#graphite sketching perhaps

[the-husbando]

And just like that, out of fucking nowhere I'm completely 💖🌟💅🐮O B S E S S E D🐮💅🌟💖 with her...

[malamiteltd]

Day 18 – A Powerful Presence Arrives

Sketch and Heather started out their morning watching TV in their living room. Things seemed particularly normal. Suddenly they both felt something strange…a strong, unexplainable feeling in the air. Their ears perked, and they quickly looked at each other.

“Do you feel that?” asked Sketch.

Heather nodded. “Yeah…that’s a powerful aura. I never felt an outside aura from within the house before.”

Sketch got up from the couch. “We should go investigate.”

They both went outside and started looking around. Pretty soon they heard a voice not too far away.

“This isn’t Crimson City…This isn’t even Kheji!”

They turned to find a tall figure down the street, looking around frantically. They noticed his long tail and thick antennae – two details that looked very familiar.

“Is that another Teijru?” asked Sketch.

Suddenly the figure turned his head to look in their direction. His light green eyes caught sight of the Tokarus.

“He’s staring right at us…” said Heather, shivering a bit.

“You!” the Teijru shouted, walking towards them. “Both of you! I want answers.”

Sketch nodded and approached the Teijru. “Sure, we’ll do our best to answer them.” Heather followed Sketch to see the Teijru up close. He wore a black tanktop with a strange purple symbol emblazoned on it, and long black pants. His hair looked a bit frazzled compared to Copper’s. but all his fur was completely white.

The Teijru looked angry. “Alright. Where am I, and how did I get here?”

Sketch shrugged his shoulders. “Well, we’ve been calling this place the Blocks since we got here.”

“Hmm,” he responded, stroking his chin. “So you aren’t native to this world?”

“None of us are,” added Heather.

The Teijru raised his eyebrows. “You mean there are others?”

Sketch nodded. “Yes, and from other dimensions. As for how you got here…did you recently travel through a dimensional portal?”

“I think so… there was a natural rift in my world that was being investigated. It normally would whisk any person who entered it into some random destination. Recently some visioneers were trying to control its intended course by making an artificial rift to match. I volunteered to test it out, but…I guess things didn’t work out.”

“Well, if it’s anything like our dimensional travel,” said Heather, “chances are there’s another you that actually made it to the other rift.”

The Teijru was confused. “What do you mean?”

“I suppose we should fill you in on The Situation™…”

. . . . .

The Teijru mulled over what he just heard. “So I was split in two, and the other me arrived there safely.”

“He probably ended up as tired as you were when you arrived here,” Heather replied, “but yes.”

“And I managed to end up in someone’s dollhouse universe, with a bunch of other carbon copies?”

Sketch shrugged. “Basically.”

The Teijru shook his head. “I suppose I should be relieved that Kheji still has a protector, but I’m not really sure how to feel about being stuck here…”

“Incidentally, I don’t think we got your name. I’m Sketch Tucker, and this is my wife, Heather Britannia.”

“Hello!” she said, waving.

The Teijru nodded. “Good to meet you. My name’s–”

“Graphite?!”

The three turned to where the voice came from. It was Broom, looking shocked at the new arrival.

The Teijru was also surprised at hearing his name, but eventually regained his stern expression and nodded. “That’s right. How do you know my name?”

Broom looked confused. “What do you mean? We’ve met before, after the Apparatus tried to invade your planet.”

Graphite looked confused. “What’s the Apparatus?”

Broom was stunned. “How do you not remember the Apparatus?! You went into space to destroy it!”

“Broom, hang on,” said Sketch. “There’s a good chance this Graphite might be from either a different time or different universe…or both.”

Broom stopped to think about this. “Well, even if he isn't the Graphite I know, he definitely has the level of fervor I remember.”

“Yeah, it’s almost overwhelming!” said Heather, looking over to Graphite. “The kinds of stories I’ve heard about you make you sound like an unstoppable warrior!”

Graphite looked away.

Broom walked up to Graphite. “I’m curious to see what your experiences were like, Graphite! Would it be okay to perform Clarity with you?”

Graphite looked uncertain as Broom held his hand out to him. “I…I don’t…”

“Have you not done Clarity before? It doesn’t hurt or anything. We’ll get to know each other better this way!”

Graphite looked to Broom’s hand, then to his gentle smile. He hesitantly reached for Broom’s hand. “A-alright.”

Broom locked his fingers between Graphite’s. “Okay! This will only take a few seconds. Just close your eyes.”

Graphite did as Broom said. Then he felt a rush of Broom’s memories flashing through his mind. When it stopped, Graphite opened his eyes and looked at his hand. “Huh. That wasn’t so…”

He looked to Broom, who had a horrified look on his face. Graphite became concerned.

“You okay?”

Broom shivered a bit. “E…excuse me…” 

Then he quickly ran in the direction of Copper’s house. Graphite was confused at first, but began to realize something, which made him look ashamed. Sketch and Heather were very confused.

“What happened?” asked Sketch. “Did he…manage to find a particularly bad memory of yours?”

“I mean, I’ve heard Graphite’s had to fight some tough customers with that strong power,” Heather replied. “Maybe some of the sights were too much to bear.”

Graphite didn’t respond. He looked to the house Broom ran to, and noticed someone coming out. He squinted his eyes to make out the figure, but as the figure approached with Broom, Graphite’s eyes grew wide. Now he was starting to shiver.

“...C…Copper?!”

Copper looked confused. “Graphite?”

Graphite struggled to speak, let alone move. Sketch and Heather looked at the two of them, trying to figure out what was going on.

“You okay?” asked Copper.

Graphite tried to regain his composure. “I…you…the…” He held his forehead. “Hang on…you ARE Copper, right?”

“Yyyyeah…?” Copper was baffled. “Are you…actually Graphite?”

“Well, we suspect this Graphite might be from a different universe,” Sketch replied.

Graphite nodded, though still looking stressed. “R-right. That sounds right.” He took a deep breath. “Sorry. I thought you were the Copper from my world. You couldn’t be.”

“What do you mean?” asked Copper.

“Yeah, what’s up with the Copper from your world?” added Sketch.

Graphite paused. “The Copper from my world is dead.”

Copper was taken slightly aback.

“Oh…” Heather replied, her hand almost covering her mouth. “I’m sorry, Graphite. I suppose seeing him alive would be a shock.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” said Sketch, “how did he die? Was he ill? Did he get caught in some kind of accident?”

Graphite closed his eyes. “He was killed.”

Sketch and Heather looked shocked. Copper’s eyebrows were raised.

“That’s terrible!!” Heather shouted. “What kind of horrible person would DO that?!”

Graphite turned away as he slowly raised his hand.

Sketch and Heather were even more shocked. “YOU?!”

Copper looked surprised as well. Broom covered his face with his hands.

“WHY?!” Heather growled. “Why would you kill him?!”

Graphite opened his eyes, turning his gaze to Heather. “He asked for it.”

Heather crossed her arms, looking more upset. “That’s a HORRIBLE thing to say!”

“You misunderstand,” Graphite replied in desperation. “He LITERALLY asked me to do it.”

“I find that very hard to believe!” she replied.

Copper raised his hand. “I believe it.”

Everyone looked at Copper when he said this. He looked fairly calm, unlike the stunned expressions of others.

Heather shook her head. “Could you just…tell us what happened that led to you doing this?”

Graphite breathed in slowly. “Alright…I was in Crimson City, looking into the new army that was being assembled there. When that was done, I headed for the train station to go home. But I was passing by the park and noticed Copper sitting alone, looking sad and distressed. I decided to investigate – it was very late, and it was odd to see anyone out at that hour. I asked him what was up, and he was afraid to talk about it at first. But eventually he told me his struggle…how his mind was making him think horrible thoughts, and how it became hard for him to sleep…and he had no way to make it stop.”

Copper pondered about the scene. Sketch did as well.

Graphite continued. “He was frustrated, with tears in his eyes, wishing it would all end. He was convinced the only way the intrusive thoughts would stop was to end it all. And…then he had an idea. He began begging me to help him with that. He wanted me to put him out of his misery.”

“And you said yes?!” Heather asked, sounding upset.

He shook his head. “Not initially, no. I didn’t think it was right. But he kept insisting…he was really convinced this was the answer. And…I kinda understood how he was feeling. I could see his pain. So… I eventually agreed to help him. I tried to come up with the most humane way to do it. I first told him to lay on the ground.” He held up his hands. “Then I used my fervor to put him into a deep sleep. Pretty soon he was out cold, but not before sleepily telling me…’Thank you.’”

He closed his eyes. 

“And then…I formed blades from my fervor…and pierced both his hearts. He stopped breathing less than a minute after…”

Sketch and Heather were speechless.

“I took him to his home and buried him in the backyard,” Graphite continued. “I did my best to be respectful about it all. And…at the time, I felt like I did him a big favor. Despite how unorthodox it was…I thought I really did help him.”

Broom grabbed Copper by his legs, holding them tight. He seemed upset about the story. Copper placed his hand on Broom’s head and patted it a few times.

Graphite sighed. “But then, the following day I was approached by Copper’s friends. They said they were looking for him everywhere and found no sign of him. They asked around all of Crimson City, but no one knew where he was. So they decided to come to me in the hopes that I could help. I felt a chill down my spine as I heard their story. But…I told them what had happened. And…unsurprisingly, they were very sad…and furious. They yelled at me for doing what I did, saying I could’ve approached the problem differently. They were sad Copper didn’t try to reach out to them before he got to the point of desperation. Nothing I tried to say helped ease anything.”

He rubbed his forehead, starting to look distressed.

“And pretty soon, the word got out…people started to see me as a murderer, someone willing to kill off an innocent civilian. Everyone considered me incredibly dangerous, and they wanted nothing to do with me. Even Zoi…the Teijru I had feelings for…she didn’t wish to see me ever again. I was lucky to at least have Choram’s support and comfort, or I would’ve ended it all myself.”

“Choram?” asked Sketch.

“A fellow from the planet Byra. A few of his kind tried to invade Kheji…I managed to defeat all the invading army, except his brother Teusen, who surrendered once I found him. Because he was the one that had the blueprints for the spaceship they used to get to Kheji, we chose to make him stay so the Byrans couldn’t make another ship. Choram traveled to Kheji to make sure his brother was okay, and then he decided to stay and protect him. We ended up becoming good friends over time. And…well, eventually he became my only friend.”

“So I guess you didn’t end up as big of a hero as we heard,” said Sketch.

“Well, I kept trying my best to help keep people safe. Other invading races arrived, and I stepped in to prevent their influence from hurting anyone. I worked very hard, despite the negativity around me, to regain a lot of the public’s trust. But Copper’s friends…they would never forgive me…”

Graphite made a pained expression, which he quickly covered with his hands.

“...I wish I never did it…I really, genuinely thought I did the right thing for him…Now…I have the same intrusive thoughts Copper wanted to escape…his ‘gift’ to me…and there’s no one more deserving…”

Copper walked up to Graphite and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry…”

Graphile looked over to Copper, who looked concerned. “I…No, this…this isn’t your fault. You’re not the Copper that was begging to die.” But he quickly regained his composure, his face looking stern. “Listen. I’m not sure what your current outlook on life might be, but I can’t do that again. I swear to you, I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. This all feels like my second chance…and I’m not going to squander it.”

Copper was silent for a few seconds. Then he nodded. “...I understand.”

Graphite looked to the others. “And I promise to keep the rest of you safe too. I’m not flawless, obviously…but I want to at least prove I can be trusted.”

“We…appreciate that, Graphite,” Sketch said. “I know what you did wasn’t…the best choice. But I know I’m willing to give you this chance.”

Heather hesitated, but eventually nodded in agreement. “I really don’t sense a bad soul in you.”

Graphite looked to Broom. “You’re angry at me for what I did, aren’t you…”

Broom looked away. “I understand you wanted to help him. But…it doesn’t seem like you really know how to do that.”

Graphite slowly nodded. “Yeah…I need to work on that.”

Sketch looked around. “You’re going to need a home. A couple of these places are still vacant…” He looked to Heather. “Think you can show him around? I…need to talk to Copper about something.”

Copper looked at Sketch, confused.

Heather nodded. “Alright.” She turned to Copper. “Come on. Let’s find you a place to stay.”

Graphite followed behind Heather as they walked down the street. Sketch looked over to Copper and took a deep breath.

“So,” he started. “That was quite a story he told. You alright?”

Copper nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re not mad at him?”

“Not really, no.”

“Hm.” Sketch scratched his head. “I do have to say, the way he described the scene…it sounded kinda familiar.”

Copper looked a bit puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“The scene of you sitting alone in the park late at night…struggling with your recurring trauma…You’ve been there before.”

Copper thought about this. Then his eyes grew wide. He quickly turned to Sketch.

“Y-you KNOW?!” he suddenly shouted, panicking. “But HOW? Did Holly tell you about–”

“You remember that failed Tokaru Bond I had with you a few days ago?” Sketch asked.

“...Yeah, why?”

“While I was trapped in your mind, I was practically surrounded by your thoughts and memories. And…well, that was one of them.”

Copper began to shake. “I…I…”

Sketch got closer, placing his hands on Copper’s shoulders. “Relax. I don’t think any differently of you. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Copper looked away in shame. “...Does Heather know?”

“She needs to,” he replied. “But I don’t think she’ll see you any differently either. Just remember, you have friends to lean on here. And Graphite…well, he sounds like he could use just as much help. Maybe more. And I’m not sure why, but for some reason, I feel like you’ll be the one he needs most to help him cope.”

Copper nodded hesitantly. “I’ll…try.”

Sketch suddenly noticed Broom standing not too far off. He looked uncomfortable.

“I suppose you saw that event play out firsthand through Clarity, huh?” asked Sketch. “You gonna be alright?”

“It was…a horrifying memory,” Broom replied, shivering. “The imagery of Copper with two burnt holes in his chest, partly buried in the ground… I wasn’t sure what to do after I saw that, so I ended up running to Copper’s house just to make sure he was okay.”

“It’s okay,” Sketch replied. “It doesn’t sound like that’ll happen again.”

Broom looked in Graphite’s direction. “I really hope you’re right…”

[iris-qt]

𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐

🗝️ ᴛʜᴇᴏᴅᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴛ x ʜᴜꜰꜰʟᴇᴘᴜꜰꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

🗝️ ʙɢ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ: ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ!

🗝️ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ

🗝️ ᴀ/ɴ: ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴜʟᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴘᴏʟʟ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴏᴘᴜʟᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴍᴀɴᴅ. ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ ɪ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ. ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴀ ᴛʏᴘɪᴄᴀʟ ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴀᴜ ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛ�� ꜰɪᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ ꜱᴛʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴏʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡᴇɪʀᴅʟʏ ᴘʜɪʟᴏꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ

🗝️ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: ᴛʜᴇᴏᴅᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴀʟ ᴜɴᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇɴɪᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙʟᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ…

Did you believe in fate? 

No.

That may be silly, I mean, you live in a magical universe where anything is possible. Magic defies the muggle laws of nature; it’s something undetectable yet very much alive. Anything could happen. Anything you can imagine. Anything you can imagine besides being in a relationship with Theodore Nott.

Yet for some wild, unbeknownst reason, the universe seems adept in proving you wrong. 

No, you didn’t believe in fate. Until you became acquainted with him.

It started off slow and undetectable. Yes, you were aware of Theodore Nott, but you tried to stay unaware of your feelings towards him. It all started in the dingy little Potions classroom, when you were seated next to him. At first you were a bit uncomfortable as he was a popular guy and popular boys weirded you out. Always so judgmental. But Theo was quiet and calm. Always so sure of every action; every dice of the ingredients, every stir of the brew. You were a pretty sociable person and so, once you decided Nott was not so off-putting after all, you began to share a few words with each other. You treasured those little conversations in the shrouded back row of the Potions room. 

“How was the DADA test for you, Nott?”

“Hey, Nott, Is it just me, or does Snape’s hair look extra greasy today?”

“HELP THEODORE MY POTIONS ON FIRE!”

That last one was not a very fond memory, but one you could not escape. Truly, you two being the only Slytherin and Hufflepuff sat next to each other, as there was an odd amount of students from both houses in that class, was the real beginning of the universe’s meddling behavior.

With all this in mind, it was painfully obvious Theo was not interested; he never quite talked to you unless you said something first. That is why you would never delude yourself with the thought of being in a relationship with him, He was an unattainable, rare flower, such as the tiburon mariposa lily that only grows in the Ring Mountain region of California. That flower is quite vulnerable to extinction due to natural and man-made disasters. That part didn’t really apply to Nott. He wasn’t the vulnerable type…

Theo, however, fell hard and fast from the moment he first spoke with you. How could someone so passionate and awkward not catch his eye?

“It was honestly a rough test. Actually, I need a tutor for DADA..”  

But you didn’t take the hint.

“Perhaps if I gave Professor Snape my hair care routine…?”

But that didn’t earn him any hair-related compliments.

“AGUAMENTI! HOLY SHIT you’re really on fire today, huh y/l/n?”

That earned him an elbow in the rib.

The series of events that the fed up universe concocted began in none other than a little grass meadow.

As usual, you had woken up at the most ungodly hour of 5 am for the sole purpose of taking your morning stroll to a hidden meadow within the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, just behind a thicket. You were walking with your sketchpad and graphite in hand, ready to capture those jewels of the earth in the faint morning light. In your opinion, the crack of dawn is when the wildflowers shine the brightest. You sat in the grass, leaning against an old oak, beginning to sketch a particularly beautiful periwinkle flower. You were sure no one else knew about this meadow; it seemed untouched by anyone’s harsh footsteps.

Imagine your surprise when you heard the plants rustle to unveil a sleepy Theodore Nott: brown locks askew and dark circles tinged red against his pale skin, a cigarette dangling from his sleep-swollen pink lips. His light eyes slightly widen at the sight of his talkative ex Potions partner.

The silence was awkward and extended; you weren’t used to engaging in conversation in your quiet haven, but of course it was you who broke the silence anyway.

“Good morning, Nott,” you say quite hoarsely, slightly clearing your throat in embarrassment. Those were the first words you’d uttered that day.

His lip twitches, ghosting a smirk at the sound of your voice.

“Morning, y/l/n. You come here often?”

You nod saying, “It’s my morning ritual at this point.”

You nod in reply, eyes ghosting over his tired appearance as he continues, “Funny. I come here every night.”

He lets out a puff of smoke into the pure air of your precious haven, and you can’t help but subconsciously glare at the wisp of smoke. Of course, he notices and lets out a small chuckle.

“Don’t like my smoking?”

“It ruins the fresh air for the flowers and plants, Nott.”

He nods thoughtfully, finishing his cigarette.

“Don’t tell me you litter your cigarette butts all over the grass,” you frown.

“Of course not, I’m not a brute,” he laughs and fishes out a portable ash tray where he neatly tucks his cigarette remains away. After another awkward silence, he walks up to you and sits down next to you, peering at your sketch but quickly shifting his gaze away when he realizes you never gave him permission to gaze upon your works of art. You laugh as you assure him, “You can look, it’s just quick sketches.”

“Looks frame-worthy to me,” he shrugs with absolutely no hint of sarcasm or doubt in his eyes. It makes you feel flustered to the point you had to look the other way.

You decide to move the conversation over to him.

“What do you do here every night? Smoke?”

He shakes his head, saying, “As much as I like to smoke at night, I don’t here.” He pulls out a book. “I read under wand-light.”

You glance over and your eyes widen as you notice its a story you had just recently finished reading.

“The Turn of the Screw? A literary masterpiece, I just finished reading it, like, a week ago.”

He smiles, eyes warm and inviting, “I was just about to say your drawings remind me of Audrey Benjaminsen’s limited edition illustrations for this book. I’ve been trying to get my hands on a copy.”

Your eyes widen even more.

“The limited edition would be a gazillion galleons, but I suppose you’re filthy rich,” you tease.

“I mean, what better thing to spend my money on?” He smirks, pushing back a stray lock of his hair that had escaped.

“Solving world hunger, ending wars, funding cancer cure research…” you smirk.

“Ok, I’m not that rich.”

You both laughed at that and talked all morning up through the first 15 minutes of your guys’ first lessons. Laughing, you both jog to your class, the dandelions in the field spreading its tufts as you both run past. Little did you both know, it was the mutual fascination with a trail of dandelion tufts in the breeze, one in the sunlight and one in the moonlight, that brought you both to discover the meadow years ago.

While this universal push succeeded in temporarily bringing you and Theo closer, the two of you fell apart as you stopped showing up to the meadow as often due to school stress and you no longer were seated with Theo in any classes. The autumn leaves floated down and shriveled up; leaving the trees bare. The cold winds carried snow through the Hogwarts air, swirling around the iced windows. 

It was time for the winter trip to Hogsmeade and you were bundled up and ready to go with 3 jackets, long socks, leg warmers, and snow boots as you braved the cold. Your scarf tucked against your face, you walked down the snowy pathway, laughing and talking with your friends as you strode through the ice.

Theo was also walking down the pathway with his friends; zoned out of their conversation while quietly observing the falling snow. 

Fate had it that you both got distracted by a reflective light in the distance at different times, and so you both left your friends group for a second to observe this flash of light.  

You were the first to separate, and when you looked back, your friends were long gone; enveloped into the icy mist.

You shrugged and began trudging through the snow, wondering where they could’ve gone off to. Suddenly, you stumbled across a little book shop that you’d been wanting to visit, but never got time to. You slowly walked up the creaking steps and into the warm embrace of the cozy shop. It was lit by yellow candlelight, dancing over the spines of rustic books. A Christmas tree in the corner shone brightly. You began getting lost in the page-riddled haze…

Theo, likewise, separated from his group a moment after you left. He bent down to find the source of the reflective light and found nothing. He raised an eyebrow annoyedly and glanced back to find himself abandoned in the snow; not a student to be seen in this blizzard. He decided to just walk in a straight line and suddenly saw a warm glow in the muggy snow. He approached a bookshop he had never noticed before. How could he overlook such a gem? Walking in, he was met with the faint smell of cinnamon and a warm atmosphere.

After a couple minutes, you laid your eyes on a particularly gorgeous spine with engraved flowers. Of course, you’d judge a book by its cover if its cover was an absolute masterpiece. You reached out to pluck it off the shelf when you felt a force pulling it back from the other side. You furrowed your brows as this turned into a game of tug of war. 

Theo had seen that this particular book had artwork painted onto its pages. He was intrigued as to what this book could be about when suddenly he was hindered from grabbing it. Refusing to let up this competition, he pulled the book to his side, but, ultimately, failed. You and Theo’s eyes met through the hole where the book had originally been, his shining eyes crinkling as he grinned at the familiar irises of y/n. 

“Brains and brawn? Could you get any better?” He joked walking to your side of the shelf and smiling.

You laughed as you handed him the book.

“Feel free to take it, Nott”

“Don’t worry, I was just admiring the painted scene on the pages.”

 You both glance at the gorgeous book for a bit when Theo breaks the silence.

“You haven’t been to the flower clearing recently.”

“Yeah, school has me fucked up… I study too late and can’t wake up that early.”

He nods thoughtfully, glancing around at the shop.

“I think this is my new favorite place.”

“I agree..” Your eyes widen as you glance at the shelf behind him. “No way. Theodore look.” You excitedly point at a limited edition copy of The Turn of the Screw with illustrations done by Audrey Benjaminsen.

Theo looks stricken as he freezes at the sight of the copy he’d been chasing for months now. It was right there, before his eyes, tucked between other worn books. He would never have caught it in this dim light.

“Am I dreaming, y/n?” He breathes out, jaw dramatically dropped at the sight.

You playfully pinch him, laughing, “I don’t think so, Nott. Call it an early Christmas miracle.”

It was as if you and Theo shared the same safe spaces. First the meadow, now this book shop. He couldn’t help but ponder how there was always something leading him to you. Something that connected the both of you. First it was the flower field, and now this book. It was if every good thing in his life was somehow connected to you…

Theo gently holds the book and observes it in the light, but he found his new revelation of you far more fascinating. He always knew he adored you, and it just so happened that fate agreed. They were constantly being pushed together; given every oppurtunity to confess their feelings. Their fear overshadowed them. Maybe it was time to stop being so fearful. 

Theo noticed you gazing at the book in awe, and smiled gently.

“Would you like to look over it with me over some butterbeer?”

Your eyes snap up at him, surprised at his question. This was the first time Theo had shown any interest in going out of his way to spend time with you. Despite the lingering cold, you blushed down to the roots of your hair.  

“I’d love to..”

He grinned, shadows dancing on his carved face. The invisible string was brighter now, wrapping around their very beings, no longer neglected.

“It’s a date.”

[ebodebo]

i have a benedict bridgerton idea for you queenie! okay so reader works for the bridgerton family and she and has a huge huge huge crush on benedict. so one night she goes to his room (for whatever reason you pick) and she hears him jerking off and she's like !!! and then he moans her name and she's even more like !!!

you can fill in the rest wink wink

Illicit Affairs

NSFW CONTENT

—benedict bridgerton x reader

—2.2k+

wanna be on my taglist ? fill out this form !

Graphite pencils, quill pens, and an inkwell lay spread across the mahogany wooden table in the corner of the drawing-room, close to the bay window that overlooked the gardens. 

Several pieces of rag paper were spread across the table, and some even crumbled onto the floor, tainted by lead and ink. Judging from the messy lilacs and composition of a forest on the papers, you guessed Benedict had tried his hand at scenery drawings. 

The head maid had asked you to clean up his things, and you were, but surely there was no shame in seeing what kept the man occupied seemingly all day and all night.

You brushed your hand over the sketches, taking note of each delicately drawn petal and leaf, up to the bark on trees that looked so existent you swore you could feel the harshness of the wood along your fingertips.

As you scanned the sketches, gently picking them up, your eyes dilated as you noted a familiar face before you. Surely, it couldn't be, but it was hard to succumb to that idea when it was the same face you stared at in the mirror every day, your own.

He had drawn your eyes, lips, jaw, and even minor details, which you didn't even know anyone noticed, in his precious ink. You grasped the paper by the corner, holding it in eye view, unable to comprehend what you were seeing.

"Have you yet finished, my dear?" Your mother's voice echoed off the walls as she entered the room. You jumped back slightly at her voice, turning quickly to face her, clenching the paper behind your back.

"I…um…have to deliver a particular…thing to Mr. Bridgerton," you gab as you attempt to move past her, tucking the drawing into your apron pocket, though she's quick to grab your arm.

"Dearest, tis' late. It would be best if you did not wake him," she furrows her brows before glancing at the mess still scattered on the table and giving you a disapproving look. "You have not yet done cleaning, I see."

"I must make haste, mama. I do not wish to keep him waiting any further," you urge, putting your hand over hers to pull it off. She gives you another disapproving glance. You sigh, becoming slightly orated by her disagreeable state.

"Do you really wish for me to keep a Bridgerton waiting, mama," you raise a brow, a knowing look plastered on your face.

"I suppose—" She begins before you kiss her cheek and exit the room, heading towards the grand staircase to ascend the stairs, feeling the paper burn a hole through the cloth of your apron.

Your heart pounded as you reached the end of the stairs, clammy hand slipping off the end of the railing to rest against your side. You took deliberately slow steps down the corridor, slowly inching towards Benedict's room.

You stand in front of his door, deciding to simply slip the sketch under his door so as not to wake him. As you bend down to your knees, head close to the door, you hear something curious.

Ragged breaths slip through the crack under the door and hit your ears. You lean closer so you can hear the noises more clearly. He's muttering curses and spewing prayer after prayer—a soft 'shlick,' 'shlick,' 'shlick' repeated in a synchronized pattern. 

You had not a single clue what he was doing. Perhaps he needed assistance?

"Mr. Bridgerton," you tentatively question, though you receive no answer. The sounds in the room halt. You lean even closer.

"Mr. Bridgerton, are you in need of assistance?" You repeat a little more persistently. Again, no answer. Your hand moves to grip the door handle.

You tell yourself that if he fails to answer once more, you will go in to ensure he is alright.

"Are you quite well, sir?" You ask. Once again, there was no answer. You turn the knob quickly, pushing the door open to see him. Your eyes take in the view. Benedict was unclothed from his waist down, with a sketch in his hand. A sketch that looked eerily similar to you. His cock rests in his hand, his face gleaming with a light sheen of perspiration that made the front pieces of his hair stick to his skin.

Your eyes widen as you stumble back.

"Mr. Bridgerton, I—I am quite sorry. You seem quite…occupied," you avert your eyes awkwardly away from him. "Pardon my intrusion," your voice is unstable from embarrassment, and you feel your face heat as you turn on your heels towards the door. He quickly outstretches his hand to grasp at your own.

Your breath feels like it has been sucked from your diaphragm as you feel his skin on yours. You flick your eyes to him in an instant. His pupils are dilated. "You have not a thing to apologize for," he finally speaks, his voice steady. It was odd, considering you had just walked in on him pleasuring himself, and his cock was still out.

You pay no heed to the words coming from him as your eyes drift from his eyes to his hand on yours to his erect cock mere inches away from you. Your lips part slightly as you exhale a small sigh at the sight of such an intimate part of him that you should not be seeing, now or ever. Though, you couldn't help the knot that formed in your lower stomach at the view.

"Are you curious?" He asks, though his voice is low and rough this time around. You flick your widened eyes to him, mouth agape at his insinuation.

"Pardon me, Mr. Bridgerton, but you are truly mad," you laugh out, pulling your hand away from his and turning away from him.

"Am I?" He smoothly questions. You swivel your head towards him, letting out a huff.

"You are, sir," you confirm, your voice containing humor.

"No need for the formalities," he quips, the corners of his lips quirking at your perplexity. "Call me Benedict, I insist."

"I cannot," you shake your head as you cross your arms over your chest.

"Tell me," he inches closer to you, making sure to take in your body language. He raises his hand to reach for yours, pulling it from its place tucked under your forearm. "Is this formal?"

"Well, I—I suppose it is not," you stutter as he brings your hand to rest against his cheek, allowing you to feel his freshly shaven skin. His eyes are light, you notice. Lighter than you initially thought. 

"Then, there is no need for the formalities," he shrugs casually.

This was preposterous. You are a mere housemaid with blasphemous conceptions about someone you work for. It was unprecedented and unacceptable. Your only job was to aid the Bridgertons when they needed help, not fantasize about one of them in a compromising position.

"I am only to help you when you need assistance," you piously say, dropping your hand from his face, though he can read through you. You considered his offer; your eyes and clammy hands said it all.

"In truth, I need your assistance greatly," he tuts.

"Oh," you raise a brow, as the corner of your lip lifts to form a soft smirk. 

"You see, I am in a great deal of pain," his voice was sardonic. "Could you find it in your heart to aid in taking the ache away?"

"Pain, you say?" You bring your finger and press it on your chin, plastering a thoughtful expression. "That might constitute for my help, I suppose," you begin. "I am here to aid you in all your endeavors. Am I not?" You smile smugly, watching his eyes drift to your plush lips. 

You don't know why, but the way his eyes gloss over, taking in a feature so simple makes you feel a sense of confidence. You gently raise your hand to tilt his chin slightly, making his eyes lock with yours.

"Am I not?" You repeat, slightly more assured. His eyelids lazily close over only half of his eye as his mouth opens slightly.

"You are," he murmurs out. A self-satisfied smile spreads across your face at his compliance. You find yourself placing the palms of your hands on his chest, gently nudging him to a nearby wooden chair to sit. He leans his head back to rest his neck on the back of the chair, breathing labored at your touch.

As you move to sink to your knees between his spreading legs, out of the corner of your eye, you see another loose paper lying just next to you on the floor. You turn fully to look at it, grasping the corner of it with your hand to examine it.

It was similar to the sketch of yourself you found in the drawing room. Though, this sketch's ink seemed much more messy and tainted.

"Poor man," you flip the sketch to show him, a phony frown on your face. "You were using just this?" His eyes lazily dragged over the sketch in your hands to your face right next to it.

"I am afraid so," he tuts. You push the simple sketch into his hands before you bring your hands to his soft linen shirt, slowly slipping it off until it falls somewhere off to the side—his eyes on you the entire time.

"Do you wish to look at your sketch of me or the real me?" You ask, placing your hands on either of his thighs as you see his eyes bounce from you to the sketch and back to you.

His lip quirks as he crumbles up the sketch, tossing it to his side. You let out a light chuckle, bringing your face closer to where he aches. Your lips nearly grazed his erect cock.

"Whatever will you use now?" You breathe out, hyper-aware of his cock so close to you.

"I will find you," he breathes out, bringing his hand to grip your plump cheek. You smile before sticking your tongue out to swirl around the head softly. He hisses at the contact, moving his hand to rest in your hair.

"Dear God," he groans out as you sink him further into your mouth, flattening your tongue and tilting your head back slightly so the head slides across the roof of your mouth and skims against your teeth. His hand in your hair tightens as you suck gently as he slides in and out of your mouth.

You suck for only a short minute before you pull your mouth off, replacing it with your hand carefully and slowly pumping up and down the length of his cock.

"Is this not just satirical?" You question, paying close attention to his eyes, nearly rolling to the back of his head.

"How do you deduce?" He groans, pushing his head back further and his body up more so his cock moves more in your hand.

"In normal circumstances, I am at the mercy of your family, including you," you say, licking the seam of the lips. You continue your movements, though now they are antagonizing and slow-paced. His eyes shoot back to yours as his mouth widens, releasing ragged breaths and throaty moans.

"Though," you begin, tugging him a little bit harder as he throws his head back against the chair, "in here," his eyes peer into yours, "I am singularly and wholly in control. I have you at my mercy." 

"I quite like being at your mercy," he immediately says. You stroke him a little faster, satisfied with his response.

"Is that so, Benedict?" You inquire as he begins pushing himself into your hand faster, desperate for even more of your touch. 

Your movements continue until his body is convulsing and his mouth hangs open, moaning as he comes all over his thighs and your hand. His head hangs low as his heart palliates and his chest heaves.

You even find your own chest heaving alongside his. He picks his head up slightly to make eye contact with you, bringing his hand to brush against your bottom lip, which unbeknownst to you, was covered in blood from sinking your teeth too deep.

"Are you alright?" He questions, taking in your perplexed look. He hopes you didn't have regrets of what had just occurred since it was taboo in nature.

"I am. Are you?" You regurgitate his question, and he nods, a small smile pulling on his lips. He reaches to the table next to him to grab tissues to clean you and himself up.

Once he wipes you clean of any remnants of himself, he instructs you to make your way back before anyone notices, but not before pressing a light kiss to your temple.

You stand and turn towards the door, reaching out to grab the door handle, but before turning it, you turn your head to face his.

"Glad I could be of assistance," you murmur, not awaiting a response before you fully turn the knob and step out the door.

It may have been unbecoming. Perhaps, unlawful and unconstitutional. And substandard in every sense.

The immorality of the situation does nothing to stop you from slipping your fingers underneath your nightgown that night in your room all by your lonesome, reminiscing of the image and sound of Benedict being subdued by you, a mere housemaid. What a glorious night, indeed.

a/n: benedict is such a bottom idc also regency dirty talk is so hilarious

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[maddiedott]

Logan Howlett x GN!Reader where the reader is a somewhat introverted person that has a passion for drawing, and when Logan asks to see one of their drawings, the reader shows them a drawing of a Wolverine (the animal :3)??

This is so precious, wolverines are so cool, I did a little bit of research for this story so I learned a lot lol. Thank you so much for my very first request! I tweaked it just a tad, but I hope I did this story justice.

Also did you know they eat artic foxes? :(

Sketches

Warnings: Omnivert!Gn! Reader, fluff, Logan teasing, established relationship, not proofread, I did a lot of research on wolverines

You weren’t entirely sure what sparked this inspiration this time. Perhaps it was the interest on what a wolverine actually was, or perhaps it was the man who had named himself after one. Either way, it was the only thing that filled up the pages of your sketchbook, breaking it in with graphite and charcoal sketches of the fluffy and ferocious mammals. It’s where you find yourself now.

The day was nice, just a small breeze but not one enough to disrupt the page of the sketchbook in your hands. The students were either inside or out but a few yards away so their screaming and laughing weren’t bothersome. Storm, Logan, and Scott were out on a mission, they had left a few days ago and would be assumed to return early tomorrow or the next day. So, with Logan’s absence, it gave you a lot more time to draw. You missed him, of course, but you were thankful for the solace in the sound of the pencil against paper.

Settled under a shady tree, blanket settled underneath your thighs and protecting yourself from the itchy grass that hurts your skin if you sit on it for too long, the blanket acts as a barrier from that. Your sketchbook opened, the leather bound cover resting against your thighs as your feet were planted comfortably against the blanket which had your knees bent in order to comfortably assume the drawing position you had a habit of falling into. It caused you to slouch and your back to ache for the rest of the day, but you couldn’t draw any other way.

At first when you started drawing these creatures, you needed a reference and opted for the textbook you had read on them, but now you have the memorized and only needed to refer to the book for movement reference. 

“What are you drawin’, Sweetheart?” Logan’s voice sounded, heavy thuds of his boots headed your way.

Your head whipped upwards at the sound, unexpected but pleased nonetheless. Despite the lack of social interaction at certain points throughout the day, Logan’s was always welcomed. Often there were times where you both would simply just exist in your own bubbles when you were feeling a little more introverted. He could read you better than you would imagine that you could read yourself,

“Nothing special.” You replied, sketchbook shutting and sitting up straighter and changing sitting position where your knees were pointed outwards and your feet laid under them. “You’re back early.”

It’s then that you notice his attire. He wasn’t in his black x-men uniform that they wore out on missions. He was adorned in his casual clothes, a beater under a maroon cotton button up, worn jeans and that silly large buckled belt, and his worse-for-wear biker boots. He had been back for a while.

“Cyke wanted a shower.” He explained as he settled down beside you, half his body on the blanket and half on the spiked grass.

You slowly nod in response, not wanting to imagine what the mission entailed for Scott to rush home and shower. You set your sketchbook off to the side of you, small smile on your lips at his presence. 

“So, what are you always drawin’ in that book of yours?” He asks, looking at you curiously.

What were you supposed to say? Certainly not the truth. How were you to explain that you had become hyper fixated on drawing the animal that he had named himself after? It was silly when you thought about it and you were sure he would laugh, maybe not at you but definitely at the subject of your drawings. 

“Like I said, nothing special.” You repeat, shrugging in indifference but your fingers slightly push at the spine of the book to tuck it out of sight.

It didn’t work. He had much faster reflexes than you, so when he reached behind you with what seemed like an inhumane speed, you had little time to retaliate or guard your precious secret. With his body turned slightly and hands already flipping through the pages, you had little else to do than sit in shock beside him and feeling all the warmth from your face and body.

“What the hell are these? Badgers?” He queries, confusion evident on his face as his brows bunched together.

“No… they’re uh, wolverines.” You answer, eyes finding a group of students running around and kicking a soccer ball around as if it was the most interesting game ever.

“Wolverines? It’s an animal?” He questions incredulously. Surely he didn’t think he had just made that name up. He didn’t remember why that was engraved in his dog tags but… really?

“I mean, yeah? They’re really cool, they have a reputation for their ferocious nature and strength. They’re also pretty solitary animals too. They’re actually really similar to you.” You ramble, brows furrowed in concentration. 

“Yeah?” He flips through the sketches, eyes lingering on each drawing.

“Mhm! They also eat animals that are often much bigger than they are…”

You had quickly delved into a long research essay of facts that you had learned about wolverines, and Logan was more than content to just sit beside you and listen to your rambling knowledge.

[meluiloth]

For @silmarillionepistolary day 7, Remembrance and New Beginnings! Artwork at the bottom.

Night has fallen. The lamps have been turned low, the house cleaned, the bedtime routine completed; all Maglor and Maedhros have left to do is tuck the twins and read them their customary story.

They look so small wrapped in the red wool blankets, like two little birds in a crimson nest. They are quiet, too, waiting patiently for Maglor to ask his routine question: “Now, what story would you like tonight? Or would you rather hear a song?”

“I want the one about the Sun and the Moon!” Elros pipes up, scrunching the blanket in his hands eagerly.

Maglor smiles. “Is that what you want as well, Elrond?”

Elrond, the quieter twin, looks bashfully down before murmuring, “I’d like to see the picture book…”

Maglor shares a confused look with Maedhros. They did not own any picture books. “What do you mean?” Maedhros asks.

Elrond tips his head. “The one in your study,” he says. “It’s got gold string around it and lots of pictures on every page.”

Maedhros frowns. “You know you are forbidden from entering my study,” he reproaches.

Elrond bites his lip. “Yes, I know … I just saw the pictures and thought they were pretty.”

Maglor sees the telltale signs of a lecture in Maedhros’s expression, so he swiftly says, “Perhaps we can excuse it this once, if you promise to ask before you touch our things.”

Both Elrond and Elros nod emphatically, and Maglor leaves the room to search for the ‘picture book’ in his brother’s study, which is packed with volumes, scrolls, and papers. Maglor thinks it will take him forever to find the book Elrond described, if it exists at all, but surprisingly he easily locates it in the first bookshelf: a worn book of red leather, tied with a fading gold ribbon. It is familiar to him, but he cannot recollect why until he brings it back into the twins’ room. Maedhros’s eyes widen when he sees it. “Grandfather’s sketchbook? I thought that was lost ages ago!”

“It was in a box in the back,” Elrond supplies.

Maglor looks down at it, a stab of nostalgia and old grief passing through him. “I thought we never even brought it,” he murmurs.

“Can we read it?” Elros asks, leaning forward curiously.

Maedhros frowns, his reluctance clear. There are many memories neither of them want to relive, the life and death of their grandfather among the most heartbreaking. But many of the memories Finwë recorded in his beloved sketchbook were his happiest, from both his life and the rest of his family’s. And the two young children looking up at Maglor are also Finwë’s family … and he wants to share something of his life that is not just the blood on his hands.

The spine of the book cracks softly as he opens it, and the yellowed paper releases a small puff of dust, but the artwork on the inside is still as lovely and life-filled as the day he penned them.

Maglor explains each piece as he showed it to the twins, and lets them look as long as they like. Even Maedhros sometimes asks him to wait a little longer on certain pages, the heavy, dark look in his eyes brightening when he remembers his childhood in Valinor.

It is well past midnight by the time they reach the last pages, and all of them are surprised to see that they are all in full color, when all the previous pages have been only graphite sketches.

“Who are they?” Elros breathes, tracing his finger delicately over the meticulously painted faces.

Maglor swallows, his throat and his eyes clogged with tears. His brother, too, is at a loss for words.

“It’s them,” Elrond says, looking up at the Fëanorians and then back down at thd drawings. “Maglor and Maedhros are right there … but Maedhros looks different …”

It was true. Maglor and Maedhros, along with all of their brothers - still alive and smiling radiantly - and their parents. On the other pages, their cousins and uncles and aunts, before any of them had suffered the horrors of Morgoth.

“That is us,” Maedhros murmurs. “That was us then. We were so happy..."

“What was it like … then?” Elros ventures.

Maglor smiles. “I will tell you.”

“Tomorrow night,” Maedhros interrupts. “It is very late, and if you are to understand a word we say, you must be well-rested.”

[corzydoie]

Sketches of Goodbye

Author's Note: This is my first work, so all feedback is welcome. I have ideas for part 2, but let me know if you guys want one! Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!

Summary: Lando wakes up after a long day of racing, celebrating, and traveling hoping to see you in his apartment. Instead, he sees an email that prompts a conversation that neither of you wants to have.

Word Count: 2.1k

Content Warnings?: Literally only one curse word and one mention of a kiss. That's it

You were sat at your desk in Lando’s bedroom in Monaco, the television behind you playing the Singapore Grand Prix at a deafening volume. Still, despite your boyfriend’s amazing first place, you were too locked into the project you were currently working on to register the loud cheers and screams. The British national anthem began to play as Lando stood on the top step of the podium, but all you knew was that the music was messing with your focus, so you reached for the remote on the bed next to you and turned the TV off. Now you could finally finish the sketches you stayed up all night working on. 

Lando opened the door to his Monegasque apartment, careful to not make too much noise. He knew that you stayed at his place as opposed to your own during race weekends you couldn’t attend. As it was the middle of the night in Monaco, Lando was surprised to see the light in his bedroom still on. Perhaps you stayed up late again to finish another project, or you had another late-night design session due to a spur-of-the-moment inspiration. He tried his best to tiptoe into his room and found you knocked out at the desk he had set up for you. He stood next to your sleeping body as he looked over the messy spread of sketches. You had been between collections and projects and he recognized one of them as a new line of Quadrant merch, which he never remembered asking you to do. That was one of the reasons Lando loved you, even without asking you were finding ways and doing things to help him out and further his brand. Even though he didn’t know the first thing about design, he could sense your passion and talent from the simple lines of graphite on paper. Lando decided against waking you up since he knew you must’ve been exhausted, if the large amount of paper, both new, old, and crumpled, littering his room was any sign. After changing into his pajamas, he turned off the desk lamp by your head and tucked himself in for the night.

When Lando woke up, he took a quick look at his phone to check the time. “1:15 PM” he read off the screen. He was so tired after the race he slept into the afternoon. He lifted his head to see if you were still asleep at the desk at the foot of his bed. As he expected, you were no longer there. Perhaps you were in the living room or the kitchen. He got up and groggily dragged his legs to find where you could be. Despite not seeing you in the other half of his apartment, he did spot your open laptop on the breakfast bar with what seemed to be a half-eaten lunch. He walked over to see if you were perhaps in the process of digitizing and colorizing your designs, only to find that wasn’t the case. He was instead met with an email addressed to you from what he could only assume to be a design company.

It read:

“Hello y/n,

Thank you for expressing interest in our brand and submitting your portfolio. Due to a large quantity of submissions and interviews, we apologize for any delay in response. After careful consideration, our team has decided that you would be a wonderful addition and would like to extend an offer of employment…” Lando heard your keys at the door and looked up to see you entering his apartment with a package tucked under your arm. Upon seeing your boyfriend in front of your open laptop, you immediately knew what he saw. You were both frozen in place as the situation started to sink in.

“Heeeyyy,” you exhaled, trying to relieve a bit of the tension.

“Hey,” Lando briefly replied. You slowly closed the door, afraid that the slightest sound would bring you to your senses.

“I just went downstairs to pick up a package. Apparently the delivery person just left it at reception.” You walked over to the couch with Lando’s eyes tracking your every movement.

“What’s in it? Is it more fabrics for a project?” You froze as soon as you sat down, knowing that acknowledging your work would ultimately result in a conversation about the email. Slowly looking towards your boyfriend, you realized he didn’t seem sad, or angry, he was rather calm. Perhaps he didn’t read the contents of your screen or at least all of it.

With eased nerves, you replied, “Yeah, just working on some pieces to add to my portfolio. Trying out some new techniques and mediums.” Lando was a bit confused as to why you still needed to add to your portfolio when you’ve already submitted one, and it was accepted.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you need to add to your portfolio when this company already emailed you that you got the job?” So he did read the email. You felt your stomach drop and to Lando, it almost looked as if you stopped breathing and time had stopped.

“Oh, it’s just to track all my pieces and progress. Like updating a résumé.” You opened the large box that went rather unnoticed for a while and began unpacking. Lando still stood in the same spot and you could almost sense the tension from where you sat in the living room. As you slightly shifted your gaze upwards from your box, you could see the unease on Lando’s face. He still had a few questions about the email and he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the situation.

“What is it? What’s bothering you?” you asked him. It was better to address things than leave them to linger, and noticing how this made your boyfriend on edge, you decided to rip the band-aid, with his consent of course.

“When were you gonna tell me?” There was a hint of sadness behind his British accent, You sighed as it was the first direct acknowledgment of what you were both trying to avoid.

“Well I just found out today-”

“Yeah but you applied a while ago,” Lando cut you off. It was true. It has been some time since you submitted your portfolio and did your interview. You almost forgot about the opportunity until they followed up a week ago, asking for an updated portfolio.

“I was gonna tell you soon I swear. It’s just been a while since I applied. I honestly kinda forgot about it. But I was just waiting to finish my internship in France, then I was gonna let you know.”

“Finish your internship? So this isn’t with the same company?” Well now you know he didn’t read the entire email. Hell, he didn’t even read past the third sentence.

“No, it’s not.”

“Well…” Lando paused. The apartment fell silent and the air grew thick. Knowing Lando didn’t read the entire email made it harder for you to reveal the entire truth to him. “At least it’s a step up. Even if it’s not with the same company, a promotion is still a promotion. Besides, it’s not like anything’s gonna change. We can still work with the system we have going.” Lando walked across the room and sat next to you on the couch. You dropped your head as you prepared yourself for the major bomb you were about to drop on this poor man’s life.

“It’s in Japan,” you muttered under your breath, barely audible,

“What?” Lando turned his head to look at you, hoping that would help him hear what you said.

“The brand that I applied for is based in Japan. I have to move to Tokyo.”

Silence. Deafening. Different from the TV that was playing last night. Both were bad. Both annoyed you so much that you just wanted it to end.

“Well, you don’t have to go. You haven’t said yes yet. You can still say no and apply to other company’s close by.” The Five Stages of Grief never made sense to you until you saw DENIAL written all over his face and laced in all his words.

“I’m not gonna say no Lando.”

“Why not? That means you’ll be even farther away. You don’t even speak Japanese. You know they eat a lot of fish over there-” “You’re the one that doesn’t like fish, not me.” “Would you even have time to come to my races? I won’t see you when I come back.” Lando was too caught up in his denial-stricken rambling that he didn’t notice your interjection. This was a great opportunity for you and yet it seemed he was only concerned about the cons, and how it affected him.

“Japan is halfway across the world.” “Lando.” “We don’t even know anybody over there.” “Lando.” “Why did you even apply in the first place?” “LANDO.” You had to shout to get his attention. No matter how many times you repeated his name it didn’t seem to work. But with the sudden rise in volume, he finally snapped out of his monologue and looked you in the eyes.

“This is a great opportunity for me. I understand it’s hard for you to accept right now, but I’m going to say yes and I’m moving to Japan.” You grabbed both of his hands gently in your own and looked at him tenderly to soften his feelings and knock him out of the anger he must be feeling. Lando looked you in your eyes and noticed the change in your expression. All he could think of at that moment were all the memories you guys had with each other. When you first met, hanging out in your studio, touring the McLaren Technology Center, pranking Carlos, Daniel, Oscar, and occasionally Zak. He loved always having you close by, even if close meant across the border in France. At least it wasn’t on a whole other continent.

“So, what? Does this mean the end of us?” You were a bit stunned by that comment and Lando watched as you slightly recoiled back in shock.

“I mean it doesn’t have to be! We’ve made long distance and long periods of not being with each other work before. It’s just,” Lando’s head sank as he let out a long exhale, “Japan is so far away, and you’ll be so busy. We’re both going far in our careers but it seems like we won’t have much time for each other.” You hooked a finger under Lando’s chin, slightly nudging it upwards so he’d look you in the eyes again.

“I understand Lando, and I worry about the same things too. Maybe, it’s for the best if we took a break. They want me out there in a month so I’ll come with you to COTA. I’m sorry things played out the way they did. I should’ve told you sooner.” You brought your face closer to Lando’s so that your foreheads touched. You closed your eyes, taking in the scent of his cologne and the lingering smell of sweat and alcohol from the night before. Lando did the same, breathing in the perfume and shampoo he grew to love over the past few years.

“Y/n.”

“Yeah?” This time, it was Lando who was preparing himself for what he was about to say. He knew it was going to sound harsh, but it was a fact that he needed to get off his chest.

“We don’t need a break, we need to break up.” You snapped your eyes open and your head up. Lando mirrored your moves more slowly already knowing what look painted your features. As he opened his eyes, he saw the confusion and sadness that brushed over your face. You began to shake your head, now facing the denial yourself, quietly chanting “no, no, no,” as your eyes began to water and tears pricked the corner of your eyes.

“I know, I don’t want to either. But if our careers keep heading in the direction they’re going, we won’t ever have time to see each other, or talk, or even settle down to start a family. You’ll be drowned in work, designing awesome fashion collections in Japan. And I’ll have Verstappen, Hamilton, and Leclerc riding up my ass.” You both laughed at the last statement. You were grateful that Lando had a talent for diffusing the tension in a heavy atmosphere.

“If the universe intends it, it will happen. We will see each other again. I promise.” Lando pulled you in for a sweet long kiss. One that reminded him of all the times before. As you both pulled away, you looked into each other's eyes and smiled.

“For now, let’s enjoy the rest of our time together.” Perhaps there was a way for you guys to stay together and make it work out, perhaps this was the best decision. But you guys did enjoy the rest of your time together. And Lando did promise that you would see each other again.

Written By: CorzyDoie <3

[imfelinefinee]

How to play pranks on your Annoying Fish Monster Roommate (5+1)

Pairing: Seb.as.tian Sol.ace x Reader (Platonic / Romantic)

NSFW DNI

Notes: I've always wanted to try the 5+1 format- If you aren't familiar with it its when something happens 5 times within a fic and 1 thing to contrast the many things previously established. It really fun!

Also fishmanfishmanfishmanfishmanfishmanfishmanfishmanfishmanfishman

No idea if this is turning into its own AU now- I'm probably gonna make a masterpost for this bugger-

Summary: 5 times the expendable annoyed Sebastian and the one time he got them back

Warnings: Soft/Safe vore, Hurt/Comfort. A little hint at flirting in one of the parts (Its a joke dw), A very angry and annoyed fish man, mild swearing, brief mention to trauma etc

Inspired by @/Curledwithin 's Headcanons- I'm scared to tag them-

Words: 7.9K +

Scribbling down the lines without much thought, the sketch of a humanoid figure on the page. They’d yet to decide on who’d become another one of the many masterpieces they’d made thus far. Perhaps it would be another addition to the ever-growing collection of Sebastian doodles they hid within their desk out of view so that he wouldn’t find out about their hobby.

They’d try drawing off memory as a reference for old cartoon shows. Which proved to be rather mundane or simply not up to par as the human mind wasn’t always reliable. It always looked off to them, unsure of themselves as something wasn’t quite right yet they couldn’t determine what it was.

With communications cut off, including access to the luxury that was the internet. They were left with nothing besides the dull marine biology books plastered around or the monotonous documents that served their purposes. It was nice to pass the time in the beginning but now, it never wielded such results.

As the self-proclaimed expert in marine biology after reading every single book in their arsenal, though those weren’t the only subjects they were versed in after reading book after book. Some with facts of science others were business and finance. If they got out of Blacksite, they’d know how to start a business. 

They couldn’t determine if that was either a good thing or a bad thing.

Drawing had become a recent pass time for them, an indulgence. But after so much time, they procrastinated more and more until simply trying to finish their current sketch was infuriating as it wasn’t right!

Their attempt at curing their ailment of boredom proved subpar, nothing. Their mind went blank as they could hardly think, a blockage within their head as any attempt at properly thinking only got them in a pit of frustration. Repeatedly they tried to draw a line, only to falter further. Hesitation in their next step as their fingers shook with the graphite pencil in their grip.

“Fucking-... DAMN IT!”, the pencil sent flying against the wall. Colliding with the metallic surface of a wall as it banged against it, only to helplessly fall to the floor. The paper sketch gripped within their hand crunched and scrambled in pain as it was carelessly folded into a ball, and thrown onto the floor in a litter.

It didn’t even look like him.

Whenever the documents Sebastian collected proved to be utter nonsense, he’d hand over the paper for them to use if they wished. For them, a gift. To him, something to get rid of clutter that he didn’t need. Mutual exchange as he’d say. And it was an act of kindness they rarely saw from him in contrast to his attitude most of the time. 

They had even found a dusty old notebook that was empty, filled with horizontal lines of writing paper. It had become personal to them, acting like a sketchbook, journal and memories of their time within Blacksite. Something to look back on whenever they felt down or wanted to remember positive things during a rough patch. It kept them sane down there. 

With a look of solemnness, they turned to a random page. Only to land on a specific one they were fond of. It was a harmless prank they played on Sebastian, using a camera’s flash they’d found and using it to blind him. It wasn’t as bad as a flash beacon, yet still pretty bright. It startled him enough that they managed to get a picture of his reaction. 

A chuckle escaped them as they remembered the ramifications of their actions, caught mere seconds later of taking the photo and forced down into their “Time-out spot”. As Sebastian called it.

Only to get struck with a shock of inspiration…

<...>

Turns out their knowledge of marine biology proved to be rather useful for plotting their silly shenanigans. They could hardly hold their composure as they wanted to bawl over in laughter at their heinous idea.

It wasn’t just horrible, it was genius.

Gripping the bottle in their hand, containing acetic acid within. A strong scent of citrus and acid stung the top of the lid in a putrid aroma, a smell reminiscent of the outer seas or maybe even the welcoming smell of a British chip chop.

A common condiment often acquainted with fries or chips to flaunt the taste of a salty combination. A salty sour taste, some enduring the taste out of distaste with nothing left to eat after hitting a pub or just enjoying the delectable cuisine. 

It also proved essential in their survival, especially for cleaning off blood in their blood without access to laundry. With due diligence even tending to Sebastian’s clothing whenever he was too bothered not to wash his clothes. Complaining about the smell of it afterwards as he hated the smell.

To be more specific, it was fucking vinegar.

They’d learnt through much pestering that Sebastian was composed of differing sealife DNAs, including one of which was a sea snake. Snakes absolutely loathed the stench of vinegar as it messed with their sense of smell, perhaps even their organs at times. 

Which made it all the more perfect.

Opening the cap, they began to generously dose the vinegar in areas tended to sleep or interact with, especially in the corner where he maintained his shop. Not only that but, just to spite him. They poured some of it on his belongings, careful not to ruin his electronics as they only dripped a small drop on the items.

They snickered in mischief, feeling like an arsonist as it was dunked around the room like gasoline, yet to light the flames of Sebastian’s fury, the matchstick being the trigger as he entered the room.

Standing proudly in front of the results with their hands on their hips, the prank was in full completion. They inhaled the smell, holding back a grimace as it attacked their nostrils. It was a strong stench, even for them as they could pick up on it in the corner of the room they kept safe from the vinegar. 

It was definitely going to work.

They waited for his return, passing the time with another book of humdrum. Flipping the paper pages in disinterest, they practically scanned the book for pictures rather than for the text within. A book they’d read a couple of times at that point

Sat down upon their throne of victory, a crate that acted as their sofa whenever they dwelled in the room of Sebastian’s company. A hard surface against their back as they struggled with a sore pain from sitting down on hard surfaces for so long. More than accustomed to it at that point. 

As if on cue, they heard the clanging of metal as a heavyweight crawled through, complaining as it struggled with the pressure and movement it was made to endure. The man of the hour pushed his head from the vent, pulling himself up into a standing posture. A bag holstered over his shoulder.

They watched as his eyes widened in a look of shock, the smell flooding his senses as his ears flared up in confusion as he wearily scanned the room for whatever it was that attacked his sensations.

A large forked tongue poked out from the gaps of his teeth, quizzically tasting the air as he tried to figure out what the stench was. Only to recoil in disguise as it worsened, the odour so bad to him that he physically revolted.

He knelt over, holding the lower half of his face as he tried to block out the stench. One of his hands gripped the wall for balance as he was hit with a wave of nausea. Holding back an urge as he heaved, on the verge of vomiting as his body could hardly manage to combat the odour. 

A low hissing sound escaped his will, constant as his instinct flared in reaction to the fragrance of vinegar. A look of disgust on his face, sneering as he clenched his teeth shut to shelter his tongue that had been assaulted.

They hid their reaction with a book, biting back laughter as they barely held themselves together. The smile threatened to throw over their facade, their eyes met with the book in their hands. Welcoming the delight of the situation as they feigned interest in the media in front of them.

A voice called out to them, speaking their name with spitting venom as he looked at them with a look of bitterness. Muffled despite its loud volume, thanks to the hands blocking his means of speech.

They hummed thoughtfully, slowly turning their gaze to him in a look of faux perplexion. Innocent in their demeanour they gently put the book aside on the crate, looking over at Sebastian in a facade of worry and concern.

“You okay there?”, they asked with a small voice. Pretending, they looked over him in confusion, trying to figure out why he reacted in such a way.  Walking over as they reached out a hand to his shoulder, trying to reassure Sebastian that they were there for him.

He removed the hands covering his mouth as he opened it to talk, only to be audibly wrenching in displeasure. Wincing as he bit it down, looking up at them in a scowling pout. Heaving in his breathing as it hindered him, overwhelming him.

“Why does everything smell like-... FUCKING VINEGAR?”, he shrieked as he rose his voice. Angry as to why everything smells like something he absolutely loathed, hatred in his gaze as flicked his tail in an irritated manner.

“Oh!- I’m sorry!- I forgot… I just wanted to clean up some of the blood in my bedding- I didn’t realise it was that bad! Shit- I forgot how sensitive your nose was… I’ll try and find something to stop the smell…”.

They quickly retreated in a panicked stupor, little did he know that their little “mistake” wasn’t as innocent as it displayed, many things hidden behind the surface. As he would soon find out their intentions in due time.

<...>

Their little prank had been an outstanding success! Ever since the vinegar incident, the stench remained for the following days. Sebastian could barely cope as he bit into a chocolate bar or simply yawned. He glared at them for the rest of the day but didn’t once retaliate since the accident.

They had to grab a softer-scented bottle of Febreeze for Sebastian to spray around the room. Intoxicating the room with a rich fragrance to contrast the smell of putrid acid in his room. And eventually, it only came as the occasional whiff from an item he missed. It hurt their lungs but it was worth it!

They had confessed their crime to PAInter later that day, only to get a lecture that they shouldn’t have done that otherwise it would’ve pissed off Sebastian. But, he did also get a good laugh out of it like they did.

Their next plot struck them in a cord of intellect when they stumbled upon a ridiculously large speaker in a supply closet. It looked a little banged up, coated in a layer of dust as it had been left abandoned within the cramped space for a long time.

That’s when they had their next idea…

Sebastian had many things in his arsenal, including a gun. Often wielding it for emergencies in order to save the bullets, but it wasn’t just that. He had impeccable hearing thanks to his heightened senses, which was a virtue on many fronts as it allowed him to smell, hear or see things from a large distance.

But, that also made them incredibly sensitive. Another reason he hardly used his gun was that they really hurt his hearing when shot, deafening him in his vulnerability for a while as he recovered.

They weren’t going to shoot his gun though, that wouldn’t be the wisest choice. So, what better than a speaker? It wasn’t as loud as a bullet but it was boisterous enough for the use in their plans. 

Fortunately, PAInter had managed to access a file of various audios that they’d gone through together earlier that day. Many of them were old logs from workers within Blacksite, yet they weren’t particularly interesting or useful.

Except one.

The two of them had managed to find gold, a needle within a haystack. Perfection. An utter masterpiece for the ears to hear. A catchy tune that everyone could dance to, PAInter even loved it, putting it onto a playlist for them both to enjoy.

Nothing else could compare to the emotion, the words, the beauty behind such a work. It was the little theme that played in the Blacksite elevators when in use, just to distract the occupants from the monsters outside the door as it forced them to dance along and forget their worries. 

And now, it was about to take another victim into its arms.

Sebastian, the dearest fish man. Slept on the floor in his coiled curled form, his head atop his tail as he relaxed in a deep sleep. Usually, it was routine for them to use him as their personal warm bed as they’d cuddle up next to his tail or sometimes even within him if it was a particularly cold night. 

He let out soft snores in his sleep, drool escaping his jaws as it flooded with saliva. His hair tangled from his ruffling, a sheet of cloth draped over his shoulders in a makeshift blanket as Urbanshade never owned proper bedding for their subjects.

He was calm and vulnerable. The one time he let down his guard around them, he openly displayed his affection in spite. Joking with one another as they talked about whatever came to their mind. Keeping them safe within his coils, protecting them as they too were left out in the open. Despite all his sulk and facades, he was a good soul.

And now, they were going to torture it.

They had refused to sleep much to his annoyance, delaying it until he eventually gave up and fell asleep to their advantage. In addition to looting and carrying the heavy speaker on their back throughout the halls of Blacksite, it lay at their feet at the ready. 

Plugging in the audio jack from the speaker into their laptop, holding back a snicker as they opened the inbuilt media player, Hovering the cursor over the play button, turning back to Sebastian in for certainty that he was indeed asleep. 

Pressing the button, they waited as it loaded up for a moment as it required the components of the computer to load rather than the use of the internet. Only to pause as they didn’t hear the song, despite it playing on their laptop.

Turning towards the speaker in confusion, wondering if it was broken due to the state they found it in. Looking over the panel, they realised they hadn’t even turned the speaker on in the first place. Flicking the switch towards on, it blasted in volume.

They flinched from the sudden increase in volume, the loudness hurting their ears as they were far too close to the speaker for comfort. Holding their ears with their hands as they adjusted to the amplification of sound.

The sleeping beauty, the prince dreaming of sleep. The victim had awoken to their shenanigans from the rowdy noise, his half-lidded groggy eyes stared down at them in a somewhat state of alertness and anger.

His breathing was heavy as if he’d been startled, holding a hand to his holstered belt. He had nearly instinctively grabbed his gun as he realised it had simply been only the two of them in the room. 

His fanged teeth held together in a toothy frown, evidence of his dislike of the circumstances as he glared at both the speaker and them. His tail flicked in anger, evident in his irritated state. Audibly growling, muffled due to the speaker but if they picked up on it. The growling was hostile as he prepared to strike. 

He rose from his cocoon, looking down on them in a gaping shadow as he loomed over them. The soft glow of his eyes combined with the light of his angler barely shone the burrow between his browline, raising an arm in preparation to strike down on… them?

They braced, bringing their arms towards their face as they leaned away. A pitiful attempt at a dodge as they prepared to be hit by the impact of his fist. Instead of them though, there was another victim.

The speaker met his blow, smashing it like a compressor as it was squished in a metallic crunch into a shell of its former self. Sparks sent flying from the device as it was torn apart in a mere punch from Sebastian. A declaration of strength, a means of intimidation. 

He flicked his hand as if wiping away the dirt on his hands or an attempt to wipe away the pain as he crunched metal with his fist. They weren’t sure as he continued to growl despite the destruction of the device.

He turned to them with a look of disappointment and rage, grabbing the scruff of their collar as he brought them towards his face in warning. They were left in shock and awe of the circumstances, fearful yet amazed at his strength.

“Don’t. Do that. Again.”, those four words were enough for them to understand the assignment given to them. To which they responded with a series of quick nods, not wanting the confrontation in front of them as they leaned away. Trying to escape from it all.

He grumbled as they did so, exhausted and annoyed, they’d certainly managed to piss him off well enough. But he took a moment to breathe, seemingly calming down just a bit as the hand that held them let go. His face turned to plain tiresome exhaustion.

“Why did you do that?”, irritated in his tone as he eyed them down in suspicion under his lidded eyes, barely able to keep them open. 

“Accident…”, they answered with a hint of regret and hesitancy. suddenly found themselves regretting the idea of their prank. A look of guilt on their face as they looked away, unable to look him in the eyes. Clutching a hand within another, squishing the limb to ease the stress that suddenly enveloped them.

He only sighed, turning towards the screen of the laptop as he folded the screen gently. Casting the room in darkness, with the only light of his angler remaining. The only view was his face as it still frowned, yet they were met with a look of softness in his eyes.

With one of his hands, he tugged at their tangle of hands until his hand enveloped one of them in full. Giving it a tender squeeze of reassurance, gentle in consideration as he held onto them. His main pair of arms enveloped their waist as he picked them off the ground. 

Coiling up into his original position, grabbing their folded bedding that lay onto a crate. Smothering them in a blanket as he threw it on top of them, ruffling their hair as he let go of the hold. Only to shove a pillow in their face, demanding that they were to fall asleep there. They surrendered, tucking themselves in and making themselves comfortable. 

Maybe they should lower the volume of their pranks, literally.

<...>

The next morning, they awoke to a sense of loneliness and unwavering warmth. Opening their eyes felt heavy as if something weighed them down, inhaling from their nose proved to be stuffy with blockage. 

They could hardly determine what they were feeling, whether they were hungry or sick with vomit. Their throat quenched with thirst, drier than a dessert. It felt as though it was made of sandpaper, not only that but the headache they had threatened to crack and break their skull from how bad it was pounding.

Their cheeks flushed with unbearable heat, yet their body shivered with cold. Their joints ached with pain as they attempted to move, wincing upon opening their eyes to the blinding light that attacked their eyes.

They heard a voice call out to them, repeatedly hurriedly speaking their name in murmurs. With the weight of their body dragging behind them, they managed to sit up and turn towards whoever was calling their name. 

“Oh, thank god! You’re awake!-”, someone's voice spoke up from the buzzing of their ears, barely audible as they sighed in relief. Tilting their head in confusion, they approached the source in a flimsy crawl.  The voice got louder as they were finally able to hear, their mind realising it was PAInter within their daze.

“Hellooo…. I’m awake… Where’s Sebby?...”, their speech was drawn out in a slurring manner. Their voice hoarse in almost a whisper as they barely managed a murmur, croaky as they hardly got the question out.

“Uh- You, okay there?- You don’t look too good- Also, Sebastian went out to get some stuff to fix you up.”, they sounded worried in their tone of voice. They let out a long yawn as they sipped their eyes in an attempt to clear up the weight and dust in them. The only thought on their mind was to take a painkiller or two.

They propped their body up against the crate where their laptop sat, crossing their arms as a makeshift cushion to balance their head. Whilst also sheltering their eyes from the light that came with it, blinding them. They felt like shit as if they were dying.

“Blub…Blub blub blub- blub…”, they deemed that a decent enough reply. Not holding the energy to keep up with the conversation PAInter was trying to have with them. Their delirious state barely kept up with his talk, only thinking of fish at that moment. For whatever reason it was, they had no idea either. But, they really wanted to fish. Just fish.

“Blub… Blub blub??”, PAInter responded in the same speech as them, as if attempting to converse in a language of nonsense. Evidently, they were confused as to why they’d respond with fish sound effects.

“Blub… blu blub blub blub-”, they were soon having an in-depth conversation about numerous serious topics troubling them in their now sudden language of the speech of fishes, repeatedly going with the same word or sound. ‘Blub’.

It was just a constant thing, neither of them stopping as they continued in their conversation. It was a truly insightful, resolution-breaking speech between two sentient beings. Wiping their forehead, they were drenched in sweat, yearning for sleep but not wanting to pull away from the interesting talk with PAInter.

Only for it to be cut off from the palm that gently pressed into their forehead, the touch was cold; Pleasant in contrast to the pounding headache that made their head swell with ache, it soothed their pain ever so slightly.

They leaned into the touch, perhaps a little too much as a hand gripped their shoulder and they were nearly sent flying forward. Nuzzling into the hand as it smothered them in a tender touch, allowing them to relax into the hand.

“Sheesh- You’re hot…”, the voice of Sebastian commented, his hand withdrawing from their forehead from the rising temperature of their forehead. They’d gotten sick in the night, developing a fever in the process. Reacting far too late to prevent it to the stage it's gotten to, only able to treat it as it was and hope that it’d get better.

Admittedly, he was worried about them.

He wasn’t an expert in telling temperature but they were boiling, probably far too hot than the recommended amount. Yet, he couldn’t risk taking the blanket away from their shoulders in case it caused them more shivering. It was the only comfortable thing he could use as well.

“Thank you-....”, they replied in a slurred manner. Responding to his prior statement he quickly realised all too quickly that they interpreted it as a compliment. His face flushed in embarrassment suddenly, hoping they wouldn’t take notice of it in their state. They’d probably make fun of him for such a thing.

“T-That isn’t what I meant!- Moron-...”, he stumbled on his words slightly but managed to keep himself together. Turning his attention towards a pouch on his tail, picking up a packet of Paracetamol into his hand. Finding them in an old infirmary in his search for supplies to treat them with. 

He wasn’t going to risk them taking the pills themselves, they could hardly hold themselves up. Let alone take the pills on their own. With the one hand keeping them stable, holding the pills between his fingertips as the other held a bottle of water.

“Open your mouth.”, he commanded with haste, watching as it took them a moment to process his request and comply. He shook his head at their condition, wondering how they kept up with themselves in such a state. Gently placing the pills on their tongue, tilting their head up as he gently handed them the bottle of water.

They understood quite quickly, taking the bottle from his hand as they greedily gulped down the water alongside the pillows. Letting out a sigh of relief as they did so, only to go for another drink to clench their thirst.

Once they’d finished, they yawned in exhaustion. Leaning their weight towards Sebastian as he caught them, he realised that they were going to need the rest in order to recover. He moved them into a more comfortable lying position, propping their head onto his lap to act as a substitute for their abandoned pillow.

“What were you guys doing?”, he found himself asking the question to PAInter. As soon as he’d gotten back, the two of them were just making fish noises towards one another. It was a sight to behold.

“Here I thought you were fluent in the art of the dialect of fish! And here you are, a fish man! Wow-”, PAInter dramatised their speech in an odd attempt at a British accent. Drawing a pose on the monitor with arms raised to his digital face. Wait- was that an avatar?

Not quite in the mood for jokes, he rolled his eyes as he growled in a low volume. PAInter seemed to get the message as they quickly erased the painting they’d worked on. Only giggling in response as Sebastian worked through the tangled mess of hair atop the expendable head.

Thus concluding the third prank, if that counted to their toll.

<...>

About a day or two later, their fever had fortunately broken in thanks to Sebastian’s constant nagging. As they made progress towards recovery, they found themselves in a tiny mood for mischief, at minimum a small prank.

And they weren’t looking forward to another prank that involved something that might scare him again. Seeing Sebastian that angry wasn’t a friendly sight, it was frightening to even think about. Luckily, he accepted their apology afterwards.

“It’s fine- Just don’t do any of that bullshit again.”, he responded to them after they profusely apologised, a small smile on his face as he leaned forward as he ruffled their tangled hair, causing a worse mess for them to work through. They took it as a promise, nodding in agreement. Only to usher them to feel soon after.

And they weren’t a person who broke their promises. Most of the time.

They were forced into bedrest, under the watchful eye of PAInter as Sebastian went to do something productive. They didn’t remember what he said about what he was going to do but it was probably something involving their sickness. They groaned audibly as they weren’t even allowed to get up from the floor and stretch out in case they collapsed.

PAInter refused to even let them budge an inch, yet their joints were stiff with soreness. Even as they stretched, it wasn’t enough to get their muscles moving. They really needed the movement, at least for a small walk or something.

They were left behind with only their thoughts for company.

So, they decided the best course of action was to roll across the floor. Barrel rolling like a crocodile with a pillow in their grasp. PAInter quickly became alerted to their movement, looking down at them with a scribbled frown.

“HEY!- You’re not supposed to be moving!”, he chastised them in the form of a lecture. They rolled their eyes, ceasing their movements as they let out the loudest, grumpiest, annoying groan they could muster in a long drawn-out breath until their lungs eventually gave up.

They decide to ignore PAInter’s commands, standing off the floor as they stretch, joints cracking under the new pressure, withering away the soreness as a yawn escapes them, suddenly feeling more awake and energetic.

Not feeling in full condition but enough to do some things, whatever those things were. Looking around the place, Sebastian was quite the mess at times, leaving files littered on the ground. He often left his comb, rubbish, bedding and whatever was left over on his plate because he couldn’t be bothered to clean it up.

Don’t get them started on whenever he sheds, that was a catastrophe to clean up. 

So, being caring and productive as they were. They began cleaning the mess left behind, much to the complaints of PAInter who tried earnestly to get their attention. Only for them to poke their tongue out childishly in response to his nagging.

Folding the sheets he used as makeshift blankets, topped on top of a crate in a neat pile. Their dirty laundry including their sickly bedding was tossed aside for them to tackle later. Piling up rubbish into a random crate with nothing in it, to dispose of in one of the random bins throughout the facility.

They even dedicated the time to organise his little mess of documents in data in order of files to a mountain of storage drives. 

“You really shouldn’t be moving like this!- You should be resting!- You can’t possibly combat the infection in your body without sufficient energy!- If you were to use it up, you could end up even worse than before!- Oh gods- Sebastian is going to dismantle me!-”, PAInter panicked in their fumbling speech, if they were human. They’d be the embodiment of a stuttering mess.

“Relax- He isn’t going to kill you. Not if I have anything to say about it- Also I’m fine- It’s only a little bit of cleaning and besides I’m practically done”, and they were done. Besides the laundry, that was a task for their future self, not the current tense.

That’s when they got an idea, they remembered their little fever dream of speaking fish with their companion. And what better than some wordplay, especially along the lines of the fish category? It was harmless and probably funny.

Perhaps even punny.

Grabbing a bottle of water and the medication they’d found on the floor. They popped a pill from the seal and swallowed it down, giving an ample amount of water with it. Grabbing some of the laundry into their hands, they began to fold it away into a neater pile for easier transportation later.

Only to hear the man of the hour arrive back in time, he looked tired as he leaned forward with an arched back. He quickly took notice that they were up and running compared to the state they were in earlier. He stared down at them after scanning the room, deadpan as if he wasn’t very impressed by the recent cleaning they’d done.

He didn’t bother asking either of them what happened. Far too used by their little schemes up to that point. He began to unpack all of the items he’d garnered including some medical supplies, refills of water, flash beacons, batteries and the like.

“Water are you doing?”, they asked with feigned curiosity as to his recent business. Standing up, they inspected a bag left untouched by his moving hands. Reaching out a hand towards it, only for it to be snatched by his.

“Don’t. Touch. It’s tonight's dinner.”, without the ability to see or touch whatever was housed within the sack. They sniffed at the contents, only to be met with a stench of salt and oceanic algae. Not only that but it looked as though there was a wet patch at the bottom of the pouch, concluding that it was likely fish in association to the word food.

“That was a little shallow of you- Are you okay? Shorely you’re not feeling under the weather too?”, they raised a hand towards his face. Only for it to be pushed away by him, his eyes looking down at them in suspicion.

“I’m fine- Why are you up anyway? I told PAInter to make sure you rest-”, he eyed down the suspect in question. Raising an eyebrow in intrigue at the subject before the three of them, PAInter visibly sweated with animated droplets on his face.

“Uhh- I tried to get them back to sleep but they wouldn’t listen to me…”, it spoke with honesty and truth. They knew not to cross paths with Sebastian, or test the waters so to speak as they refused to lie to someone they saw as family.

“What? I was just trying to kelp out!”, they exclaimed with their hands above their head to exaggerate their words. Only to be met with the collective glares of both Sebastian and PAInter with the same frown, one thing they had in common besides the escape of Blacksite was how annoying their companion could be.

“I’m going to break every bone in your body if you don’t stop.”, he threatened in a dry tone of voice. PAInter joined in on the threat by drawing a picture of their face with Xs over the place that should’ve been their eyes.

Motherfuckers. They weren’t gonna give up that easily.

“Oh come on! You guys would be bonely without me-”, they were cut off as Sebastian tackled them with full force. Dragging them to the fall with him as he held them down, feeling them squirm and struggle under the pressure as he laid down atop them.

“I AM NOT DONE!- I HAVE A SKELE-TON OF JOKES IN MY ARSENAL! I’M VERY HUMERUS!- IT’S YOU GUYS WHO DON’T HAVE A FUNNY BONE! COME AT ME- I BET YOU GUYS DON’T EVEN HAVE THE GUTS! I’M NEVER GONNA RUN OUT EVEN IF I’M BONE-DRY”.

He held them there for about an hour or two.

<...>

They grumbled under their breath, pressing their head as their cheek squished against the solid cold surface. They had been dragged across the entirety of Blacksite into a small cafeteria that Sebastian had found, equipped with the luxury of an inbuilt electric stove and plenty of pots and pans. It even had the leisure of a spice rack!

Sebastian watched over the pot on top of the stove, watching the water boil as bubbles burst from the influx of heat at the bottom of the pot. A ladle in one hand as he tasted his culinary expertise, sprinkling a dash of salt if necessary. 

In the other laid the skin and bones of deceased fish, stripped of their outer coating and bone structure for the flesh within. Snacking on the delights of raw fish, the crunch of bone on his teeth. 

He had called the dish, Sebastian’s special stew. A dish composed of whatever tinned vegetables he found in the cabinets, carrots and peas. A can of chopped tomatoes and water for the base, and whatever fish he found whilst hunting during his swim earlier that day.

Turns out he went swimming out in the inner cavern that shrouded some of Blacksite and with his strength. He managed to chase and hunt down the stray fish that happened to be too slow for the rest of their school. A liability to their survival and more importantly Sebastian’s dish. He actually seemed really happy about it.

He actually wanted to make them a stew to help them feel better, and what better than homemade fish soup? The sound of it didn’t sound disgusting at all! Yet, they couldn’t really afford to be fussy with food down in the depths of Blacksite.

“...Could you pass the pepper from the cabinet up there?”. He called out their name nonchalantly, which had been a massive improvement from expendable or human since they’d bonded. Pointing towards the cupboard that contained the spice rack inside of it. They whined with a huff but stood up otherwise, walking towards the container.

Upon opening the small door on top of their tiptoes, they spotted something that caught their eye. A devious scheme came to mind as they grabbed the small bottle into their hand, hiding it in a pocket as they picked up the pepper shaker with it.

“Thanks-”, he was about to pour the dosage of spice into the soup. Only to pick up a pungent scent coming off the container, a drop of the contents spilling into the soup much to his dismay. He growled in a low snarl at them for what they had done, the betrayal in his eyes evident as it was revealed what was in his beloved soup.

Cinnamon. Another stench happened to mess with his senses, gently placed the spice back down onto the container as he eyed them with a look of bewilderment. Only for them to hand him the proper condiment he was looking for originally.

He gripped a strand of their hair as it tugged them towards him, careful not to rip it out of their scalp. He glared at them down with a hiss, displeased by their actions as he opened his mouth in a widened manner. They let out a pout as they leaned back, preparing to be shoved inside.

A hand gripped their shoulder, hindering their movement and chances of escape. Preparing for the inevitable time out they were about to face for roughly the next couple of hours. Waiting with bated breath as the tongue came closer to their face, taking in their taste as it dragged over their cheek. Drool dripped from the side of the cheek as it clung to the skin of their face.

He chuckled upon seeing them seize up and halter, pulling away from their personal space as he returned his attention was drawn back towards the soup. Picking up a small bottle of oregano and pouring just a little extra into the soup to combat the taste of oregano.

“You remind me of my siblings at times-... I used to cook for them whenever our parents weren’t home… They’d always try and “help” out with my cooking- Trying to pour hot chocolate into the pasta sauce I was making!…”, he reminisced with nostalgia, a look of sorrow on his face as he remembered happier times of his human life. 

He must really miss his family…

They didn’t respond, their expression soft as they stood there next to him. Listening in case he wanted to talk about it some more, yet he didn’t utter another word as he looked conflicted. A mix of hatred, regret, sadness, anger, and happiness all at once. He looked as though he wanted to cry.

Their hands wrapped around his waist, holding him close as they mustered all their strength into a strong hug. Trying to comfort him in a warm embrace despite their small stature, he turned to them with a soft smile as it appeared to have worked.

One of his hands clung to their backside, rubbing it in an up-and-down motion as he returned the hug. Maybe they were trying to reassure them in return, or maybe it was just a gesture of his gratitude. 

“I’m fine- Don’t you worry…”, his hand retracted from their back towards the top of their scalp, ruffling the locks between his fingers as he let another chuckle escape his lips. A look of softness in his eyes.

Not too long after he finished his culinary masterpiece, the two of them sat at one of the many tables in the cafeteria. Sebastian hardly managed on the cramped metal seat but managed to sit down to eat the food. The food looked really nice actually, with the spices and vegetables to disguise the smell of the fish.

After hesitating after a bite, they plunged the bite into their mouth. Preparing for the urge to spit out the fish from their mouth, only for it to taste really good. A squeal of delight escaped them from the rich taste, surprised that it worked so well together. 

Sebastian watched as they helped themselves bite for bite, only to realise that they’d quickly finished their dish. They looked around aimlessly as if they wondered where the food had gone, a smile on his face as he realised they liked his cooking.

Picking up their bowl, pouring another scoop of stew into the bowl as they handed it back to them. The two of them enjoy the moment between each other. He couldn’t help but notice how much they ate, a little concerned over the gesture but he never withdrew the food. Content that they were eating a full meal for once.

<...>

A day later, they fully recovered from the fever they’d endured. Strolling the halls of Blacksite, book in hand with the text of pages gripped tight to their chest. Returning from their secluded spot after having retreated to the room for some privacy.

 A yawn escaped them, tired from having to clean out the laundry with whatever cleaning supplies they could find. Using their hand and sponge to scrub out the stains had somehow gotten into the fabric.

It took some time, but they were spotless afterwards. After many events throughout the past week, they asked PAInter to take some pictures from the security feed for them to remember in their scrapbook. 

They’d written each little “prank” they’d done within the journal. PAInter suggested adding a couple of their comments for the book of remembrance. A memorabilia for them to look back on with nostalgia.

Making their way back towards Sebastian’s little shop, crawling through the metallic shaft that was the entrance vent. Difficulty in their crawl with one hand to push themselves forward as the other held their beloved book.

As they entered, preparing to announce their return to their companions. They were met with the complete pitch-black darkness of the room, with no sense of voice or electricity with the poor light of the room. They knew Sebastian liked the darkness but it was never that bad that they could never see anything.

Something was wrong.

Pulling out from the vent, they called out in a desperate cry to hear their companions. Worried as to where they’d gone, wanting to know their whereabouts. Only for the shadows to envelope their figure in a dark embrace.

“Sebby!- PAI?- Are you guys here? Where-”, anxiety hit them in a sudden wave. Their breathing was hindered as they felt a weight on top of their lungs, their eyes scanning around for any sign of movement. Clutching the book tighter as if it were a lifeline. 

They were cut off by their own scream as something roughly grabbed the collar of their shirt. Lifting them from the ground as they kicked out from the scare, trying to get their feet back onto the ground as they struggled in the sudden grip.

Wielding the book in their hands, they began to wildly attack whatever held them so mercilessly. Trying to fight off the attacker with the book as their sword and shield. Only for it to be thrown out of their grip with a small grip of the monster.

Unable to see, they tried slipping away with rapid movement, trying to squeeze their way out of the hold. Only for something wet to drip atop their head, feeling the liquid fall from the hair down to the drop below.

They looked up to see glowing blue eyes, a soft yellow light flickering in front of them. Their eyes widened as they witnessed fate befall them, their panic turned to a sombre deadpan stare as they accepted the reality of what was about to happen.

The tongue drew a line across their face, coating the skin in a thick drool as the creature- Sebastian tasted them. His open maw creased upwards at the sides, a big smile on his face as he noticed their grimace at the gesture.

Shoving their head inwards, gulping down as he licked at their form. Enjoying their delectable taste with ravenous intent as he greedily swallowed them into his empty belly. With a couple of gulps sending down to his stomach, hissing in delight at the meal. 

His tail flicked happily as he pressed his finger to his throat, feeling the weight pass by until his little human landed with a plop into his stomach. A purr escaped him as he felt their movements, hands pressing down on them as they settled in.

They were met with the soft surface of velvet walls of his stomach, the walls cocooning around them in a welcoming hug as it accepted its new “meal”. The walls pressed down on them as Sebastian rubbed circles into their space, soothing them into the space that was himself. 

Those weren’t the only things dwelling in his belly as they found a blanket and pillow housed within. Confused, they gripped the cloth into their hands, feeling a slightly damp yet dry fluffy sheet and one of the many scratchy pillows of Blacksite.

Audibly groaning at the situation before them, only to smother themselves into the blanket as they leaned into the tender flesh. The pillow cuddled to their chest as the surface was comfortable enough without it, not needed yet fond of the object nonetheless. 

“Comfortable? Thought I’d return the favour after all the shit you’ve been pulling lately-”, explaining the reason behind the sudden scare. The realisation dawned upon them as it was revealed that he got his revenge against them. A predator lying in wait for the prey, striking at the perfect moment.

He let out a snicker as they punched his stomach, returning the gesture with more rubs as they reluctantly leaned into the affection. Hearing a small yawn escape them, cradled in warmth as they tucked into the comfortable space.

“Get some sleep, little guppy. You need it.”. He bit back a chuckle moments later as they were on the verge of sleep within the space, a hand continuing its movement to lull them to sleep. 

His attention turned towards the abandoned book on the floor, observing the cover revealed nothing of its contents. It didn’t look like any valuable data nor did it look interesting with the blank front cover.

Opening the contents within revealed a different story, looking upon different memories with their little scribbles of drawings and pictures. Writing down each memory in key detail as if they took in every second of their shared moments. They noted down their thoughts and feelings towards each of their companions too. 

He read in awe, a small content smile on his face as he curled up in his comfortable coiled form, flipping each page with intrigue. It didn’t pass him that they saw through his tough exterior, almost letting out a sigh of relief that they never saw him as the monster he looked like, rather the person within. 

Maybe they should let them in some more…

<...>

“W-what are you doing with that flash beacon?...”. 

[cuntycheol]

Passion Pallette (Y.JH)

Summary: You need an inspiration for your next artwork. Luckily Jeonghan has a lot to spare.

Genre: Artist!Reader x BF!Jeonghan

Themes/Warnings: Boyfie, slight long hair Jeonghan (we must prioritize his sexy lil evil mind babygirls) , the following contains NSFW content(heavy on smut, straight to the point, love use of cameras, , mature language, overall it's just things we good girlies want men like Jeonghan to do) MINORS DNI!

Songs- Angels by Chase Atlantic, So Wet by Elita, Often by TheWeeknd, Feel That by Junny, 34+35 Ariana Grande, Close with Desires by Thuy, Wet by Jooyoung&Superbee,

WC: 3.5K

A/N: Happy Hannie Day<3 speciaIly for our 1004 boy. Tbh I don't think so I'll ever be sane when Jeonghan's got black hair. Blonde Hannie drives me bonkers but HIM? I would devour every single pride of his phhhew~~ enjoy this lowkey philosophical scrumptious piece caratdeuls!! Hanniehae💜💜

"Fuuu-uuck This won't do" you let out an agitated, low yet soft grumble resonates in thick air among stenches of erasers, fresh papers, acrylics and graphite pencils.

With tousled hair and pencil smudges on your hands, Y/N definitely embodied the tormented artist archetype in a world where questionable AI and digital art has taken over. Your eyes darted critically across each failed attempt, a mix of determination and irritation etched on her face. Despite the exasperation, your sketches hinted at an inexplainable beauty that seemed to elude your grasp. The past hour unfolded with a string of complaints, grappling with the current sketches, that seem to fall short of expectations in a creative mind disrupted by the stark reality of the artistic struggle.

Meanwhile Yoon Jeonghan, your smart-mouth, overly encouraging, sharp yet short-tempered boyfriend provided a contrast as the calm in your artistic tempest; occupying the quiet corner of the room perched on the bed in his usual white shirt-grey sweatpants, with his phone in hand and snacks as companions.

It wasn't a brand new thing for him to see you covered in pencil smudges, a few shavings stuck to your wooly clothing and beads of sweat, followed by smears of paint intact on your skin. Swallowing the last bits and dusting the crumbs off his finger, Jeonghan, engrossed in whatever had captured his attention on the screen, abruptly paused. He clears his throat, as a sign for you to turn around in his chair, and lean back, both of your hands on the arms of the chair; a worn-out disappointed expression plastered on your face meeting Jeonghan's unaffected lazy sunday cool and chill vibes, all while fidgeting a pencil between your fingers.

Somehow, a minuscule atom of irritation seemed to dissipate from your demeanor just by seeing him exist.

He arched an eyebrow with a playful smirk gracing his lips "Perhaps the profound muse for your next masterpiece lies in the gripping scenario of that snobby neighbor attempting to assemble something, which seems like a drawer to me. That's interesting. Hanging a hammer be pulling his jeans though" Curious, you turned your head to observe exactly whatever Jeonghan had claimed the neighbor to be doing. Tucking a strand of his newly growing hair behind his ear, he wore a lazy smile on his everlastingly beautiful face.

He continues, "well, since you're seeking for your savior, I'd say you take a good look around this room. Maybe your next stroke of genius could be inspired by the epic tale of my lone sock that always goes missing in the laundry. A true masterpiece in the making" He bites into his crackers whilst he rubs his chin and you roll your eyes, silently comply according to his suggestion. Your gaze shifts from the failed crumples of sketches on these white sheets, to the walls adorned with your vibrant creations among ivory canvases.

You realize that you do,have a discernable mood to your work. Your artistic endeavors, mostly landscapes with a touch of fantasy or nature, displayed a restraint from the chaotic realm of "multicolors on a canvas." Unless a particular idea sparked your imagination, your aesthetic embraced simplicity, classic elegance, and a penchant for monochrome. Safe to say your aesthetic was always something that's not too much work. Something that radiates simplicity, classic and monochrome.

Your distinctive perspectives, where focus and pressure converged on the canvas, propelled you towards an 8-week apprenticeship among renowned artists in the enchanting city of Paris. During this artistic sojourn, you didn't just participate; you left an indelible mark with your meticulous approach and unwavering passion.

Jeonghan as well tagged along your journey. He possesses an enchantment for photography, turning moments of your artistic journey into captured treasures. His lens became a portal to the nuances of your triumphs, framing the dedication etched on your face during meticulous strokes, the palpable joy of artistic breakthroughs, and the undeniable chemistry between you and your boyfriend amid the vibrant backdrop of Paris. What went on in the streets were no secret, but what went under those sheets certainly were.

Each photograph was a narrative, telling the story of your artistic evolution. The peculiar enchantment of Jeonghan's photography wasn't just in freezing moments; it was in capturing the soulful connection between artist and muse, the shared joy, and the unspoken dialogues spoken through brushstrokes and stolen glances. Among these visual tales, a particular photograph held a special place. Attached near your Paris Masterpiece artwork, it became a center of the collage photo-set. This photograph encapsulated a moment of shared triumph, where you and Jeonghan, in the city of love, converged in a harmonious blend of creativity. The collage itself became a visual symphony, each candid frame resonating with the echoes of your artistic journey, all with the ever-present, enchanting gaze of Jeonghan.

Your boyfriend's sharp remarks were that each of your piece has always radiated not just simplicity but a timeless beauty, where the pressure on the material seemed to extract the essence of your creative soul.

However, on this particular day, a subtle roadblock seemed to challenge your artistic flow, leaving you searching for that elusive spark amidst the familiar canvases that held the stories of your passion and precision.

Following Jeonghan's suggestion, you survey the room until your eyes land on him. He's immersed in his phone, savoring the crumbs off his lips with a casual yet endearing demeanor. In that moment, a realization dawns – a silent connection between the imperfect sketches scattered around, the vibrant stories on the walls, and the living work of art himself, your boyfriend, on the bed.

He, the constant cheerleader, has observed your artistic reverie. According to his shrewd observations, whenever you zoned out, you stood in a particular position-arms crossed, head tilted at a precise 75 degrees, and your lower lip caught between your teeth. All accompanied by the rhythmic tapping of your right foot. According to him, it's the hottest and weirdest thing ever.

"What?" He questions, because at this point you've most certainly lost in your thoughts. He rise on his knees,adjusting his waistband while calling your nicknames. eyes still didn't move. "Y/N? Hey Y/N? Babe? Baby!!" His soft vocals exhaust on the common affectionate names he often calls. Finally, you snap out, a downward smile suggesting a revelation.

You meet Jeonghan's gaze with eyes that now hold a bright spark, silently claiming, "Well, I have an idea." Clasping your hands together, you take a deliberate breath, a pencil poised smirk slowly overshadows your expression, "I've found my muse. And it's you!"

Jeonghan, who was now sipping the life out of his juice raises an eyebrow as loud as an 'objection' in court, "Oh, have You now? Think you can capture my snack-induced radiance." You flash him a teethy grin, "I don't think so, I know so. Your carefree vibe is a challenge, but there's nothing I can't do."

Jeonghan can be a hassle sometimes. When he willingly agrees to something, he plays hard to get. It's so frustrating at some point you have to fuck it out of him. It makes him equally attractive and annoying. You toss your book onto the white blankets, with the title "Simplicity meets Seduction" which is a part of your new artwork theme. Lets be honest, nothing ignites the fire- a lava in you unless it's Jeonghan. The warmth of lust pools in your body whenever he gazes at you, touches you. You don't boost his ego much but the way he handles you, forces you to do add some catalyst in his already sky-high mentality. He's equally the meanest and the kindest person you've ever known.

"Simplicity and seduction, interesting" he scoffs "you definitely know how to take a challenge. Since you're adamant, I'll let you do the honors. Ask and you shall receive my permission for a tester sketch" he fixes his posture, grabbing a lollipop from the jar of candies he loves to keep at bedside. You lean towards him, capturing his now frozen body between your arms, and meet him at eye-level, "Hannie, do you mind being my model for my artwork.." you move towards his ear for a whisper "please?"

The effect is immediate – a swallowed gulp, a beetroot red face, and his gaze darting toward the window as if seeking refuge in the bright corner of your creativity sanctum, all while holding the lollipop between his lips, contemplating the fragility of his sanity.

With a wicked grin, you add, "Oh, I can already see the artistic brilliance oozing from this 'tester' sketch. Brace yourself for your immortalization, Hannie."

Sitting between Jeonghan's legs for the next hour, capturing every meticulous details. Defined face, long lashes, gravity defying, soft loose strings of hair. Cheekbones subtly accentuated, with the faint mole that adds the sophistication. He looked a whispered tale of care.

Throughout the process, Jeonghan couldn't help but steal glances at you, his gaze lingering on your focused eyes and the loose button-up cardigan that slipped off your shoulders, revealing collarbones equivalent to a blank canvas begging to be painted.

"Here," you say, breaking the artistic spell, showing him your sketchbook. "Took you forever...phewweee" you hand it over, both of your hands linger dangerously close to his middle, a move that was evidently driving him crazy. Another strong gulp betrays his inner turmoil as he shifts his gaze to the book, his lips parting in anticipation.

When he sees your work, his eyes widen, and for a moment, he's utterly speechless. The sketch, beyond expectations, captures not just the physical features but the essence of Jeonghan's charisma. The defined face, the playfulness in his eyes, a shade of graphite to enhance the blush he had earlier, the tousled crown of hair – it's a mirror reflecting the unique cocktail of sophistication and mischief that makes Jeonghan, well, Jeonghan.

He continues to examine the sketch with an appraiser's eye, and his expression shifts from playful to genuinely impressed. "This is more than just a sketch. It's like you captured the essence of a moment, frozen in time. The daisy, the playful expression – it's a piece that breathes life."

As he sticks it over the headboard, he adds, "Perfection deserves a place of honor. And this, my dear, is perfection." His compliment is laden with a sense of appreciation that goes beyond mere words.

"This is simplicity at its finest, and you know how it meets seduction?" He smirks, that is a signal of danger His tone holds a hint of admiration, his eyes lingering on the sketch as if unraveling its secrets. "Follow"

As you follow him, his grasp on your wrist adds an unexpected thrill and the exact "warmth of lust" pools in your veins. He leads you to his perfect yet contained studio.

"You're an artist with a wicked touch, turning the ordinary into a seductive masterpiece." He continues, each remark a dance of words that adds another layer to the charged atmosphereIn his studio, surrounded by the remnants of his photographic pursuits, Jeonghan's remarks don't cease. He positions his camera at a distance on the tripod, capturing the two of you against a rich, simple pearly beige background. Jeonghan's scent wraps around your senses, leaving you without control over your escalating feelings.

Standing behind you, he wraps his arms around your body, creating an embrace that feels like a hypnotic spell. It's more than a mere hug; he decides to unravel layers, unbuttoning your cardigan to expose the glistening skin of your collarbones and shoulders. Soft, sloppy kisses descend from your ear to your neck, rekindling familiar sensations. Without hesitation, he nibbles on your skin, each touch tinting it with the subtle intensity of his teeth, and a soft whimper of pleasure escapes your lips, the dance of his actions rendering you momentarily lost.

The timer he had set on the camera, ticking away while you were in a delightful haze, finally clicks, capturing the perfect shot – a half-shot from the nose. His slender fingers rest on your left side, and his mouth on your right collarbone, creating an intimate composition that radiates a sense of closeness. Another timer is set, this time his arm wrapped around your shoulders, his thumb teasingly between your lips. The camera goes off once again, capturing a moment that transcends the boundaries of conventional photography.

Jeonghan, with a voice laden with appreciation, murmurs, "This, my dear, is the beauty of our connection. Every click of the camera is a testament to the warmth we share, frozen in time for eternity. You're a canvas, and we're painting a masterpiece of shared intimacy." Once again the camera goes off. The final shot was a distance shot of his deprived lips between your breasts, while he fists your hair. Again the shot comes out perfect as ever and he didn't stop.

With a jerk he lifts you up, and kisses you feverishly. Desperation dripping the dews off the fresh grass. You could almost feel his erection had he held you a bit lower. Everything about a horny, flushed, swollen lips Jeonghan drove you insane. "Yoon Jeonghan" you moan.

"You're truly an artist" he pants, "to be making such fuckable faces"

"What's stopping you from fucking me then?"

"You're right" he smirks "it's been a while I've heard you beg, and rammed myself into that cunt of yours babygirl" Against your better judgement you began imagining it. Jeonghan's large hands squeezing your thighs, peeling them apart. His mouth on your breast, biting and sucking in turn, tongue running over your hardened nipples. Nails digging into your skin, shoulders wedging between your legs. Fingers working you open just enough to fit his dick without causing you pain, careless otherwise. Life does flash beneath your vision.

"Want it?" You could only nod in response.

Jeonghan definitely isn't the most patient one. One moment your tongues dance against each other as he keeps you distracted, while he takes you upstairs, which isn't a long journey from his studio, to the next where you're already out of breath, and lay flat naked on your bed, while he tosses his clothes off. Chilly air and his lustful gaze have your nipples hardening and a shiver running down your spine. As if he can sense your thoughts, his eyes move downwards, onto your breasts before going lower. He hums, pleased. He holds up his camera, and gets another shot, and all you see is flashes. Placing the camera aside, his attention draws all to you, for you, towards you. You could read his mind through his eyes.

 You gasp as he tugs at your legs to pull you closer. His face hovers over your covered core as you feel his warm breath and it is enough to make you lose your mind. “hannie, please.” You plead.

He grins evilly, clearly enjoying this as he presses a kiss on your covered pussy. Then his mouth trails down, between your thighs where he takes his sweet time nipping the flesh, making you whine in pleasure.

pulling back just a little and thrusting back in. “Feel good?” He breathes. You almost choke on your words. "Stop being a ppm.pp.paintbrush" He laughs; movements are slow, taking way too long to mark the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. He licks and sucks at the blooming marks and stops when a wet patch forms in your panties and your moans increase their pitch. “Desperate, aren’t we?” He whispers, hands reaching for your soaked panties to peel them off. The cool air on your core makes you shudder and release another whimper. “I- I need you Jeonghan, please.”

He hums and suddenly licks a stripe from your core to your clit, eliciting a scream of surprise from you. Your hands immediately fist in his hair to pull him closer and you are scared he is going to ask you to let him go but he doesn’t, busy sucking your pussy. He devours you with no break, tongue working skillfully to tease your opening and your clit. Your pussy gushes more and more at each of his movements as you keep chanting a series of pleases.

He slides a finger inside you, slowly, as your cunt greedily takes it all in. He curls it inside you simultaneously tonguing your clit and you wail in pleasure, tears brimming in your eyes. He enters another finger and then another before moving the three of them tirelessly inside you, curling them against your sensitive spot that has your whole body shivering. That feeling paired with him torturing your clit brings you close to your orgasm.

“J-Jeonghan…I'll cum.” You breathe and much to your disappointment, he gives you one last suck before pulling away with a satisfied smirk. “Jeonghan!” You call for him, half wanting to smack him from taking your orgasm away from you. The man has the audacity to laugh. “That’s what you get for being too perfectionist. Being mine"

"I'll blow...hnmmmmmmmmyour brains" you roll your eyes, in pleasure.

His habit of pushing your buttons to your peak irritated you so much, you muster your fucked-out energy and pull him by the neck over you, and swiftly roll yourself on top of him. Your sweaty body slithers down Jeonghan's pale, beautiful body down towards his cock, and as you promised, it was Jeonghan who was so loud with his whimpers, moans all while he was helpless and feeling his senses pop out of his ears. He was melodic. He was whiny. You loved to take him all your capable of.

Oh fuck-” Jeonghan grunts, head lolling back as you feel the grip on your hair strengthen. “Fuck, that feels so good.” His praises make your pussy leak as you start bobbing your head with new vigor, one of your hands trailing down to rub yourself, the sinful sight of Jeonghan moaning making you extremely needy. That one shiver he does, is a clear sign he's dangerously close and with a pop, you move your mouth off. He opens his eyes, moving the sticky hair off his forehead to look at you.

"Hannie" your soft voice, paired with the needy, doe-eyed look you give him is enough to make Jeonghan lose his damn mind. With a growl, he captures your lips in a bruising kiss as his hands move to line up his cock to your pussy. “You asked for it.” He warns and that’s all you get before he’s pushing his entire length inside you, a high pitched shriek falling from your lips as an overwhelming feeling of fullness consumes your entire body.

He pulls you on his chest by your arms, and rams himself in you. "Ride it" he whimpers and you do not hesitate to hold his hands and bounce on him.

With a swift turn, Jeonghan turns you, pinning you below him. He increases his pace, his sharp thrusts hitting so deep inside you, your whole body shakes. Mindless babbles fall from your lips as your hands clutch into his back tightly, your nails digging into his skin which makes Jeonghan hiss in pleasure. His sweet words paired with the way his lips venture down towards your breasts, sucking and biting while one of his hands plays with your oversensitive clit make you release a loud cry of his name.

Soon after, you come for the second time, your orgasm brain numbing, making your toes curl and your whole body twitch. Jeonghan feels you tighten around him as you come and he can’t hold back either as he fills you up for the second time, calling your name softly, his warm breathes fanning your face.

“Fuck, I don’t think I’m gonna last long.” He mutters, eyes moving onto your face, the fucked out look on you making him groan, as he buries his head in your neck, painting the skin with pretty marks. He didn't even spare your lips and mercilessly nibbled onto them until they're red and swollen. He held pride in himself and at this rate, your heart was godspeed.

His soft whisper sends shivers down your spine and without thinking, you nod, holding him tightly, burying your face in his neck. Your brain has stopped functioning properly long ago and all you can feel are the way Jeonghan’s hips snap into you and the warmth radiating from him. You feel vulnerable yet safe at the same time as you hold his body close to yours and breathe in his sweaty scent.

Soon, your orgasm is brain numbing, making your toes curl and your whole body twitch. Jeonghan feels you tighten around him as you come and he can’t hold back either as he fills you up for the second time, calling your name softly, his warm breathes fanning your face.

Your ears ring and you are too tired to move a muscle as you lie there, with Jeonghan panting harshly on top of you, careful not to crush you with his weight. For a while there is silence, nothing other than the harsh breathing of you both before you feel Jeonghan soften and slide out of you, making his release drip down your pussy and you wince. "No paint is of this consistency as my cum" even with zero energy, he made you laugh a little too hard, your ribs ached. The "tester sketch" had long fallen on the carpet, and the sheets were wet.

He helps you to the bathroom, carefully takes care of you and himself and back to another lazy position on the couch, because none of you had the energy to deal with the bedsheets.

"When simplicity meets seduction..." he strokes your hair, hugging your tinted body closer to his stiff chest "an artistry in shared intimacy blooms" he completes. "Those photos, are your reference for the artwork. Make better use of it, babe" "I don't see why wouldn't I" you snuggle closer "anyways simplicity and seduction won me a good sex and dirty sheets"

"That's the harmonious convergence of elements that generate a symphony"

There he goes. Good thing is you've love him endlessly.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Resurface 36 - Resurface

Story to date in order (Tumblr / AO3)

Previous chapter

A kind of a build-up chapter for Virgil, because he’s decided to be brave and face something but that comes at a cost because I am incapable of letting them be fixed first time around. I also had to apply some very very minor whump to Scott just because it amuses me so to do and he was RIGHT THERE being a doofus and asking for it.

Hesitating to put this one out because there is so much good fic that’s appeared over the last week and I haven’t read it all yet but… I think if I don’t get this one out of draft mode I’m never going to properly focus on the finale chapter and I really need to get that done so I can finally post the art a fabulous someone did for me four months ago when I last thought I was nearly finished 🫣😬🙄

SO… here we go…

💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙

Virgil’s studio was recessed into the cliff which meant it was protected from the elements. It was accessible only via his bedroom and a key coded door meant it was protected…ish from marauding younger brothers.

Although a huge picture window dominated one wall, very useful for those sky paintings, this could and often would be shuttered at the press of the button, transforming the room into a haven over which he had unfettered dominion.

Advanced atmospheric regulation meant he could ensure the air it wasn’t too arid for sculpting or too damp to allow a painting to dry. An objectively impressive array of light fixtures popped out at various levels, the angle and tone of each completely customisable at the flick of a slider (or twelve) on his tablet, meant he had absolute control of what bounced off his surroundings into his eyeballs. And the sound system…

Well.

What would be the point of a soundproof room if you couldn’t occasionally crank it up to symphony orchestra brass section volume. Virgil had played the French horn in high school and fully appreciated the sensation of his ribcage vibrating when the trombones sat behind him got into their groove.

He was safe here.

And yet, he couldn’t settle. Everything felt, off. Scratchy. As if sand had got into a sensitive mechanism and no amount of oil would flush it out again.

Virgil tucked the sketchbook under his arm and got up to adjust the brightness of the overhead spots down a little and nudged the temperature control up another increment. He’d been fiddling with it all morning but couldn’t quite find the precise balance he needed. Turning his back on the easel stool, he sat down heavily on the couch, removed a pencil from behind his ear and glared at the page.

He’d thought it might be a good idea to sketch out a few anatomical poses to build the detail on top of… to save Scott having to hang around while he got the basics done. Despite having shut himself in here all morning, he’d barely got beyond sketching a vaguely humanoid shape. Perhaps he’d got a little more fixated on the angle of an arm than strictly necessary… in fact he’d roughed it out in so many positions his graphite brother was giving off distinctly octopoid vibes.

The real one had been popping in and out all morning, providing coffee and snacks and unspoken reassurance but now was Here and Getting Ready and Virgil was also supposed to be Ready do some Healing. Find Some Closure. Desensitisation. All that healthy stuff. He tried to ignore the creeping doubt as to whether he was, or would ever, in fact, be ready to…

“Can I make a suggestion?”

He jumped a little and dropped his pencil as Scott called out from behind Virgil’s bedroom door. He put the book to one side and crawled under his chair to locate it.

“Virg?” The door opened and he could imagine Scott peering around it, with all the darkness creeping up his neck and around his throat… his heart raced and his breath escaped in a tiny squeak.

Uuuuh… he wasn’t ready. Not ready at all. Maybe he never would be. Maybe this was… maybe he was just…

“Virgil, are you alright?”

Realising he’d frozen with his upper body wedged under the couch and that Scott was inevitably now aiming the Concerned Eyebrows at his behind, Virgil forced out an airy “All good, I just dropped my… my… err…” he huffed a fake laugh to cover up the gap. Stifled the panicky breathing… the word had gone. Just gone. He spread his fingers out, feeling the grain of the wood beneath him, sanded almost-but-not-quite smooth, and focussed on drowning out the whistle in his ears with an inane little tune Gordon was humming earlier. This was transient…

“Pen. I mean pencil. Pencil!!”

The floorboards vibrated a little as knees slid into view just beside him. Navy blue knees. No, not navy. Shade 1620 “Airforce Blue” - he had a tube of it on the easel. He squeezed his eyes shut. Hex 00308F. Several paint tubes, just in case. And some inks. Zero zero three zero eight eff. Navy blue was 000080. The three and the F somehow changed everything.

A hand on his shoulder, unnaturally tentative as they all still were around him. Still. He scrunched his eyes still tighter and tried not to let it bother him, he wasn’t the type to be bitter about being ‘Poor Fragile Virgil best-not-surprise-him-lest-he-freak-out-and-see-things-again…’ ok, he was still a little bitter perhaps. And being not very kind to himself either. He’d tell Scott off for that.

Scott…

He pressed his fingertips into the floor just enough to stop them shaking, just enough to hurt. As his neck and shoulders tensed in sympathy he felt his brother’s arms curl around him, holding him steady, keeping him from bumping his head on the wooden frame. Holding him steady, keeping him from sinking through the floor into who knew where… he dragged in a breath, cursing his vocal chords for the little whine that caused.

“I’m here. What do you need?”

“Pencil.”

The harmonic skitter of light wood rolling over heavy before the pencil was nudged up close to his hand and he grasped it like a lifeline.

He couldn’t open his eyes, not yet. He was terrified he wouldn’t be able to trust what he saw if he did.

He could feel Scott breathe, the weight of his arm. He could hear the repeated “It’s ok, I’ve got you.”

Yet both those senses had betrayed him before too. Only one had not. It had never lied to him, but, quiet and unshowy, it was easier to ignore if the others told him a better story.

Right now, the impersonal fog of the dry cleaning spray Grandma had used almost overwhelmed him. It was a white noise.

A grey noise?

He reached past the grey for something familiar, something safe - something to prove this wasn’t hollow. There was the ever-present scent of coffee on his brother’s breath and the subtle hint of super-shiny gel… no, he corrected himself, he’d upgraded to the pricier ‘sublime shiny’ recently… which he swore was better despite Virgil pointing out the identical ingredients, smell and, even taste… alright he might have taken the debate a little too far but when Scott had poked his tongue out at him Virgil hadn’t been able to resist giving him a sample. For science’s sake.

The look on his brother’s face had been spectacular.

He chuckled and a little of the dread melted away.

He still needed to sneak some down to Brains’ lab to run a chemical analysis actually…

“Virg? You with me, short stu…OOOFFF”

Scott had clearly ducked his head under the couch to try to see what was going on and the resulting clunk demonstrating he’d immediately forgotten that he’d done so vibrated through Virgil’s teeth.

“Scott! Your head!”

“Is fine. Thick skull, remember?”

“The thickest.” Eyes still resolutely closed, Virgil assessed his tone. It was light, but not the too-light tone Scott adopted when trying to conceal an actual injury from a brother… There was more than a hint of worry, obviously, which Virgil needed to Do Something About because he was painfully aware it was him causing it.

“Virgil, are you ok? What do you need?”

“I’m ok. I… yeah. I’m good.” He was. He could do this.

“Alright.” The audible skepticism was perhaps justified but Scott had clearly decided to let him call the shots today.

“I’m not criticising your process here but would it be easier to do the arting somewhere other than under the couch.”

Virgil grunted, which was frankly all the response the question deserved. Then, eyes tight shut he shuffled backwards. The sensitive skin just below the edge of his little finger brushed against Scott’s leg and he shivered as he recognised the fabric. Polywool. Strong but soft. Permanent military creases. More capable of withstanding a worried brother knee-sliding across a wooden floor than the string of ludicrously expensive but patently unScott-proof suit pants that the CEO wore to TI meetings and managed to destroy on a regular basis. But not robust enough for any kind of action. This was dress uniform. Just for show. He’d never have got in a jet wearing it.

But without it he’d never have got in that jet…

The voice of dread in his heart hissed at him. Virgil tried to squash it, but the edges were sharp and tried to steal his breath. He could feel his pulse begin to race again, echoing back through the thumb-tips he had pressed so firmly into the floor. No, that wouldn’t work. He knew this. He knew how to deal with this now. The hand on his shoulder tightened infinitesimally, lending him strength. So, he forced himself to take a slower breath and let himself acknowledge the thought. It was a logical fallacy, he knew that, but as the counsellor had advised he resisted the temptation to be angry with himself for thinking it. He could see where it came from. It wasn’t unreasonable or stupid for his subconscious to reach for something, anything to blame. It just wasn’t helpful. It wasn’t true.

What was true?

He’d come back. Scott had come back. He was here right now, humming Mom’s song as he rested his head on top of Virgil’s and stroked his arm.

Virgil opened his eyes. Brown floor. Black pencil. 1620... Scott’s legs. He raised his head a little, braced for the darkness…

Light blue?

Light blue shirt? Airforce shirt, yes, but not what he was expecting.

Scott interpreted his frown of confusion before he realised he’d formed it.

“I was going to suggest maybe I don’t wear the jacket just yet? I could, I dunno, just hold it or something. Till you’re used to it?”

Virgil realised he wasn’t blinking enough and pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets for a moment.

“Right. I… yes. I’m sorry I…” he huffed irritably “This is so ridiculous.”

“No it isn’t.” Scott squeezed his shoulder again. “And you told me not to say things like that.”

Virgil swallowed the impulse to point out that for Scott it was different. Maybe, after all, it wasn’t so different. In the absence of anything constructive to say he removed his hands from his face and made an attempt at a reassuring smile. It was going quite well until his eye was caught by a rush of movement as the hastily slung jacket slithered off the back of a chair and curled into a pile of darkness on the floor. He averted his eyes and returned his attention to his brother’s face.

“So, what do you want to do?”

Here, Virgil drew a blank. Beyond his request to paint Scott wearing the dreaded dress uniform, he was surprisingly unsure about what he wanted to do. He hadn’t got much past the idea to get himself, Scott and The Uniform in the same room and not go mad.

As the heap of fabric continued to noisily suck all the light from the room, he wasn’t sure the latter part was going as planned.

“I don’t… I don’t actually err…” he tailed off but the point had been conveyed.

Scott hummed again, but not in a musical way this time. That was the ‘IR-Commander-is-formulating-a-plan’ hmmmmm.

“We have all day... no need to rush anything. Do you want to go outside for a bit? It’s really nice out there?”

Outside was Scott’s go-to fix. If things were difficult, he did better in the open air… or at least somewhere with a clear view of the sky. Virgil suspected he knew why and tried not to think about that too much. What he did know was that it was when his brother tucked himself away - when he found a hidey hole, enclosed and dark - well that was when little brother’s alarm bell needed to ring. Outside was good.

Yet, Virgil knew Scott hadn’t suggested it for his own benefit this time. It wasn’t for the air but for the sun.

Virgil’s comfort instinct was more towards warmth. The flannel wasn’t purely a fashion choice after all. It didn’t matter where he was - snuggled in bed, melting his face off in the sauna, taking an excessively long hot shower, hibernating on a sun lounger - it was all good as long as the goosebumps were kept at bay. Gordon had long ago given up trying to persuade him to lower the cabin temperature of Two. If Virgil’s skin was warm and relaxed he had at least a chance of thinking clearly about everything else.

Outside in the sunshine sounded good. It had a decent chance of being better than here anyway, in the bowels of the earth where the darkness was closing in and an icy draft scraped across his face.

So Virgil nodded and allowed his big brother to steer him towards the doorway. Where he stood helplessly for a few moments as he realised the hand with which he’d reached for the handle was a white knuckled fist clutching a pencil for dear life… and he didn’t quite seem to know how to put it down. He shivered again.

Scott rushed around behind him, chattering away and collecting whoknewwhat, then took charge of the door-opening and, taking a firm grip on Virgil’s pencil-free hand, towed him up the stairs and out into the daylight.

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

[resplendentoutfit]

Who Exactly was the Gibson Girl?

The Gibson Girl was named after illustrator Charles Gibson who created pen and ink drawings of an idealized woman of the late 1800s to the early 1900s. Fashionable, demure, tall and slender, yet with abundant hips, bust, and buttocks, she was the embodiment of middle-class American feminine beauty.

Here's what Mr. Gibson himself said about the Gibson Girl:

" I'll tell you how I got what you have called the 'Gibson Girl.' I saw her on the streets, I saw her at the theatres, I saw her in the churches. I saw her everywhere and doing everything. I saw her idling on Fifth Avenue and at work behind the counters of the stores ... I haven't really created a distinctive type, the nation made the type. "

Charles Gibson (American, 1867 - 1944 ) • Gibson Girls at the Beach • c. 1900

The Crush • 1901

Studies in Expression: When Women are Jurors • 1902 • Pen and ink over graphite underdrawing • Published in Life, October 23, 1902.

Several of the Gibson sketches appeared on covers of Life, Ladies' Home Journal, and Scribner's.

Perhaps the most famous Gibson was the actress Camille Clifford, who, with her elegant figure and high tumbled hairstyle, epitomized the Gibson Girl ideal.

[iamarealkat]

Kind of couldn’t let humanity forget about this.

About Hannibal’s drawing pencils…(Decided to make a whole separate post about Hannibal Lecter’s drawing supplies to keep all the things I figured out after really attentive, extensive and obsessive research & viewing. Thanks to @existingcharactersdiehorribly for signal boosting my original questions! Sharing the fruit of my labours for the good of all Fannibals.)

1. Free range psychiatrist drawing habits

Hannibal DOES, in fact, draw with Tombow MONO graphite drawing pencils! (Originally, I just tossed the idea out there because these beautiful Japanese pencils seemed to fit his style, and it was an accurate guess.) These are professional drawing pencils, high-density graphite, strong point, smooth line. Hannibal has several at hand when he is drawing (which makes sense since his drawings have different values): in one scene, he’s shown with four different pencils while working on one sketch.

In case you want to sketch like Baltimore socialite Hannibal, this is a Tombow MONO.

He sharpens them with a scalpel (again, makes sense, a blade is preferable to a pencil sharpener for a better point).

Hannibal doesn’t seem to use a kneaded eraser, which is strange, nor have I spotted a blending stump (tortillon), but he has an ergonomically shaped triangular eraser. It looks like one of Faber-Castell grip erasers, the one Hannibal uses is the triangular shape but in a dark colour, possibly dark green (?). He also has a brush (to brush off the bits of eraser from the drawing).

2. Cooped up BSHCI resident drawing habits

Apparently Dr Alana Bloom provides Hannibal with quality drawing supplies. Unlike his usual set of hexagonal graphite pencils, Hannibal is seen with a single black round one. The lead is very black, suggesting a mix of charcoal and wax or charcoal and lead. It would have a soft matte finish. After squinting about 1001 times watching it roll over Hannibal’s table for half a second, I am certain it is Sanford Prismacolor Premier Colored Pencil, 935 Black, which is actually much more expensive than a single MONO drawing pencil (rough estimate: approx. $6.50 for 935 Black vs. approx. $1.50 for a Mono?). Alana is really pampering Hannibal.

In case you want to sketch like Hannibal in BSHCI, this is a Sanford Prismacolor Premier 935 Black.

(NB: Hannibal also uses a different pencil while in BSHCI, specifically, during the coversation with Alana about his insanity plea. The non-drawing tip is similar to the Tombow MONO, but I can give no definitive opinion yet.)

So far I haven’t been able to identify Hannibal’s drawing paper (loose sheets). He seems to use at least two types, one which appears heavier and with a warm tint (example), the other less heavy, smooth and prone to minor creasing (example), probably for looser preliminary sketches? But there’s also an unfinished study of a woman on a warm-tinted (or perhaps yellowed with age?), thinner, slightly creased paper (this one). Examples from NBC Hannibal site.

If you have any ideas about the grain, weight, tint, and brand of Hannibal’s drawing paper, or any observations of his use of erasers and blending stumps, please let me know! Or just chime in if you, too, care about Hannibal’s drawing supplies.

cc: trobador (banned I think?)

[luxhesperus]

god okay i'm still on ep 18 and i just wanna talk about this scene real quick:

shen yi, trusting only (well, not only but you get my point) his skill, intellect, instinct, and his pencil is nothing new but

do you understand how heartbreaking this sequence is? shen yi, who trusts his pencil so much, suddenly finds himself hoping, for the very first time, that he is wrong — that, for once (just this once, please, he must have begged in his heart), it's his pencil that has betrayed him

except, with every paper that he throws — with every sketch he makes, his fear takes form in a familiar face etched in graphite

the way he had been gripping that pencil like a lifeline or perhaps, more accurately, in prayer (hoping he's wrong wrong wrongwrongwrongwro-)

and the breaking of his pencil sounds a lot like the breaking of his trust — sounds a lot like the breaking of his own heart

oh and when he finally completes the portrait...

desperate and despairing

[ghosti02art]

blood orange (reader vers)

summary: Y/N, an INTERPOL agent on vacation, is unlucky enough to be on the same Bullet Train as a bunch of professional killers. Even worse, one of them has the sort of attitude that makes her want to pull out his teeth. Perhaps it has nothing to do with luck, and entirely to do with fate. Can this is be called destiny?

Pairing: Tangerine x Reader (This is the Reader variant of the OC post)

Fandom: Bullet Train

The sky was dark, and the night air was cool. It was late evening in Tokyo, but that did not stop this bullet train from being filled to the brim. If Y/N had known it would have been such a busy ride, she would have just walked back. Or even just slept in the streets. 

She was sitting in the small train seat, and let out a sigh. There was an assortment of noises as people boarded and unbounded the transport. 

Boy, she hated being on vacation. 

She hated it so much that her employer had to make it a part of her “occupational rules”, otherwise she’d never take a break. She did not need a break. Breaks were for the weak - at least to her - because that was how she was brought up. And now, due to her boss, she has to take a 4-day vacation every 3 months. 

She was sketching on a small pad - a drawing she planned to paint later once she got back to the house she was staying in - when she felt someone bump into her shoulder. 

“Fucking hell” She cursed, glaring at whoever caused the graphite streak across her drawing. Her eyes were met with a sneer, as the man appeared to have no understanding of the term ‘remorse’. 

He looked to be on the cusp of 6 feet tall, and way overdressed for a simple train ride. Perhaps he was a white color worker, but she quickly dismissed that idea, for there was no amount of nice tailored suits that could make up for his awful attitude. 

He cursed right back at her, his thick English accent making everything he said almost laughable to her,” Fuck off mate, get outta my way.”

Y/N simply rolled her eyes at this and went back to her drawing. Despite her foul Spanish, and her tendency to be petty, she bit her tongue. She did not really care to get in a fight with some random curly-haired Englishman. Although, she did have the crossing thought to rip off that mustache of his. 

She mentally noted that he and whoever he was with sat down diagonally across from her. She shifted in her seat, making sure her deep navy overcoat still covered her gun. She always kept at least three things on her that could be used as weapons, and her governmental-issued firearm was one of those. 

Just because she was not currently on INTERPOL business did not mean she was unprepared. She always expected the worst. At any moment, something could go wrong on this train - a fight could break out, a gang could hold someone hostage, a very attractive assassin could sneak onto the train-

Her train of thought was broken when she noticed the Englishman get up and walk toward the luggage end of the train. When he passed her, she quickly put out her foot, tripping him. He quickly caught himself on one of the train seats in front of her, hissing as he spun to growl at her. He started to throw every curse he knew at her, but she simply hummed. 

She looks up from her drawing and tilts her head. There was a slight touch of redness on his cheeks, and it suited him. 

“No se ingle?” She says to him, watching as his frustration rises as she claims ignorance. He huffs, and quickly goes towards the luggage, muttering obscenities under his breath. 

There is a chuckle coming from the set of seats the man left, and Kat turns to look at the individual. There were two other men, and the one that was laughing had dark skin and bleach-tipped hair. 

When her eyes slide over to the quiet male, her blood runs cold. She recognized this man- or should she say, boy, since she knew him from when he was much younger. This was The White Death’s son, and that automatically put a target onto this train. After all of her avoidance of Russia, of that world, it still tracked her down. Her eyes flit back to the humored one, and she realized she knew of him too. It seemed that he recognized her too, but before either of them could say anything, the tough guy over by the luggage called out for him. 

“Lemon! Where’s the stuff? You gave me the wrong directions!” The dark-skinned man, Lemon, quickly gets up to go over to the luggage,” Bruv, I told you, it’s right behind-“ 

Y/N did not wait behind to listen to the remainder of their conversation. She quickly got up from her seat and grabbed her bag, and walked in the other direction towards the bar car. She needed something strong if she was going to make it through this ride. 

Once at the bar, she did not even wait for an attendant to help her get a drink. She easily hops over the counter and turns around to search the cabinets for some good vodka. Yes, she loved hard liquor. She had been through enough in her life to afford to be cruel to her liver.  

She can feel the presence of another in the train car- actually, two others in the car. She continues to pour herself a drink and mix it properly, before finally turning around. 

She looks down the barrel of two guns, one for each eye, and takes a sip from her glass. 

“Well, boys. You’ve got me outnumbered. That gives you two an extra 25 seconds before I make you tell me what is going on.”

Y/N smirks slightly, before setting her drink down, still mostly untouched. 

“Alcohol always tasted better with blood on my lips.”

————————————————————————

PART TWO COMING SOON

[yiga-hellhole]

TFTK BONUS CHAPTER 5: DEPICTION OF THE DEMON LORD

sorry for the hold-up! i totally forgot to make a teaser illustration. anyway, a little bonus chapter to keep you all company while i work on the behemoth that is chapter 20. this one takes place between the events of chapters 11 and 13. say, didn't yuga promise a little someone else he'd get a portrait too..? the descriptions in this chapter are based on this BEAUTIFUL portrait by @renthehuman . keep it in mind as you read!!

thanks again to @bulgariansumo and @orfeoarte for betareading!!!

ao3 mirror

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

Potent jealousy was festering in the Demon Lord since the portrait of his co-lieutenant was finished. It was beautiful, indeed, but he hadn’t missed one crucial detail. When first meeting Yuga, it was him she flocked to instantly, singing praises of his beauty, and urging for him to be painted. And though indeed, he was the first to be sketched, the first full-fledged painting was not in his honor. 

Nevertheless, this affront was soothed most thoroughly by the spoiling he received after. Zant’s portrait had hardly been framed or manicured fingers were already rapping on his door, urging him to join him in his workspace for his next masterpiece. Yuga felt the urge to paint like she did hunger or fatigue and to be deprived of it turned her jittery and ravenous.

Of course, Ghirahim did not keep him waiting. He spent hours under the watchful, yet manic eye of the Lorian sorcerer, his form dancing across pages upon pages of sketching paper. After feeling like they had become properly acquainted (though, really, it felt far more like an excuse to spend more time ogling), Yuga set up her backdrop, and the two sussed out their composition.

Said brainstorming did not take long. Yuga wanted, most wholeheartedly, to capture beauty. In her eyes, beauty had uncountable forms. Pertaining to himself, Ghirahim thoroughly agreed with his definitions, but often, Yuga’s judgment over beauty and hideosity seemed… Haphazard. Loosey-goosey, if one would. Her fussiness over their backdrop was most apparent in this. They would only be stationed here in clear skies when the heavens were a vast, clear blue. 

Deciding on a subject was not particularly difficult. His reputation as a warrior was thoroughly known, in the flesh and through legend. In fact, it was all his previous portraiture, crude as it was, would focus on. Truly, the carnage he caused was beautiful, but his being – be it his sword or his scabbard, could not be excluded from this pride. Never had it been done justice before. In this portrait, the sensual, perfect form of Demon Lord Ghirahim, would be clear as day.

Perhaps a little too clear. Motivated partially by the desert heat, but mostly a drive to accentuate every fold of fat or muscle he had, they decided he would be depicted without even a shred of clothing.

There he lay, splayed alluringly on a fainting couch crowded by cushions, the dry desert heat wafting past his skin through the window behind him. Across him in the atelier was Yuga, half-seated on a wooden stool behind her canvas, her pencil scraping delicately, yet decisively, on parchment and canvas.

Just as the gentle sounds of graphite lulled him into a bit of comforting system maintenance, Yuga pulled him out of his haze with a clear of the throat. “So…”

Ghirahim turned his head to look at her, but quickly adjusted, remembering he was posing. “So?”

“I do hope you did not expect to spend the next few hours simply sitting in silence. Do you happen to be in the vein for a bit of a chat?”

Ghirahim met the playful smirk that peeked past the canvas with a cock of his brow. “You intend to wring information from a demon? Bold. I’ll have you know, I could have your soul for that.” 

Yuga rolled her eyes in response, slinking back behind the easel. “Then, say, you do snatch my soul from me. Who will paint you?”

Such an air of light bantering was impossible to pass on. He knew it well from his time at this court, and precisely how fine the line was between playful snipping and a threat upon one’s life. A line he fondly trampled. But with a woman like Yuga, whose well-groomed talons were as blood-drenched as his own, true peerdom nestled comfortably. 

He could say whatever the Hell he wanted. “I suppose I can afford to spare you until it’s finished.”

Shrieking laughter emitted from the Lorian. “Oh, wonderful! I’m being held hostage. Hanging around you lot becomes more and more quaint by the day!”

Ghirahim joined her in her amusement. Taking a moment to fiddle with the pearls ‘round his neck, he considered Yuga’s offer. He had a fickle generosity with his candor, preferring to either keep still or prattle on and on about the endless intrigue he’s accumulated in his many years of wandering the Surface. With those he had no ulterior motives for, he preferred to be silent. Still, he mused on. Wouldn’t it be boring to simply lay here for hours? He did plenty of that with their other lieutenant.

Yuga wasn’t the most trustworthy person, but… “Alright, then. I’ll bite. How can I sate your curiosities?”

“Ah, yes. I did not expect your secrecy to win over your ever-so-vain self, and I adore you this way!” Her face emerged from the side of the canvas once more, wagging the blunt end of her pencil at him in emphasis. “If you’ll allow me to ask, Demon Lord. It is precisely the matters related to your title that interest me. The Demon King you served before our Master, what was your life under him like? Anywhere near as luxurious as your current dwellings?”

Ghirahim squinted. Indeed, Gerudo Palace was a comfortable, sophisticated place. Yet, he felt a stab concealed in Yuga’s question. Did she assume that, millennia in the past, Demise’s dwelling was less grandiose? Forbid it all, did she insinuate she thought them primitive? “I don’t like the implications your question carries.”

Yuga gasped, waving a panicked hand under the canvas. “Forgive me! None were intended.”

His eyes wandered as his temper fizzled out. The atelier was as cluttered and stamp full of colors as he imagined the inside of Yuga’s mind to be. He took the new awkward silence as meditative and traced the colorful patterns on the ceiling frescoes, marking complete and total perfection. Not a single tile was off-size. How very typical.

Though painting was the Lorian’s forte – a practice by all means best done in silence – Ghirahim could tell the quiet was making her anxious. He decided to shake his grievances off. “Let me reminisce, nonetheless. Hmm…” A smirk returned to his face as he saw a curl-framed face peep excitedly at him. “Though loyal to my King I may be, I can’t really speak on His rule beyond the rift. I am strictly a Surface demon, you see. The Palace built above the rift through which we entered was grand, for certain. Oh, how it eclipsed the sun from every angle! Though lacking in the pointless, indulgent little comforts I have now, life there was truly paradise.”

It was then that Yuga rose, quietly hovering toward him to assess him from up close. Ghirahim’s eyes fluttered shut as soft, well-groomed hands found his chin, turning his face to marvel at his angles. He allowed her.

“My Master left me to my whims, to go wherever I pleased, do as I pleased, so long as I returned to His hand when the time for battle came. Perhaps I didn’t have the world in silks and jewels, nor an artisan to paint my portrait,” he smiled, peeking past his lashes to the woman hovering over him in close inspection. Nails scraped past his skin when Yuga’s hand retracted. “But I could truly be myself under His rule. After He fell… Oh, it was below me, truly. How many thousands of years I spent wandering, trying to keep patchwork tribes from tearing each other apart! Though I grew used to such a bare lifestyle, never did I enjoy it. Yes, this indulgence is a welcome change.”

In his wallowing, Yuga returned to her place, gliding graphite past her canvas. Sharp eyes met, and his painter pressed the end of her brush on a sore spot. “There remains something you miss, doesn’t there?”

“Of course. I am a Blade, Yuga. I am meant to be wielded. And now I am not.”

The lines of her brows raised, Yuga spoke in praise, gesturing to his form across her. “Yet you’ve made quite the image for yourself, standing here as a man!”

“I know, my friend,” he spoke with a sigh, rubbing his legs together in a bit of a tic. “I can only afford to show myself as pure perfection. But this scabbard is a mere hobby compared to my true self. I do wish Master could show you soon, the true glory of me, my edges carving through sunbeams and veins alike.”

Hands clasped together, Yuga smiled with delight. Her eyes then shot back open, besieged by another burst of energy that she immediately directed to her canvas. “Oh! I can hardly wait.”

Another day was reserved for the careful study of his facial features, as he’d done with Zant. Eyes bored into him stiffly enough to make the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. Somewhere, he suspected this session was less about actual study, and moreso to tingle the Sorcerer’s endless appetite for otherworldly beauty. Hylian physiques must have started to bore him.

Yuga sat in front of him atop a footstool, hunched over a sketchbook with a curvature to his spine inadvisable for anyone his age (and decades younger, for that matter). Ghirahim would have found his sheer concentration offputting, were he not well and truly drunk on the delicacy of admiration.

For both their sakes, though, he ought to snap the Lorian out of it before he lost his marbles. Taking advantage of a break where Yuga was more fixated on his sketches than his model, Ghirahim spoke. “You say I am to sit still for this part, but surely, I can lend an ear.”

Roused immediately by the lilt of his silvery voice, Yuga looked up to him with a playful grimace. “Devilish thing. Is it safe for me to impart more than simple small-talk on you?”

Ghirahim scoffed. Was more persuasion truly in order? “I told you of life at my own Court. Won’t you share some of yours?”

Having lost some of his feverish drive, Yuga lowered his gaze to his sketchbook, scribbling away. “Oh, I suppose it’s harmless enough.”

His eyes calmly lidded, Yuga settled into a more lighthearted pace. Juggling the weaving of a tale and sketching a model seemingly lulled him into a more pleasant mood. Or, perhaps, a smothered one, only staving off an inevitable explosion of creative impulse. Whether his delight to talk about himself would keep that mess at bay remained to be seen – but, Ghirahim knew, their egos were of nigh equal size. He had an idea that it would hold.

So, Yuga recollected his life’s tale, for as far as he wished to share it.“My usurpation was a slow one… If it was one at all. I thought to stretch out my time as an advisor until little Hilda rose to the throne, and I am thoroughly satisfied with my decision.”

Ghirahim made a further inquiry with a glance and a subtle rise of the brow, but even movement so small got him a scolding. One flick on his sitter’s bare skin later, Yuga resumed his tale. “It’s not like my home in Sakusa was lacking in any way, but it was less… Indulgent. And by far more egalitarian! A world where your every need is accounted for by servants was fully alien to me, and I took to it readily. I do so enjoy to preen, and be preened, as you know.”

Ghirahim responded with a loaded hum, bringing a smile to Yuga’s face. “Times were drastic, with monsters running rampant and more and more pieces of our land falling to the void. But the Court was a realm all of its own, where I could mingle with courtiers, advisors, and scholars all I pleased. It was hard work, certainly – I juggled jobs from royal portraiture to the young Lady’s education, but tasks outside my contract took far more of my time, I reckon. Gossip is never mere gossip in a Palace, as you know. It is veritable politics!”

Chewing oh-so-undignified, absentmindedly on the blunt end of his pencil, Yuga hummed, mulling on his earlier confidence. “No, I took to simply enjoying my time until the ruling King and Queen, so fortunately, passed on early. My poor, beautiful Hilda, only fourteen winters she’d lived before her orphaning. Of course, a ruler so young needed a regent… How lucky I was! I hadn’t even plotted their demise, yet I benefited from it, all the more,” Yuga cackled to himself, before a more manic spark lit in his eye. Graphite crumbled under the pressure of his pushing against the canvas. Each wild stroke of his pencil rushed forebodingly against the paper, interrupted only by the grating squeaks of scrawling. “And how satisfying it was to gaze down at those who glared at me with judging eyes. One so lowly, marshes-born, now puppeteering their Princess at the throne.”

Paper wore underneath the unrelenting push of his straining, bony hands, and Yuga snapped back to focus with a gasp. “... Oh, look at me! I’ve gotten your jawline all wrong. I’ll need another page…”

For once, the lamentless Lorian seemed embarrassed about his burst of anger, in how hastily he cowered by his supply cabinet. After the rustling of paper died out, Ghirahim addressed him carefully. “I take it your fortune, too, did not last, then.”

“No, it did not,” Yuga sighed, again taking his seat beside him. His expression softened, then, an overcast sky clearing out into white puffy clouds, the sun concealed behind them. “But under this King… I don’t know, Ghirahim. I have a good feeling. Apart we may be, though it pains me, I feel just as confident by his side.”

Apart. Yuga had not divulged the full details, but his bond with the Master was a peculiar one, in his time. A soul-bond, not unlike his own with Demise… And though he could see it pained Yuga to cast its possibility aside, he made peace with it, somehow. A bond he once lived for, now reduced to a nostalgic daydream, and compromised through mere company. Ghirahim was perplexed. How could anyone manage such a thing?

Surely, he would not have to.

That following day was once again one of scolding. A crackled bruise, perilously just barely concealed by the strap of his top, besmirched his collarbone. Of course, he could rid himself of such petty ailments in an instant, but he had a bit of a weak spot for such souvenirs of affection. 

Yuga did not share the sentiment. The second he laid his bare body on the swooning couch, the Lorian let out a scandalized cry and demanded he get rid of it. Ghirahim obeyed his request, mostly because he feared the bulging vein at his painter’s neck would burst if he didn’t.

With everything once again perfectly going according to Yuga’s wishes, their usual lighthearted chatter resumed. Ghirahim shimmied comfortably into the pillows. Frankly, Yuga wasn’t the only one intently studying an object of interest. With so much eye contact, Ghirahim took the opportunity to get a good look at his painter. He was aged, certainly, but not thoroughly so. Careful maintenance of his skin resulted in a rich sheen, but even that could not stave off the tellings of papery wrinkles at his eyes and nose. Above all, Yuga was excessively flashy, adorning himself with different colors each day. Today, a fresh gradient of lime-green and blue seemed to be his idea of ‘tasteful’. 

Something else caught his eye, though. A little something that has irked him nearly every time they met. “You know, Yuga, something has been bothering me.”

Yuga laughed, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Have mercy, no!”

“It concerns your choice of accessories,” Ghirahim replied, snagging his curious gaze with a squint of his eyes. “I daresay, either I’m as much of a trendsetter as I expected to be, or you think to steal my thunder.”

For a moment, Yuga seemed confused. His eyes similarly squinted, bringing more and more of those flashy cosmetics on his lids to light. Realization struck, and he exclaimed a laugh. “The earrings, you mean? I thought it was a funny coincidence myself,” he snickered, prodding at the cyan gem dangling from his earlobe. “I assure you, I’ve owned these years before meeting your lovely acquaintance.”

Ghirahim puckered his lips, pondering. “And yet, I don’t consider the two of us close enough companions to start matching our looks.”

Yuga quickly retreated behind his canvas. “Don’t be so drastic, dear boy,” he chimed, waving a clawed hand past the canvas to pacify him. “Besides, they’re not entirely similar. Yours are perfect diamonds, whereas mine are more teardrop-shaped.”

“Not everyone has your painter’s eye, Yuga, the layfolk won’t notice such details,” Ghirahim sighed, now more playful than making any serious demands. Really, he just wanted to confirm the coincidence… But Yuga always had a habit of running away with his every word, out of sheer fondness of his company. At least, he could only assume. Still. in that fondness, blunders arose. Ghirahim wanted this one corrected post-haste. “Speaking of. You seem to be making quite a few assumptions about my age.”

Yuga’s hiding was quickly cut short. Red curls bounced into view as he quickly peeked past the canvas, his mouth tight with embarrassment. “Am I? You must beg my pardon, but if you are my senior, then I must ask you to refer me to whoever blends your cosmetics.”

Ghirahim hummed, idly observing his pearlescent nails. He truly did prefer being in control of the conversation! “I assume you are no older than… Give or take, fifteen-thousand. Are you?” He drawled, cocking his brow with a smirk.

Yuga’s eyes widened, a gasp escaping him as he hurried back to his painting. If the revealing of his age seemed to motivate him into a burst of inspiration… Well, it was a worrying idea. Ever-astounded, Yuga continued to babble. “My! Demon lifespans, of course. No, I regret to say I’ve not even walked this life for a century. I must seem positively juvenile to you!”

Dropping back into his practiced pose, Ghirahim let out a laugh. “No comment,” he said at last, bullying his companion into an effective silence.

With the campaign for Death Mountain on the horizon, their free hours grew fewer and fewer, as did the opportunities to meet up during Yuga’s preferred hours of lighting. That day was one of rare fortune where they had three hours to spend under the bright afternoon sun – and not a minute more. Major qualms arose that day when Ghirahim made a last-minute adjustment to his accessory; a gift, he claimed. Yuga cared absolutely none for it. He was too proud of the rendering on his trademark blue diamond earring and refused to paint over it for simple pearls and larimars. 

And so, the sword spirit lay there huffing and grumbling, leaving his portraitist to work on everything except the insufferable pout he was giving him.

To make matters worse, Ghirahim interjected with another inconvenience. “Ah, yes. My apologies, I forgot to tell you. I’ve gotten a little tangled up and double-booked. Zant might drop by for a visit.”

Not looking up from his canvas, Yuga smeared more purples together on his palette. “So long as you stay still, you can invite the whole palace over, for all I care.”

As foretold, an hour into their appointment, a knock at the door caught them both by surprise. After the chime of Yuga’s response, the door opened, and Zant slipped through.

… Who immediately gasped in scandal over the scene before him. “Ghirahim,” he exclaimed, approaching the canvas timidly to hide from him, finding his depiction easier to shelter with. “I understood that you were to model for your portrait, but… A nude!? ”

“Indeed,” Ghirahim laughed, tilting his head coquettishly. “Yuga and I decided extravagant clothing would only distract from my features. This form is far more representative of me, no?”

Zant seemingly mustered up the courage to face him, as he stepped out into the open. What a calf! They’ve bedded before, what was the issue now? “Well! Such a portrait is made to be viewed, is it not? Would you have yourself displayed in such a way, for others to see?”

Ghirahim was now more amused by his bugging than annoyed. This was no standard prudishness, there was a weakness somewhere. A soft underbelly just begging to be jabbed into. “If I did not, I wouldn’t be lying here as we speak. I have the feeling you have an issue with it, though.”

And there was the reaction he hoped for! Zant’s cheeks flushed instantly, a stammer rising from his throat. His hands retreated quickly in his sleeves, a tassel or two yanked inside each for nervous fingers to fiddle with. “Issues? No, no strict objections! I simply… If you were to, say, bare yourself, before those outside of me, I would at least wish to hear about it beforehand!”

Unimpressed, but committed to his bullying, Ghirahim cocked a brow. “Mm. And, were I to tell you, would you forbid me from doing as I wish? Do you demand such strict monogamy from me?”

“You are too hasty! Now, of course, as your companion, I would have certain… Inhibitions, about,” Zant rambled anxiously, until he suddenly remembered his whereabouts. His helmet quickly clattered to cover his face. “Must we do this in front of Yuga?”

Yuga responded with great nonchalance, perfectly masking his intrigue with the carefree dapping of his brush. “Oh, pretend I’m not here.”

Immediately Zant whipped around, highly agitated. “As if! Gossiping fiend you are, Lord of Lorule!” Crossing his arms with a huff, Zant seemed to take a moment to cool down. Perhaps the sun bothered him – it was noon, after all, and the room far too bright for his Twilit complexion. “Fine. Paint away, it is no concern of mine. Ghira and I will resume this conversation at a later time.”

Ghirahim smirked, endeared by the nickname that slipped his tongue. “I have all the time in the world now.”

His tranquility from seconds ago faded very quickly. “Your distaste for privacy never fails to baffle me!”

Feeling victorious, Ghirahim finally released him from his teasing and sunk back comfortably into the sofa. “Of course. Well, what did you need me for, anyway?”

With a bit of a whine, Zant composed himself. His arms dropped back down to his sides in an effort to seem calm, and he approached. “I was hoping to pen myself into your schedule – We’ll need an entire day, after all. And, well, I will be more than happy to enjoy your company after we settle this…”

Yuga hummed with great intrigue. “Planning something big, now, are you?”

Ghirahim leaned his head to try and peep past the canvas blocking the Lorian from his view. “Whatever happened to ‘not being here’, Lord Yuga?”

Pretending that exchange never happened, Zant continued. “As I said. I shall have my preparations done by to-morrow. Would the day after suit your schedule?”

His inner calendar visualized behind his eyelids, Ghirahim pondered. “Not a chance, I’m afraid,” Ghirahim shook his head. “Captain Imanu requested my presence on the training fields that noon.”

Their squabble to find a single day they could spend was challenging. The available dates were, after all, incredibly limited, and their time was short. In the end, he would have to shuffle around a few appointments to clear this single day… But none of his underlings would dare lift a finger to disagree with him, either way. Less enthused he was about divulging his agenda to both of them at once.

Zant seemed pleased by the end of it, though. Invigorated by the chance to show his forte, his confidence returned to him. Spinning on his heels, he turned to the mass of painting behind him. “With that out of the way… Yuga, you would not mind I have a proper glance at your work, would you? I am most curious.”

Engrossed in his work, Yuga scoffed, his brush halting for not even a second. Grasping its chewed end between his ring and pinky finger, he momentarily removed the spare brush held in his mouth to speak. “My permission matters little, I believe. You’d sneak a peek either way. It’s hardly a subtle canvas.”

Taking his defeated tone as a ‘yes’, Zant eagerly cantered over to join Yuga’s side behind the canvas, leaving nothing visible but his black trousers and gaudy slippers. He gasped, cooed, and hummed, watching his machinations intently. “Words escape me, Yuga. You truly depict him well.” The Lorian’s reply was one of smug satisfaction, but soon, cahoots bloomed. A bit more hushed, Zant leaned closer and pulled him along in his schemes. “But you must not forget to sculpt the bridge of his nose more delicately. It is one of his finer features, in his words and mine, after all.”

Yuga took to this bout of accolades with great enthusiasm. Words of praise poured from him with the same ease as he breathed. Zant was more discreet, then, taking to admiring him through the proxy of his portrait. But Ghirahim knew his intentions, and he struggled to conceal the flush it brought to his cheeks. To be admired so thoroughly by two at once, both with drastically different intentions… How intoxicating! How addictive! He was beauty incarnate, he was a lover. Moonbeam, stars, and sun; pearls and silver shimmers in the heat of the desert. He was art . The next hour-and-a-half would be torture on his composure, he could see it already.

Days flew by, hours to paint snuck between sessions of diplomacy and military training. Just when Ghirahim thought the painting to be finished, it seemed last-minute adjustments were in order. Yuga announced his displeasure with a shrill grunt, steam nearly spouting from his nostrils. “I have made up my mind!”

Never did Ghirahim think he could tire of lounging in such a comfortable pose. Thus he refused to do so, sitting straight in his usual spot. Arms folded, he watched Yuga lug around vase after vase to place them wherever he desired. “Whatever could be buzzing about in that skull of yours this time?”

Petals caught in his curls, Yuga looked disheveled as if he’d gotten caught in a rose bush. “Flowers! I need more of them. Far more!”

Oh, if only that clown could decide on where he wanted those vases already. The grinding of stone on stone was starting to grate Ghirahim’s ears. “Am I to develop a pollen allergy?”

Yuga snapped at him, dropping another armful of bouquets into a brass ewer. “I’ll make you develop rust if you don’t keep your snide little comments to yourself. Just let me work! ”

Wreathed in the cloud penstemons and marigolds, Ghirahim luxuriated for his final sitting. No matter if those flowers were like chains keeping him tied to this sofa. Yuga simply wasn’t the type of man you said no to. For now, he’d amuse himself with the gaunt shape hunched by the supply closet, mumbling and grumbling about running low on red pigments…

At long last, the painting was finished. His physique was intricately captured in warm tones, a picture so vivid the desert sun could be felt from its canvas alone, even in the chill of evening. Candles flickered against the just-dried varnish, the golden glow disturbed only by the shadows of the two men before it. Ghirahim had thrown his arms around Yuga’s shoulder in a side-hug, giddy as he was about the massive stroking of his ego. Even now, Yuga stood cooing and complimenting him, fiddling with his hair and rubbing over his gloves. 

Yet he unlatched himself very quickly when the door creaked open, an unlikely, massive form ducking through. King Ganondorf Dragmire stood at the doorway, his expression gruff, but with a light spark of intrigue.

“I heard tell of another portrait,” he said, causing Ghirahim’s core to drop heavily in his chest.

Yuga, on the other hand, was nothing but excessively fair-tempered. “Ah, Milord! Perfect timing. I just had it framed!”

“Master Ganondorf,” he stammered. Ghirahim found a sudden heat rise in his chest. Embarrassed, he could never be, but suddenly, he found himself worried about such a depiction. Already he was uncertain how the Demon King would approve of such a vain subject as portraiture… But one so revealing? Among the audience of his form, displayed so lavishly, he hadn’t expected his Master. At least, not until he could estimate his reaction! 

The redness in his cheeks made his life that much more miserable when, concealed behind Ganondorf’s massive form, Zant slipped into the atelier, his hands folded at his back. Ghirahim gritted his teeth, pointedly avoiding the Twili’s gaze. He could still turn this around! “How honored I am to meet you at this unveiling! It’s a gorgeous painting, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed,” Ganondorf rumbled, marching over to stand by his side. The first hints of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips as his eyes explored the painting, drinking in its sandy yellows and warm purples. With one blink of heavy lids, his eyes turned to the blade beside him. “It suits you, Ghirahim.”

It suited him. That it did! But how intimately did his Master understand? How his sensuality was within his reach, if only he would call upon it? His head turned to a misty whirlpool all on its own, swimming with thoughts of past affections and potential ones in the future. Now Ganondorf not only acknowledged but praised this side of him. They viewed this masterpiece in joint silence, and Ghirahim thought to keep it that way, lest he fumbled any future chances at intimacy.

A clear of the throat immediately snapped Ghirahim back to reality. His co-lieutenants seemed similarly affected. Though Ganondorf’s expression darkened, it looked almost like compensation… Did he imagine the darkened red over his ears and nose? A trick of the candlelight? No, Master. You cannot hide any temperature rises from this sword. 

Yet any smugness was quickly stifled by the Demon King’s words. “I am aware Lord Yuga performs his best when I leave him to vent his creative pursuits. However, Blade, do not let me notice this… Side project, burdening the upcoming campaign.”

Ghirahim quickly shook his head, appeasing him with a bow. “I would not dream of it, Master.”

Ganondorf seemed satisfied with the answer. He took one last look at the painting, then at the men responsible for it, and with a curt nod, turned to make his leave.

They stood in a polite line before the painting, all half-bowing to salute their King farewell. With Ganondorf now halfway down the hall, the concept of decorum became entirely alien to Ghirahim. He yanked Zant down by the sleeve, prompting him to shriek, as he hissed with equal ire and mirth into his ear. “You brought him here, didn’t you, you villain?”

Zant’s fear quickly turned to amusement. “What a mischief-maker you take me for! I only mentioned off-handedly that your portrait was finished, and his curiosity took him for a walk on his own accord!”

“Mmmh… How convenient that would be for me!” Ghirahim snarled, baring his teeth. Zant yelped once more when his ear was tugged. “Such praise and interest from my Master, unprovoked? You try to sell dreams to me.”

Shaking himself free, Zant responded to his ramblings with a grin, his teeth like spikes jutting out from his gums with a meaty shk. He loomed toward him, pressing his lips to where Ghirahim’s hair draped between his ear and his temple and crooned. “I could pinch you, and see if you wake…”

A subtle gesture of his head toward Yuga served to remind Zant they were not alone, his irrepressible affections once again making him forget all about his sense of honor. The shrill laughter that followed almost drowned out the mechanical whirring of a helmet, hastily assembled over a flushing face.

Almost.

[wulvercazz]

Thinking about dancer Grimmjow a lot🫢💦 and maybe artist Ichigo 🥺💕

Ichigo who’s always looking for inspiration, always a sketchbook and some sort of graphite or pen on hand; drawing strangers is great practice after all.

Him sitting outside a dance studio, perhaps? 👀 idk yet exactly what kind of dancer, but I imagine Grimmjow would do something that requires a lot of elasticity and movement. He’s the type that knows a bit of everything but likes stuff that occupies his whole body and honestly enjoys using new alt music most, like contemporary dance, something that feels almost like gymnastics to him.

Ichigo goes there regularly, he finds dancers of any kind are great for dynamic drawings, and one of the younger students’ teachers there knows him and knows he’s not some sort of creep; he’ll even show her at times the drawings he’s made of her choreographies. Yoruichi just loves to look at herself, he’s sure.

But the studio doesn’t just host children and teens’ dance classes; older, more experienced dancers go there to work and practice and meet-up for future projects (he’s come to learn, on the times Yoru spooks him away from having his nose buried between paper and pen).

It’s always great when new dancers come in, all with different dance styles, approaches to the art, different faces and even body types.

Then he comes along. Aggressive in his art, but somehow careful, graceful like a feline, sure of himself and his skills. Shoots a cold look his way the first time he sees him, Ichigo’s almost ashamed of the little crush that flourishes from the way this man so easily puts him down with his eyes.

Maybe not right away, but he can’t deny that very look chases him even now. Sketching away on a farther bench than usual in case the guy with the blue hair and the jaguar tattoo sees him drawing him, again.

Nothing inherently wrong with it— mind you, he’s still not being a creep. The guy hasn’t asked him to stop, hasn’t said much at all actually; brushed off his stuttered apology and only winked his way when asked if he should stop.

But god forbid he ever give Grimmjow fucking Jaegerjaquez the satisfaction of catching him sketching the perfect curve of his spine with the eyes of a maniac, again. Looming over him with a predatory grin and an accusatory, amused, look that knew —Ichigo knows he knew— exactly how many times he’d practiced that stupid curve.

also I’m headcanoning Grimmjow as mexican/german, bc I can✨ mexican mom and german dad, so he is fluent in spanish, german and english and totally speaks with a jumble of all three when he’s in comfortable company, def think he lived most of his life in mexico tho bc yes,,, also maybe sibling Nelliel??? yes🥹??? Not mentioned either but I’m thinking this is Ichigo studying at an art school abroad too 🤔✨

none of this is super important to the au bc I’m just here to throw my obsession with drawing Grimm’s pretty body at Ichigo lmaooo but ,, ye spanish-speaking grimmjow and *uwu twirls hair, draws your pretty butt as flirting* Ichigo lmaoo💕

also ofc they end up fucking, bc it’s me ofc they do— and maybe there’s a moment when Ichigo’s fckn balls deep and the mofo’s like— ‘wait don’t move- can I draw your cock?’ *is already manifesting a sketchbook* Grimmjow is horrified, but also flattered,,, and apparently not even that can make his dick go limp for the red-head so… fine he can draw his cock while he’s just there splayed half on his lap, half on the bed, and fully on his stupid dick.