… am I??”

“Mare Grove, West Virginia, Dale and Allison Layson’s house,” he then gestured to himself with the last bite of his sandwich, “Gabriel’s room.”

The man blinked. “Earth??”

Gabriel stifled a chuckle. “No shit. I made grilled cheeses.” He finished his own and dusted off his hands. “You should probably eat, take some Aspirin. You don’t happen to remember your name, do you?”

“Peter…” He settled back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. “Peter Quill.”

“Good. Nice to meet you, Quill.”

As soon as Gabriel had left the room, Peter once again sat up as much as he could stand and looked around. Earth. There was no possible way he was back on Earth, his Earth. But this sure did look like an Earthling’s bedroom, and the air smelled of Earth grilled cheese… he quickly laid back down when Gabriel returned with a food tray. They set it on the bedside table and helped Peter sit up, fluffing up some pillows to support his back before setting the tray on his lap. It presented two halves of a grilled cheese sandwich, a small bowl of tomato soup, a glass of water, and two Aspirin tablets.

“I’m Gabriel, by the way.”

“Thanks, Gabriel��” He picked up one of the sandwich halves, examining it before hesitantly taking a bite. His stomach growled loudly as he chewed, and abandoning any idea that this was some sort of trick, he eagerly gobbled down the food and took the medication. “How did I get here??”

“Dale said he found you wandering aimlessly in a field somewhere and that you were spouting nonsense.”

Peter nodded slowly before feeling his arms and realizing his lack of coat. “Where’s my jacket?!”

“In the hall closet, don’t worry, I didn’t steal it,” Gabriel soothed before leaving to retrieve it. “It is a nice jacket, though.” He set the jacket at the foot of the bed. “So, do you remember anything?”

“Okay, well, this is going to sound insane, but I was up there,” Peter pointed toward the ceiling, “y’know, space. Next thing I know, I’m in your bed and fuck am I sore. And not in a good way, in an I-fell-down-the-stairs-when-I-was-drunk way.”

“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming and-or under the influence of drugs?”

“I’m absolutely sure! Here, I’ll show you!” He frantically pressed behind his right ear to activate his helmet, only to be slightly shocked. “Ouch, mother-- what the Hell???” He pressed it again, but nothing happened. He buried his head in his hands. “Oh God. My helm’s broken. That’s just great.”

“What am I supposed to be seeing here?”

“Alright, forget that, I didn’t happen to have some really cool, sci-fi-looking blasters on me when this Dale guy picked me up, did I?”

Gabriel shook his head. “None that I saw, unless they got left in his truck.”

“Is that truck still here?”

“Hate to put a damper on that hopeful tone, Quill, but Dale probably won’t be back for at least another two hours.” They glanced at their alarm clock, “which reminds me, I should probably call Allison and ask her what to do.”

“Wait, I’m going to prove to you that I came from space!” Groaning, he stiffly kicked off the blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed, indicating his dusty boots. “Rocket thrusters!”

Gabriel knelt down and examined the metal jutting off the side of the boots. “Do they work?”

“Hell yeah they work! Though it’s probably a bad idea to use them inside…”

“And especially when you’re injured. Well, alright, fine, I’ll entertain the idea of you being a spaceman.” They stood. “What’s it like, up there?”

“Too vast to get into right now… you know, it’s been a long time since I was on Earth…”

“So you’re not an alien.”

“No, I’m not an alien! I’m originally from Earth, it’s… it’s a long story, okay? I got abducted as a kid, in the 80s…”

“Ah. Are you sure you’re not just traumatized, Quill, and using the idea of being a space traveller to cope?”

He buried his face in his hands and made a sound of prolonged frustration before attempting to stand. “I don’t have time to deal with this, I’ve gotta get back up there…”

“You have plenty of time to heal,” Gabriel forced him back into a sitting position. “Now don’t go anywhere while I call my mom about it, alright?”

As Gabriel left, Peter reluctantly laid back down, folding his arms crankily. He was torn. On the one hand, he’d like to go back to being Star-Lord, devilishly handsome outlaw, but on the other… this was his home planet. There was so much to catch up on. Maybe there was someone out there who still remembered him. And damn it if his stubborn streak wasn’t set ablaze by Gabriel. Sure, he didn’t know anything about them, but he was becoming increasingly determined to get them to believe him… And of course they and their family were kind enough to give him a bed, food, and most importantly, something to soothe the aches in his worn-out body… He sighed. At the very least, he would stay here until he felt better. Then he would get to the bottom of what had happened to him and how he had been discarded back on the blue marble he initially called home.

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Hello to my favourite blog !! I hope you’re doing well and staying hydrated 🫶

Could I request Tim, Brian, and Liu/Sully with an S/O who creates art as a hobby? Specifically drawing and painting little cartoons, realism, and landscape from time to time.

I’ve been feeling pretty bummed about missing out on art because I’m focusing on my main career path atm :(

Thank you, and good luck with requests !!

Hello~! I'm doing pretty good, I hope you're also doing alright :) I hope you can get back to your art soon, but for now I hope you enjoy

Tim:

Tim isn't the most crafty or handy when it comes to things like art, so he's always admired everything you're able to do. You can impress him so easily with every piece of art you can make, regardless of if it's just little cartoon doodles or a fully painted landscape, he thinks all of it just looks so cool, and he always tells you as much. Tim is the type to take your pieces and hang them up around the house so that when he's going about his day he can look around and just admire the wonderful pieces of art you've made over the years. Tim really does love and admire every single piece you've created, and it just makes him feel so happy to have a partner that so freely expresses themselves through something like art, and maybe, just maybe, one day he might ask you to help him dabble in art as well. 

Brian:

Brian absolutely thinks that it's amazing, the various types of art that you can do. My Brian really enjoys woodworking as a hobby, and I can absolutely see him trying to get the two of you to combine forces on something, with him designing and carving something out of wood and you painting across the finished piece in whatever style you think fits it best. Honestly, I can see that as a recurring thing, the two of you working hard together, relaxing, and ridding yourselves of stress through your hobbies. Brian really admires your craftmanship and all the little things you do, and he gushes about them constantly, really excited to be able to witness you at work. Part of the reason why he loves when you paint over his woodworking is also that he feels so happy to be able to give you space and area to express yourself through your art right alongside him, it truly makes him so incredibly happy.

Liu/Sully:

Liu and Sully also both adore all of the art that you create. Liu himself has a knack for drawing and keeps sketchbooks and art supplies constantly stocked up in his bedroom. He enjoys drawing realism and landscapes, and it's absolutely something he'd love to do with you, especially for a date idea, the two of you sitting out in an open field drawing and painting your surroundings together, the thought just sounds so heavenly to him. Sully, on the other hand, is not as artistically inclined, and is amazed at what the two of you are able to do together, if not a bit jealous that he isn't as artistic as Liu. Sully really, really loves watching you at work, as he finds it so incredible the things you're able to do, and he could sit for hours curled up by your side amazed at every line and stroke you place. Both of them are incredibly fond of your artistic skills, and you'll never be short on praise from either of them.

[molzies-fanfics]

Kouros

A/N: I think this is the main reason why I don’t draw male anatomy often lol. I can’t imagine what the people around me would think if they saw photos like that on my phone, I’d be mortified! So I tried to channel that kind of feeling into this fic, and because I need to write for Donnie boi more and I think his reaction would be a hell of a lot funnier I decided to go with him! Hope y’all enjoy!

UPDATE: it’s been well over two years since I began the draft...but I’ve done it! it’s here! IT’S ALIVE! this fic I mean...starting uni next week so wish me luck guys!

 Donatello x gender neutral reader

words: 753

Requested by: @choccoshake​

Donnie knew you loved art, doodling, painting, graffiti, you name it you most likely did it. It was similar to how he had to get a blueprint down or the itch to write equations almost everywhere. He was surprised his brothers weren’t annoyed with the incessant scribbles but sometimes there were just as bad with how they wrote their names all over the place, especially the glaring graffiti of Leo’s name before you entered the area of his ‘bedroom’.

 However having a significant other that kept most of their drawings to themselves was a welcomed change of pace. You often found inspiration whilst sitting in his lab, which made him feel like a piece of him gave you the little creativity push. It gave him fuzzy butterflies in his stomach to say the least. Sometimes you used his printer to print out references for your work, you sometimes used the grid method and other times it was just better to have it to scale besides where you were working. Donnie never pushed to see what you were working on, you always gave him a heads up before peering over his shoulder by brushing your fingers over his shell or mumbling his name softly.

 That was until he went to fetch something from his printer this morning and found not only his papers on ‘how to get pepperoni out of an engine’ (don’t ask) but an incredible amount of pictures of shirtless dudes.

 Human shirtless dudes to be more precise.

 Even though Donnie had the suspicion that this was purely for art’s sake, he couldn’t help the pang of jealousy that shot through his chest.

 Not only were most of these men pure muscle but they were clearly human…something he was very much not.

 You were invested in drawing anatomy, of course that included human men. He tried to think of this from a more logical point of view, but he couldn’t help the ‘what ifs’ from entering his mind and taking over his somewhat uneventful morning (besides the pepperoni incident).

Before he could come to anymore conclusions he knew he had to talk to you…or at the very least give you your references.

“Hey Y/N?” Donnie’s voice called out from his lab as he entered the lair. You were perched on the couch, fully engrossed in your drawing.

“Yeah babe?” you answered, not bothering to look up. This was normal behavior between the two of you. If either of you were working then you wouldn’t bother looking up unless it was something important. Donnie felt hurt nonetheless. He really needed you to look at him just for the sake of seeing him.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” The turtle asked, gripping the papers to his chest as if they would protect him from his feelings.

Finally, you pushed your sketchbook to the side as you focused all of your attention on him and only him.

“Sure! What’s up?” You grinned. Dread began to settle over the terrapin’s face as he didn’t want to be the cause of distress. Yet he couldn’t get those damn thoughts out of his brain.

“I just wanted to know about these?” He smirked slightly as he showed you the pictures.

“Oh…those were just for drawing. They look a bit stupid though huh?” Giggling, you apologized for using his printer without checking first.

“That’s not what I wanted to talk about, I mean kind of, but not at the same time?” your expression morphed into confusion as he rambled.

“Okay? Wanna sit with me?” You offered as he walked around the couch, sitting very close to you as he took a deep breath in.

“It’s just…when I saw these I couldn’t help feeling jealous. You draw anything and everything and I understand that includes the male anatomy of…humans. Your own species. I think…I felt like you could do so much better than me.” The purple banded turtle’s walls came down as shrank into his shell.

“Don, you are my boyfriend. I care about you so much it hurts sometimes. Yeah I draw people all the time but maybe I should focus on something else…” you trailed off, taking the references from Donnie and dropping them on the floor.

“What’s that?” he asked meekly.

“Can I draw you?” your eyes gleamed, your hands resting on his cheeks as you asked.

“Oh-of course!” chuckling to himself, he let out his signature snort as you scrambled for your sketchbook beginning a detailed sketch of your Donnie. Your muse, Donatello.

[demonicheadcanons]

Can I get the brothers reacting to finding MCs sketchbook and it’s filled with drawings of the demon who picked it up? All of them are masterpieces and some are angsty or sad, others happy, some just them doing mundane things. When confronted, MC just says “Of course I draw you all the time, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. You’re my muse.” Thank you in advance, if it’s too complicated you can skip.

AN: This cute prompt has been sitting in my inbox for far too long. Thanks for sending this in Nonny <3 I love this idea. I tried to keep each scenario short so I could get this done quickly, as you’ve waited long enough for it. Tried is the key word here ;u;

You’re maybe already dating the boys in these? Or very close? They’re not explicitly romantic but have some affection. I also didn’t make the MC say these exact words, or even anything at all in some of these prompts, but the general feeling is still there. I hope that’s alright!

Lucifer

You left the book behind when studying together, rushing off to meet up with Mammon after you realised you were late and would hear hell for it. He notices it sometime later, too busy relishing on even the short period of time he’d gotten to spend alone with you in relative peace.

He picks it up and, curious, with no worries that you might not really want him to look through it, he flips it open to the first page. He realises what it is right away, and continues to flip through the pages until he gets to a drawing of him. Its such a perfect represention of the moment that he can recall exactly when you must’ve drawn this.

You’d come into his room to have a break from all the noise in the rest of the house, and you had laid on your stomach on his bed and worked away at something as he went through paperwork at his desk. He’d wanted to ask you, at the time, what had you so focused, but he hadn’t wanted to ruin the sight.

He continues to flip through the pages, and frowns slightly for every drawing he sees of one of his brothers, but his lips twitch up every time there’s even a simple doodle of him. He counts, unconsciously, and realises you’ve drawn him more than anyone else. Pride swells in his chest, so very familiar and not at the same time.

He hears the tapping at his door and calls out, immediately, for you to come in. He knows that knock, after all, and you’re one of the few members of the house that he wouldn’t hear coming down the corridor. He leans against the front of his desk, holding your book open in front of him, not bothering to hide the fact that he’d looked through it.

The particular sketch he’s looking at is one where you must’ve been close - you’ve detailed in every long, delicate eyelash, his hair falling in front of his face and his lips slightly parted, only the faintest frown on his face as he focuses hard on his work. He smiles as he tips the book forward, watching as your eyes are drawn to it. To his surprise, you only smile, relieved, raising a hand to your chest.

“Thank goodness, I did leave it here after all.”

You walk over and hop up onto his desk, leaning towards him as you try to see which sketch he’s looking at. He slouches a little more to make you comfortable and shows the sketch.

“You’ve drawn me a lot,” he comments.

“Of course. You’re beautiful, how could I resist?”

He presses a kiss to your temple and rests his head against yours, smiling. He doesn’t often like people commenting on his appearance - he was confident enough about it, knew how he looked, but he didn’t need to hear about it all the time. Still, from you, it didn’t hurt. Especially not if you felt inspired enough by it to draw him.

.

[[Other brothers are under the read more]]

Mammon

Mammon had burst into your room and you weren’t there. Frustrated by your absence and unsure of when to expect you back, he decides to pick through your stuff. He wasn’t going to steal any of it - he’d been called out by Beel about that, before, and whilst he’d denied it at the time he knew it was true. He’d much rather steal something for you than from you.

The book is open on your desk to a page full of mindless doodles. It piques his curiosity, and he grabs it and sits down, kicking his feet up on top of your desk. It wasn’t like you were there to tell him not to, and you’d left without telling him where you were going so he was going to do whatever he wanted until you got back.

He flicks back to the start of the book, and honestly his first thoughts are about how you could easily sell these drawings for a lot of Grimm. Sketches of the Devildom, of flowers and creatures you couldn’t find in the human realm, of how the Devildom looked all lit up with the moon overhead, from the highest balcony in the RAD building. He’s in awe, mouth a faint ‘o’ shape as he continues to turn page by page.

The first drawing of him makes him freeze up. He was a model, Mammon knew he must be handsome. But he’d never felt it like he did now. In the drawing, he’s sitting on the floor, cushion in his lap as he plays some game on a controller. His expression is somewhere between frustrated and delighted, his hair fluffy and messy because he’d been running his hands through it.

He remembers - you’d been having trouble adapting to the Devildom so he stole- borrowed a console from Levi, but you were too tired to play. He played anyway, hoping that at least watching him would distract you enough, and to convince himself that he was in part doing it for him too and not to entertain some random human.

You walk in and he slams the book shut, but its too late - you’ve seen him holding it. You don’t seem mad about that, though, and instead glare at how he has his feet up on your desk. He adjusts quickly, fumbling as he tries to put on his confident act, walking over to you as he waves the sketchbook in the air.

“What’s this, then? You’ve been drawing me without asking me first?” he asks, teasing lilt falling flat in his voice. His face feels far too warm, as it often does when he’s around you.

“I couldn’t help it. You’re so pretty I just had to.” You shrug, nonchalant. You swipe the book from his hand and sit on your bed, tapping the space beside you. “How far in did you get?”

Mammon pouts as he goes to sit beside you. “Not far.” As he sits beside you, he grabs your sides and pulls you to lay down, holding the sketchbook open up in the air. He’s desperate for some attention right now, but he wanted to keep looking at your art. “Let’s look through the rest together.”

.

Leviathan

Levi was flustered. You’d been spending time in his room, and he loved your presence but it took him so long to get used to it each time that you stopped in to hang out with him. You’d brought the book you always had with you, and were working away on something, laying on your stomach on the floor with a Ruri-chan plushie in one arm.

He fumbles with his controller and sighs as he misses yet another jump in the game he was trying hard to distract himself with. Every time he glances over, he wants to ask what you’re doing, why you’re here with him when you could easily do your work elsewhere or with any of his brothers, if you were really happy to just sit in his presence like this. His voice dies in his throat and his face flushes when he catches sight of you, so he never does get to ask.

He’d messed up one too many times and was starting to get frustrated when he glanced over and realised you were looking at him, too. Heat floods into his face, and his frustrations die before he can even mumble out his signature ‘this is so unfair’. You smile, going back to your work before dropping your pencil. You wiggle around until you’re sitting, cross-legged, and hold out your sketchbook.

It was a drawing. You’d been drawing, and you’d been drawing him. Levi leans closer hesitantly, wanting to get a better look at it, trying not to think about how giddy and anxious your proud smile made him feel. He works up the courage to take the book out of your hands and looks over the drawing. It takes a long time before he can say anything, too busy focusing on all the little details - how his face is scrunched up from frustration and concentration, how his headphone cord is coiled around his fingers from when he’d been playing with it and hadn’t untangled it fully, how his head was tilted to stop his hair from fully falling in front of his eyes.

“You... its really good, but, I don’t... I’m not this handsome,” he mumbles, face bright red, and he flinches when you laugh.

“You are. More-so, actually, but its hard to capture from this distance.”

Levi can’t respond, just swallows. You sigh, something fond in it, and walk on your knees until you can fall against his side, cuddling up to the Ruri-chan plushie.

“Look through the other drawings. I only draw what I find beautiful. That’s why I drew you.”

His smile is faint, but its enough. He’s hearing your words, even if they’re hard to process for him. He relaxes and flips back to the front page, ready to look at the rest of your work with you.

.

Satan

Books were commonplace in his room. They were part of the furniture - quite literally, as they were piled up everywhere, even on top of his bed, although he’d made an effort to stop putting them there so long as you were spending time with him, so that you had somewhere comfortable to sit or lay whilst you were reading.

And yet, he always noticed when one was out of place, or when a new book had joined his collection without his knowing. Sometimes this happened because his brothers had found something interesting but weren’t willing to say aloud that it had reminded them of him, or that they bought it because he might enjoy it, so they’d simply popped into his room and added it to a stack. It was normal at this point.

That’s why he didn’t question it when there was a new book left on his bed, and when he didn’t hesitate to lay down and open it up, curious as to what story one of his brothers had left for him this time. Instead, he’s met with drawings. Amazing drawings of the Devildom, of his brothers... and of him.

There are notes, as well, few and far between, that allow him to place this as being your book. He knew that scrawl. He felt guilty to look through your sketchbook without your permission, but now that he’d already opened it, he was too curious to leave it be. He’d be honest about it later and deal with the consequences then, or joke about how you’d been drawing him without his permission so you were equal now.

The drawings were beautiful, more detailed that he’d seen for casual doodles left in a book without being shown to the subjects in them. He takes his time to look over each page carefully, each drawing filling his heart with something foreign, sweet and sticky like berry pie. He spends extra time focusing on each drawing of himself, wonders how and why you’d made him look so soft. It was hard for him to get portraits done as his presence could invoke anger in others and leave harsh and angry lines and brush strokes on the canvas, but clearly he didn’t have that same influence on you - instead, each drawing of him was more delicate than any of the others, like you’d put more effort in.

Satan returns it to you later, a smile on his face. He does apologise immediately, for looking at the drawings without your permission.

“Its alright. I’m just glad you found it for me.” You’re completely cheery, not bothered at all, and Satan sighs in relief.

“You’ve drawn me quite a lot,” he notes.

“Well obviously. I spend the most time with you,” you say, smiling when you catch the faint pout he covers up. That wasn’t what he had expected or wanted you to say, clearly. Nor was it all you had to say on the matter. “Also, you’re very beautiful. I wanted to try and capture that and keep a little for myself.”

He smiles now, content, and pats you on the head. “If you want me around, you only have to ask.”

.

Asmodeus

You’d been working away at something as he picked out an outfit and fixed his hair, and he’d been dying to ask but he just needed to adjust a few more strands first - you were going out to Majolish together and he wanted to look perfect. He always did, of course, but when the two of you were going out together he put in even more effort than usual.

When he finally finishes, he jumps up out of his chair and rushes over to you.

“How do I look?” he asks, beaming, full of confidence as always.

“Fabulous,” you say, reaching out to readjust a few strands of hair that had fallen out of place from his quick movements. He sits down on his bed beside you and pulls you up until you’re sitting beside him, hugging you around your waist.

“What were you doing whilst you were waiting? You looked so focused, it was adorable~” Asmo chirps, looking pointedly at the sketchbook. His eyes widen in genuine surprise. “Wait, is that me?”

You nod, lifting your sketchbook up so that the two of you could see it properly. You’d been drawing him, just little sketches as he flitted about the room doing this and that to get ready. You couldn’t have spent long on each one, and yet they captured him perfectly. He looked elegant in each, determined and beautiful.

You flicked back to the previous page before he could comment, and Asmo’s breath caught in his throat. This drawing was him, it was so brilliant an example of everything that he was. He was looking at you and smiling, and you’d captured the love and admiration in his eyes so perfectly he wondered if this was somehow a photograph.

Asmo tears up and hugs you tighter, burying his face against your neck. You can feel him smile wide against your skin. He stays like that for only a moment before his excitement bubbles up to the surface and he litters your cheek, nose, and forehead with feather-light kisses. He’d do anything for the one who saw him as he was.

.

Beelzebub

Beel had a pretty normal schedule for each day - he’d exercise, go to school, spend time with you and Belphie or his other brothers if they were around and alright with it, and of course, he’d eat quite a lot. You had a good idea of where he’d be throughout the day, and when you had the time for it, you’d accompany him so he wasn’t alone. Whether that meant sitting on the counter as he dug through the fridge, or laying on the sofa with your head in his lap and your feet in Belphie’s, you just liked to spend time with him.

And, a lot of the time, he noticed you had this little book with you. He’d caught you glancing at him many times, but didn’t think anything of it. He glanced at you a lot, too, so maybe it was only to be expected. He’d gotten used to the butterflies in his stomach when you two randomly linked eyes and you grinned, twirling your pencil around in your hand.

A lot of your time was spent together in relative silence, as well, and he was accustomed to hearing your pencil scratch against the paper. But he never asked what you were doing, because if you wanted to tell him you would. He trusted you to do that. And his trust paid off, when you were both watching a show together.

He notices early on that you're paying more attention to him than the screen, and when the episode finishes you tap him gently on the shoulder before stretching out your wrists. He looks to you, tilting his head in curiosity until you hold the book open in front of him.

It was a drawing of him, focused on the screen, odd lighting casting shadows against his form. He had something in his hand, some sort of food, but you’d put more attention into actually drawing him. So much attention that he was sure no matter how long he looked, there would always be something more to notice.

“Its me?” he asks, unsure lilt in his voice. He looks bashful, like he’s done something wrong. “Why?”

You stretch out your arms again, thinking, and finally answer, “Because you looked beautiful, and I wanted to draw you?”

It was neither easy nor hard to make Beel blush, and most of the time it just seemed to happen. You hadn’t caught onto the pattern yet, hadn’t been able to perfect it so that you could make it happen whenever you wanted. But you smile in silent victory now as his ears and cheeks flush a reddish pink, pairing nicely with his wide eyes.

His surprise gives way to a smile, and he leans over to wrap his arms around you, holding you close. All he can manage is a thank you, but with that you know how much he appreciates it, how much he appreciates you.

.

Belphegor

Belphie would often drag you off to the attic, and whilst he enjoyed the times where you would curl up in his arms and nap with him until you absolutely had to get up, he knew he couldn’t expect that of you constantly. You were still human, and you could only sleep so much before you had to get up to stretch or eat or just do something else to occupy your mind.

You’d built up a habit together, now, where if you wanted to get up you’d tap his arm twice and he’d reluctantly let you go. He’d stay awake if you left the room, just enough so that he’d be able to tell when you returned. If you didn’t, he’d have to go seek you out again by himself to drag you back with him and absolutely not just to make sure you were okay. If you did return, he’d go back to sleep and let you do what you wanted, opening his arms up if you tapped on them again to crawl back into his grip. It was peaceful, and though he never said it aloud, he loved it.

Often times, when he did wake up, you’d be sitting nearby in a little bundle of pillows and blankets that you’d made with a book and pencil in hand. You were quick to notice when he woke up, so Belphie could never just watch you to figure out what you were doing, which frustrated him to no end but at the same time it was nice to be known. Still, he was determined to figure it out.

His determination is unnecessary, because one day he wakes up and you’re looking straight at him, smiling contentedly. He woke up too fast, then, heart pounding as he tried to remember that expression. Did you admire him so much to look at him like that, even when he was just sleeping?

“You’re awake,” you say, voice light and cheery.

“And you were watching me sleep, as always,” Belphie scoffs, pulling the blanket up over his face to cover up his blush. “What’s new?”

You pout and stick out your tongue at him, and he lowers the blanket enough to return the gesture. It was hard to remember just how old he was when he acted like that.

“With good reason,” you tell him. He raises an eyebrow, and you smile and hold out your sketchbook. He takes it immediately, trying to act nonchalant as he opens it up and flicks through the pages. You barely catch how his eyes widen, how his breath catches and he slows down, taking in each drawing carefully.

“There are... a lot of drawings, of me sleeping,” Belphie says, swallowing, raising the book enough to try to cover his smile. Too late, you think. You’d caught him.

“You look cute like that. Plus, its the only time you sit still enough for me to draw you.”

“Or you’re just that obsessed with me. Weirdo.” He closes the book and hands it back to you, sitting up to stretch. He keeps his eyes on you, notices when you frown the tiniest bit. Was his teasing too much?

He sighs and slides out of bed, sitting in your pile beside you. He leans against you, like a cat looking for attention without wanting to admit it, and takes your hand in his, playing with your fingers.

“Thanks, MC.”

[tenspontaneite]

Pigment

Callum discovers the wonders of elven pigments.

(The first of two pieces written for @falling-for-you-a-rayllum-zine, which is now having leftover sales!) ('Future' chapter; takes place post-s3, naturally not canon to TTM. Oneshot. 4k. Ao3 link)

---

The first time Callum was introduced to the concept of elvish pigment was, ostensibly, by Rayla’s skin. He’d noted the marks under her eyes in the same hurried, panicked glance that picked out the horns, the ears, the alarming points of the weapons in her hands…

He wondered about them, of course, but in the first frantic two weeks of their acquaintance, there really wasn’t a lot of time to ask about it. Not until the Storm Spire, when he sat mulling over the flight-runes on Ibis’ wings, and how they might have come to be there.

“…So, I’ve been wondering,” he said to Rayla, apropos of nothing, while she was tending to her equipment. She looked up as he began to speak, the armour momentarily forgotten. “Those…markings you have, the ones on your face—and the ones a lot of other elves seem to have—what are they?”

She blinked, and for a moment, her fingers rose to her face, as though only just remembering the marks were there. “They’re pigment?” She offered, squinting at him a little. “…Is that a trick question, or…?”

“No, really, I have no idea what they are.” He assured her. “I was never sure if they were tattoos, or…weird elf birthmarks, or something. But—pigment? Does that mean it’s like…ink? How do you get them on?” Tattoos, as he understood them, involved needles. He hoped elven pigment didn’t involve needles.

For a moment, Rayla stared at him, looking decidedly nonplussed. “You…paint them on?” She offered, still thrown. “With a brush? And then they stay there for a while. Half a year, maybe. Depends on how good your pigment is.”

“Huh.” Callum mused. For a moment, he was tempted to press further, to ask about the intricacies of various pigments and the application thereof…but he’d been asking for a reason, after all, and his attention remained there.

If they were painted on...then that boded well. That meant that it was something that he could do, if only for the presence of the pigment and a brush.

It wasn’t much later that, after a guilty rummage through Ibis’ things, Callum stood at the pinnacle of the Storm Spire and painted flight-runes onto his skin. That was his first true introduction to the pigments of elves. As an artist, he couldn’t help but marvel at it. The pigment was white, yet it entirely obscured the darker colour of his skin with only a single, easy stroke. Only one layer, and it was solidly opaque. It glowed a little—then settled utterly dry, clean, and steadfast upon his arms.

For a moment, he spared a thought to wish that his paints could be like that. He’d dabbled in every form of art medium he could get his hands on over the years, and he’d never worked with any pigment like this one. It would be gorgeous to paint with.

But then he was too distracted trying to fly to think about art any longer, and that was the last mind he paid to pigment for a while.

*

After the battle of the Storm Spire, he prevailed upon the use of a finer, neater brush, and filled in the edges of his flight-runes until the shape of each was perfect and immaculate. Ibis watched him with a critical eye, and nodded.

“The spell will come easier if the runes are tidy.” He said, approvingly. “You’ll need to re-apply the pigment every three months. Any longer than that and it will begin to fade—which isn’t so great an issue when the marks are merely aesthetic, but with runes…”

“I can see how you wouldn’t want these fading, no.” Callum said ruefully, and accepted the little bottle of white pigment with a murmur of gratitude. He tucked it into his things for the next time he and Rayla went travelling, and she smiled at him.

“Packing your pigment for the journey, Callum?” She remarked, a little teasing. “Think we’ll be gone that long, do you?”

He laughed, and shrugged, glancing down at one of his arms. “I guess it’s just in case, really. I shouldn’t need to touch them up again for months, but…you never know. Wouldn’t want to end up flightless for some reason.”

“I suppose you are a tad obsessed with flying, now.” She agreed, as if she wasn’t always finding excuses for him to sweep her up into the sky for another flight. She reached out, absentminded, and trailed a fingertip around the curve of one rune with the trace of a smile on her lips. “Still, if it came down to it, you could always borrow mine.”

He glanced up at her, startled. “Your pigment?” He checked, eyes settling on the marks beneath her eyes. “I didn’t know you had any with you.”

“I don’t. Need to pick some up from Ethari, when we visit.” She said, succinctly, and he supposed that was another reason for their stopping at Silvergrove on the way to Katolis. How long had it been, since she last refreshed her pigment? Did she need to do it again soon, or was she just planning for the future?

He stared at her for a moment, contemplating her, feeling his heart flutter with a familiar warmth. If her markings had faded at all since he met her, it wasn’t immediately obvious to him. They looked as clear and lovely as ever; a natural part of her face. It was strange to think of what she might look like without them.

Rayla eyed him, when he’d stared a little too long and smiled a little too softly, and huffed at him. Her cheeks pinked a little, the colour darkening her markings. “What are you looking at?” She muttered to him, a touch self-conscious. Rather than look away, he smiled at her all the wider, and captured the hand she had on his arm to plant a kiss on its fingers.

“You.” He said, very contentedly, and watched with pleasure as her face coloured and her fingers twitched beneath his touch.

“Dumb prince.” She sighed, a smile spreading unbidden and affectionate across her lips. It was beautiful, so of course he kissed that too. He felt the widening of that smile against his mouth, and lingered there for as long as she’d let him before she prodded him away to finish packing.

She gave his arms a strange look, though, when he next bared them. Appraising, almost, with a narrow-eyed sort of consideration. “…What?” He asked, when she’d been staring long enough to warrant the question.

“Your runes are…neat.” She said, tone as considering as her eyes. “Tidy.” She shook her head then. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, with all the art you do. Of course you’d be good at painting skin-pigment.” He eyed her, because there was clearly more to this observation than just surprise that he’d managed some tidy brushwork, but all she said when he asked was “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

He didn’t believe her, obviously. Not with the way she kept shooting half-considering looks at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. But he didn’t press her, and she didn’t mention whatever was on her mind. In time, he forgot about it.

Until they were back in the Silvergrove.

*

Rayla asked Ethari, and within the minute he was pressing a small dark bottle and a fine brush into her hands. “I did wonder if you needed any.” He said, as she turned the glass over and the indigo liquid swirled around within. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” She agreed, pocketing the vial and the brush both. “It’ll start fading soon. So…thanks.”

He nodded at her, all warmth and familial affection. “Not a problem. Did you want me to help with that while you’re here?”

She hesitated, then, and for a moment…for a moment, her eyes slid to Callum, who’d been watching them idly over the top of his sketchbook. “…I’m good.” She settled on, eventually, and if there was anything particularly knowing about Ethari’s smile then, Callum didn’t notice it.

He kept drawing, content in that she was content, and happy to be in her home under happier circumstances than the first.

But then, later: “I wanted to ask you something.” Rayla said, abruptly, when it was just the two of them in what was ostensibly her childhood room. It had been adapted over the years for a growing teenager, but still maintained hints of the past lingering within its walls. He spotted a child’s doodle of a shadowpaw etched into the grain of the dresser, and suppressed a smile.

He turned to her, eyes crinkling a little at the thought of a tiny rambunctious Rayla who scrawled over the walls and furniture. “Yeah?” He responded, a little distracted, as he wondered if there were perhaps any baby or childhood portraits in residence somewhere. He should ask Ethari. If there were any to be found, surely he’d know.

That distraction fled the instant she spoke. “Will you paint my pigment for me?” She asked, directly, and his eyes shot to her at once. At his expression, she added, “You don’t have to. But it needs doing soon, or it’ll start fading faster.” She paused, looking a little more tentative as she said, “If you don’t want to, Ethari can—”

“No,” he blurted, clumsy, then scrambled to say “I mean, yes, I mean—I mean I’d like that. To help. To, er. Paint your pigment on.” He felt his face heat, in part from how he’d stumbled over the words, and in part because…well. He might not know a lot about elven pigment and elven markings, but he was fairly sure that they were…personal. That painting someone’s markings for them was personal.

His reply settled her, and she huffed, lips twitching with familiar fondness. “…Good.” She said, in the end, and surprised him by leaving the room without further word. He blinked after her, uncertain whether he was supposed to follow, but then she returned a bare few moments later with a towel and a wet cloth that she was already wiping her face with.

“Er,” he offered, perplexed, as she dried her face off and set the towel and cloth both down. He didn’t understand until she plucked the bottle of pigment from her dresser and pressed it into his fingers. “Now?” His voice was something of a squeak, and she rolled her eyes.

“When else?” She asked, procuring a brush and giving him that too. “We’re setting off tomorrow. Now’s best.” She paused. “…That okay?”

Her voice had gone tentative again, and his chin jerked up, fingers tightening around brush and bottle as if worried she’d take them away. “No, yeah, it’s okay,” he assured her, and then laughed, a little nervously. “I just…wasn’t expecting it.” He cleared his throat, and took a closer look at the brush. It was like the one he’d filled his own runes in with, fine and delicate and short enough that it didn’t seem liable to flick off in weird directions. “…So I just…paint this onto your face?” He asked, after a moment, feeling his cheeks heat for reasons he couldn’t quite put to words. It felt special, in a way that was hard to describe.

“That is how it works.” Rayla answered, dryly, and then tugged him by the rune-adorned arm until they were both sitting on the floor, towel and cloth at close remove. He supposed those were there in case of spillages, though considering how quickly elvish pigment took hold, he wasn’t sure how much good a towel would do. He wondered if there was some sort of solvent, magical or otherwise, that was up to the task of dissolving pigment like this.

“What happens if I make a mistake when I’m putting your pigment on?” He wondered aloud, only half directing it at her. “Do you just have to walk around with it on your face for months?”

She snorted, and shook her head. “Nah. There’s pigment-remover for that.”

A little tension eased from his shoulders. “Oh, good,” he sighed, relieved. “That’s much less pressure, then.”

She rolled her eyes again. “Just paint my face, Callum.”

He chuckled at her, a little nervously, and uncapped the bottle. The liquid inside was so much darker than the pigment he used, and bizarrely true in its colour. Usually, inks tended to look much darker than their actual colour when they were in the bottle. It was only when you painted them onto a page that you could see how light and bright they were. This, though…it was just solid, liquid indigo, as if someone had distilled the concept of the colour of Rayla’s markings and spilled it into a bottle. “This would be amazing to paint with.” He murmured, somewhat distractedly, watching the pigment shimmer in the low light.

Rayla didn’t answer that, which was unusual enough that his eyes darted to hers, and found her looking strangely thoughtful. She shook her head, though, as if to dispel some thought, and started giving the pigment bottle and the brush some very meaningful looks. He laughed, softly, and obeyed the unspoken command; he dipped the brush in, drained off the excess, and then lifted it. It was dyed the same solid, true indigo—a colour that he was about to put onto her skin.

It hit him then, or at least started to; he looked between the brush and her face and felt his breath catch at—at something. It felt a little like panic, a little like wonder, a little like the breathless infatuation she always managed to inspire in him. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with it, and just…stared at her, heart beating wildly at—at the trust, and the honour, that he couldn’t help but feel she’d given him.

She was looking impatient by the time he finally moved, and likely would have spoken if not for how he shuffled closer, until their knees were touching. Her mouth closed, watching him, eyes settling on his own as he reached towards her. His fingers brushed the edge of her jaw, feather-light, as tentative as he always was when he remembered that someone as amazing as her had deigned to be with someone like him. His breath caught in his throat as he lifted his hand, thumb tracing tenderly along a cheek that warmed beneath his touch.

He cupped her face in his hand, then, unable to resist the impulse, and she leaned into it without even thinking. Her eyes fell half-lidded for a moment, the smallest smile twitching at the edges of her lips, and he wanted to kiss her. That wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing, but—but he wanted to, and she was smiling at him, and her eyes were soft and warm in the quiet and low light of the room—

So, he kissed her, and she huffed an amused breath against his lips, lifting a hand to trail affectionate fingers along the side of his neck. “This doesn’t feel like face-painting to me.” She murmured to him, fond and teasing at once, and he wouldn’t have been surprised for a moment if his heart stopped beating for the strength of how much he loved her. “Weren’t you supposed to be doing something?”

He laughed, a little breathless, and the warmth of it spilled between them. “Yeah.” He agreed, helplessly, drawing back with her fingers still warm on his neck and his hand still cupped to her cheek, and paused for a moment to treasure the sight of her looking at him like that. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was that she loved him. He didn’t think he’d ever believe it. “I’ll just…get on that.”

She withdrew her hand, and watched him. Waiting.

His fingers shifted on Rayla’s face, moving to press his thumb gently to the side of the marking under her left eye. Pulling at the skin, ever-so-slightly, to allow for painting it more evenly. Another urge struck him, but this time he suppressed it. He could kiss her cheek-markings later. For now, he was supposed to be painting them. And so…

With an almost reverent care, he lifted the tip of the brush to her face, hovering just above her skin with a heady mixture of breathless wonder and breathless trepidation. He exhaled, softly, and felt her eyes upon him. Watching, warm and fond and expectant.

Finally, with the utmost care, he touched the brush to her skin.

She flinched a little at the touch so close beneath her eye, but he’d expected that. He held the brush steady and traced a slow, perfect line down her cheek, along the edge of the extant marking, like a dark border to the fading colour. And it was fading; he could see that now. It wasn’t noticeable on its own, but with the contrast of the fresh pigment beside it, it was fully obvious that the old colour had begun waning.

With the brush to her skin, Callum’s hushed awe fell in step with the breadth of his skill and practice. He’d never put brush to someone else’s skin before, but that did nothing to diminish his skill. He knew brushwork, and he knew the delicacy needed for fine detail, and…and, in the end, this was easy. Just tracing around an existing marking, and filling it in. There could be nothing easier.

He drew the pigment across her skin in smooth, effortless lines. He traced the borders of her marking and then filled it in, up until when the brush began to run empty, and he had to go for the bottle again. The colour settled fast, immediate, and perfect upon her face, with that gorgeous fidelity he’d never seen in any other pigment or paint or ink in all his life. It was a pleasure to use it, and all the more that he was using it for this.

Callum fell half into an artist’s trance for the remaining minutes it took to finish. He filled the left marking in, stark and perfect, then shifted his fingers tenderly to her other cheek, and repeated the process. When he was done, there was nothing but perfect lines and perfect colour upon a face that he loved.

He smiled, small and satisfied, and set the brush aside. “Done.” He murmured, and leaned forward to press his forehead to hers, cradling her face in both hands. It felt strange, to risk touching her skin when he’d only just painted it. But that was the wonder of elvish pigment; it dried the moment it was applied, and permitted no possibility of smearing whatsoever. He stroked his thumbs beneath her eyes and felt more happy, more tender, more loving than he’d ever known. “Perfect.” He murmured, reverential, the words meant for more than the pigment.

Her eyes blinked across from his own, and he loved them. Loved her. She brought her arms up and drew him closer, one hand splayed on the back of his neck. “Maybe I’ll have you do me some new markings, someday.” She murmured to him, in the end, a small and secret smile at the edges of her lips. He stared at her, spellbound, for the three beats of his heart that lingered between her smile and her movement. She leaned in and closed the meagre distance between them, the kiss soft and sweet and all the more perfect for how dearly he adored her.

He imagined, for a second, drawing that ink-brush again along her skin. Imagined it between her fingers, along her arms, casting indigo whorls about her shoulders. He thought of new pigment, new markings, and the sheer delight of being the one who got to put them there. His heart fluttered. “I’d like that.” He said, against her lips, and she kissed him again.

“Good.” When she drew back, the markings were still stark and beautiful beneath her eyes, where he’d painted them. The sight of them left him a little breathless, even now, unable to shake the sense that he’d been afforded an enormous privilege, a gift of worth beyond measure.

Someday, he hoped, she’d afford him that gift again.

*

Callum saw the fruits of Rayla’s thoughtful consideration and furtive glances a while later, when July came around and he was startled from thinking about her birthday by the arrival of his own. She cornered him with palpable satisfaction, and gave him a parcel that she very clearly expected him to be delighted with.

She wasn’t wrong.

He unveiled an array of small bottles; thirty-six hues of true and perfect elvish pigment, distilled for the purpose of painting. He beheld them all with a nearly breathless joy, finding the little parcel of pigment-brushes, the bottle of solvent, the masking-fluid….

“You like it?” Rayla asked, with a broad and decidedly smug smile on her face. She clearly already knew the answer.

“I love it.” He pronounced, and set at once to trying them out.

The very first thing he painted was her. She watched him, and huffed as she saw the familiar lines of her own face taking form on the page, pleased and exasperated all at once. She never did seem to understand why he drew her so often, but that was okay. And, with these pigments…

The colours were spectacular, brighter and more intensely pigmented than anything he’d ever seen. He found himself utterly swept away in the delight of using them, and hours later, emerged from his artist’s trance to the completed work: Rayla in the early evening of the Silvergrove, her hair and eyes gleaming softly with the gentle illumination of the lights and moon-moths around her. It was one of the finest works he’d ever produced, and at the sight of it, he concluded the process of falling helplessly in love with Elvish pigment.

Rayla, for all her embarrassment at being painted, seemed to approve of it too. “You picked that up quickly.” She noted, handling the edges of the thick paper with the delicate care it deserved.

“These pigments are my new favourite thing.” He declared, arranging the bottles a little more tidily beside him. His eyes rested, a little consideringly, over another wide sheet of paper. He stared at it for a long while, growing quiet and solemn, and eventually reached out to take it.

He had his birthday traditions to observe, after all.

The second thing he painted with the elven pigments was his family portrait, atrophied and truncated by tragedy. There was no Sarai there, and hadn’t been for years. No Harrow, and that was a new pain. He felt the ghosts of their absence in the lines he didn’t draw, in the colours that never fell upon the page, in the voids of grief that they left in his life.

But there were new faces now, too.

With quiet, exquisite care, he drew himself. He drew Ezran, older now, wearing a mantle that had come for him too soon. He drew Bait in his brother’s arms. He drew Aunt Amaya. And, tenderly: he drew Azymondias and Rayla. The outlines took form, and as the hours passed, elvish pigment filled them in.

In the end, he had his family portrait again. Changed, and echoing with its empty spaces, but…

Quiet, from her place beside him, Rayla slipped her hand into his own.

“Come on,” She said, with the small but tender smile that he loved. “Zym has a present for you too. He’ll be disappointed if he can’t give it to you today.”

Callum exhaled, and let her fingers tighten around his, pulling him up to his feet beside her. His own smile slipped onto his lips. “Then we’d better go find him.” He said, casting a last glance at the portrait on the table. He didn’t resist it when she tugged on his fingers, pulling him away.

With a strange, quiet serenity, he followed her out into the light.

---

end.

This is word-for-word what was published in the Rayllum zine 'Falling For You'; I have made no changes. It’s the shorter and less impressive of my two pieces, but I hope you liked it anyway.

I’ll potentially be making some minor edits to the second piece before posting, given I intend to continue it - in fact, I’ve already got like three extra chapters of it written, though small ones. I’m considerably more excited about that one, so stay tuned!

[browniefox]

The One with the Motorcycle

@wrightfamilyweek day 4 - Free day! Which I took to mean 'shove my headcanon here'. At first I wanted to do something with Ryuunosuke, but I still haven't finished tgaa so uhhhh sorry my boy. Also, you can find this on AO3 here.

In which Trucy and Phoenix decide they need to find a more reliable method of getting around. Luckily, Phoenix already has a vehicle registered under his name.

oOo

“Does this mean that when I turn sixteen, I’ll get a motorcycle license?”

Trucy skips alongside her Daddy as they walk through the aisles of the storage facility. They pass locked garage after garage. Trucy has always known that her Daddy had somewhere he stores a bunch of stuff that doesn’t fit in the office, the stuff he used to keep in his apartment back when he had one, but this is her first time coming along with him.

There’s been a lot leading up to this. Now that Trucy’s getting a little older, there’s more things she wants to do, or go to, and Daddy seems to be getting a little busier too. He’s started going down to the library more often, and having some kind of meetings for lunch, and getting calls by people Trucy doesn’t know. They’re both getting busy, and buses and taxis only get them so far. Daddy had declared, in an almost resigned-sounding voice after they missed a bus and had to wait underneath the bus stop in the pouring rain for another thirty minutes, that perhaps it was time to find a more reliable method to get around.

“Dessie says she’s running a little late, but she’ll be here soon.” Trucy is in charge of the phone while Daddy frets over the pieces of paper in his hands, crinkling the edges up in his nervous hands.

Daddy doesn’t reply to this either, just keeps walking forward. Trucy frowns to herself. Daddy’s been kind of weird about this whole thing. From getting the Learner’s Permit, to the practice drives and lessons with Desiree, to his final test, but now if anything he seems at his most awkward and strange as they approach the storage unit.

They final come to a stop, and Daddy pulls up the metal door.

If old case files in the office were little glimpses into who Daddy was before Trucy knew him, this place was an in-color photograph.

There’s cardboard boxes with ‘sketchbooks’ scrawled on the front. There’s a dead plant in the corner. There’s a stack of picture frames, an old couch shoved into a corner, and a small wood table with rings from the ghosts of old drinks, a few splashes of paint marring the surface. There’s some art supplies shoved off in a corner that Trucy immediately goes over to, and piles of books Trucy hasn’t read before, and Trucy wants nothing more than to stay here all day and look through everything and anything in sight.

In the middle of the storage unit, however, is what they’ve come here for.

It’s a lilac-colored motorcycle. There’s an unhealthy-layer of dust on it - there’s a layer of dust on everything in the room - and Daddy brushes his hand over the seat and handles, sending a plume of the dust into the air. He starts sneezing and coughing over it and Trucy laughs a little at that. She stops in a moment, though, because of the almost-grim look on Daddy’s face as he stares at the bike.

They’ve been building up to this for months, in reality. Trucy realizes this now, that everything up to this point has been to get this motorcycle out of the garage and back onto the streets, because it was a vehicle Daddy already owns, and he wouldn’t have to go through the hassle nor money involved in getting a new one. But it’s also all conflicted with Daddy’s attempts to distance himself from the past.

Daddy wants to move forward in life, she gets that, but it makes Trucy sad anyway to see how nervous and resigned he’d looked about so much as calling the Delites for help. Like doing that much is losing something.

“So this is Aunt Mia’s bike?” Trucy asks, going over to it as well. She doesn’t know anything about things like this, but it looks like it’s in okay condition. It’s certainly not as shiny as Desiree’s, but it’s not bad.

“Yeah, it’s been a while. Sorry I haven’t by.” He says, and she can tell he’s not talking to her. His eyes are fixed on the bike like sometimes he’ll stare at Charley for what seems like hours on end; it’s never for that long, but it feels like it might be at times. He tilts her head to Trucy and explains, “I used to come by and try to keep it clean and stuff, but things have gotten… complicated. I’m sure Mia’s upset I haven’t done more to maintain this since she’s been gone.”

Ah, it’s one of the days where he’s talking about Aunt Mia in the present tense. It’s hard to tell if that’s ever a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe it’s just A Thing he does sometimes. Even after four years, there’s still so much Trucy hasn’t figured out about her daddy. Sometimes, he talks about Aunt Mia as the dead person she is, gone and out of this world, a deceased but loved person, just like Trucy’s mommy was talked about. Other days, though, it’s like he expects Aunt Mia to walk through the door any minute.

“Alright, well, let’s see what we can do before Desiree gets here.”

Daddy’s temporary license, the edges of which are almost torn up by his worrying hands, is set aside on top of the sketchbook box and he grabs a towel from one of the other boxes, setting to work on a more thorough dusting. Trucy searches through Daddy’s phone for the list of what to check for that Desiree had texted him and passes it over to Daddy.

Trucy picks a stool out from the mess of things and rifles through the sketchbook box, finding one and flipping through it. There’s mostly little doodles and the like on the pages, or realistic portraits of faces Trucy doesn’t recognize. She wonders if, were Daddy not so determined to distance himself from the past, she’d know any of them. There is a picture of Miles, and she knows him, so she smiles at that picture and lightly brushes her hand over the pencil markings. Miles looks really angry in the picture, and scribbled right next to him is ‘I’ll save you’.

And Daddy did.

“Alright, let’s see what we have to work with today!”

Desiree announces herself, carrying her own box of tools

“Thought you might not show up for a moment.” Daddy jokes, but it’s one of his hollow-sounding jokes. Desiree laughs anyway.

“Oh please, I’ve been waiting to get a look at this beast for myself ever since you told me about it!” Desiree says and starts going over the bike. She talks about oil and gas and spark plugs and batteries, looking over everything and digging through her stuff and checking things. She says they’re going to need a new battery, and definitely replace just about all of the fluids. Luckily, Desiree is well-capable of doing all of that, she assures them, and they’d be able to get it up and moving enough to get it to her shop where she could do some of the rougher things to do.

“How much do I owe you?” Daddy asks, and Desiree waves her hand.

“We can discuss that later, let’s focus on getting this beauty out of this dusty-old place and back here she belongs, huh?”

Desiree has said that every time, so far, that Daddy asks about price. Trucy can see that it means Desiree doesn’t really want to make Daddy pay for any of it, but it seems to put Daddy more and more on edge every time Desiree says it. He’s waiting for something bad to happen, and his tension over it bleeds into Trucy, even though she’s not worried. Desiree is a nice lady who likes to chat to Trucy and can talk a mile a minute about motorcycles. When she’s not talking about them, she’s talking about her husband, Ron

They walk the bike out of the storage facility, Desiree filling the space with chatter about what the make and model of Aunt Mia’s motorcycle is, and the pluses and minuses of it, and how it’s lucky that it already has a backseat for Trucy. Daddy says that he used to ride with Aunt Mia sometimes, eyes trained on the bike still, as if he expected it to fall apart at a moment’s notice.

Desiree’s red-hot bike is parked out front and she tells them to meet her at her shop. She’ll be able to finish up there, where the rest of her supplies is.

“Don’t worry, she should be able to get you there just fine. And anyway, you can tell me if anything starts sounding worrying!” Desiree says as she climbs onto her bike. It’s been what Daddy has been practicing on, what Daddy even passed his driving test on just yesterday, and the rumble of it had just started to become familiar. Trucy feels like she’s going to miss it, but she’s excited to see how Aunt Mia’s bike works out.

Desiree peels out and leaves Daddy and Trucy standing on the side of the road, Daddy regarding Aunt Mia’s bike like it’s a python that’s going to bite them.

“... maybe this was a bad idea.” Daddy says five months too late.

“You worry too much! C’mon, Dessie’s waiting for us!” Trucy hops next to him, excited to get on the bike. Daddy sighs, turning his helmet over and over in his hands. Trucy has her own, bought a couple months ago, but she hasn’t been allowed on a bike yet. ‘Not until I get my official license’, Daddy had insisted. Now is the time, though.

“But what if something happens? What if I crash, and you get hurt?” He says. Trucy feels a ripple of shock run through her and she looks at Daddy’s face. His expression is grim and an open wound of his emotion. Of worry and fear, “What if I crash and I ruin her bike? What if-”

“Daddy, you’re being dumb” Trucy informs him. Daddy looks at her, and she can already see him starting to close off again, but she steals the last few moments of honesty she can, desperately, “Daddy you can do this, okay? We’re going to be okay. Even if we have to go five miles an hour to get there.”

“I think I’m actually worse at driving slow.” Daddy grumbles. Trucy grabs his hands.

“Then we’ll go really fast. We aren’t giving up on this just because you’re scared.”

Daddy sighs and then ruffles her hair.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It’d be stupid to give up right now. It doesn’t matter how long it’s going to take.”

They put their helmets on and climb onto the bike. They both hold their breaths when the engine first starts, and then it roars to life. It’s different than Desiree’s although exactly how, Trucy isn’t sure. She wraps her arms around her daddy’s stomach as they get going, keeping her eyes open. She isn’t scared, she can’t be. She needs to seem sure and trusting over this, for his sake, for their sake, so that they can make it through here together.

Things don’t change a lot with Daddy. They’ve lived in the same place for all this time, and Daddy’s worked at the same bar, and Trucy’s worked at the same bar, and they have the same routines day to week to month to year. This is new, this is change, but it’s a good thing.

They roar down the streets for the first time, Daddy is shaking, Trucy can feel it with how tightly she’s holding onto him. The air roars past them, chillingly-cold.

He did this for me, Trucy thinks, and then, no, he did this for us. For family, so that we can keep moving forwards .

If they had stood still, they would’ve been alright with buses and taxis and rides from friends. But they are moving forward in life, they need the ability to do more, be more independent, further their own things.

And help, here they had help, from Desiree, and from the thoughtfulness of Aunt Mia to leave Phoenix to her bike, and Ron had told Trucy before that Phoenix had helped them (Trucy had already known this, she’s read that case and every other case what feels like a thousand times over, her illicit self-read bedtime stories) and that they’d been wanting to do something for the man ever since they heard about The Disbarment.

It’s sort of funny, how independence and getting help seemed to go hand-in-hand.

Trucy and her Daddy roar down the streets, and her grip loosens as she gets more comfortable, and Daddy stops shaking so badly as he gets into his groove, because he’s done this before and has been training and practicing, and he knows how to ride a bike now, and Desiree has taught him how to maintain it, and now, now they are going towards a new normal, a new schedule, a second half of the darkest time of their lives (of course, Trucy doesn’t know this, and neither does her daddy, and now it seems like the shadows is simply where they will always be living) and they prepare to meet it together.

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

A Piece of My Soul

Fandom: The Mentalist or rather the Marcus Pike fandom

Collection/Series: N/A

Pairing: Marcus Pike x GN! Artist Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: G

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Lots of fluff, but there’s that undercurrent of angst as the reader has been hurt before and made to feel less than important so if that’s too much right now that’s okay!

Summary: Marcus has always known that you protect your art, that it is a reflection of your soul and something you guard after being hurt one too many times. He never expects you to share your sketchbooks with him, assumes he will never have the honour and he’s okay with that because he’s happy to just have you. Until, one day, you show him just how much you trust him.

Notes: For me, I always feel like when I share my art with people they’re very meh about it or they are backhanded or even mean. I’ve not had the best experiences when sharing my sketchbooks or my work with people in my life and the idea of someone being so wholly awestruck just by the trust and openness of sharing something like that gets me. So here we go back on the Marcus Pike train because if I could ever explain what I want in a husband, he’s the man.

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Marcus had known of your love of drawing from the first date. You had been a little shy when he’d asked about your hobbies and interests, when you’d quietly and cautiously told him you liked to draw. When he asked for more detail, the mediums you used, the style you preferred, it had opened you up just a little more, his interest making you preen a little. Although still cautious, gauging his reaction to your answers. It had been like seeing a part of your soul that you kept hidden from people, it had made him simultaneously proud and angry. 

Proud because you trusted him, from that first moment, to take you seriously, to listen to your interests and passions and not dismiss them. Angry because at some point, at some time, it was clear someone had dismissed you, made you feel like you weren’t worth listening to, weren’t worth investing time in. It was maddening to think that anyone could make you feel like that, like anyone couldn’t see your worth. 

It was baffling because he found you captivating in all your passions and quirks. The way you ranted and rambled on for minutes, sometimes even hours, about something you were passionate about, never failed to draw him to you like a moth to the proverbial flame. The way you managed to trip over anything and everything, clumsy to a fault, was as endearing as it was concerning and he found himself eager to compensate, to pre-empt you going flying because of a step or a crack in the floor. He found the small things, not just the large things enthralling and enamouring, the concept that anyone might think different was just unfathomable. 

So he worked to cultivate that trust, to show you that he was interested in you and all the things that made you up. He listened when you talked, never told you he was bored or showed a shred of disinterest. He remembered things you mentioned or were interested in, brought you books on the subject or sent you a link to an article he’d seen. 

Watching the way that trust bloomed, the way you opened your heart and soul up to him in little pieces was nothing short of amazing. Still, he knew your art was precious to you, a piece of your soul. Your interests, desires, thoughts, opinions, and preferences are all laid out in pages and pages of thick white paper and red pencil marks. He never pushed it, never asked to see what you were working on or to show him your art, not because he wasn’t interested but because he respected the intimacy of it. You were not some famous painter who put their work on display for the world to see and scrutinise. You were just you, just someone who used art as a form of stress relief and self-expression, someone who guarded their work like they guarded their heart. 

So the little trickles of your soul that you shared with him were enough, it didn’t matter if you showed him it all or only select pieces, anything was enough to tell him you cared, that you trusted him, that you wanted his approval. Not because you needed him to give it, not because he was that fundamental or important, but because recognition from him made you smile, made you feel important. You were important whether he liked your work or not. 

He still remembers the excitement you exuded, happiness blinding and bright and so brilliant, when you’d finished a new painting and bounded to show him. You’d bundled it up safe and made the drive to his house, rushing up the steps so quick, he’d heard you trip before he heard you knock.

You’d been bouncing on the balls of your feet, painting kept within a folder, nondescript, the sort you kept your certificates in. The wide grin on your face, the shine of your teeth, and crinkles at your eyes had him smiling the moment he opened the door to you, leaning a shoulder against the door frame to watch you adoringly. 

“I finished it! It only took me 20 hours but I finally finished it!” You’d rushed inside, pulling him by the arm so fast he had to laugh as he nearly tripped over his own rug. You’d been so excited and so proud as you’d sat him on his couch and carefully pulled the A4 piece of watercolour paper from the folder, plain back to him. 

He’d been patient, watching you with the softest of smiles as your eyes flicked back and forth between him, sat with hands clasped between his thighs, elbows on his knees, and your painting. As you grappled with the gravity of showing him a piece of your soul and not knowing how he’d respond, how he’d behave. Patience was the least he could think to give you, and it had brought the best sort of ache to his chest when you’d shyly turned the painting around to show him. 

20 hours of work and you looked away, eyes focusing on a plant he had in the corner of his living room rather than on his expression or what he might think. You’d been so nervous to show him and he’d taken the time to truly look at your painting. The colours, the composition, the subject, it didn’t ultimately matter to him whether he truly liked it or not, although he did, because he’d love it anyway. He’d love it anyway because you’d chosen to share it with him, when you were oh so private and careful with your art. 

“Sweetheart…” You’d been prepared for rejection, to face the fact that your boyfriend didn’t like your painting, your art, that it was something you just shouldn’t share with him in the future. “It’s amazing! 20 hours? Can I?” He’d gestured to take it, to hold it and get a better look and you’d let him, a little stunned, but overjoyed that he liked it, that he wanted to look at it.

That had been the starting point for you sharing more little bits of your soul with him. You’d bring him finished paintings to look at, occasionally the odd doodle here or there that you completed at work. Not everything, and never your sketchbooks. Those were off limits, something he’d respected because he knew they were more than just a tiny piece of who you were, but quite a large one. Pages and pages of you sat for perusal and to have that rejected would hurt more than anything. So Marcus had been grateful for what little pieces of your art you did choose to share with him. 

He’d always made it a point to show how much he liked your art, to shower you in praise and to make you feel listened to, seen, important. Your art was amazing to him. He was an art history major, he loved art, hence his job, but he wasn’t an artist. He’d never had the patience to sit and develop the skill set and so he focused on the work of others, yours was quickly becoming his favourite. You had your own unique style, something he found hard to describe or explain, but that he’d know if he saw your work. He’s almost certain he’d know if someone tried to pass a fake off as your own and if anyone asked who his favourite artist was he’d probably change his answer to you. 

Still, he had hoped that one day you’d share that last bit of yourself with him. He hadn’t expected to actually happen, just a hope, a little dream, something he thought about at night before falling asleep. 

Certainly not something he expects on date night. 

He’s cooking dinner for the two of you, your favourite main and dessert, because he hasn’t had the chance to see you in a good week due to a hectic case, when he hears the tell tell sound of keys in the front door. He’d long since given you your own, letting you come and go as you please, with the excuse that when he was away on a case it meant you could keep an eye on the place and make sure he didn’t get robbed. In truth he liked having you around, liked that you came over just because you wanted to, that you felt welcome and at home and if he wasn’t so dead set on not scaring you off, he might have already asked you to move in. But, he wanted to take his time, not rush it. 

“Marcus?”

“In the kitchen, honey!” He’s wiping down the side quickly, hiding the fact he’s a messy cook, when you walk in a heavy looking tote bag over one shoulder. It peaks his interest and from the little laugh you let out you can see it on his face. 

“Are you busy?”

“No, it needs a good half hour before I have to check it again, why?” You watch him wipe his hands with a towel and brush at a small stain on his white t-shirt, the one that clings to his arms just right. 

You're nervous, you know he can tell from the way your hands grip the bag straps tight over one shoulder to how you bite your bottom lip. He’s always been able to tell. One of the beautiful things about Marcus was the attention he gave to people, not just people he cared about, but people in general. He learnt everything he could about them, stored it away in his mind, and used it to show them how much he cared, how much he knew them, really knew them. 

“I...I want to show you something.” 

You grab him by the hand, the same way you always do whenever you want to share something, and begin pulling him towards his living room. It’s cosy in here at this time of night, warm light from a couple of lamps, soft blankets thrown over his couch, the ones he’d brought after realising how much you loved a good blanket. It’s a calming thing, to be in here, with him, somewhere you associate with home. 

It often seems so silly to you, just how nervous you get about sharing something with Marcus, but you know it’s not. Know it’s not his fault either. Marcus has never given you any reason to doubt him, but other people have, so you push past the nerves because you do really want to show him and watch his face light up like it always does. 

You sit him down in his seat, and curl up next to him, kicking your shoes off and placing the bag on the ground. He’s so warm and for a moment you just lean into his side, enjoying the warmth of his body and the way he nuzzles a kiss into your temple, nose tracing little lines gently for a moment. He brings you peace and it is that, that gives you resolve and has you reaching down for the items in the bag. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed by you that Marcus places his hands at your waist, worried you might take a tumble off the couch, something you’re prone to. It warms you inside, that he cares so much, that he’s so casual with his affection and so concerned with you and your safety. Even something as simple as making sure he can catch you if you start to fall. 

You come back up with a couple of books in hand, plastered with stickers over the front and a little dogeared at the corners. Marcus doesn’t remove his hands from your waist, just pulls you firmly back against his side and watches as you anxiously smooth your hands over the cover of one of them. 

“I..I wanted to show you my sketchbooks, or well...the two most recent ones anyway. I...I don’t really show people them...but I want you to see them.” Your eyes are so wide and earnest when you look up at him, that he can’t help but cup your cheek in his hand and rub his thumb across the apple of it. God, he never thought...he never thought you would. Always thought you’d keep this little part of yourself private, separate, guarding it like a dragon guards a horde of gold. But, here you are, so earnest, so nervous, so open, telling him that you want to share this piece of your soul with him and he can’t stop himself from pressing his forehead against yours. Can’t stop himself from the gentle nudge of his nose with yours or the slow press of his lips against your own. 

It’s a surprising reaction from Marcus, the way his nose presses into your cheek as he presses a firm but still tender kiss to your lips, the way his hand slides down to cup underneath your jaw, thumb pressing into the hollow there. It’s so surprising that it distracts you for more than a moment, to the point your eyelids take a little bit of time to flutter open after he breaks away, you leaning further into him. 

“What...what was that for?” 

“For trusting me.” He’s so warm and earnest, but still, he’s patient. He doesn’t grab for the books or open them himself, instead he waits for you to pull back and pick one up, settling it between the two of you. 

He waits as you find the courage to open the cover and turn to the first page and every breath leaves him at what he finds there. It is a sketchbook and so it is messy, that’s the nature of it, it is practice and experimentation and you enjoying yourself, and it’s so clear, as each page turns, that this is you in book form. 

Each page is either a confirmation of a fact he already knew about you or a new discovery. It tells him little things like how you prefer to draw certain subjects and the colours you lean towards when you reach for markers or coloured pencils. He’s reverent in the way his fingertips brush the paper and trace over the lines, in awe of the way your hands have worked in tune with your mind to put these things to paper and he can’t actually help the tears that start to well up in his eyes. Because you trust him so much, you’re opening the last part of your soul up to him with only a hope that he will not crush it or throw it back at you, that he will not abuse it. 

“Baby, why are you crying?” You’re so concerned for him, hands pawing at his cheeks, brushing the rivulets away and cupping his jaw to make him look at you. Brown eyes watery but so happy, so in love and he hopes that you can see that, see how desperately he loves you. “Are you okay? Did...did I do something wrong?”

It hurts him so much to know you assume that you’re at fault. That his tears are bad or that they are a product of you doing something wrong, when they’re a result of just how much he loves you and just how happy he is at the trust and faith you have in him, the love you have for him, that you’ll bare your soul. It’s those moments that make him angry at the people before him. Family, friends, lovers, people who took your trust and crushed it, bent it out of shape and tossed it back malformed and damaged. 

“Nooo, no, no, honey. Sweetheart, I'm crying cause I'm happy,” He covers your hands with his own, pulls you impossibly closer, “I’m happy because you trust me enough to show me this and I...I never thought I'd earn that.” 

“Oh...well, I love you.”

“I love you too.” It’s said with a laugh, but not at you, the sort of laugh that’s just a bit of a huff of happiness, that comes from being overwhelmingly happy. It’s enough for him that you come to his house, that you share little bits of yourself with him and that you love him enough to do that at all. 

While dinner cooks, you keep an eye on the time more than Marcus, he continues to flick through the pages. He comments, sweet little things. How something looks cool or how he likes the colours on a page. Each comment thrills you, fills you to the brim with pride and joy, to the point your cheeks ache from smiling. Perhaps to some people it seems understated, boring, the sort of date night that some would hate, but to the two of you it’s more than just date night. It’s a bonding experience, a sharing one. He feels impossibly lucky to look at your work, to have you there leaning on his shoulder, pressing kisses to his neck, impossibly lucky to have a piece of your soul right there in front of him. 

It’s that moment that he knows; you’re it for him. He’s certain. You’re the person he’s going to grow old with, with your sketchbooks in a dedicated bookshelf and he’ll die saying his favourite artist is you. 

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@bdavishiddlesbatch​

[my-writings-and-musings]

Same anon thank you for answering my question! I was wondering if you could do headcanons for MTMTE Rung, Megatron, Rodimus, Minimus, and Swerve with an Artisic human reader that just sees the good and creative artist side of everything? From books to pictures to even their own bot? Like they can just look at their bot and go out on a whole rant on how beautiful their optics are from the color to their expression. if that’s too many characters you can take any one, I don’t mind! Thank you and have a good day ❤️

You're welcome! I'm always open for clarification, so feel free to ask questions about whatever you'd like if you're unsure on anything. I took a little liberty with this one, but I've got all the requested bots because darn it all these beautiful mechs deserve recognition!

Rung

·He discovers your artistic inclination thanks to years of experience reading personalities and emotions at a glance, but he wasn't prepared for the depth of your conviction in seeing the world through a creative lens, which he learned upon speaking to you about your process as an artist. This surprise grows as he sees you sketching around the ship, your exuberance for the inherent beauty in everything coming through in every conversation you share.

·When he praises some of your sketches on a quiet day in his office and is compelled to ask how you developed your style, he's fascinated by your explanation, and his spark is warmed by how beautifully you describe the world around you and credit it for inspiring you. He's visibly shocked when your list of current subjects and muses includes him specifically, and you can't help but chuckle at the usually calm bot looking so absolutely flustered. There's no way for him to hide any of that feeling when he requests a bit of clarification; there's hundreds of bots on board, what about him could possibly stand out?

·You're happy to elaborate on your process to a bot who so regularly underestimates his worth and lay out why he in particular piques your interest. The warmth and goodness of his being is such a rare and beautiful thing, you explain, but also so rarely appreciated that it drives you to try and capture that essence in a manner one can see. How could you not? Such compassion and empathy and forgiveness should be remembered! You've also seen that he's capable of accepting any genuine apology, and to have that level of mercy after so much war is beautiful, enough that you have to try and show it.

·To say he's touched is an understatement of unfathomable proportions. Removing his lenses to clear optics blurred with tears, he doesn't even know how to begin processing your praise of his character when you add that his physical self hardly fails to encourage you either. His glasses nearly slip from his hands when he hears you say that. You continue quite easily; the kindness in his optics and the sweetness of his smile, combined with his genuinely handsome profile, simply inspire you to start sketching.

·He's touched, but you have to understand, he is NOT accustomed to this level of praise. Between the near tears and the blushing he has to politely excuse himself to recover from this absolute tsunami of emotions, but being flustered and melted at once is enough to have him smiling through a little blush all day long. While he tries to take a little bit of your mindset into his everyday life going forward, he gets a bit dazed every time he sees a sketch of yours that includes his face, as that level of artistic devotion being dedicated to him is more than he'll ever be able to process. Not that he minds...

Megatron

·Being more familiar with the written word, he enjoys the arts but has little experience with those who create them, and time has not been on his side in regards to learning more. Thus, you're one of the first artistically inclined individuals he's been able to discuss the topic with, which he was motivated to do after catching a glimpse of your work. He could swear some of your sketches bear a resemblance to him, but he says nothing on the matter and is certain his optics are tricking him.

·Your talk of technique quickly surprises him by shifting to inspiration, which to you is the primary driving force of your work, as it influences how you go about conveying the subject matter. Eager to share what you mean, you explain that anything can have beauty worthy of capturing if you just take the time to look at it right. Even the most mundane or seemingly unappealing things can be remarkable if you know their story, and you want to convey that energy as wordlessly as possible.

·A little overwhelmed but quite impressed by your manner of reasoning, he rather jokingly asks if even beings like himself could ever inspire you, or perhaps another artist with your mindset. He's caught off gaurd like never before when you, quite enthusiastically, reply that he most certainly can and does! To keep his composure he recalls portraits of his likeness being commissioned to inspire his soldiers, but never believing these fell under the category of art so much as they did propaganda. They often depicted him quite... violently as well.

·Having never seen these pieces, you reply that your own experience is tied more to how you see him now, and you flip through your sketchbook to demonstrate. As close to your level as can be, he's speechless while you explain what you wanted to capture about him in each sketch, whether it's a quick study or a detailed project; and that's how safe he makes you feel. Hearing himself referred to as a protector cuts straight through his powerful armor.

·You depict him looking almost... gentle? Hearing you describe the his immense size as a source of comfort and his strength as a tool of keeping peace processes about as clearly to him as a foreign language, but he nods along and keeps the conversation going until his duties call him away. Though he says nothing of it, he volunteers himself for more of the physically demanding work around the ship. His body's purpose had always been decided for him, but you've reminded him he has the only true say in its use, and that everything really is a matter of perspective. Perhaps he'll take up sketching once this is all over.

Rodimus

·He's certainly always had an appreciation for visual appeal, even if his idea of beauty doesn't often overlap with what most would consider artistically valuable. This and his natural alertness makes him quick to notice you often sketch about the ship, frequently when he's present, but at first he leaves you alone to work in peace. Having a hobby on this crew is beyond valuable, and he doesn't want to distract you from a passion... That is, until he decides on one especially slow day to just ask you what you like to doodle about.

·You can tell he wants to be a little nosy, if only because he's naturally a curious bot about these things, but you're more than happy to share regardless. There's a lot due to the ample downtime on the quest, and he has to squint so he can properly scan the many sketches on the human sized paper. He happily recognizes friends, locales about the ship, even earth things he knows about... but he's not ready when he finds a picture of himself.

·While he remains outwardly playful, teasing you with how he'd pose if you only asked, he's internally flattered that you took the time to draw him. More specifically, he's touched by the way you drew him. The sketches and portraits portray him as a calm but amicable leader, standing tall and serving as a guide to those around him, a true "father to his men" kind of bot... it's everything he wants to be, but is quite certain he's not. He's barely able to keep up his smooth persona when he asks about your process.

·You explain that you find inspiration in everything, but he's been your chosen subject lately for a lot of reasons. It's no secret he's handsome, but you see something more when you look at him, and you did everything you could to show it here; there's a real leader in him. Maybe some bots don't see it under all the bluster and sarcasm, but you see how much he cares for every bot on his crew. He wants to be the best for all of them, and even if he struggles at times, that effort is beautiful to you.

·It takes everything in him to bite back some very embarrassing tears, and the crack in his voice doesn't help him hide the emotion, though he covers that up with unconvincing coughs and claims something got in his optic. From then on he seems to stand a little taller and find his assigned duties a little easier to bear, but you absolutely notice how he poses in what he believes to be heroic fashion whenever your sketchbook comes out. Inspired by his enthusiasm, you invite him to model more officially, and the crew is just happy to see him so enthusiastic.

Minimus

·Being as observant as he is, your consistent appraisal of your surroundings is not something he'd ever miss, but your frequent sketching in the most random places does leave him absolutely mystified. Every time he sees you there's artistic supplies on your person, but he can't find anything that appears to be worthy of putting to paper, so what could you be drawing? He respects your privacy too much, and feels too silly about his curiosity, to interpret and ask you for an explanation.

·Thus it's with some small eagerness that he finds one of your sketchbooks after it's been misplaced, and he sees the perfect opportunity to slip in a question. For the sake of handling something so tiny, he approaches without his armor, offering the lost item back with barely concealed pride at your delight to have it returned. In the moment of truth he nearly falters, but does indeed manage to ask what you draw around the ship. He leaves out the fact that he's observed you whenever you draw in his presence.

·The question has an answer only he seems to think isn't obvious; him! You spend time together frequently, and while everything is fair game for sketching, he's a very regular subject for you. Whether he's wearing the Magnus armor or not, you explain that the commanding aura he radiates is something you can't help but find beautiful. That word choice baffles him enough that he has to interrupt; beautiful? Commanding? Even without his armor?? You're delighted to assure him that you absolutely mean that.

·Hearing you describe the details of your reasoning, like the quiet dignity of his stance or the calm intelligence of his red optics, touches his spark in ways he wasn't expecting. He's calm and speaks softly as he keeps the conversation going, asking questions about your various works and listening attentively when you answer, processing your view of the universe as being packed with beauty in all the places people don't think to look.

·Any bot that sees him during the remainder of the day absolutely notices the change to his entire demeanor; namely that he's smiling a soft and barely perceptible smile. It's not long after he requests a few sketches from you to keep in his office, whether they're of him or not, and he has them framed in places of honor. He doesn't tell you, but you figure it out, that one particular drawing of him you gift for his sake is kept securely stored in a compartment by his spark.

Swerve

·Many bots may see him being a tad bit on the shallow side when it comes to the arts, but our beloved barkeep has his own unique appreciation for creativity and all the ways it can be visually expressed, and you recognize it not long after meeting him. As his bar is a frequent hangout for everyone, you find it to be a fantastic place to sit and sketch, as the variety of bots makes it quite easy to have your choice of subjects even if you have to sit on a table. Obviously Swerve notices and asks you what you're drawing when traffic slows one evening.

·You're happy to show him your work and he's always eager to hear what everyone is up to, so he starts asking questions about your art in general. How long have you been an artist? What's it like suddenly having a whole ship of aliens to sketch? Why draw here all the time? At that query you light up brilliantly, and he's delighted by your enthusiasm as you describe all the incredible sights the bar has to offer.

·You list some of your favorite things to draw, like the many friend groups on the ship that gather here, the brilliant colors of the glowing vats of enjex, and him smiling and rushing with orders through it all. That last one gets a flash of surprise from behind his visor, which is quickly overtaken by exuberant delight; you've been drawing him?! He babbles out a surge of confusing statements that you're eventually able to interpret as a request to see, just one he's too bashful to say directly.

·Happily obliging, you're touched by how he smiles at every little sketch, and feel compelled to explain that he's a big part of why you love drawing here. You try to see beauty in everything, even what often gets overlooked, and there's so very much of that here. The bar is one of those places that everyone knows is special, but you know he's the reason they love it like they do, and that his enthusiasm and hard work hold it all together. You find that inspiring, and actually quite beautiful. It doesn't hurt that his brilliant smile is always a treat to sketch.

·Trying to play it cool and totally failing, he doesn't quite hide that he's near to tears when he asks if you'd like to hang some of your work up in the bar, or maybe have a little corner for yourself to draw from. He just doesn't want you getting squished while you sketch, is all! And having a better vantage point is ideal for someone so small! When you accept, he gives you your own human sized accommodations not too far from the heart of the bar, and every so often when you sketch he'll glance up at you absolutely beaming.

[caitlyn-winchester]

Pilot (Part 3)

Cordell Walker x daughter!reader

word count: 1,667

warnings: mention of dead parent, abandonment issues?

masterlist

»»————-　★　————-««

It was the next morning and I got ready for school. I went toward the kitchen and saw grandma making breakfast and August sitting on the kitchen island.

"Goodmorning." I greeted my family and hopped up on a stool.

"Mornin' Y/N, eat up!" Grams said while putting some eggs and toast in front of me. I poured myself a glass of juice and started to eat my breakfast.

"Is dad almost ready to take us to school?" I asked August but he shook his head which caused me to frown a bit.

"He got a call, he had to go into work." He replied and Uncle Liam entered the kitchen while fixing his tie.

"Of course." I grumbled, "Can't even greet his kids in the morning" I sighed.

"Come on Y/N/N. We got a good morning routine going anyways." Uncle Liam reminded

"I know but I just wish he'd be here with us, you know, to parent and do family like things together." I pointed out.

"He can't just not do his job, Y/N. It has always been like this. I don't know why you're being so annoying about this now." August seethed

"Really August? You're telling me you didn't want dad to be here these past eleven months? To go through this tough time together, lean on each other like we've always done, have him by our side when we went through these life adjusting changes. You really didn't need him at all?" I asked and August was quiet. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

"That's enough, Y/N." Grams chimed in. "You're dad is here now."

"No he's not!" I raged. "I don't think you understand, yes he is here in Austin but he is not here spending time with us." I ran a hand through my hair and got up from the island. "I-I'm sorry, I'm just going to walk to school today." I apologized, grabbed my backpack and left the house.

                               »»————-　★　————-««

I left school after my morning classes. Every little thing started to aggravate me, especially after this morning. I decided to go to the gazebo at Lady Bird Lake to clear my head. I just don't understand why dad wanted to jump back into work so quickly. Why couldn't he just take a second to get to know his family again. I miss him.

As I sat on the floor of the gazebo I heard a truck pull up. I turned my head to see who it was and it was dad. He climbed out of the car and we made eye contact. I turned my head away and sighed.

"Do you know who worried we've been?" he asked.

"Well you actually showed up, so this must be a super big deal for you." I quipped.

"Did you forget the part where I picked you up at the police station last night? And now you're here?" He motioned to the lake. "What are you playing at Y/N?" he demanded.

"It's not a game." I stood up from where I was sitting and faced him.

"Then tell me what the hell this is so we can end it," he began, "I'm telling you right now, we can't keep going on like this. Trying to figure out where you'll be next, scaring the crap out of everyone. I'm in the middle of a case!" he ranted.

"When aren't you?" I challenged him to cross my arms. Right his precious case that's always way more important than his family. He sighed and was left speechless for a second. I could see in his eyes he was searching for something to say.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked. "What do you want me to do? I am here and I am trying."

"Yeah," I scoffed, "when you're forced too."

"I just got back and I am trying to make this work. Be here for you, protect you and yes, do my job. I can't just do it all." he tried to reason.

"She did." I dared. "But what? You're somehow more important?" I asked.

"Of course not" he said as I started to walk away. "Y/N...Listen, stop!" he called and I turned around to face him again. "You think it sucks just having me, I know but it's not just me. You have Gramps and Grams and Liam-"

"I needed you! August and I needed you!" I shouted and I can feel tears pressing against my eyes.

"Ok well we need to find a way to have a balance because when I get a call I have to go." he stated.

"Do you?" I challenged him. "Do you just have too? You can't just call up your boss and say 'oh oops i have to actually pay attention to my kids now'. We lost mom, then you left. I-I felt like I lost you too." I choked up at the end. A tear threatened to slide down my face but I quickly wiped it and looked away from dad.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked. I rolled my eyes and started to walk away "How can I fix this?"

"I don't know, the only person that could have fixed anything is gone!" I exclaimed. Dad swallowed and looked at me with a half angry, half sad expression.

"Get in the truck." he commanded and I did so slamming the car door behind me.

                                  »»————-　★　————-««

I heard dad and grandma talking right outside my room so I decided to stand by my door frame and listen in. They were talking about August and I and Grams basically reiterated what I said this morning about dad being in Austin but not at home with us. She also mentioned the farmhouse that could be our new home.

"You already arranged the whole thing, didn't you?" dad asked grandma.

"Well I wanted you to put your own personal touches on it first" she responded and my dad chuckled.

"Mama," dad began, "It's a tricky time for me. I-I mean there's a task force I've been recommended for. It's down south and it's really important-" dad was cut off by August walking into the room. I entered my room and slammed the door. He's probably leaving again, I can't say I'm surprised though. He always put work over family.

                               »»————-　★　————-««

It was much later when someone knocked on my door.

"Come in" I said. I sat at my desk and doodled in my sketchbook. I never really liked doing very detailed art, just basic doodles. My door opened and August entered my room.

"Dad and I are sleeping in the farmhouse. Would you like to join?" he asked me

"No thank you." I grumbled and I heard August let out a sigh.

"You're so confusing." he huffed

"What do you mean?" I asked as I concentrated on my drawing.

"You always say Dad's never here but when he actually is, you're the one that avoids him."

"Well sorry if I don't want to get attached just to have him leave again."

"He's not leaving."

"Did you not hear him earlier? He got offered another case away from us." I started tracing the same circle over and over again on my paper. I concentrated on the circle getting darker to distract me from the tears trying to escape.

"He isn't taking the job." August insisted.

"Ok so say maybe he isn't taking this job, but he will take one eventually and leave us again, just like he always does." I pressed too hard on my paper that it tore. I ripped the page out of my sketchbook and tossed it in the trash can. I sniffed and started a new page.

"You alright?" he questioned.

"Yea," I lied, "Augie just go spend time with dad. Let it be a father son thing." I forced a smile and August nodded and left the room.

                                »»————-　★　————-««

I walked up to the farmhouse holding a blanket grandma gave me to bring up to Dad and August. I know what she's actually up to. She wants dad and I to talk. I opened the door and entered the house.

"Hey." Dad greets while looking towards me. August was sleeping on my couch next to him.

"Mawline told me to bring you this, which was super subtle." I said and dad offered up a smile. He took the blanket from me and draped it over August. "I heard you earlier." I told him referring to his conversation with Mawline about his job offer down south.

"Come on" he motioned for me to sit next to him on the couch. I sat on the floor beside the couch instead. I'm trying to not get too used to him being around because there will always be that fear of him leaving us for good in the back of my mind. I bit my lip nervously, not knowing if he is going to take that job makes me anxious.

"I am not going to that job." he affirmed.

"You might feel different in the morning." I said sadly.

"I am not going to feel different about you, and being here." He vowed which made me smile a bit.

"For now." I scoffed. Sometimes I feel like I am to blame for mom's death and that's the reason dad went away.

"I'm learning. Now's all we got." he said and I took a deep breath

"Do you think I could have saved mom?" I dared to ask "I mean when I heard the gunshot, If I went back, would have I been able to save her?" Dad was silent which had me terrified.

"Y/N, I can't tell you if you could or couldn't have saved her but I think," he paused for a moment, " you did everything you were supposed to that night. You did exactly what mom told you to do, which was always our number one rule for when you went out with her. If you went back, you'd probably have died too" he informed me. I sniffed, leaning further down the floor and resting my head on the couch cushion.

                                      »»————-　★　————-««

[obeiii-mee]

Hi there! If its okay, could i ask for headcannons of the brothers finding out MC is an Artist? Something like, finding there sketchbook or napkins w doodles on them jfjdjs Or maybe they catch MC glancing at them alot while trying to draw them? hfjd Ty!! Your writing is really good~

Of course it’s OK! I’ve always liked the idea of MC having a really interesting hobby and teaching the brothers about it. I feel like all the brothers would be very supportive of them, even if they all had various reactions to their hobby but I really love writing wholesome moments like that. Sorry this took longer to come out, I made them really long to make up for it!

Also thank you. Your compliment means a lot :)

————————————-

The Brothers’ reactions to MC being an artist:

Lucifer:

-Well if you’re going to glance at him every two minutes, he’s bound to notice

-I mean, you’re pretty damn obvious

-Lucifer got pretty used to you whipping out your sketchbook whenever you could

-So for you to start doodling in his office while he worked wasn’t exactly unheard of

-He caught you staring at him before looking back down at your drawing, continuing your series of furious scribbles

-Now you piqued his interest

-“You seem very focused there love. What are you drawing?”

-Scared the crap out of you because he rarely ever talks when he’s working

-You were reluctant to show him but Lucifer has his insisting face on

-When you passed him the sketchbook, he momentarily froze

-Your drawing was so detailed and full of emotion, capturing him slumped over his desk, exhausted but determined to finish the work he’s been assigned

-He was so surprised and stunned, for a second, he forgot to breathe

-“It’s not exactly one of my best drawings yet but-“

-“You never fail to impress me MC.”

-He suspected you were drawing him but he wasn’t expecting this much effort to be put into it

-He would definitely keep all your drawings of him

-Loves all your work but secretly adores your sketches of him best

-Lucifer would occasionally look over your shoulder while you sketch, taking a peek at what you’re drawing and smile to himself

-He’s never felt this much pride for someone else before

Mammon:

-Was pissed you would rather spend time with an object rather than him

-It annoyed him at first because he couldn’t tell if you were listening to him or not while you had your nose stuck in your sketchbook

-Basically, he was jealous of a sketchbook

-You can’t do that Mammon, that’s Levi’s thing

-So one day he decided to see what the fuck was so great about that giant notebook you always have with you

-He turned your entire room upside down searching for the damn thing before finding it

-He flipped through it and I’m sure the entire House of Lamentation could hear his gasp

-You drew him for pages and pages in all sorts of positions and styles and he was a flustered tomato going through them

-You willingly drew him? The scum of a demon who could never do anything right unless it involved money? You put your time and effort into these sketches and doodles despite him being condescending and a dick at times?

-Excuse me but this man is already head over heels in love with you, you can’t keep giving him reasons to fall for you

-He was so engrossed into your work that he didn’t notice you behind him

-“Mammon why is there a mess in my room-“

-“HOLY SHI-AHHH!!!”

-Too embarrassed to even think of an excuse for going through your shit

-“Ah those...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have drawn you without your permission Mammon-“

-“Are ya kiddin’ me? MC, I feel insulted that you didn’t tell me about this sooner. Can...Can I keep some of ‘em??”

-Now he insists that you draw him as often as possible and would even pose for you (he loves the attention let’s be real)

-He wants to see all of your drawings and will endlessly support you

-Thought about using your skill as a way to make money because art can be very expensive

-But in the end, he dropped the idea

-Why would he sell something so precious to him??

Levi:

-He probably has a sketchbook too

-You guys draw Ruri-chan together in your own styles

-Levi always insists that you’re much better at drawing than him tho

-Your talent makes him a little jealous but at the same time he’s fascinated

-Was so surprised when he found out you were into sketching

-Levi was even more surprised when you showed him all the drawings you’ve worked on for your favourite anime and video game characters

-OK but how come you’re so perfect? Not only are you a lovely person that is willing to watch anime with him without insulting his opinions but you can draw? W...h...a...t...?

-He requests several sketches of ‘The Tale of the Seven Lords’ characters and will actually tape them to his wall

-Some of them are right on his Ruri-chan shelf

-“Hey normie, do you...do you mind teaching me how to draw? I want to learn.”

-Is 100% determined to learn how to properly sketch from you

-You started drawing him as well, usually while he games

-You better stop, he’ll have a nosebleed if you keep being so nice to him!

-Draw him as an anime character and he will start fangirling

-“Phew. OK I’m finished.”

-“What did you draw?”

-“Hentai.”

-“This. Is. A. Masterpiece.”

-Will proudly show your work to his brothers (usually the same drawing more than five times)

-What did an otaku like him do to deserve you??

Satan:

-He found out you were an artist fairly quickly

-I meant he found tissues with doodles you left behind everywhere

-He kept all of them

-It was so refreshing for him to see you so invested in your drawings the same way he is in his reading

-You’re still under the impression you’re being sneaky by drawing him while he has his nose in his books

-You ended up finally gathering enough courage to show him one of your portraits of him

-He had a reaction similar to Lucifer’s really

-Praise!

-He made your drawing into a bookmark

-Idk how but he did

-You leave him a few doodles of you and him being all lovey dovey and he absolutely adores them

-Will lose his marbles if anyone says anything remotely negative about your style or talent

-Draw him fluffy animals pls he will literally have them framed and fixed up in his room

-Also if you draw any of his brothers (specifically Lucifer let’s be real) in a silly way he will actually start snorting with laughter

-You sketch him pretty damn often and he can’t really complain

-It’s really peaceful when you two are in the library and you’re working on your doodling while he reads aloud to you

-Buys you equipment like pens and pencils and even sketchbooks when he knows you’re running out

-He’s really delighted when you come over to show him your drawings

-Once he caught you staring at a cat as you started sketching it

-He actually didn’t think it was possible to love someone this much

Asmo:

-Noisy little fucker that he is and in need of drama, he looked through your sketchbook

-Thought it was a diary at first but nope

-Imagine his surprise when he found pages upon pages of drawings of his brothers and him

-Except his weren’t really a surprise

-He’s gorgeous of course you would want to draw him

-But oh my God, do you realise how much he values art??

-I know he looks as if he only thinks about sex but he definitely has a thing for creativity and art like painting and photography

-“MC darliiiing~? Why didn’t you tell me you can draw?”

-He actually shrieks at how well you’ve captured his beauty

-He insists that they look like actual pictures of him

-Takes several pictures of all of them and posts them on DevilGram

-A bit salty when you drawing anything else but him

-However, he can’t deny that you’re one of the most talented individuals he ever met

-He comes up to you every day and lractically begs you to draw him

-One time you came in your room to find him naked and asking you to draw him

-Is actually kinda good at drawing himself

-Specifically people

-He has enough experience exploring the human body so he surprisingly enough, knows a thing or two when it comes to body proportions

-“MC draw me like one of your french girls~”

-I’m sorry I had to do that

-He also likes the attention he’s getting when he poses for you

-He may think he’s the most beautiful being in all three realms but he definitely thinks you’re the second

-So he often offers to draw you too

-He likes having cozy chats with you while you draw

Beel:

-You left your sketchbook behind in the kitchen with him

-Mammon needed your assistance to get down from where Lucifer hanged him after one of his failed money schemes

-He knocked a glass of milk nearby it and had a panic attack for a minute

-Legitimately thought he ruined the whole thing

-Was actually about ready to cry because he knew how important your sketchbook was to you

-Looked through it just to make sure there were no splotches or anything

-To say he was relieved when he realised it was fine would be an understatement

-He was kinda drawn to your sketches, most of them carefully drawn and expressive, even some of the ones you scribbled out

-One specific drawing caught his eye though

-You drew him and Belphie together, with his twin brother’s head resting on his shoulder while Beel ate

-He was mesmerised by your talent and by your thoughtfulness

-Beel felt bad about it but he kept looking through your sketches, enchanted by everything in it

-You drew him and his brothers several times

-It’s safe to say the discovery of your drawings brightened his day

-Gave back your sketchbook later

-He apologised for going through it without your permission more than he needed to

-You had to accept his apology because he looked like a kicked puppy

-Feels very honoured whenever you let him look at your work

-Is more than happy to pose for you!

-But that might be a bit of a problem seeing as he tends to move around a lot

-“Whoa, that looks just like me! The food I’m eating looks really realistic too...which is making me hungry. Let’s go to Hell’s Kitchen, you can finish this there!”

-Supportive bean

-You gave him a family sketch of him and all of his brothers once

-Normally, he only likes gifts he can eat

-But he treasures that drawing more than food at times

-“This...this is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me! Thank you MC! But uh, someone’s missing in this drawing.”

-“Ah shit, who did I miss?”

-“You.”

-If anything ever happens to Beel or his happiness I swear to Lord Diavolo-

Belphie:

-OK but you left your notebook just sitting there right next to him???

-How do you expect him not to look through it?

-Belphie doesn’t care much for privacy

-And he doesn’t exactly have morals either

-He didn’t even know you were into drawing

-Which to be fair, wasn’t scandalous considering he sleeps 20 hours a day

-But he wants to be more involved in your interests so that’s why he took initiative with your sketchbook

-Idk what he was expecting but definitely not a sketch of him staring back at him

-His heart skipped a beat but I don’t even know if demons have hearts

-The cheeky little shit took pictures and may or may not have made on your drawings of him his wallpaper

-Most of the drawings were of him sleeping, surprising...absolutely no one

-“So that’s what you’re up to whenever I go to sleep huh? So cute~”

-But besides all that, he is really touched

-I mean, if there’s anyone undeserving of your love and respect is the piece of shit of who tried to kill you

-Yet here you are, continuously showering him with affection and now this

-Probably spent hours looking at your sketchbook while you were at R.A.D

-Didn’t say anything to you when you came back except handing your notebook back to you

-Though he was less of a smartass and more affectionate for the rest of the day

-Next morning, you took the liberty of waking up before him and sketching him again

-He grabbed your arm halfway through your doodling and grinned at you from under the covers

-“Drawing me again huh? You won’t mind me doing this while you’re at it then right?”

-Now he’s sleeping in your lap

-Whenever you show him your work, he makes a small approving noise but he’s seriously impressed

-Draw Lucifer or Lord Diavolo in any offensive manner and he will actually start giggling

-Gets all huffy puffy when you draw his brothers instead of him (we all know Beel is the exception)

-I may have a thing for Belphegour

Al~

[doexoeyes]

Of Finches & Firsts

In case you wanna read ahead:

Archive Of Our own link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26707513

Wattpad link:

https://my.w.tt/ZoUHpu1e59

Summary: “A Hufflepuff? Crushing on a Slytherin? Sounds like the start of a terrible joke to me, but ok.” You’ve harbored feelings for Draco Malfoy since your first year at Hogwarts. Secretly, of course, and very much from afar. But when you’re finally taken out of your role of being a background character in his life, will it be what you always wanted, or what you wish you never knew?

Chapters

Chapter 1 ♡ Chapter 2 ♡ Chapter 3  ♡ Chapter 4 ♡ Chapter 5

Chapter 4: Dirty Pants

Your latest run in with Malfoy had consumed your head for the majority of that week, even, unfortunately, during the tournament.

You were, of course, over the moon at Cedric’s success at capturing the golden dragon egg (Harry’s too, however you would keep that to yourself for the time being until the tension between him and your house blew over), but you just couldn’t shake off the feeling of having had Draco be so close and how he decided to take something of your’s for himself.

It sent you through an overwhelming spiral of thoughts and confusion and you so desperately wanted a friend to talk to, but you knew that Mauve and the others would immediately disapprove.

Anything Draco did was a red flag to them.

Still, that did lead to your most important question; why did Draco do what he did? He couldn’t seriously have had any real interest in your ribbon. It just all seemed like he was...toying with you, but if so, why would he waste his time toying with you in the first place ?

All of these questions received no answers for days until you had finally deemed your endless hours anxiously dwelling on it enough and decided to find your own answers.

Thinking back to the first day you had interacted with Draco, you grabbed your sketch book and pencil pouch and headed to the astronomy tower after dinner, waiting to see if you would run into the Malfoy boy.

Thankfully the universe seemed to be in your favor, because you did.

“Finch,” he greeted upon seeing you, his infamous smirk on its proper place. “Been running into each other more lately. I think you’ve become a bit obsessed,” he teased as he made his way towards you with slow steps.

You clutched your sketchbook to your chest, silently pretending it was a shield of sorts to encourage you to hang onto what little courage you had.

You then took a breath and began.

“We need to talk,” you stated cautiously, not knowing how this would turn out. “I need you to be honest with me.”

Draco frowned, clearly not a fan of your words. “Talk? About what?”

“About what happened a couple days ago. About the umm...” you weren’t sure why, but the words you were looking for escaped you so you chose to point to the top of your head where your hair was done up in a ponytail once more.

Draco stared at you, confused, before giving out a scoff, eyes twinkling in amusement. “Oh, your ribbon? Why, want it back? Has no one taught you about sharing, Finch?” and you clutched your book tighter as he once again placed himself inches away from you.

He really wasn’t a fan of personal space, it seemed.

“Why would I have to share my ribbon with you?” you questioned, feeling silly and small in his presence.

“Because I wanted it. Simple as that,” he answered, eyes looking at you as if to challenge him in saying something else about the subject.

You had no plan to do so.

“Ok...” you said, disappointed that that was all he had to say on the matter.

This was definitely not going according to your plan. Then again, you weren’t even sure you had one in the first place.

His eyes then flickered to the sketchbook you were holding to your chest. “What’s that you’re always bringing up here with you?” he asked nosily and your cheeks immediately flushed.

“It’s, umm...it’s a sketchbook. I like to draw in my free time.”

“Oh really? Well then you’re going to have to share that with me,” he said, moving as if to grab the book but you immediately stepped back, shaking your head with wide eyes.

“Oh no, absolutely not,” you blurted out, taking Draco aback at your sudden outburst.

He frowned once again. “And why not?” A ghost of realization then hit his face and he smirked knowingly. “Oh, I get it. It’s filled with drawings of me. Am I your muse, Finch?” he taunted, lifting his brows.

You unfortunately couldn’t control a small laugh from escaping, nerves setting in as you knew now that you had to explain. “No, actually, I’m...quite terrible at drawing and I’m terrified of you looking at them because...well, they’re really bad,” you confessed, and placed a hand over your mouth to contain the rest of your nervous giggling.

Draco eyes you now like you were completely mad.

“So, you’re telling me you spend your time doing something you’re horrible at?”

You bit your bottom lip, trying to figure out a way to explain it to him best. “Well, yes. Have you never done something not because you’re good at it or you have to, but simply because you enjoy it?” you asked, and the very blonde boy remained starring at you oddly.

“No, actually, that sounds bloody ridiculous and like a terrible waste of time.”

You subconsciously pushed your bottom lip out, your expression resembling a small pout, as you stood there awkwardly, eyes avoiding his. Feeling the weight of the book on your chest, you looked at it for a moment before handing it towards him, wondering what was possessing you to do so.

He looked at your offering with furrowed brows, eyes asking you the same question.

“Just pass through it. No point in not letting you see it now that you know that I’m awful at it. You might find some amusement in it. Just, please, be prepared. I wasn’t being hard on myself, I really am crap at drawing.”

He snatched the book from your hand then, an action you thought was a bit too dramatic, and opened the book, eyes analyzing every page as he flipped through it.

You stood there, watching him pass through the book as you chewed on your bottom lip nervously. You were never usually this bold, letting someone (especially someone like Draco Malfoy) go through your sketchbook knowing very well how terrible your sketches were. Yet, you felt that the only way the tension between you two would dissipate was to be honest and open with him, like how you wanted him to be with you. Maybe then he’ll tell you the real reason why he took your ribbon...

How silly of you to still be hung up on such a little thing.

“Wow, you weren’t wrong. You really are shit at drawing,” he commented midway through his flipping.

You blushed, embarrassed, but also found his blunt honesty amusing, and couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. “I know. It’s a good thing art isn’t part of our curriculum. I would absolutely fail, without a doubt,” and you felt your chest swell up at hearing him laugh along with you.

“Honestly,” he said, handing the book back to you once he finished. “You know, you’re very strange.”

“And you’re very judgmental,” you quickly threw back, causing Draco’s eyes to widen slightly, not expecting your response.

You raise a brow at him, lips forming into a soft smile. “You only think I’m strange because you don’t understand what I’m talking about,” you elaborated before leaning down to sit on the floor.

You patted the spot next to you, looking up at Draco as you did so, but the boy shook his head with a frown.

“Are you mad? I’m not sitting on the floor. I’ll get my pants all dirty,” he said in disgust.

You playfully rolled her eyes, looking up at him from your lashes. “They won’t be, but if they are, I promise I will clean them for you. Just...please sit with me?” you asked, eyes silently pleading with him.

He stood there stubbornly, arms crossed against his chest and you were sadly made aware of what his answer would be. Just as you were about to tell him to forget about it, however, he sat himself on the floor next to you with a huff.

“There. I’m sitting. Now what?” he asked begrudgingly and you had to keep yourself from grinning.

You opened up your sketchbook to an empty page before handing it over to him, along with a pencil. “Take this and just...go with the flow,” you instructed.

He looks at you like you told him the most insane thing possible.

“You want me to sit here and draw?” he questions in disbelief.

“Mhm,” you said, smiling sheepishly at him. “Just one drawing. It could be of anything you want. A bird. A flower. Even a stick person. I just want you try it out for yourself.”

“I’ve drawn before, you do know that right?” he scoffed, finding the task you had assigned him to be entirely ridiculous.

“Doodling while taking notes in class doesn’t count,” you pointed out.

With a heavy sigh and a roll of his eyes, Draco took the book and pencil from your hands and began to do as he was requested.

It was a funny sight, you admitted to yourself, seeing the boy draw with a frown etched on his face. He looked very unamused at first, but as he continued moving his pencil throughout the page, the frown on his face softened and a more concentrated look falls on his features. You smiled softly to yourself, trying to keep your eyes away from the page he was working on, wanting to see it only when he finished.

After a couple of minutes, Draco cleared his throat and handed the book back to you.

“Personally, I don’t think I did too bad,” he admitted, eyes on the page you were now able to see.

A snake graced the middle of the once empty page and you were surprised to find that it was a very well drawn one. Lips slightly parted in surprise, you noticed he had even shaded in the scales.

“Don’t think you did too bad?” you repeated, eyes taking in the details he was able to add from memory.

Draco immediately frowned once again, taking your tone the wrong way. “Well it’s at least loads better than your pitiful attempts,” he spat out.

At that, you immediately looked up at him, shaking your head. “No, I mean that in a good way. As in you did way better than just ‘not too bad’. You actually did a wonderful job,” you admitted sincerely.

You were aware of Draco’s infamous temper. The way he’d snap at the drop of a pin, especially if it was dropped in a way he didn’t like, had him labeled as a simple hot head by others. And although that could be true, you understood why he reacted in such a way; he was taught his whole life that people could be cruel, so he needed to be cruel first.

You knew all about the Malfoy family, namely Draco’s father, Lucius. You remember the day you went back home after your first year at Hogwarts, how you gushed to your father about your new school and your new friends and the new boy you really wanted to befriend.

You father had recognized the name ‘Malfoy’ immediately, and frowned as he looked at you in concern.

“You have to be careful with that boy. I can’t judge him, because I’ve never met him personally, but if he’s anything like his father, then he’s not someone you want to surround yourself with.”

You were snapped back to reality when Draco spoke once again.

“Really? That good?” he asked, looking his drawing over.

You nodded. “Yes. I guess you found something you’re naturally talented at.”

He looks up at you, expression unreadable. You feel your face warm up at the sudden intimacy you felt, realizing how close he sat next to you and how you could notice the different shades of gray in his eyes.

Clearing your throat, noticing how flustered you were becoming, you closed your sketchbook and put your pencil away. The sound of the pouch zipping fills the silence and you feel even more awkward until Draco finally speaks up.

“Are you going to go on the trip to Hogsmeade tomorrow?” he asked, causing you to turn your attention back to him.

“Oh, umm...yeah. I am,” you answered, attempting to play it cool despite your still blushing self.

“Perfect. You’ll join me then,” he said, standing up and dusting his pants off. Your eyes widened but Draco didn’t acknowledge it, simply stating “I’ll see you tomorrow, Finch,” before exiting the tower.

You remained staring at the spot Draco had been, processing the entirety of your latest exchange, feeling your heart race a little at the realization that he had just formally asked (well, demanded) to hangout tomorrow.

.....

What in Merlin’s beard just happened?

♡

Tag list: @sadgirlnumber92899​​, @yea-that-potato, @avellanas-nutty-empire