#i drew this ages ago but just now colored it

[noxhalas]

hi im back on my bullshit

tween trio messing with their hair (to their parents' dismay)

if you're wondering why emmet says he doesn' t need to hear, I have a hard of hearing HC with him (i try to draw him with hearing aids whenever it fits)

Transcript below!

Panel 1:

Elesa: Hiiiii, Ingo, Emmet, my friends... Can I dye my hair at your guys' house? Ingo: She said 'No', like I said she would, didn't she? Elesa: Maybe Emmet: Did you bring my dye, too? Elesa: Yeah, duh! Emmet: Then, yes!

Panel 2:

Ingo: So... What's the plan for when they prohibit us from meeting again? Elesa: It'll be fine! We'll meet up like we did after we cut your hair! Emmet: i don't need to hear to know we're fucked again. Ingo: We will be if you say that word in front of them. Elesa: Trust me! We'll be just fine! Emmet: Yep. Verrry fucked. Ingo: EMMET. Ingo: He is right though.

[deepdownimbologna]

🫡🫡🫡

butch tome w a shitty undercut she got in the bathroom of spirits and such. is this anything can anyone hear me

[onlyquinns]

AS IT WAS, q. hughes

pairing: ex childhood friend!quinn hughes x fem!reader

wc: 6.6k

cw: SMUT MDNI, swearing, mentions of blood and injury, underage usage of marijuana and alcohol, the reader self sabotages A LOT, trevor is kind of a slut in this ngl 😭

synopsis: you’re childhood friends with the hughes, particularly close to quinn, until you accidentally say things you didn’t mean. left reminiscing, you’re faced with your ex-best friend years later and forced to admit how devastatingly stupid you’d been after the meddling of his two friends.

2017

growing up, your summers were always the same. sticky, brightly colored popsicles, long bike rides with the neighborhood kids, trips to the soup kitchen with your mom, swimming at the pool, and stick-and-pucks with your dad out in the road—that was all you knew, what you looked forward to. but the summer you turned twelve, things changed.

the hughes family moved in across the street from you and your parents, filling the brick house with ruckus and laughter—and, most importantly, the hughes brothers.

the three of them were like fireworks, exploding across their driveway and in the road every morning just to play street hockey. it didn’t take long before the three boys were running up to your front door and asking for you, asking for the girl with the silly chipped front tooth whose dad coached the 18u hockey team.

you loved the attention, loved the thrill you got from being able to play hockey with kids your age in the neighborhood because other parents always refused to let you shoot pucks at their kids—a safety hazard for their brains and teeth, whatever that meant. but with quinn, jack, and luke, anything that happened in the big league games was fair game in all forms of hockey the four of you played—street, roller, ice, whatever.

you always knew hockey was a team sport—practically had that notion engraved into your head from an early age. but hockey with the hughes was more than that, more than just the practiced good sportsmanship and friendly pats to their helmets after a goal. it’d become sacred—the sole thing that drew them in to you and you to them, and the sole thing that’d formed your relationships with them.

but formation never came by itself; it always came hand in hand with alteration, with change.

the driveway and streets are blanketed in snow, covering every inch of dead grass and pavement. quinn and jack shoot pucks in their driveway, laughing and talking about going to the odr by themselves. you sit on the steps of their front porch, watching their form and taking notes like how your dad does for your team. it’s easy to get lost in their movements, in how easily they maneuver their sticks back to send the puck flying through the air.

“wanna go skating?” quinn asks, and you look up from your notepad to find him grinning. something in your heart stutters at the sight of him, eyes only on you and car keys dangling from his hand.

at the age of eighteen, quinn had already gotten his drivers and boating license. he’d tried alcohol and weed—even if he’d never admit it. he’d dated and kissed girls.

and he’d become the only boy you’d stupidly gone and fallen in love with.

you chew on your bottom lip. “i don’t know, i don’t really want to right now.”

jack groans dramatically and shoots a puck into the back of the little net they’ve set up. he’s teasing, playing the role of younger brother, but that doesn’t stop quinn from glaring at him, eyes sharp in a way only an older sibling can manage. jack shuts his mouth instantly. your heart soars.

“c’mon,” quinn says, stopping in front of you. his breath fogs in the cold air, puffing from his mouth and wafting away into the crystalline sky. it brings back memories of a shared joint between the two of you, passed back and forth between warm fingers on your eighteenth birthday nearly a month ago. “i’m gonna’ be leaving for college soon and we haven’t skated together all season, please?”

and you’re too weak to argue, because you’d rather skate with the two of them than think about losing quinn—your quinn—to another university. or to another girl who watches him play hockey, with or without a silly notepad.

the odr is the same as it was when you were younger; the paint on the boards are peeling, revealing worn wood, and there's the same old wrecked goal net at the end of the rink. you breathe in deeply, the little hairs in your nose tingling with frost and dulling your senses with the bite of winter.

quinn takes the time to pull your gear bag out for you, putting it by the bench near the rink. he wipes the snow off with his gloved hand, ensuring you don’t have to do it yourself. then, he and jack are on the ice in an instant, lacing their skates in record time. you don’t join them as quickly, taking your time to slide out of jim’s old truck and walk over to get your skates on.

your body aches as you sit and bend over to pull your skates on, lingering reminders of early morning practices with your high school team and the ruthless drills your dad had you do to ensure a spot on a college hockey team. the stretch of kinesiology tape your mom had painstakingly put on you that afternoon pulls at your biceps under your shirt, the stern reminder to keep yourself from overworking your body—to keep yourself from scratching to rest of your last season.

the laces on your skates bite into your calloused fingers, long roughed over from years of tying your own skates. you move through the motions mindlessly, everything on autopilot up until you finally join the two boys on the ice.

it’s just an easy stick and puck situation—just sticks, gloves, and pucks—but after nearly an hour of shooting, the boys convince you to play rougher, to start checking and pushing each other. and who are you to disagree?

quinn laughs easily as he scoops the puck from you, tearing down the ice as he goes from one side of the rink to the other. jack blocks him off when he gets too close to the boards, taking the puck into his own area and sending quinn into the boards. you try to keep up, skating toward jack in the hopes of cutting him off just to take the puck for yourself.

you’re nearly there, reaching out with your own stick to knock his away, when quinn comes barreling into you from your side. it happens too quick for you to even adjust yourself or even think.

one of your blades catches in the ice, digging deeper than normal, and you fly sideways. you land on your shoulder, stick clattering away from you and your head slamming painfully into the ice before bouncing off. the boys stop immediately, game forgotten and laughter gone.

you cry out in pain, curling in on yourself as your head fills with fire. there’s a sharp, throbbing pain somewhere that you can’t place and the ice beneath your ear feels sticky.

“holy fuck,” jack yells as he stops in front of you. you look up at him through teary eyes, hands clutching at your head. “holy fuck, holy fuck—i’m… i’m gonna’ call mom. okay?”

you’re barely listening to him as he rambles, too busy trying to keep your eyes from slipping shut. quinn lands on his knees next to you, hands pulling at your own to assess the damage.

“i’m so sorry,” he tells you as you cry out and try to kick him away. “i’m so, so sorry.”

by the time jack returns by your side, your mom and ellen’s car come racing down the street and into the parking lot. your dad is immediately there, taking you in his arms like when you were just an infant as you cry and scream in pain. ellen ushers her boys into the truck, tells them to go home as she gets in her own car and follows your family to the hospital.

they tell you that you need stitches, that your memory is still intact, that you’ll have some bad bruising, but you’re alive.

the stitches burn like fire and make you clench your teeth, make your vision bright white. your mom holds your hand the entire time, kisses your bruised knuckles and demands you wear a helmet from now on, even for stick and puck. ellen watches from the corner, apologizing like crazy as if it were her fault but your parents tell her it’s okay—that you’re okay. and you tell her you are because it’s hockey, for fuck’s sake, you can take a fall.

when you get home, quinn and jack wait on the doorstep. they hold flowers and balloons in their hands, cheeks and nose windburned from standing outside for who knows how long. ellen scolds them, argues with jim for letting them stand there, but quinn argues that he’s eighteen—he’s an adult by law, he claims.

you crack a smile at that.

by the time you’re fully healed, the season is over and you’ve missed out on scouts and your senior year. your dad is wrecked and your mom is pleased. you’re mad.

it’s the end of the school year and you and quinn are graduated, free from your years of high school classes and drama—now shackled to impending years of university or college.

or the nhl.

you and quinn sit side by side atop the hood of jim’s truck, a can of beer you’d stolen from your dad’s stash between the two of you. you lean back on your elbows and look up at the sky, eyes drawn to the dim clouds that litter across the expanse of dark blue.

quinn looks at you, traces the soft line of your jaw with his eyes. he’s enamored with the peacefulness in your expression, savors it because he knows he’s about to destroy you like he did months ago.

“i’m committed,” he tells you. “to umich.”

you swallow thickly, nodding as he tells you how a scout saw his last game and talked to his coach. you barely listen, filled with a rage that you can’t even describe. your hands shake next to you and tears burn the backs of your eyes as quinn talks and talks—about his future in the nhl and how he hopes he gets drafted soon.

“so, that’s it?” you whisper, voice weak and hoarse.

you’re mad. mad at the injury that you sustained months ago, that made it so your mom and dad argued until they agreed to pull you—to talk with your coach and bench you. you’re mad at quinn for being so rough that night at the odr, knowing that you were tired and didn’t want to skate in the first place.

you’re mad at yourself for being mad at quinn because it’s not his fault at all. you’re just mad.

“you ruined my senior year,” you say, turning to look at quinn with tears in your eyes and rage shaking your fists. “i missed the scouts, i didn’t get sought out by some cool university, and you’re just… leaving? after what you did?”

quinn winces, body locking up at your words. you don’t mean it—you don’t blame him at all—but you’re angry and upset and… you’re losing him.

“i didn’t mean to, you know that,” he murmurs, eyes downcast, unable to look at you crying. “if i could go back and just do something different, i would. i fought so hard against your parents; i told them that you could keep playing—“

“clearly not hard enough,” you bite back.

you hop off the hood of the truck and walk toward your own car. quinn doesn’t call for you; instead, he watches you walk away and get in your beater vehicle and scream as loud as you can.

2025

the summer sun beats down on your back, heating your bare skin as you swish your legs back and forth in the cold lake water. you grip tightly onto the dock that you sit on, head tilted to the side.

across the lake, you can make out four tiny figures—what you assume are young kids—playing street hockey. your heart sinks at the sight, a reminder of your youth spent with three boys obsessed with hockey coming to mind. you shake it away—it’s been too long for you to dwell on your past, on what could’ve been if you hadn’t let one accident and one fight keep you from achieving a goal long forgotten.

instead, you pull your legs from the crystal clear water and make your way back to your family lake house. as you walk along the lakeside, a cluster of boys catches your attention. they’re loud, split up between standing by a nice boat and inside of a truck bed. laughter fills the air as you walk closer to them, fully intending to breeze past them to get back home.

as you walk, one of them catches a glimpse of you—eyes you up and down in your tight bikini top and ridiculously short jean shorts. he lets out a low whistle, one that has you whipping your head toward the group and glaring so viciously whatever stupid comment he was about to make disappears from his mouth.

what you don’t expect, however, is to see quinn hughes standing by the boy who blatantly disrespected you.

he looks different and not just because he’s standing topless and in board shorts. his hair is longer, curlier, and crops across his face in delicate waves. his jaw is sharper, far more defined than when the two of you were eighteen and still losing baby fat. he looks exactly how he does on your television screen back home, where you watched him and his brothers get drafted into the nhl.

where you watched him climb the ranks as the rookie to the captain, while you spent your time trying to forget everything hockey that was drilled into your brain.

he stares at you, eyes locked on yours in a weird staring contest sort of way. his eyes drop down your body and then back up to your face, his face giving away none of his thoughts.

“hi,” you say, unsure of what else you can say—not after the last thing you said to him when the two of you were eighteen. “nice day for a boat ride, huh?”

it’s a silly question because you know it is and they do too, that’s why they have the boat out, but you double down and wait—wait for quinn and his friends to agree or maybe for quinn to ignore you flat out. but instead, he shrugs a little and pats the side of his boat.

“yeah,” he says, voice deeper than you last remembered it. “boys and i are gonna go wakeboarding. wanna join?”

the question surprises you and you think it surprises quinn too, judging by his awkward chuckle and his telltale crooked smile that barely reaches his eyes. screw it, you think, because the day’s been full of surprises, so why not add to it.

you nod, “yeah,” you tell quinn, response loud enough for everyone to hear but your eyes only on your childhood friend. “sounds like fun.”

and, admittedly, it is.

it’s nice out on the lake, wind blowing through your hair and the sun melting over your skin. the water splashes over the sides as quinn jerks the boat left and right, his friend, cole, screaming and howling with laughter as he tries to stay upright on the board.

you tuck your face into your face, cheeks heated from the sun, and droopy gaze drawn to the setting sun. a beer is situated between your thighs, condensation from the can leaving splotchy water marks on your jean shorts and the soft skin of your inner thighs. quinn’s other friend, trevor, watches as gentle droplets slip down the curve of your thigh, and you act like you don’t see him staring—because you’re not after his attention, anyway.

you tilt your face away from the horizon, brought back to reality by the sound of cole’s body hitting water with a loud yelp. you smile into your palm as the boys around you laugh and chirp cole as he climbs into the boat, shaking soppy hair like a giant dog.

“as if you could do better,” he retorts as quinn teases his inability to last long—a joke you know has an underlying meaning to it.

before he can retort, trevor pipes in. he’s smirking, mischief dancing in his bright eyes. you think he’s handsome, if it weren’t for the quiet understanding that he was your average hotshot hockey dude who messed with girls like they were pucks that he could shoot away from him at mach speed.

“why don’t we ask her?” he says, waving toward you in your jean shorts and baby blue bikini. “bet she could attest to huggy’s ability to last long.”

your beer can crashes in between your legs, slipping past your fingers and spilling itself over your thighs and the terracotta-colored leather seats. your body is stricken with horror at the implication, at the sheer idea that someone you’ve just met could assume something like that, even though you’d thought about it plenty of times as a teenager—but that’s beside the point.

your now empty can of beer rolls around the deck floor, bumping against one end of the boat before rolling back between your sandal-clad feet. cole, the only one who doesn’t stand or sit looking either proud or horrified, rushes to help you wipe up the foamy amber liquid. he settles his strong body between your knees without thinking, pressing his towel to the ground and snatching up the can. you can feel his hair brushing against the insides of your thighs, suddenly hyper aware of your position.

quinn is, too.

he moves without thinking, snatching up another towel in a tight fist and making his way over to you. your head snaps upward, watching as he gets closer, body illuminated by the setting sun and unfairly attractive in his stupid american flag-themed swim trunks. he moves cole out of the way, lightly smacking at his shoulder so he’ll get up, and grabs you by the bicep.

you reek of cheap beer and embarrassment at the way he handles you, pulling you into his side so he can wipe up your seat for you before letting you go.

“are you wearing anything under your shorts?” quinn asks, leaning over the side of the boat to dunk his beer-damp towel into the cold lake water. he braces himself with his free arm, the muscles in his biceps and chest flexing and taut.

you silently pray that the water with magically come up and suck you in, like the ocean in moana. “yeah, uh,” you start, glancing over at trevor, whose smirk is wider than ever, “why?”

quinn pulls back from the boat’s edge holding the wet towel, little droplets splattering to the deck at his feet in drops of varying size. he looks at you with amusement, a look you thought you’d never see again but had dreamt of for years.

“should take your shorts off then, yeah?” he teases, offering you the towel in his hand. “unless you wanna smell like beer on the way back to the dock.” his lips quirk into a smile, awkward and unsure of himself but trying his hardest to be as close to normal as possible. not that anything was normal now.

you let out a breathy laugh, knowing quinn’s right. memories of rebellious teenage years flood your mind—moments of you and quinn sharing beers and drunkenly spilling them on each other, how you’d dissolve into tears at the smell and how he’d always kept a change of clothes for you on him.

you don’t expect that last bit now as you slip the button of your jeans free, fingers pulling at the worn zipper. quinn, ever the gentleman, turns his face away, finding the boat’s railing more interesting than ever. you watch as his free hand runs along the surface, fingers peaking to pick at something. you drop your shorts and he tilts his head even further away.

trevor whistles again, sharp and downright jeering despite it meaning to be appreciative. quinn’s head is immediately on a swivel, turning to trevor with a withering look—one that clearly reads that he needs to knock it off, or else. your heart squeezes in your chest at his protectiveness, reminded of how he’d been when you’d gone through puberty and catcalled by boys grades above you.

he turns to you and tries his hardest to keep his eyes on your face, to stay level with your eyes rather than your bare chest and tummy and—

“wanna go for a swim?” he blurts, squeezing his left hand in minuscule, discrete motions to keep blood from rushing to his crotch like he’s some dorky teen boy.

the giggle that leaves your mouth has his head swimming, greedily storing the sound of it away in case after this the two of you go back to being strangers. cole and trevor are already whooping at the suggestion and jumping in, sending a shower of ice-cold water up into the air and on your smooth skin. quinn gulps as he waits for your response, adam’s apple bobbing thickly at the sight of water droplets sliding down your neck and between your tits.

you say something that he doesn’t hear, followed by a breathtaking smile and another giggle—another sound that he stashes away in the part of his brain dedicated to you. you surge forward and grab quinn’s hand, pulling him from his own thoughts and into the water. you’re unsure where the bravery even came from, why you’re suddenly so comfortable with him even though you’re the reason he’s not longer part of your life, but you hope it’ll last a little longer as the two of you surface.

and for a second, it’s like you’re both eighteen again. but maybe it’s a trick of the heart, instead.

‎ ୨୧

the fire pit in front of you crackles loudly, spewing tendrils of smoke and ash into the evening sky. you’re curled up on a sun lounger, legs pressed to your chest and arms coiled tightly around them. you’re wearing an old hoodie quinn gave you, one that he claimed belonged to one of his brother’s, but you’d seen through the bluff. you’d seen the hoodie years ago, remembered exactly where you were when ellen had wrote ‘q. hughes’ on the inside of it.

you don’t know why you’re here, sitting in the backyard of quinn’s lake house. one moment you were swimming with your childhood ex-best friend, carefree of the messy past the two of you shared, and the next you were blindly agreeing to come over. to implement yourself back into his world even more.

trevor and cole sit on the other side of the pit, laughing and chatting nonstop. trevor’s interest in you is long gone, put to rest alongside the setting sun, but he still looks at you with a weird glimmer—something you recognize as being bad.

you watch through the climbing flames as the two of them get up from their seats, pushing and shoving each others shoulders like young boys who’ve dared each other something dumb. eventually, trevor rounds the firepit and makes his way to you, his body taking up the sun lounger next to you. he leans back into the plastic slats, casual and comfortable in his position.

“so, how do you know quinn?” he asks, looking at you meaningfully. orange light flickers across his cheeks.

you glance at trevor, face unreadable, and then glance at quinn. he stands on the back porch, diligently working old charcoal off of the grill for the barbecue he’d told you about planning.

“we used to be friends,” you murmur softly, almost too quiet that the crackling of the fire eats it away. you press your cheek into your knee, fully looking at quinn as he tries to start the grill so he can run a whole onion over the grate. “childhood friends, actually.” you fight back a smile. “he and his brothers were the only kids allowed to play hockey in the neighborhood. the others weren’t allowed to because they thought i’d knock their teeth loose, or something.”

trevor sputters in his seat, propping himself up in strong arms. “you play hockey?” he asks loudly, so loud that he draws the attention of cole and quinn onto your curled up form.

you see quinn wince, an involuntary twitch of his body at the mention of you and hockey in one sentence.

your slight smile slips away, and you purse your lips. “yeah,” you say gravelly, “i used to.”

the past-tense of the verb has trevor sinking back into his lounger, “oh.” his excitement is gone, interest in your history with the sport fading from his face.

you nod and sigh, pushing yourself upward. you excuse yourself, claim you need a drink, and follow cole’s advice to head inside for the fridge. you move sluggishly through the backyard, eyes drawn to your feet. quinn watches you move, his plan to clean the grill thrown out the window. instead, he quietly slides the back door open for you and follows you inside.

as you reach for the fridge handle, he comes up behind you, chest lightly brushing against your back. you hold your breath, feelings that you thought you’d tamped down resurfacing—as if they haven’t already after the day you’ve had with him and his friends.

“here,” he whispers, breath curling into your hair and lips so close to your ear that you can feel the heat radiating, the scent of bonfire thick in your nose, “let me.”

quinn’s hand automatically gravitates to a beer you like, fingers curling around the can in a way that causes nostalgia to tug at your ribs. he hesitates for a second, then grabs another one, his long fingers twisting to accommodate for two cans instead of one.

the two of you stand-by-side next to each other in the dark kitchen, sipping from cold beers. the taste of it floods your mouth, drawing stupid childhood memories from the corners of your mind. you swallow them down alongside the beer, throat thick. quinn coughs into the darkness, knuckles tight against the edge of the kitchen counters as he leans backward into them.

“why’d you quit?” quinn asks in a momentary lapse of his own self. you don’t respond immediately, scared to voice the truth. he crushes his empty beer can and tosses it into the kitchen trash bin. “was it really because of what happened when we were eighteen, or was it something else?”

you’d asked yourself that question for years—you always knew it wasn’t actually because of one injury. you always knew hockey was a rough sport—that’s why you were so obsessed with it when you were a kid—but now you were using that one incident as an excuse. you didn’t quit because you’d taken a tumble on the ice, didn’t quit because your mom forced you out of it. you’d quit because you were too caught up in battling the sport for quinn’s attention—because you’d lost to it.

but could you admit that to him, to the boy you’d harbored feelings for since the beginning of time?

“i… don’t know,” you say instead, eyes dropping to look at your beer.

quinn’s jaw ticks in the dark, and the dam in his brain breaks down. “i called in a shit ton of favors,” he says into the dark. “i had my coach at umich ask all of his hockey buddies if they’d heard of you, if you’d somehow ended up one a team’s roster.”

your heart thuds loudly in your ears at the admission, at how after you’d walked out of his world—a world filled with care, a career in hockey, a love for you—he’d tried so desperately to keep you from drifting further away.

“i thought that you might’ve ended up in sports management like your dad, y’know.” quinn turns to look at you, hazel eyes sad as they take in your form. “like, maybe you’d kept that… that spirit after the fall and turned it to helping other players.”

you shake your head. “i couldn’t,” you say thickly, thinking about how your dad had sat you down and asked what you wanted to do in college if you couldn’t play hockey—how you told him you didn’t know, that you felt lost. “i lost it when you left for college.”

“jack and luke tried—“

“i wasn’t in love with jack or luke!” you cry out, turning your teary-eyed gaze to quinn. your lip wobbles. “i didn’t feel like i needed their attention on me every single second! it didn’t matter if i came second to hockey to them because i…” quinn looks at you with wide eyes, mouth agape, and you realize you’ve fucked up. you push off the kitchen counter and place your beer on the marbling. “i need to go,” you say hurriedly, attempting to walk away.

quinn grabs your wrist, fingers firm but not painful. he spins you around until you’re facing him and then positions himself so you’re against the counter, boxing you in between the counter and his string arms. he presses his lips to yours, tasting of beer and summer fruit. a hand slides from the counter and finds your hip, squeezing through the thick cotton of the hoodie you’re wearing. you kiss back, eyes sliding closed and lips slotting so perfectly against his.

it’s not like what you’d expected—there aren’t any showy fireworks in your brain or silly butterflies in your belly. you feel safe, comfortable, as he holds you and pours every unsaid thing into the kiss.

your hands slide around quinn’s neck and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. he kisses like he’s got all of the time in the world, like he has things to say and make up for, and when his tongue presses to your bottom lip…

you let out an airy sound, something between a sigh and a moan. quinn groans at the sound and the kiss suddenly becomes desperate, messy. his tongue pushes against yours and his teeth graze your lip, stinging in the best way possible. his arms wrap around your waist and he hoists you up, urging your legs to wrap around him.

quinn doesn’t break the kiss until you’re seated on the counter, thighs pressed to cold marble and his body slotted between your legs. his lips smear hot kisses along your jaw, brushing and nipping near your ear before dragging down your neck. he sucks marks into your soft skin, lathing over them with his tongue and leaving a gentle kiss as he moves on. his hands push the hem of your hoodie up, warm palms roaming your bare skin.

“quinn,” you whimper, scared that trevor or cole might walk in and catch the two of you. “we shouldn’t—“

he’s kneeling between your dangling legs, your bare calves hooked over his shoulders and his arms desperately trying to pull your body down more so he can reach you where you need him most. his lips are kiss-swollen and his eyes are filled with determination, and rounded with something you think might be love.

“i’ve waited years to hear you say that, and i doubt those two will try to walk in here after making that stupid sex joke earlier.” quinn squeezes your leg, tilting his chin into the bend of your knee to brush a little kiss to your skin, “but if you want to stop, i will. i don’t want you just for sex. i’ve been so in love with you for years and i couldn’t live with myself after what i did to you.”

you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, fingers bracing your body against the counter. quinn looks up at you again and your hips twitch lower off the counter, drawing your core closer to his face. he smiles as you nod, and you settle your thighs by his ears, your lower back held upward by his strong hands.

“fuck,” he breathes, sucking dark marks into your inner thighs. you let out a breathy moan, arms trembling already. quinn peeks up at your face, savoring the way your eyes are half-lidded and your teeth are clamped down on your lip. “you’re so perfect, so beautiful…” he praises softly, nuzzling his nose against your clothed clit. “always been.”

your breath stutters in your throat as he presses his tongue flat against your bikini bottoms. the sight of your childhood crush and best friend between your legs is obscene, fucking sinful.

“quinn…” your voice nearly gives out as quinn pulls your bottoms to the side, hot tongue pressing kitten licks to the bundle of nerves.

quinn groans and takes your clit into his mouth, sucking it past his lips and circling it with his tongue. without thinking, you raise a hand to your mouth and clamp it over your lips. quinn quickly adjusts, embracing more of your weight down on him without letting up on his ministrations.

his tongue licks stripes down your cunt, the tip of it pressing into you just briefly. you moan into your palm and chase after the sensation, hips flush against quinn’s lips and chin. he chuckles and you feel every breath of it.

“lemme take my time, sweet girl,” he whispers, kissing your weeping entrance. “i’ll make you feel good, i promise.” you nod into your hand, eyes rolling into the back of your head as quinn continues to eat you out.

his tongue dips into you finally and his nose presses insistently against your clit, rubbing into the swollen bud as he tongue fucks you. your hips grind against his mouth, drawing you closer and closer until you come undone around his tongue with a muffled sigh and a squeeze of your thighs around his head.

quinn grins and pulls away, chin shiny in the dim light with your slick. he slowly slides you back onto the counter, hand drawing up your inner thigh and pressing lightly against your fluttering cunt. quinn pries your hand away from your mouth with his other hand and presses a sloppy kiss to your lips, swallowing every sound that comes from your mouth as he kisses you and presses two of his thick fingers into your walls.

“taste so good,” he whispers as he pulls away from the kiss. he curl his fingers and you let out a gasp, hand squeezing his fingers. “and so sensitive.”

quinn pulls his fingers from your cunt and presses them to his tongue, groaning around the digits as he licks them clean. you watch, captivated, jaw slightly dropped and your hips shifting in search of more friction.

“god,” he moans, pressing his obvious boner into you. “could taste you all night, baby, but i can save that for another time,” he says, voice rough and filled with amusement as you try to press your hips to his with a little pout.

the front of his swim trunks are stained from where he’s leaked through, a patch of fabric darker than the rest of the shorts. you paw weakly at the waistband, impatient and eager for his attention. quinn smirks and draws down his trunks just enough to free his dick, letting it curve up into his abdomen. precum beads at the tip of it, leaking from the slit, and you lick your lips at the sight.

“please,” you beg, looking up at his dark eyes as he fists his cock, spreading pre down the length of it. “please fuck me, q, i need it so bad—have wanted it since forever.”

quinn rubs the head of it through your holds, letting it catch against your clit for a second. “i know, baby,” he murmurs gently. he lines himself up with your entrance and you watch with rapt attention, waiting for him to sink into you.

when he finally pushes into you, agonizing inch by inch, you let out a breathy sigh—like having him in you has you feeling complete. you’re unsure why, but you babble incoherent thank you’s, reveling in the way he fits perfectly within your warm walls.

quinn sets a gentle pace, rocking into you as he holds you flush against his chest. he moans into the junction of your neck and shoulder, one hand slipped under your hoodie to pull your bikini up to grope at your tits.

“feel so good,” he moans into your skin, pace quickening and his fingers tweaking your nipple between calloused fingertips. “take me so well; fuckin’ made for me.” the sensual sound of skin on skin fills the kitchen, your ears ringing as you take in the sound of every lewd squelch.

you nod, lips parted in a moan. your orgasm creeps up on you, building faster than before. “nngh..! q, ‘m gonna cum!” you cry out and he groans. he ruts into you, dick hitting every sensitive point as if he’s mapped your body out perfectly.

“i know, baby, just let go for me. need to feel it like this, please,” he begs, and you unravel at his words. your lips fall in a silent scream and your thighs tremble against his hips.

quinn lets out a choked moan as your walls squeeze and clamp down on him, causing his hips to stutter momentarily as he fucks you through your high. he’s about to ask where you want him to finish when you suddenly lock your ankles around his back, tugging him closer.

“in me, please!” you whimper, eyes shut tight. “want you to cum in me, q; want you to fill me up.”

his hips falter again as he spills into you, gasping and moaning through it as white coats your insides. quinn doesn’t stop; instead, he fucks deeper into you for a moment as you whine and whimper, body sensitive and spent. he stains your walls with him—claiming you now that he’s got you back.

“s’too much,” you mumble, pressing your forehead to his sternum.

quinn chuckles and slowly pulls out, both of your gazes on the area the two of you connect. after pulling up his shirts, quinn takes no time to finger his cum back into you, fingers pressing his seed deep into your cunt. when he’s satisfied, he draws his fingers out and you let him press them into your mouth, tongue circling the pads. he pulls them from your mouth with a pop!

his gaze softens as he looks at you, body still slotted between your knees. quinn runs a hand through your sweat-damp hair, fingers likely scratching at your scalp as if he’s trying to map something out. when you realize, you take his wrist into your hand and bring it to your mouth to brush a tender kiss to the inside of it.

“i don’t blame you for what happened back then,” you say softly. “i was selfish and ignorant, and i didn’t want you to leave me behind.” you look up at quinn and your heart pangs at the sight of guilt in his pretty eyes. “if i could take back every awful thing i said that night, i would. it was never your fault, quinn.”

he tucks his face back into your shoulder and holds you flush against his chest. you hold him close, palms splayed across the expanse of his back. quinn’s body shudders with a relieved sob, a choked sound muffled into your skin and hot tears dampening your hoodie. you don’t let go as he sobs, holding tighter instead.

“it’s not your fault, q,” you repeat into his thick curls. “i love you, and i’ll do everything to remind you—to make things better. i promise.”

[miloscozycorner]

𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬.

Caregiver!Wanda Maximoff x Regressor!Reader

• After a meltdown makes you go nonverbal, Wanda helps you communicate your big feelings together.

cw: age regression

( 1109 Words )

The fuzzy carpet felt cool on your bare legs, your oversized shirt scrunching up and resting on your upper thighs. The room had grown chilly from Wanda opening the porch door just a crack, the wind sneaking its way into the living room.

Your tears had finally dried, your chin now resting on your crossed arms. It felt silly, the meltdowns. It just got all too much. The lights, the noises. Trying to make your brain be a bigger kiddo, make the words come out right.

But Wanda understood it all, of course. She always did. When the words had started to jumble on your tongue, and when with a cry of frustration you had given up, she was quick to sit. Quick to let you squeeze her hand until it grew pale.

“Hey bubby. I got you your cards.”

Wanda’s voice drew you out of your thoughts, and you craned your neck to see her patter towards you, taking a crossed legged seat on the carpet a few steps away from you.

“Mama even added some stickers,” she added, her lips curling upwards when you let out a soft giggle. Your eyes followed the stickers on the laminated cards, a variety of animals stuck on them.

You took a moment to shuffle through the cards, before picking one to show. The word “like” was printed on it in bold letters, with a galaxy themed background. Wanda had let you help make all the cards months ago.

With a tap, you showed Wanda the card, and she tilted her head towards the sticker arrangement. “You like the stickers, munchkin?”

An enthusiastic nod.

Wanda paused, spreading the cards before glancing at you. Her playful expression died down, her face turning a bit more serious. But the softness in her eyes and the gentle tilt of her lips remained.

“Do you want to talk to mama about those big feelings you had?” Wanda suggested, glancing up at you. You took a breath in, your brows furrowing while you searched for a card.

“Yes”.

Wanda nodded, shuffling in place. “Okay little one, good job using your cards!” she praised, not missing the ways your eyes lit up from it. “Now, can you tell me what was making those big feelings overflow?” she questioned, tilting her head.

You hesitated, chewing your bottom lip before answering. “Loud”. “Light”. “Hungry”.

“And all that together made you feel not so good, bunny?” You hummed in agreement, slightly frowning. Wanda was quick to notice, adding on reassurance. “And you know that’s okay, honey. I know it can get pretty overwhelming. But mama got you a snack, and a worksheet. How would you feel about trying that?”

There was a brief pause before you gave a nod of agreement, and observed Wanda stand up, disappearing for a moment down the hallway before coming back, a slip of paper and a box of crayons in hand and a bag of Goldfish in the other.

She sat down cross-legged once more, this time beside you instead of across from you. Your shoulders relaxed, a flutter in your stomach forming when she sat.

“Do you want to sit in mama’s lap? Or, we can sit beside each other and I can help you color.” Wanda offered, waiting for you.

For a moment it seemed she almost forgot until she added on, quick to repair her mistake. “Oh goodness! I’m sorry honey. Mama almost forgot you’re not up for words today. I know big words are difficult for tiny babies! How about you hold up one finger for sitting in my lap, and two for coloring together? Is that okay, little bird?”

You gave a small smile at her remembrance, before holding up one finger. Wanda’s lips curled upwards, grinning happily at you before scooping you under your arms and adjusting you to sit on her thigh. The scent of strawberry perfume calmed your senses further, any lingering weight on your chest fading away.

She stretched her arms over to the coffee table next to you, grabbing a hard-cover book and placing the sheet on top of it, before adjusting it so it was on top of your lap.

“Now, you see all these colors? We can use these colors to fill up the cup to show how you were feeling earlier. So, blue is for sad. Green is for scared. Red is for mad. Yellow is for embarrassed. Can you do that for me, honey?”

You gave a nod, picking out the green crayon first and allowing Wanda to sneak a couple Goldfish into your mouth to chew. Your hand hesitated, hovering over the paper before filling half the cup with green.

After a moment, you added some yellow. Your grip on the crayon grew more sturdy, less shaky.

Wanda watched carefully, helping you take more bites of your snack. Then a bit of blue, finishing the cup.

The crinkling of the Goldfish bag and the scents of the newly bought crayons made a soft smile tug at your lips just ever so slightly, the fear, the anxiety, everything, slipping out of your grasp.

You looked up at Wanda for approval, giggling when she gave you a wide grin.

Wanda gave a hum of approval, setting the empty bag of Goldfish down next to her as you showed the piece to her. “Wow, bubby! You did such a good job drawing out all of those big feelings for mama,” she praised, sticking a light kiss on your forehead.

She adjusted you momentarily, her strong arms lifting you gently under your armpits, settling you on her hip. The paper was placed neatly on the coffee table by the pack of crayons, and your deck of communication cards were placed in your hand.

“Do you want to go cuddle upstairs with mama?” Wanda offered, stopping by the kitchen to throw away your bag and glancing down at you.

You flipped through your cards. “Yes.” More shuffling. “Please.”

“Oh my, such a good job using your cards, bubba!” Wanda praised, beaming down at you and running slender fingers through your hair. “Come on, let mama give you lots of snuggles tonight.”

You felt your eyes grow a bit heavier, the feeling of soft hands supporting your weight and the sound of Wanda’s gentle footsteps with the creaking wooden stairs lulling you.

“It’s okay to sleep pumpkin, mama will be here when you’re up.” You heard Wanda mumble into your ear, the comforting warmth of her breaths fanning onto your cheek.

So, you allowed yourself to slip into a comforting sleep, free from the day’s stress, held in the love Wanda always gave so freely.

[taylorman2274]

Today Is Where Your Book Begins (Chapter III)

A mysterious flyer in the mail invites you to the Witches Guild at the local Renaissance Festival. Unbeknownst to you, the witch that you meet may solve the answers to all your questions.

Content Warning(s): Slight Alice Misportrayal, Amateur Tarot Card Readings

Notes: SAGAU, GN!Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Previous || Next

Taglist: @bunniotomia; @sarraisme; @chericia;

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Today was a perfect today to be outside. The sun was shining brightly in the sky with a few clouds passing over to provide shade from time to time. The light breeze felt amazing against your skin, cooling your body just enough to stop yourself from sweating. The cap on your head also helps prevent the sun from blinding your eyes.

As for where you were, the sound of medieval music, chitter-chatter, and the sight of tents, wooden billboards, and signs could only suggest that you were in one place: The Medieval Ages.

...

Okay, TECHNICALLY it was called the Renaissance Festival but that doesn't sound as fun to say compared to The Medieval Ages.

You looked back down at the flyer in your hand, wondering why you were here. You don't know why it appeared in your mailbox a couple of days ago, but you can't deny that it drew your curiosity.

...

To Whom It May Concern,

Do you feel like you're stuck in limbo? Are you uncertain about certain events from your past, present, or future? If so, you've been hand-selected for a free tarot card reading performed by Elise, one of our many witches at the Renaissance Festival!

If you choose to accept this offer, come to the Renaissance Festival in two days' time at 5:00 PM. Bring only yourself and nobody else.

See you soon~.

...

Although you do feel embarrassed for going to a tarot card reading to potentially receive the answers to your current problems, not having to pay anything is kind of tempting...

Thus, you're here. The ticket price was a bit expensive to your liking, but inflation would probably increase the price next year. Best to bite the bullet now than treat it later.

After making it past the entrance, you walked over to the 'World Map' the festival had on display. You skimmed over it, trying to find the Witches Guild. Eventually, you found its location near the back corner of the festival grounds and started to make your way over.

Once you reached your destination, you noticed a couple of things. Firstly, the Witches Guild held only a single medieval two-mast umbrella tent. The roof of the tent was a royal purple while the walls were striped with the same purple color as well as white.

Secondly, there weren't a lot of people walking around the tent. If anything, it looked like everybody was doing their best to maintain a large distance, making you look like the odd one out for even thinking of approaching.

Lastly, there was no apprentice witch to be seen.

'Maybe I have to go inside?' you assumed, reaching towards the tent flap.

However, before you could even move the flap, a woman dressed in all black yanked the flap open, startling you to take a few steps back. Her all black attire featured a tank dress and sheer shirt, fishnet arm warmers, and black gloves. She also had pale skin and wore black eyeliner and dark red lipstick.

"What do you want?" she rudely asks you, glaring at you as if you were a disgusting little insect.

The intimidating woman, on top of her rude behavior, turned you timid. "Sorry. Sorry. I had a flyer that mentioned a-"

"Give it," she interrupts, impatiently reaching a hand out.

You quickly gave her the flyer, which she snatched from your grasp. Once she had the flyer, she read it for a couple of seconds before crumpling it up with her fist.

"Wait here," she demands, before heading back inside the tent.

Terrified of what might happen should you not follow orders, you stayed in place for what felt like a minute or two. Eventually, a taller woman strutted out of the tent and gazed upon your meek form.

She had fair skin and long, wavy brown hair that reached her shoulders. She wore a large purple witch's hat that just barely covered her emerald green eyes. A slim-fit purple dress embellished with silver embroidery adorned her body, along with black lace stockings and high heels. Finally, fitted on each of her hands were black gloves with a pale purple trim.

...

Or to make a long story short, SHE WAS SMOKING HOT, HOLY SHI-.

"Hey there, cutie~" she flirted in an angelic voice.

...

...

...

Your thoughts were going bonkers.

'RED ALERT! RED ALERT! PRETTY WOMAN CALLED YOU CUTE! I REPEAT! PRETTY WOMAN CALLED YOU CUTE! ENGAGE ALL FORMALITIES! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! ENGAGE ALL FORMALITIES!'

You straighten your back as best you can and quickly fix your hair. "Hello there!" you reach out your hand. "It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintance."

...

She giggles in her hand before reaching out to shake yours. "The pleasure is all mine."

...

'...Nailed it.' you celebrated with a silent fist pump.

"Follow me," she gestures with her other hand. She takes you inside the tent, which you gaze at in amazement. Various lamps, patterned drapes, and carpets were decorated all around the tent to give the environment a mysterious ambiance. Your expectations were low at first, but the Witches Guild sure knows how to create an environment!

She guides you to the center of the tent, where a rug is laid out with two cushions on opposite sides. She goes to sit on one side while you go ahead and sit down across from her.

"Anna," she calls out behind her. "Be a dear and wait outside. Make sure no one interrupts us."

The rude woman from earlier appears from behind a drape and swiftly leaves the tent in silence.

"Now, with that out of the way, let's go ahead and get started. Wait here for just a moment."

She stands up and goes behind the drape that Anna emerged from earlier. Before long, she appears with a deck of tarot cards in tow. She's already begun to shuffle the cards as she sits back down.

"What's your name, cutie?" she asks sweetly.

A blush nearly rises to your cheeks as you struggle to give your name in one go.

She giggles. "What a pretty name. My name's Elise."

'God, the things I would let this woman do to me...'

You silently slap yourself. 'Stop it!! Remember, formalities only. No horny!'

Once you have finished collecting your sanity thoughts together, the lovely witch places the shuffled deck on the rug, draws the top three cards, and places them face down in front of you.

"Starting from your left, these cards will tell me about your past, present, and future. I shall explain to you the meanings of these three cards and will answer any other questions you may have. Take your time~."

Nodding, you flipped over the card on your left.

"The Six of Cups," she begins. "This card conveys the meaning of nostalgia, gifts, innocence, and reunions. Does this match with your past experiences?"

You gave it a small thought before nodding in confirmation. "Yeah, it does. I've had a lot of nostalgic things I can look back on."

Elise hums. "Would you like to expand on it?"

"No thanks," you say, shaking your head. "I'm more interested in a problem I'm currently dealing with."

Elise hums again. "Now you have my curiosity. Let me see what troubles you, my dear."

You went ahead and flipped over the second card.

"Oh my!" Elise gasps. "The Page of Swords conveys the meaning of a curious kid, gossip, spies, prying eyes, and truth." She leans forward slightly. "What's piquing your curiosity?"

"Well..." you scratch the back of your head. "It's a bit embarrassing to talk about, but I guess since I'm already here..."

You took in a deep breath. "Have you heard of a game called Genshin Impact?"

Elise politely shook her head.

"Ok, what it is isn't really important. What is important is what happens at the end. The main character gives this grand speech thanking everybody for their help. He even does a fourth-wall break by thanking the player."

"What draws my curiosity is the fact that out of everyone who has played the game, I seem to be the only person whose seen the fourth-wall break. Every video on the internet doesn't show anything about it!"

The whole time, Elise had her eyes closed and a hand to her chin, humming to herself in thought. When she opens her eyes, she asks, "Let me ask you this. If you are the only person who witnessed something, but nobody else has, would you still believe it?"

...

"I mean... I guess..." you threw your hands up. "When I saw it the first time, it didn't feel out of the norm. I'm just confused by this whole ordeal."

"I see," Elise ponders. "Perhaps this last card will help clarify to me the solution to your problems."

Although you seriously doubt it, you may as well finish what you started. You flip over the third and final card. You wait for Elise to explain the meaning of the card to you, but she's gone back to her thoughts. You decide to wait patiently for her to finish.

"I understand it now," Elise says. "The Four of Wands conveys the meaning of homecoming, celebrations, family, friends, and reunions."

You raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Really?" you look back to the card. "I don't see how that answers the question."

"Leave that to me," Elise smirks, holding out her hand. "Place your hands around mine."

Confusingly, you placed your hands around hers.

"Now close your eyes and take deep breaths. Everything will be explained to you shortly."

You do as she instructs, feeling a wave of calmness flow through your body.

"Oh, stars above, guide this lost traveler to their destination so that their questions will all be answered."

Silence echoes inside the tent.

...

...

...

Suddenly, you feel a tidal wave of exhaustion crash against your body. You try to recover your senses but are finding it increasingly difficult to do so.

"Shhhhh. Don't fight it," Elise whispers. "Let the stars comfortably guide you where you need to be. She'll take care of the rest."

You didn't have enough time to think about who 'she' was before you succumbed to sleep.

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

Alice exits the southeast-side inner room of the Windward Manor, softly closing the door behind her. Aether, who is leaning against one of the columns, makes his way over.

"Did it work?" he asks.

Alice nods. "They're resting just inside. They'll need some time to adjust to the travel."

"And how long will that take?"

"Only a couple of minutes. It shouldn't take too long."

Aether nods, then looks over to the door Alice exited from. Just inside was the person who had guided them on their adventure since the very beginning. Just inside was the person who he had been wanting to meet for just over a decade. Just inside...

...

...was you.

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Author's Notes: Writer's Block almost got a hold of me, but I managed to escape its grasp.

The next chapter is going to be all about Aether and the Reader. I hope you'll enjoy reading that chapter as much as I will enjoy writing it.

[taro-pdf]

DCxDP: De-aged Danny is a Eldritch Little Ball of Mischief

This was not how Danny envisioned his evening going. Who knew that not only did an immortal ancient fae not only live in the infinite realms, but it also really didn’t like it when Danny told it that it couldn’t go around usurping other Kings’ kingdoms for funsies? Not Danny. Until about an hour ago that is. When the Observents observed the imbalance, they had told him about it. Apparently it was important enough to literally bury him in envelopes. Well, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to get away from paperwork for a while, Danny had thought. It turned out to be a much more difficult task than he’d anticipated.

Lucky for Danny, he’d just won the not-so-little spat and the fae capitulated in the end, agreeing to maintain but not expand the boundaries of its haunt. Unlucky for Danny, there was a different neverborn fast approaching, and from its posture, it was not wanting to just have tea. Taking just enough time to send out a “hurt/portaling away/talk later/careful” core message to his Fraid, Danny pushed the ectoplasm in front of him to the side and willed the Realms to take him somewhere safe. 

The swirling green energy was a relief. The Realms all but pushed him inside, and he fell through time and space, getting smaller and smaller to conserve the little ectoplasm he had left. He slid to the ground with a sigh. All he saw before the world faded was an overcast sky framed by the edges of apartment buildings.

****

Danny slowly woke up. The first thing he noticed was the gravel he lay on. It shifted beneath as he rolled over, bits clinging to his skin where he had been touching the ground. The second thing he noticed was the smell. The third thing he noticed was that there was a lot of noise coming from somewhere. He wrinkled his nose and sat up, rubbing at his eyes with his tiny hands.

Tiny hands?

Danny looked at his hands. They were indeed tiny.

He opened and closed his tiny baby hands experimentally. They made adorable little fists, but weren’t they supposed to make big fists? How big were his hands supposed to be again? He looked at his body. His hands seemed to be the right size compared to the rest of himself, so he decided to not worry about it.

What he would worry about was his immediate comfort, and the thing bothering him most was Why Did It Smell So Bad. He pushed himself into a sitting position and then floated just of the ground. He frowned at the metal wall in front of himself. Taking a few steps back, he saw it was a dumpster… which explained the smell, at least. So what was the noise? 

Peering around the dumpster, Danny saw a very small, colorful car, and the door opened to reveal a clown who shouldn’t be able to fit into such a small place. He laughed maniacally, just loud enough to cover the sounds of distress from nearby people. 

“Well, well, well, Batsy! Seems your little Arkham fun house can’t hold all this FUN!” Arms spread wide, a clown extricated himself from the car and walked forward, eyes fixed on something above him. “I think someone needs to remind Gotham how to live a little, wouldn’t you agree? Why don’t you all SMILE for me?”

He threw his head back and cackled. The sound sent shivers through Danny’s body and made him flatten his ears. Ears? He glanced up and didn’t see anything. When he patted his head with his tiny adorable hands, though, he found that he did indeed have soft pointy ears. Which was… something that he probably should have feelings about.

The sound of confetti popping drew his attention away from his (maybe new) ears back to the events outside. The bystanders were smiling now, tears streaming down their cheeks. Another pop of confetti, and their smiles stretched wider. They didn’t seem to be actually smiling. Danny watched as less colorful clowns brought more people up the laughing one. He reached into the car and pulled out another confetti popper. Danny frowned. It wasn’t right to make people feel scared, and it wasn’t right to make them smile if they didn’t want to, either. Danny may be small, but at least he knew that! He started forward. The clown was big but no matter how big you were, sharp teeth still hurt. Danny licked his lips. His teeth were very sharp. Changing his tail to less noticeable little legs and little feet, he crept forward.

As he opened his mouth to BITE that horrible no good very bad clown, he was snatched up and yote! Yote from one pair of big hands to another! They wrapped up his writhing form in a firm, one armed hug and then swung him away from the clown, away from the ground, and onto the roof, where he was unceremoniously plopped down. He blinked.

He blinked again. There were other people on the roof. Some were crying. Some were smiling. Some were standing and looking over the edge. Person Who Grabbed him was one of those. Person Dressed Like A Traffic Light was another.

“He doesn’t seem affected, but he might bite,” said grabbed.

“Tt. I will be able to handle the small child. What do you take me for?” Traffic Light uncrossed his arms, pulled something from his belt, and threw it with practiced ease. Danny heard a “oof” and then thud as someone’s body thumped to the ground. Traffic Light had hurt someone!

“No! Don’t hurt!” Danny lunged for Traffic Light’s elbow, only to be grabbed by Grabbed again!

“Woah, little one!” Grabbed wore a mask, but Danny could still see his smile. “We’re taking care of the bad clowns. They are hurting people, and we want them to stop.”

“Ok,” said Danny. He didn’t like the clowns. They could get very hurt for all he cared.

(started a long time ago and unfinished)

[elswhore]

۶ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 —۶ৎ

۶ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @syraxsbigfanfr

OCTOBER 14. 2016 HOPKINS HIGH SCHOOL GYMNASIUM

The Fall Art Fair was a big deal at Hopkins, a chance for the art kids to shine and paige, a freshman already turning heads on the royals’ basketball team, was here mostly because her best friend, azzi fudd, had dragged her along.

Paige adjusted her hoodie, her blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail, and scanned the room, she was all limbs and confidence, her easy grin and quick wit making her a favorite among teammates and classmates, she’d already played in varsity scrimmages, her silky handles and impossible layups earning whispers of “prodigy” from coaches.

But tonight, she was just paige, dodging a tray of cookies offered by a PTA mom and pretending to understand qzzi’s excitement about pottery. “Yo, azzi, you owe me for this” paige teased, nudging her “I could be working on my crossover right now.”

Azzi, her dark eyes sparkling, rolled them “You’re gonna thank me when you see something cool. Art’s not just for nerds, Buckets.” Paige snorted, her nickname earned from her knack for sinking shots feeling like a badge of honor.

“We’ll see about that.” As Azzi darted to a table of ceramic bowls, paige wandered, her nikes scuffing the gym floor, the art was fine—colorful abstracts, a weird clay foot—but nothing grabbed her, she was about to text azzi to bail when she stopped dead, her breath catching.

At the far end of the gym, near the bleachers, a table stood alone, its display stark but magnetic, a single sketchbook lay open, flanked by a few framed drawings, each rendered in pencil and charcoal with a precision that felt alive.

The open page showed a minneapolis skyline at dusk, the IDS Center’s spire piercing a smudged sky, every window and shadow so detailed it seemed to pulse, another frame held a portrait of an elderly man, his wrinkles and half-smile so real paige could almost hear his voice.

But it was the third drawing that rooted her a basketball player mid-layup, her form dynamic, ponytail whipping, the ball an inch from the rim. the energy, the motion it was like watching herself on the court.

“Whoa” Paige muttered, leaning closer, she didn’t know art, but she knew this was different. It wasn’t just good it was alive, a soft laugh broke her trance. “You’re gonna smudge the glass if you get any closer.” Paige straightened, cheeks warming, and turned to the voice.

A girl her age stood behind the table, arms crossed, a playful glint in her dark eyes, she was striking, curly hair pulled into a messy bun, a smudge of charcoal on her cheek like a badge, her faded denim jacket was covered in paint splatters, and a pencil was tucked behind her ear.

She wasn’t tall like paige, but her presence filled the space, confident yet guarded, like she was sizing paige up. “Sorry” Paige said, flashing her trademark grin. “This is… insane, you drew all these?” The girl nodded, a flicker of pride crossing her face. “Yeah, took me forever, but worth it.”

Paige glanced at the name tag on the table, Xai Celeste, Freshman. “Xai, huh? That’s cool. i'm Paige. Paige Bueckers.” xai’s lips twitched, like she was suppressing a smile. “I know who you are, fancy Jump Shots, saw you at the pep rally last week. You’re kinda a big deal.”

Paige laughed, rubbing the back of her neck “Nah, just tryna keep up, but seriously, this art? you’re the big deal, this basketball one it’s like you were in my head.” Xai’s eyes softened, and she stepped closer, flipping the sketchbook to another page a sketch of a dallas street, food trucks and neon signs buzzing with life.

“Thanks, i just… see things, you know? Try to make them real. That one’s from home.”

“Dallas?” Paige asked catching the warmth in xai’s voice. “Yeah. Moved here a few months ago. Minnesota’s cold as hell, no offense.” Xai smirked, and Paige burst out laughing. “Facts! you’ll get used to it. or, like, buy a bigger coat.”

Paige leaned against the table, her usual shyness around new people melting away ​​​​​​away “so, what’s it like there? cold, yeah, but you’ll survive.” xai tilted her head, studying paige.

“You’re not what I expected.” Paige raised an eyebrow. “What, you thought I’d be all ego and no brain?”

“Something like that” Xai admitted, her grin teasing. “But you’re… i dunno. Real.” Paige’s heart did a weird flip, like she’d just nailed a game-winner. “You’re not so bad yourself, Dallas. Bet you could draw a mean crossover.” Xai laughed, a sound like summer, and paige knew, right then, she wanted to hear it again.

OCTOBER 26. 2016 HOPKINS HIGH SCHOOL GYMNASIUM

Across the gym, tucked against the folded bleachers with a clear view of the court, Xai Celeste sat cross legged on a blanket, her sketchbook balanced on her knees, her hair were pulled into a loose bun, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and her denim jacket splattered with paint and now sporting a new dallas mavericks patch draped over her shoulders.

The smudge of charcoal on her cheek was a constant, like a signature, and her deep brown eyes flicked between her drawing and the chaos of the gym, she’d come to hang with two art-class friends, Maya and Liam, who were sprawled beside her, munching on vending machine chips and gossiping about homecoming.

But Xai’s attention kept drifting to the court, to the fluid motion of a certain freshman guard who moved like she was dancing with the ball. “Xai, you’re not even listening” Maya teased, nudging her with a chip crusted finger. “What’s got you so zoned out? liam’s dumb crush on the debate kid, or…” She followed Xai’s gaze, smirking.

“Oh, it’s Miss Fancy Jump Shots.” Xai’s cheeks warmed, and she ducked her head, scribbling harder at her sketch a half-finished outline of the gym’s rafters, with light streaming through high windows. “Shut up, Maya. im just… observing, for art.”

Liam snorted, pushing up his glasses. “Yeah, ‘art.’ Sure. You’ve been staring at Paige Bueckers for, like, ten minutes. Her and her stupid perfect crossovers.” Xai rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. “Y’all are dramatic. I’m working on perspective, okay?” She flipped her sketchbook to hide the truth a smaller, secret sketch in the corner, the rough lines of a girl mid dribble, ponytail flying, unmistakably Paige.

She’d only known Paige for a couple of weeks, since that night at the Fall Art Fair when paige had gawked at her drawings like they were magic, they’d run into each other a few times since in the halls, at the cafeteria trading jokes and easy grins that left xai’s stomach fluttering.

Paige was… different, not just the basketball prodigy everyone hyped, but real, funny, the kind of person who made you feel seen, xai hadn’t expected to like her this much, not when she was just passing through minnesota, her real home waiting back in Dallas.

But paige had a way of sneaking past her walls, like a layup no one saw coming, on the court, practice paused for a water break, and paige jogged to the sidelines, gulping from a Gatorade bottle. Her eyes scanned the gym, landing on the bleachers where xai sat.

A slow grin spread across her face, and xai’s heart did a quick stutter, like she’d missed a step, paige said something to her teammate azzi , handed off her bottle, and started weaving through the crowd toward the bleachers, her nikes scuffing with purpose.

“Oh, crap” Xai muttered, closing her sketchbook as Maya and Liam exchanged smirks. “Yo, Celes!” Paige called, her voice cutting through the gym’s hum, playful but loud enough to turn heads.

She stopped at the base of the bleachers, hands on her hips, sweat glistening on her brow. “You just gonna sit there drawing the ceiling, or you got something cooler going on?” Xai’s friends snickered, and she shot them a glare before meeting paige’s gaze.

Those blue eyes were trouble sparkling, teasing, like paige knew exactly how to get under her skin. “Maybe im drawing the ceiling ‘cause it’s more interesting than your layups, buckets” Xai shot back, her dry wit sharp but warm.

Paige laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that made xai’s chest tighten “Ouch, celes, you wound me.” She climbed the bleachers, ignoring maya and liam’s not-so-subtle stares, and dropped onto the blanket beside xai, close enough that their knees brushed.

“Lemme see what you’re working on, bet it’s fire.” Xai clutched her sketchbook, her pulse quickening. “It’s not done. And you’re all sweaty, so, like, don’t ruin my vibe.”

“Ruin your vibe?” Paige grinned, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Come on, I saw your stuff at the art fair, you’re basically Picasso, show me.”

Before Xai could argue, paige pulled her phone from her pocket, her fingers quick as she swiped through photos. “Hold up, i got an idea” she said, her eyes lighting up, she turned the screen toward xai, revealing a picture of herself and a younger boy, with warm brown skin, a wide grin, and a basketball tucked under his arm.

They were on a court, paige’s arm slung around his shoulders, both laughing like they’d just pulled off a prank. “This is my baby brother, Drew. He’s, like, my favorite human, well, most days.” Xai leaned in, studying the photo, drew had paige’s energy, that same spark, and the way paige’s face softened talking about him made xai’s heart do a weird little twist.

“He’s cute” she said, smirking. “Looks like he might have better game than you.” Paige gasped, clutching her chest. “Okay, wow, you’re ruthless, Celes, but for real…” She hesitated, a rare flicker of shyness crossing her face.

“Could you draw us? Like, me and drew? I’d love to give him something cool, you know? your art’s… it’s special.” Xai’s breath caught, paige’s voice was earnest, her usual swagger softened by something real, and the compliment your art’s special hit deeper than xai expected.

She glanced at the photo again, then at paige, whose eyes were locked on her, hopeful and a little nervous, maya and liam were watching like this was a rom-com, but xai barely noticed, her mind already sketching the lines of paige’s grin.

“You’re really hyping me up, Buckets” Xai said, her voice lighter than she felt, she flipped open her sketchbook to a fresh page, her pencil hovering. “Fine. i’ll draw you and drew, but you gotta tell me something about him first, like, what’s his deal?”

Paige’s face lit up, and she launched into a story about drew how he was obsessed with basketball, xai listened, her pencil moving as she started a rough outline, capturing paige’s animated expression from the photo, drew’s playful stance.

Paige leaned closer, pointing at the sketch. “Yo, that’s his goofy smile! You’re too good, Dallas.” Their shoulders brushed again, and xai didn’t pull away, her heart racing as paige’s voice filled the space between them.

“Don’t jinx it” she said, but she was smiling, her usual walls crumbling under paige’s warmth “And you owe me for this, like, big time.” “Name your price” Paige said, her grin sly. “Pizza? Ice cream? Or…” She paused, her voice teasing.

“I could teach you how to shoot a three.” Xai laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, echoing in the gym. “You think i need your help? Please, i’d school you.”

“Oh, it’s like that?” Paige’s eyes sparkled, and for a moment, the gym faded the whistles, the chatter, her friends’ smirks until it was just them, two kids with dreams bigger than the court, inching closer to something neither could name.

As the whistle blew, calling paige back to practice, she stood, stretching. “Finish that sketch, celes. I’m serious—I’m framing it for Drew’s room.”

“Only if you say ‘Xai’s the greatest artist ever’ first” Xai shot back, her grin matching paige’s.

Paige leaned down, her voice a soft, playful whisper. “Xai’s the greatest artist ever. Happy?” Xai’s cheeks warmed, her heart pounding. “Yeah. Happy.” Paige jogged back to the court, throwing xai one last grin over her shoulder.

Xai opened her sketchbook, tracing the lines of Paige and Drew, and knew this moment paige’s laugh, the photo, the spark—was already etching itself into her heart.

OCTOBER 23. 2016  HOPKINS HIGH SCHOOL GYMNASIUM

The gym hummed with the fading echoes of practice, the court now quiet as the players trickled out, their laughter bouncing off the walls, outside, the late october evening had turned crisp, the minnesota air biting at xai's fingertips as she sat on a low brick wall by the gym’s exit, her sketchbook clutched against her chest. It was nearly night, the sky a deep indigo streaked with clouds, streetlights casting a soft glow over the frost-dusted grass.

Xai’s breath puffed in small clouds, her denim jacket barely enough against the chill, but she didn’t budge, she’d finished the sketch of paige  and her brother drew, a week after paige’s request, and the framed drawing, wrapped in brown paper, rested beside her.

Xai had poured hours into it, her charcoal strokes capturing paige’s confident grin and drew’s goofy energy from that driveway photo, she hadn’t planned to wait this long practice was supposed to end an hour ago but something about paige’s earnest “It’s special” kept her rooted, even as her eyelids grew heavy.

Xai shifted, tucking her tight curls under her hood, her deep brown eyes scanning the gym doors, she’d told maya and liam she’d head home after sketching, but the truth was, she wanted to see paige’s face when she handed her the drawing.

The gym doors swung open, and paige stepped out, her navy hoodie zipped over her practice gear, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her blonde ponytail was loose, strands sticking to her sweat damp forehead, and she was laughing, her voice carrying as she waved to her teammate azzi, who headed toward a waiting car.

Paige’s blue eyes swept the lot, landing on xai, curled on the wall, her head dipping as sleep tugged at her, xai’s sketchbook had slipped to her lap, her hands slack, and a soft snore escaped her, barely audible.

Paige froze, her grin fading into something softer, her breath catching. “xai?” she called, her voice low, almost a whisper, as she jogged over, xai didn’t stir, and paige crouched beside her, her duffel hitting the ground.

“Yo, xai, you’re gonna freeze out here” she said, her tone teasing but laced with concern, she nudged xai’s knee gently, and xai’s eyes fluttered open, bleary and confused.

“Wha—?” Xai mumbled, blinking at paige’s face, inches away, those blue eyes sparkling under the streetlight, her heart jolted, and she sat up, nearly dropping her sketchbook. “Oh, crap, i didn’t mean to—” She rubbed her eyes, cheeks warming as she realized she’d dozed off.

Paige laughed, a warm, unguarded sound, and sat on the wall beside her, close enough that their thighs brushed. “You good, sleepyhead? What are you even doing out here? It’s, like, Arctic level cold.” Her grin was all mischief, but her gaze lingered, searching xai’s face.

Xai’s breath hitched, and she pulled the wrapped drawing closer her fingers trembling—not just from the chill. “I… finished it” she said, her voice quieter than usual, her dry wit buried under nerves.

“The sketch, you and drew. Didn’t wanna give it to you in front of everybody, so i waited.” She paused, glancing at paige, who was staring like she’d just hit a game winner. “Didn’t know you’d take forever, though.” Paige’s eyes widened, and she leaned closer, her voice dropping.

“You waited this whole time? For me?” Her usual swagger softened, a flicker of awe crossing her face. “Xai, that’s… i don’t even know what to say.”

“Don’t make it weird, Buckets” xai said, forcing a smirk, but her cheeks burned as she handed paige the package. “Just take it, and don’t, like, drop it or anything.” Paige took the drawing, her fingers brushing xai’s, sending a spark up xai’s arm.

She tore the paper carefully, her breath catching as she revealed the framed sketch, it was stunning paige and drew in charcoal, their driveway moment frozen in time, paige’s arm was slung around drew, her grin cocky yet warm, while Drew’s toothy smile and basketball tucked stance radiated scrappy charm. Every line, every shadow, felt alive, like xai had bottled their bond.

“Whoa” Paige whispered, her voice barely audible, she traced the frame, her eyes shining. “This is… unreal, xai. Like, I’m framing this for drew’s room, but I kinda want it in mine too.” she looked at Xai, her grin wide but soft, like she was seeing her for the first time.

“You’re a freaking genius, Celeste.” Xai ducked her head, her curls falling loose, her heart pounding. “It’s just a sketch” she mumbled, but paige’s awe was unraveling her. “Took me a while to get drew’s grin right. Kid’s got a lot of teeth.”

Paige laughed, clutching the frame to her chest “You nailed it, he’s gonna flip when he sees this.” She paused, her voice dropping, almost shy. “You didn’t have to wait out here, you know. But… I’m glad you did.” Xai met her gaze, those blue eyes pulling her in, and for a moment, the cold, the gym, the world faded.

“You falling asleep out here? That’s some dedication,  You sure you’re not just tryna impress me?” Xai smirked, her wit resurfacing. “Impress you? Please, i just didn’t wanna carry this frame all the way home.”

Paige laughed, her shoulder brushing Xai’s as they headed into the night, the sketch a silent promise of something growing between them, something neither could name yet but both felt in the warmth of their steps.

Paige shifted the frame under one arm, her gaze flicking over xai’s thin denim jacket and the way she hugged herself against the cold. “Celeste,” she said, her voice dropping from its playful lilt to something softer

“you eaten yet? Like, dinner or anything?” She tilted her head, her blonde ponytail swaying, her brows knitting with sudden concern.

Xai blinked, caught off guard, her stomach growled faintly, betraying her, and she realized she hadn’t eaten since a granola bar at lunch, she’d been too focused on finishing the sketch, then too nervous waiting for Paige.

“Uh, no” she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck, her curls bouncing loose from her hood. “I was gonna grab something at home, it’s fine.” Paige’s eyes narrowed, a determined glint sparking in them.

“Nope, not fine” she said, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder and grabbing xai’s wrist with her free hand, her touch warm and firm.

“You’re not going home starving after waiting out here like a popsicle, come on, we’re eating. My treat.” Xai’s pulse jumped at the contact, and she tried to pull back, her wit kicking in to mask her flustered state.

“Whoa, hold up, Buckets, you don’t gotta kidnap me. I’m good.” Paige didn’t let go, her grin turning sly as she tugged xai toward the lot where a beat up silver Honda waited—her mom’s car, borrowed for the night.

“Good? You’re half-asleep and freezing, Celeste. No way I’m letting you walk home like this. Get in, we’re hitting Rosie’s.” She opened the passenger door, gesturing like a chauffeur, her eyes daring Xai to argue.

Xai hesitated, her breath puffing in the cold, rosie’s was a cozy diner in St. Louis Park, all warm lights and greasy comfort food, the kind of place she’d passed but never entered.

The idea of sitting across from paige, just the two of them, made her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with hunger, but paige’s grip was insistent, her smile impossible to resist, and xai’s resolve crumbled.

“Fine” she muttered, sliding into the car, clutching her sketchbook like a shield. “But if the fries suck, you’re in trouble.” Paige laughed, shutting the door and circling to the driver’s side, the framed sketch carefully placed in the backseat.

“Fries at rosie’s are elite, trust me,” she said, starting the engine, the car smelled faintly of gatorade and lavender air freshener, and as they pulled out of the lot, paige cranked the heat, glancing at xai. “You’re gonna thank me when you’re warm and full, Celes” Xai rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips, her fingers thawing against the heater’s blast.

Rosie’s Diner glowed like a beacon on the quiet street, its neon sign buzzing, windows fogged with warmth, inside, the air smelled of burgers and coffee, and a jukebox played a soft Motown tune.

Paige led xai to a red vinyl booth by the window, dropping her duffel and the sketch frame onto the seat, the waitress, a woman with a perm and a name tag reading “Barb” handed them menus, winking at paige. “Back again, kid? You’re gonna eat us out of fries.”

Paige grinned, all charm “Gotta keep the team fed, Barb, this is xai, by the way. She’s an artist, so don’t mess up her order.” Xai’s cheeks burned, and she ducked behind her menu, muttering “Don’t hype me up like that.”

But Paige’s laugh was infectious, and soon they were ordering a cheeseburger and fries for paige, grilled cheese and a chocolate shake for xai, who insisted she’d pay her share (Paige waved her off).

As they waited, paige leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes locked on xai. “For real, though..” she said, her voice softer “that sketch? I’m still freaking out, drew’s gonna lose it when I show him, you put, like… us in there. Not just our faces, you know?”

Xai fiddled with her straw, her heart racing. “I just tried to get you right,” she said, glancing up. “You and Drew, you’ve got this… vibe. Like you’d fight the world for each other. It’s cool.” Paige’s grin softened, her eyes flickering with something deep.

“Yeah, that’s him. My little shadow. Always stealing my ball, talking trash.” She paused, studying xai. “You get that, though. Like, you see stuff other people don’t. That’s why your art’s so good.” Xai’s breath caught, and she looked away, her fingers tracing the table’s checkered pattern.

“You’re making it a big deal,” she mumbled, but paige’s words lit her up, like a spark to her dream of museum walls lined with her drawings.

Their food arrived, and Paige shoved a fry at Xai, grinning. “Eat, Celes, before I start feeding you like a kid.” xai laughed, biting into her grilled cheese, the warmth spreading through her, chasing away the night’s chill.

They talked—Paige about a botched layup in practice, xai about a dallas food truck she missed, their voices weaving easily, like they’d done this a hundred times. paige stole a sip of xai’s shake, smirking when xai swatted her hand, and xai doodled a tiny basketball on her napkin, sliding it to paige with a mock-serious.

“Your next tattoo.”As they finished, the diner quiet except for the jukebox’s hum, paige leaned back, her eyes soft. “Thanks for waiting tonight, Xai” she said, her voice low. “Means a lot, you didn’t have to.” Xai met her gaze, her heart pounding. “Yeah, well” she said, her voice barely above a whisper “I wanted to.” Paige’s smile was slow, warm, like a promise.

She paid the bill, ignoring Xai’s protests, and they stepped back into the night, the sketch frame tucked under paige’s arm, as they walked to the car, aige nudged xai’s shoulder.

“Next time, you’re not waiting in the cold, got it? Text me, and I’m dragging you inside.” Xai smirked, her breath puffing in the air. “Next time, you’re buying me two shakes, buckets.”

Paige laughed, her shoulder brushing xai’s as they climbed into the car, the warmth of the diner lingering between them, a spark growing brighter with every shared moment.

[calexo]

pspspps.. totally not golden groovy woops

ANYWAYS HII!! heard u were open for requests. may i request tammy + qiu with and an artist reader :00

requests of my favorite fandoms are my catnip good gof woa who could this be‽‽ my reqs and my ask box are like always open btw >◡<

extra note/s: I refer to step 1 Qiu as he/him. Uhhh take this as platonic or romantic, I'll add an indicator for romance (𐙚) ^^

more under the cut > o

✧ At 10 years old, QIU's fascinated. How he discovers your interest and skill in arts varies but his reaction doesn't. He's impressed! Whether digital or traditional, Qiu would love to participate especially if you asked him yourself.

For this reason, he carries an extra pen and even those colored ones just in case you get bored or if you're suddenly struck by creativity when you two are playing :3

✧ The first time you show him one of your doodles you made during class, he's compelled to do the same whether or not you actually give him it. And ever since, you two've been exchanging these sketches during class. It's the cutest scene to walk into.

✧ URGH AND THE THINGS HE DOES WHEN YOU TELL HIM ABOUT ART BLOCK DEPENDING ON HOW AND WHAT YOU DRAW

You're into drawing sceneries? Trust that he starts telling you and Tamarack about more "special things" in the forest and/or the town.

Like the sky? There's this clearing a lot further into the forest at your backyards. Stargaze, watch the clouds and the sunset together?

✧ It's also necessary for me to mention that unlike his notes, lazily pressed against eachother and constantly on the run, anything you give him goes to a safe space probably in between a books pages, under the the matress of his bed or inside a drawer/container.

"They broke into my backyard accidentally, 'cause they were on a crazy investigation about a paper airplane. Plus, they got here a day ago and they're already looking out for me. Normally, I'm the one doing that."

"Besides, they're pretty. And they make me pretty. Look! Look how they drew me!"

✧ As for 10-year-old TAMARACK, she's curious. The things you draw, are they based on actual places? Actual people? Oh, you draw based on your imagination? Elaborate.

✧ At some point in the prologue, she says "All the forests in the world are different, and some places don't even have forests. I can show you good spots to find things since you're newer to this forest than me."

And I can't not think of her running up to you to give you all of what she gathered for you to draw like omfg

With all those leaves and tiny branches sticking out of her hair and sweater, she smiles brightly with her hands filled with her treasures. AUGH SHE MAKES ME SO SICK I LOVE HER

✧ Like Qiu, she has her own safe spot designated for only your drawings if you've given her any.

She shows off all of them. Especially if you've drawn her?? It'll be the only thing she talks about during literally any time for the rest of the month and the few months after.

"Out of all the friends I have here, you're the best one. We came to the same exact neighborhood, almost at the same time, and are he same age. You have fun outside and I do too."

"I think you're pretty. How you draw me is pretty! I've never met a kid who was just like me. That's important. That's serious."

✧ Now, 14-year-old QIU's pretty much no different. They're even more impressed when they see just how much you've improved. Nonetheless, they treasure your old drawings just as much as they do they new.

They take the liberty of providing you with both a pen and paper to draw on when you're together, in case you don't bring your sketchbook (if you own one).

On those days where you two just sit in silence in their hideout, their gaze drifts to your side quietly a few times to watch your progress. After a while, they settle with sitting right next to you and watching the stroke of your pen against the paper as the scene forms with each hatch.

✧ As a teen, they've actually been a tad bit farther off the town when they feel like taking a ride on their bike. They've seen many sights and burn the route into their brain for them to tell you about. They'd even be happy as to bring you there themselves.

✧ If you ask them to be your muse, good god you'd need to tell them what to do.

It's almost a funny sight. Qiu, the kid who knew what to do their whole life asks you, "Should I pose? Where do I look? Ah- what's my good side?"

𐙚 They can feel their breath hitch under your scrutiny. Suddenly, they're concious of every single thing about them. Where do their eyes go? Should they move their hands? Is their hair in the way?

They avert their gaze flusteredly, their head ever so slightly moving to the side when they do so.

And good god do their hands clutch the fabric of their pants when you tell them to look at you properly.

✧ Same goes for TAMARACK at 14. She's as intrugued as ever to hear about your work. She admires (you)r style from then till now and has learned to appreciate the time gone into things as simple as this, whether or not you've made it with her in mind. BUT GOD IF YOU TELL HER IT IS, it's always sitting on her desk and she thinks constantly about what you've done for her.

✧ And while she doesn't exactly bring you a pen, she's more than glad to hand you hers when you need it.

✧ Unlike before, she'd now be at your side when you two hung out at her backyard. She'd be sitting across from you, practicing the cello. The hum of her instrument accompanied by the sound of nature and the scratch of your pen against paper gives her a sense of calmness.

This may also be when she realizes she's been your muse! Her fingers trace over where your pen has been and boy appreciate isn't even enough for her to describe how she felt. It was definitely happy, but that wasn't the word either.

𐙚 Her heart pounds alarmingly as she admires your work. It's almost concerning to you that she sits silently with a blank expression as she held your sketchbook in her hands.

But that concern washes off you as soon as a warm smile curls the corners of her lips, tender adoration displayed all over her face.

[fanficgirl429]

Remembering the Past (Mike Schmidt Fluff)

Prompt: Y/N and Mike are going through some of Y/N's old keepsakes and come across a piece of paper that could change everything.

Word Count: 2k

----

Y/N hesitated for a moment before turning the worn brass doorknob of her childhood bedroom. As the door creaked open, a familiar scent of aged wood and faint vanilla—her favorite candle from years ago—wafted through the air. The soft glow of the afternoon sun filtered through the floral curtains, casting golden patterns on the faded carpet.

Stepping inside, she felt an invisible thread pull her back in time. The walls, still adorned with posters of long-forgotten idols and scribbled notes from old friends, whispered stories of late-night dreams and whispered secrets. Her fingers trailed over the edge of her wooden desk, now coated in a thin layer of dust, remembering the hours she had spent scribbling in diaries, pouring out her heart onto lined pages.

But with the good came the shadows of the past. The corner by the window, where she had once curled up with a book to escape reality, also held echoes of quiet tears and muffled sobs. The closet door, slightly ajar, reminded her of the nights she had hidden away, trying to make sense of emotions too big for her young heart to hold.

Despite it all, the room embraced her like an old friend—unchanged, waiting, a tangible piece of the person she used to be.

Her parents were moving into a smaller home and had asked her to go through her bedroom and take what she wanted and trash or donate the rest. 

Her closet contained only a limited selection of clothing, most of which she chose to donate. However, an old blue sweatshirt drew her attention, prompting her to take it out and smile. It had once belonged to her best friend, Mike. She had taken it from him one evening while they were out together, and she had been anticipating his request for its return, which never came.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from the tide of memories, and she turned to see Mike leaning casually against the doorframe. His dark hair was a tousled mess, evidence that he had just rolled out of bed, and the faintest hint of sleep still lingered in his heavy-lidded eyes. In each hand, he held a coffee, the steam curling lazily into the air, filling the space with the comforting aroma of roasted beans and warmth.

For a moment, she just looked at him—at the way the morning light caught in the soft angles of his face, at the easy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Figured you might need a pick-me-up," he said, lifting one of the cups slightly in offering. His voice was still rough with sleep, the kind of sound that sent warmth curling in her chest.

Y/N took a long sip, savoring the rich taste. 

“Have you found anything exciting yet?” Mike asked, looking around her room. 

Y/N shrugged. “Not yet.”

Mike glanced over at her, recognition strewn across his face. 

“Oh my god! You took my sweatshirt. Do you know how long I looked for that?!”

Y/N laughed. “It’s about time you know that I had it!” 

“You’re the worst,” Mike said laughing. “At this point you can just keep it!”

“Don’t mind if I do!” 

The two of them sat in comfortable silence, the quiet hum of the world outside filtering through the window. The warmth of the coffee lingered between them, mixing with the weight of unspoken thoughts.

After a few moments, Y/N set her cup down and shifted to her knees, reaching beneath the bed. Her fingers brushed against something solid, and she pulled out an old shoebox, its once-bright colors now faded beneath a thick layer of dust.

She ran her hands over the lid, tracing the worn edges before blowing softly on the surface. A small cloud of dust swirled into the air, and Mike immediately recoiled, waving a hand in front of his face.

"Warn me next time, would ya?" he said, letting out a small cough.

Y/N smirked, brushing off the last remnants of dust before looking up at him. "Where's the fun in that?"

Mike huffed, but his eyes flickered with curiosity as he leaned in slightly. "Alright, what’s in the time capsule?"

Y/N hesitated for just a moment before lifting the lid, revealing a small collection of keepsakes nestled inside. Time had faded some of the edges, but the memories they held were still as vivid as ever.

Right on top was a stack of old concert and movie tickets, their corners slightly bent and ink a little faded. She sifted through them with a soft smile, recognizing the names of bands and films they had seen together over the years.

Mike groaned the second he caught sight of one particular ticket stub. "Oh, come on. You forced me to sit through that three-hour musical nightmare."

Y/N laughed, holding up the evidence. "You mean the one where you swore you'd rather chew glass than watch it—only to end up humming the songs for weeks afterward?"

He scoffed, crossing his arms. "That was purely against my will. I was brainwashed."

She grinned, flipping through more of the stubs. "And this one—our first concert together. You pretended to hate it, but I distinctly remember you losing your voice from screaming the lyrics."

Mike shook his head, but there was no hiding the smirk tugging at his lips. "Selective memory, I see."

They continued sifting through the box, each stub sparking a different story, a different night filled with laughter, arguments over popcorn flavors, and inside jokes that no one else would understand. The room, once heavy with nostalgia, now buzzed with warmth and shared laughter, as if the past had never truly left them.

“What else is in here?” Mike asked as he rummaged around in the box. 

His fingers closed on a small piece of paper that had been folded multiple times. 

“What is that?” Y/N asked as Mike began to unfold the small piece of paper. 

“Patience is key,” Mike joked as he read what was written on the paper. 

Without saying a word, he handed the paper to Y/N. 

If by the time we are 27 years old and both of us are still single, we will marry each other. 

Both of their signatures were at the bottom of the paper. It was dated almost ten years ago. At the time that this had been written Y/N had feelings for Mike and secretly hoped that the two of them would still be single in the next ten years. 

Over the past years, Y/N’s feelings for Mike hadn’t changed much. If anything, they had only deepened, settling into a quiet certainty that she had never been able to shake. She had dated a few guys here and there, searching for something—or someone—that could make her feel the way Mike did. But in the end, it always came back to him. No matter how hard she tried to move on, he was the one constant in her life, the one person she always found herself wanting to be with.

Mike, however, had been through more than his fair share of hardship over the years. Losing both of his parents had changed him, forced him to grow up faster than anyone should have to. He had taken on the enormous responsibility of becoming the legal guardian of his little sister, Abby, putting her needs above his own without hesitation.

As far as Y/N knew, he had never gone out on a single date. Not once. Maybe he simply didn’t have the time, or maybe he had never let himself think about what he wanted. She wasn’t sure if he would have told her if he had been interested in someone—but she was certain that Abby would have spilled the beans in an instant. The little girl had a knack for sharing the kind of information Mike preferred to keep to himself, and if there had been anyone in his life, Y/N would have heard about it.

And yet, for all their years of friendship, for all the late nights, shared laughter, and quiet moments between them, she had never dared to ask him the one question that had lingered in the back of her mind for years: Did he ever think of her the way she thought of him?

“I completely forgot about that,” Mike said.

“Yea me too.” 

The room was quiet for a few minutes as the two of them continued to flip through the contents of the box. 

Mike placed the ticket stub he was looking at back in the box before saying, “Well I should probably go. Abby’s probably wondering where I am.”

Y/N stood up and Mike pulled her into a hug. “I’ll text you later.”

Y/N watched as Mike left her room and heard him go down the steps before leaving her house.

——

It had only been a few hours since Y/N had seen Mike but she couldn’t stop thinking about that damn promise the two of them had made ten years ago. She wanted nothing more than to be with Mike and she was going to tell him. 

Mike only lived a few blocks away and Y/N slipped on her shoes and headed out the door, calling to her parents that she would be back soon. 

When she arrived at his house, she hesitated a moment before walking inside. Abby turned around and smiled at her from the couch. 

“Hi Y/N!”

“Hi Abby. Is Mike here?”

“Yea, he’s in his room. But I have to warn you- he’s acting kinda weird.” 

Y/N nodded and made her way down the hallway to Mike’s closed door. She tapped on it gently and waited for him to respond. 

“Abby?”

Y/N opened the door a crack and said, “Nope. It’s Y/N.”

“What’s up?” 

Mike was reclining on his bed, holding his phone. Y/N removed her shoes and settled down beside him. He switched off his phone screen and placed it next to him, turning onto his side to look at her. Y/N then turned to face him.

Y/N took a deep breath, before saying what she wanted Mike to hear. “Listen…there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Is everything ok?”

“Yea. Everything is fine.” 

Nerves began to take over and Y/N sat up and turned away from her best friend. She could feel him sit up as well, his hand rested on her shoulder, putting her at ease. 

“I just…I don’t know…ok, look, it has to do with that promise that we found today…”

“Ok…” ‘

“I know that we were young when we wrote it but at the time I liked you.”

Y/N turned around to look at Mike. He looked confused. “You liked me?”

“Yea…”

“You mean, like, you like liked me?”

Y/N let out a soft laugh. “Yes Mike. I like liked you.” 

Mike’s cheeks began to turn a soft red color and he began to pick at the blanket that was on his bed. 

“And…why are you bringing this up now?”

“Because I…” Y/N sighed. “I know that over the past few years I’ve dated a few guys here and there but remember how I said I always felt like something was missing?”

“Yea- you always had a ridiculous reason why you wanted to break up those douches.”

“Those were just stupid excuses. The real reason was because none of them were you…” 

“Me?”

“Yeah you- you dumbass. I never stopped having feelings for you. Somewhere along the way I hoped that you would get jealous and finally say that you wanted to be with me but you never did, so I just continued to see other guys, hoping that my feelings for you would just disappear. But guess what? They never did!” 

Instead of waiting for an answer from Mike, Y/N stood up, grabbed her shoes and walked out of the room. She was too nervous to hear what his response was going to be. 

When she reached the living room, she sat down on the couch with Abby and slid her shoes on. 

“Y/N!” Mike called, running down the hallway. 

“She’s right here!” Abby yelled back. 

Y/N glared at Abby just as Mike came to a stop in front of her. 

“I love you,” Mike blurts out. 

“No way!” Abby said, standing up. “It’s finally happening.” 

“I’ve loved you since freshman year of high school. I love spending time with you. You make me laugh, and you’ve been with me through everything. I never said anything because I love what the two of us have and I didn’t want to ruin that,” Mike blurted out. 

Mike took a step closer to Y/N and placed his hands in hers and pulled her closer to him. His hands moved to her waist as he leaned down and placed his lips against her’s, kissing her gently. 

“Yes!” Abby cheered, making Y/ and Mike laugh. “It’s taken you two long enough.”

“Ten years to be exact,” Mike said. 

[magnoliasandarson]

ice and stone, deadweight redux

In an odd sort of self-punishing way, Jason Todd liked to visit his own grave.

When he first "came back" he had half-crawled back to the unforgiving stone and thrown up, hysterically panicking when his mind told him it was dirt leaving his lips. He had wept and screamed until his voice gave out, trapped in a hellish loop of warring phantom sensations. One second, he was burning alive- the next, suffocating on icy mud.

But that was then, and this is now.

Now, he had once again been unable to keep his cool at a Wayne family function. Now, he had shattered an expensive-looking crystal glass in his fist and stormed out of the formal dining room. Now, he was a monster to them again. Merry-fuckin-Christmas.

So, here he sat, perched six feet over where his corpse once lay, and mourned the boy that should exist instead of him.

It was oddly festive in the cemetery. Blood-red poinsettias and fragrant garlands adorned every other monument, with little LED candles glimmering here and there. The rubble of Sheila Haywood's marble gravestone sparkled in the reflection of bright city lights—like twinkling stars shining accusingly over at him. Sue him, but Jason had taken a crowbar to her marker almost immediately after arriving in Gotham.

He stared at the epitaph: Rest in Peace. There was crystal from his glass still embedded in his hand, glittering like diamonds amidst the rivulets of blood leaving his palm. His eyes followed the journey of the shimmering scarlet over his thigh and down to the powdery snow under him.

He didn't really remember crawling out. The pits had taken away the brunt of the scars, but there were still white lines traced into the tan skin of his hands. He didn't care to think about how deep the scarring must have been for it to stay.

Jason found himself trapped, staring at the red flowers blooming beneath him. Some part of him wondered if the blood would find its way to the wreckage of his casket, to the gore he'd left in his wake so long ago. Logically, he figured Dick would wander over soon, once he got done yelling at Bruce and arguing with Damian.

He never guessed it would be Tim.

"Hey," Jason would never in a million years admit it, but he was privately a little pleased that Tim had come looking for him. He had fucked up so spectacularly with his brother, had given him every reason to despise him- to want him dead, and yet, here Tim was. Awkwardly standing just on the other side of Jason's headstone, face pinched like he'd eaten an especially sour lemon.

Jason tilted his head up, something in his neck cracking as his chin left his sternum, "Sup, Timbit."

Tim looked genuinely pained as he stepped around the grave and lowered himself to sit a few feet away on the snow, "Y'know, just seeing the sights, festive lights, my brother bleeding out in snow- the holiday favorites."

Jason barked a laugh as something in his shoulders loosened, the kid was a bit of a bastard but he was funny, "You get forced to check on the charity case?"

"Drew the short straw, yeah," Tim's face was pale, save for the red coloring his nose, "do you need a med kit?"

Jason Peter Todd; Beloved Son and Friend. Jason's lips half formed the words as he read them over again; when the blood started roaring in his ears, he clenched his fist around the shards- the fresh wave of pain grounding him, "This won't kill me."

"That's not what I asked," the vehemence in Tim's words snapped Jason out of his half-daze, electric teal eyes landing on furrowed eyebrows and a stormy gaze, "Jason, are you okay?"

Jason huffed a weak imitation of a laugh, "Is anyone in this family?"

"This isn't about them," Tim immediately countered, a line on his forehead forming. Jason hated himself for it, for making Tim look like that. This was his little brother, a kid, really, and he looked twice his age because he was forced to babysit the family basketcase.

Jason used his non-gory hand to reach into his jacket pocket and take out a cigarette. "Just tired, Tim," he tucked the unlit cigarette between his lips, lighting it up as he muttered, "That's all—just tired."

Tim's face blurred behind a cloud of smoke, for a moment erasing the unlived age from his features, "You should get more sleep."

"Hypocrite," Jason snapped back with no real heat. It was true; he should have been the one telling Tim to sleep.

The smoke cleared between them as Jason took a long, deep drag. Tim looked half apologetic as he almost whispered, "This family's specialty."

Jason scoffed, unable to stop himself from nearly shouting, "You don't need to tell me that," he pointed his cigarette to the ice-glazed stone before them, "I'm not even a Wayne, Mr. CEO Drake-Wayne." It was cruel, it was mean, but Jason couldn't force himself to care.

Tim's face contorted again, coloring up to his ears with old anger and bitterness. Some cruel part of Jason's mind cheered. Finally, the kid was going to be honest. Go on, yell at the boogeyman who hurt you, tell him to go to Hell. Really end the holiday with a bang. The kid took a long, controlled breath, and evenly asked, "Are you okay, Jason?"

Jason grimaced at the bullshit question, pressing his bloody palm into the scarlet snow as he stood, flicking his spent cigarette at Sheila, "Just dead weight, Tim,"

He turned his back to the boy shivering on the snow, "That's all I ever was."

[ganondoodle]

its still rough but as far as im gonna get for now, cant decide on the tentacle colors still nkfdnvkdfn

possible name for lad is Pan or Paktolos (just bc .. reference to midas legend even if this midas got nothing to do with it; oh yeah, a bonus midas sketch .. he needs a proper redesign too)

tentacle lad may look mean here (i genuinely dont know why i drew him like that) but hes a big sappy softie, even carries a picture of midas in a locket around- next to the demon teeth hes collected he doesnt leave the island much anymore and mostly manages everything on it, his people call him by royal titles sometimes bc hes been a very competent leadership figure but he doesnt put value in any titles-

he rescued midas from the demon hunters that kidnapped him years ago to bring one of the biggest and most influencial empires to collapse after his older sister, who was the empress, was unexpectedly dying- midas being the next in line the empire doesnt really exist anymore at this point, midas now leading missions around the island instead, or going around keeping up to date with politics and tensions since his husband (tentacle lad) and his people are of a kind that is largely being kept a secret and would be a target for demon hunters as well, despite them not being demons (they look monstrous but are more based on animals, are native to earth, cannot change form, age only somewhat slower than humans and have no control over any elemental magic more than a very skilled human can have- which is basically not even noticable and usually gets passed off as 'talent' in the way a skilled sailor can feel the approaching weather in the wind)

[tuxedoe]

༻ A New Kind of Lost ༺

WC - 3k ish

Synopsis - Dean discovers a nephilim out in the dead of the night. Against everything he knows, he brings her back to the bunker.

AUTHOR'S NOTE - First fic i've posted!! Barely proofread. I have plentyyyy of drafts that i could hypothetically finish if you guys want me to... Send recs in my inbox if you want something specific lmao

The Impala’s headlights cut twin streaks through the oppressive black of the Iowa night. The air hung heavy and still, thick with the scent of damp earth and the unseen rustling of unseen things in the endless fields flanking Highway 65. Dean gripped the wheel, the steady rumble of the engine the only sound against the deep, swallowing silence of the countryside. He was hours past the lazy orange sunset now, the moon a sliver hidden behind a heavy blanket of cloud, casting the world in shades of deepest grey and impenetrable shadow. The salt-and-burn felt like a lifetime ago, the lingering scent of sulfur almost a phantom memory against the metallic tang of the Impala’s aging interior. He just wanted to be back at the bunker, the familiar weight of lore books and the comforting presence (however exasperating) of Sam a bulwark against the encroaching darkness that always seemed to press in on them.

Then, his headlights snagged on something pale at the edge of the asphalt. A figure. Standing utterly still on the narrow shoulder, facing away from the road, swallowed by the suffocating black beyond the reach of his beams. A hitchhiker in this desolate stretch, in the dead of night? It sent a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool night air crawling up his spine.

He slowed instinctively, the classic rock on the radio suddenly feeling too loud, too brash against the oppressive stillness. Most people, stranded this late, would be frantically waving, a desperate silhouette against the encroaching void. This figure was a statue carved from moonlight and shadow, unnervingly serene in its isolation.

As the Impala crept closer, Dean’s hunter senses, usually lulled by the monotony of a night drive, snapped to attention. The figure was slight, almost fragile-looking, too young to be out here alone in this godforsaken darkness. The clothes – a light-colored t-shirt and jeans, stark against the black – seemed almost spectral. And the stillness… it was unnatural, as if they weren’t breathing, weren't even truly present.

He drew almost level, his foot hovering over the brake. Then, the figure turned its head. Slowly. Too slowly. The movement was fluid, unsettlingly graceful, like a predator swiveling its gaze in the dark. And then he saw the eyes.

Even in the brief flash of his headlights, they burned with an unnatural luminescence, a piercing pale blue that seemed to drink in the darkness around them. They locked onto his, not with surprise or fear, but with an unnerving, absolute focus that felt like being pinned under a cosmic gaze. There was a depth to them that belied the youth of the face, an ancient knowing that sent a primal unease crawling through Dean. This wasn't just a stranded traveler. This was something else. Something that belonged to the night, to the shadows.

He jammed on the brakes, the tires protesting with a screech that ripped through the silence. He killed the engine, plunging them into an almost absolute darkness, broken only by the faint glow of the dashboard. The sudden quiet was heavy, charged. He could feel the prickling sensation on his skin, the instinctive tightening in his chest that always preceded a confrontation with the truly unknown.

He waited, his hand instinctively reaching for the Colt tucked beneath his seat. The figure remained motionless, its pale eyes still fixed on him, as if studying him in the darkness. The air grew colder, a subtle, creeping chill that had nothing to do with the outside temperature.

"Hey," Dean called out, his voice tight, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. "You alright there? Need a ride?"

The figure didn't answer. It just continued to stare, its head tilted slightly, as if listening to a sound only it could perceive. The silence stretched, taut and unnerving, filled only with the frantic thumping of Dean’s own heart.

Then, it spoke. The voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet it carried with an unsettling clarity in the still night air. "The light… it changed. Then the ground under my feet was… different. I don't understand how."

"Light? Changed?" Dean echoed, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "What are you talking about?"

"There was a bright light. It made a path. When I stepped through it, this place was here instead of where I was before." Her words were simple, almost childlike in their directness, yet delivered with a detached curiosity that's utterly unnerving.

"A path?" Dean pressed, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. This isn't just confusion. This is a profound, almost literal interpretation of something deeply supernatural. "Where were you before?"

She looked down at her hands, turning them over, as if expecting to find answers etched on her skin. "A warm, quiet place. It felt like… waiting. Then, I just knew I had to move." She lifted her head, her pale blue eyes finding his again. "Are you from this place? Or did you also… just appear?"

Dean blinked. "Appear? No, I'm just… a guy. Name's Dean. What's yours?"

"Morgan," she stated, no hesitation, no emotion. "My name is Morgan."

"Alright, Morgan," Dean said, trying to re-center himself. This is way beyond just a lost kid. "You got any ID? A phone? Someone I can call?"

She shook her head, slowly. "I don't have anything like that. I only have myself." She gestures to her simple clothes. "These were… on me."

"On you?"

"Yes. Like a second skin. They were there after I moved."

Dean rubs his temples. Okay. Definitely not a random traveler. This is full-blown, sci-fi level weird. "Look, it's getting dark, Morgan. You can't stay out here. You got anywhere to go?"

Her pale eyes meet his again, and for the first time, Dean detected a flicker of something akin to uncertainty, perhaps even a nascent fear. "I don't know where I am, or what I'm supposed to do. My thoughts are… not complete."

That's it. That’s the click. Not just the words, but the sheer, vulnerable blankness behind them. Dean, who usually threw holy water at anything this fundamentally wrong, finds himself doing the unthinkable. He sees not a monster, but a being as lost and new as a newborn animal, thrown into a world it can’t process.

"Alright," he said, the word surprising himself. "Come on. I got a place. It's safe. We can… figure things out there."

She scrutinizes the car, then him, then the car again. "This vehicle," she says, her head tilting. "It looks heavy, but strong. Is it yours?"

"Yeah, it's mine," Dean grunts, opening the passenger door. "It'll get us off the road."

She slides in, her movements fluid and deliberate, almost too graceful, as if she's still getting used to inhabiting her own body. Dean gets back behind the wheel, throwing a quick glance at her. She’s already staring out the window, her gaze fixed on the receding cornfields, her expression one of intense, calculating study. He starts the engine. She doesn't flinch, just observes the rumble beneath them.

The drive to the bunker feels like a scene from a bad sci-fi movie. He tries to glean more information, but her responses are always this bizarre blend of simple language and profound ignorance.

"Do you remember anything before the light?" Dean asks, keeping his tone even.

"There was just me," she explains, her voice even. "And someone else. She was close. My… mother."

"Your mom?" Dean clarifies.

"Yes. Her presence was warm. Then, a strong pull inside me, and the path opened. She told me to go."

Dean’s jaw tightens. "She told you to go?"

"Yes. She said, 'Go, Morgan. Live.' Then the light was too bright to see, and I was here."

That last part. Go. Live. It hits Dean with a chilling clarity. The way she talks about "light," about a "path," her lack of memory for anything before, her utter detachment from normal human experience… and that mother, who initiated her arrival.

Holy hell.

His mind immediately goes to Jack. The wide-eyed, powerful, painfully innocent kid who literally popped into existence fully grown, struggling to understand humanity. Morgan is like that. So much like Jack. The same bewildering innocence, the same raw power just beneath the surface. Jack had been the son of Lucifer, a creature of unimaginable power, and look how much trouble that had caused. This girl… Morgan. She could be anything. And her power, unchecked, could be just as catastrophic.

He steals another glance at her. She’s watching the passing power lines, her head tilted slightly, an almost childlike fascination in her pale eyes. She seems to be tracking the electricity, sensing something he can’t. Like Jack could sense grace.

A nephilim. The word forms in his head, cold and definite. He just picked up a nephilim on the side of the road. On Highway 65, in the middle of Iowa. The irony burns a bitter taste in his mouth. Him. Dean Winchester. The guy who distrusts anything with wings or a halo. He's driving a nephilim to his own home.

But then he looks at her again. She’s not threatening. Not malicious. Just lost. And alone. And he remembers Jack. He remembers the initial fear, the suspicion. But then… the growth. The bond. The eventual, undeniable love. This girl, Morgan, she feels… similar. Like a raw, untamed force wrapped in the shell of an innocent. And she is so utterly, profoundly lost. He can't just leave her out there. Not now. Not when she's so clearly… one of them. Or, at least, something they had to deal with.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The Impala purred to a stop in front of the bunker's massive concrete doors. The setting sun cast long, dramatic shadows across the facade.

"This building," Morgan says, her pale eyes sweeping over the bunker's entrance. "It looks hidden. Is it safe?"

Dean allows himself a grim, almost ironic, smile. "Something like that, Morgan," he says, pulling to a stop. "It's a safe place. My brother's inside. He'll… he'll help us figure out what's going on with you." He cuts the engine.

He gets out, walks around, and opens her door. She steps out, looking up at the imposing concrete structure. The air here is quiet, only the distant hum of the bunker's ventilation system breaking the silence.

"It is… very strong," Morgan observes, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch the rough concrete of the wall. She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them, a faint flicker of something unreadable passing through them. "It feels… old. Deep."

"Yeah, it's pretty old," Dean confirms, leading her towards the massive steel door. He punches in the code, the familiar whirring and clunking of the locks filling the air. The door groans open, revealing the cool, dimly lit corridor beyond.

Morgan enters first, her head slowly turning, taking in the long hallway, the exposed pipes, the faint glow from the library beyond. "The inside is… consistent," she murmurs, a small, almost imperceptible nod. "And cooler."

Dean follows her in, the heavy door thudding shut behind them, sealing them away from the world. He leads her down the main corridor, past the rows of dusty shelves, the low hum of the bunker providing a strange, comforting backdrop. He can already smell a hint of Sammy’s half-eaten pizza lingering in the air.

He guides her towards the kitchen, the most neutral territory in the bunker. "Let's get you some food," he says, his voice gruffer than he intends. He gestures to a chair at the long wooden table. "Take a seat."

Morgan slides into the chair, her movements still precise, almost too deliberate. She looks at the table, then at the empty chairs, then back at Dean, her eyes wide and curious. "Food?" she asks, the single word holding a wealth of unasked questions about the concept.

Dean opens the fridge, rummaging. "Yeah, food. You eat, right? Like… pizza rolls? Or a burger?" He pulls out a bag of frozen pizza rolls, holding it up.

"I am not familiar with these items," Morgan states, her gaze fixed on the bag. "But… I am sensing a… need. An internal pull." She places a hand over her stomach.

Dean manages a small, strained chuckle. "Yeah, that's hunger, kid. We can fix that." He grabs a baking sheet and dumps the rolls onto it. He can practically feel Sam's presence approaching, a steady thrum in the bunker’s quiet.

Sam Winchester, who had been hunched over a dusty tome in the library, straightened up, his brow furrowed in immediate suspicion. Dean rarely prefaced anything with such a dramatic statement, and the sight of the stranger Dean was escorting – a young woman who looked barely out of her teens, with a lost and slightly bewildered air about her – only deepened his unease.

"Sammy, you are not going to believe this," Dean says, his voice a low rumble as he leads Morgan through the main war room, where Sam is now standing, observing. She looks around with wide, unfocused eyes, taking in the cavernous space, the towering bookshelves, and the flickering fluorescent lights with an almost childlike wonder.

"Believe what, Dean?" Sam asks, his gaze flicking between his brother and the girl. She's dressed in a simple, slightly stained t-shirt and jeans, her hair tangled as if she’d been running a hand through it repeatedly. There's nothing overtly threatening about her appearance, which only makes Sam more cautious. Dean’s usual companions in tow are either victims, sources, or something decidedly more monstrous. This… feels different.

"Found her on the side of Highway 65, just south of Nora Springs," Dean explains, his hand lightly resting on the small of the girl’s back, more to guide her than restrain her. "Walking like she didn't have a damn clue where she was going. Asked her if she needed help, and… well, here we are."

Sam’s eyes narrow. "Just… walking? In the middle of nowhere?" Highway 65 isn't exactly a bustling thoroughfare, and anyone walking along it looks either stranded or up to no good. Dean picking up a random hitchhiker, especially one who looks this vulnerable, is wildly out of character.

Morgan finally speaks, her voice surprisingly soft and clear. "The light… it changed," she says, her gaze still fixed on the ceiling. "And then the ground was… not the same. I don't understand how."

Dean exchanges a quick, uneasy glance with Sam. "She's a little… out of it," he mouths, before turning back to Morgan with a forcedly reassuring smile. "It's okay, kid. You're safe here. This is… a friend's place."

Sam clears his throat. "Dean, who is she?" He needs answers, and the vague explanations aren't cutting it. He knows his brother. This isn't just a case of a Good Samaritan act. There’s something Dean isn’t saying.

"Her name is Morgan," Dean supplies, looking at her expectantly.

"Morgan," Sam repeats slowly, his mind already racing. There are too many unanswered questions. "Do you remember how you got to the highway, Morgan?"

Morgan frowns, her brow furrowing in concentration. "There was… a strong pull. And then… the road. The cars were loud." Her explanations are fragmented, disjointed, and deeply unsettling.

Dean steps forward slightly. "Look, Sammy, she was clearly distressed. Didn't know where she was, didn't have any ID, no phone. It was getting dark. What was I supposed to do? Leave her for some trucker to find?"

Sam knows that argument is paper-thin. Dean had left plenty of people in far less precarious situations if his gut told him they were trouble. This protectiveness is unusual, almost… fatherly, in a way Sam hasn't seen since they were kids.

"And you didn't think to call the local authorities?" Sam counters, his voice laced with suspicion. "Or even just bring her to a gas station?"

"She seemed… scared," Dean says, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly as he looks at Morgan. "Like she wouldn't trust them. Besides…" He hesitates, then lowers his voice. "There was something about her, Sam. I can't explain it."

Sam’s hunter instincts go on high alert. "Something like what, Dean?"

Morgan tilts her head, her innocent gaze fixed on Sam. "You smell… like worry," she states matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather.

Sam blinks, taken aback by her bluntness. He does worry, constantly, but he doubts it has a discernible smell. He looks at Dean, who seems equally surprised by her comment.

"Okay," Sam says slowly, trying to maintain a calm demeanor. "Morgan, do you remember anything else? Where you were before the highway? Do you have any family?"

Morgan shakes her head, her expression clouding with confusion. "No. Just… the pull. And then the light."

Dean sighs. "Look, she's clearly not in her right mind. Let's just get her some food, a place to rest for the night, and figure things out in the morning." He steers Morgan towards the kitchen, where the pizza rolls are waiting.

Sam watches them go, his mind reeling. Dean’s uncharacteristic behavior, Morgan’s strange comments, the complete lack of any plausible explanation for her appearance – it all adds up to a big, flashing red warning sign. And yet… there's something undeniably vulnerable about the girl. She seems genuinely lost and confused, not malicious.

He follows them into the kitchen, where Dean is pulling a tray of golden-brown pizza rolls from the oven. The cheesy aroma fills the air.

"Pizza rolls?" Dean offers Morgan, setting the tray on the table.

Morgan's eyes widen slightly. "Food?" she asks, as if the concept is foreign to her.

"Yeah, food," Dean chuckles, a hint of genuine amusement in his voice. "You eat, right?"

"I… I think so," Morgan replies, her brow furrowed again. "There was a taste… sweet. Like sunshine."

Sam and Dean exchange another look, this one tinged with a shared, dawning realization. The "pull," the "light," the strange sensory descriptions… it all sounds disturbingly familiar.

"Morgan," Sam begins carefully, "do you know what you are?"

Morgan looks at him, her eyes wide and uncomprehending. "A… person?"

"Well, yeah," Dean interjects quickly, shooting Sam a warning glance. "But… have you ever felt… different? Like you could do things other people can't?"

Morgan considers this, her gaze drifting towards a stack of chipped mugs on the counter. Without consciously seeming to try, one of the mugs wobbled and then gently floated a few inches in the air before settling back down.

Dean and Sam stare, their earlier suspicions solidifying into a grim certainty.

"Okay," Dean says, his voice now devoid of its earlier casualness. "Maybe pizza rolls can wait. Let's go sit down."

He guides Morgan to the main war room table, the weight of the revelation settling heavily in the air. Sam follows, his mind racing through the implications. A nephilim. And Dean had brought it – her – back to the bunker. The same Dean who had a healthy (and often vocal) distrust of anything even remotely angelic.

Once they're seated around the large wooden table, Sam leans forward. "Morgan," he says gently, "do you know who your parents are?"

Morgan shakes her head again, her expression a mixture of confusion and a growing unease. "No. Just… her. She was kind. But then… the light."

"Her?" Dean asks, his voice tight.

"Yes. My… mother?" Morgan offers, the word sounding foreign on her tongue.

Sam presses on. "And your… other parent? Do you know anything about him?"

Morgan frowns, her eyes flickering with a faint, golden light that vanishes as quickly as it appears. "He was… bright. Like the stars. But… far away."

The pieces click into place with a sickening finality. A human mother, a celestial father. A nephilim. Just like Jack Kline, but… different. Younger, more lost, and found by Dean under the most bizarre of circumstances.

"Dean," Sam says, his voice low and urgent. "You realize what this means, right?"

Dean runs a hand through his hair, his usual confident demeanor replaced with a look of troubled uncertainty. "Yeah, Sammy, I kinda figured it out when the mug started doing its own damn thing." He looks at Morgan, his expression softening again. "She doesn't seem like… you know… bad."

"They never do, Dean," Sam counters, the memory of a certain other nephilim still fresh in his mind, despite the eventual outcome. "They're powerful, unpredictable. They're targets."

Morgan flinches at Sam's tone, her wide eyes filling with a hint of fear. "Target?" she whispers.

Dean immediately places a reassuring hand on her arm. "Hey, it's okay. He just means… things can be complicated." He shoots Sam a sharp look. "Lay off her, Sammy. She's scared and confused."

"I'm just being realistic, Dean," Sam insists. "We don't know anything about her. Her parentage, her abilities…"

"She doesn't even know she has abilities," Dean retorts, his protectiveness kicking into high gear. "Look at her, Sam. She's like a newborn fawn who wandered onto the highway."

"But a fawn that can probably level this bunker without even trying," Sam reminds him, his voice firm. "Dean, you know the lore. Nephilim are dangerous. Angels and demons will be after her."

Morgan looks from Dean to Sam, her confusion deepening. "Angels? Demons? What are you talking about?"

Dean sighs, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He hadn't thought this far ahead when he’d seen her lost and alone on the side of the road. His gut had just told him she needed help, a feeling he hadn't questioned until now.

"It's… a long story, kid," Dean says to Morgan, his voice gentler this time. He looks back at Sam, a plea in his eyes. "Just… give her a chance, Sammy. Let's figure out what's going on before we jump to conclusions."

Sam looks at his brother, at the unusual vulnerability in his expression, and then at Morgan, who sits at the table looking utterly lost and bewildered. He still has a mountain of reservations, a deep-seated fear of what a nephilim could be capable of. But he also sees a flicker of genuine innocence in her eyes, a stark contrast to the inherent danger she represents.

He lets out a long breath. "Okay, Dean," he concedes, though his voice still holds a note of caution. "Okay. Let's figure it out."

Dean offers Morgan a small, hesitant smile. "See? Told you he was a friend."

Morgan looks at Sam, a tentative question in her gaze. "Friend?"

Sam manages a small, tight nod. "Yeah, Morgan. We're… friends." He knew it was a lie, at least for now. But as he looks at the bewildered young woman and the uncharacteristic protectiveness radiating off his brother, he knows their lives have just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The rest of the evening is a slow, cautious dance. Dean pulls out a few of the untouched pizza rolls, and Morgan watches him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. He tries to explain, in simple terms, how to eat them. She mimics him, her small bites deliberate, her expression changing as she processes the flavors. "It is… warm," she says, tasting the tomato and cheese. "And… satisfying. The internal pull is lessened."

Sam, meanwhile, has retreated to the library, the low murmur of his voice as he talks on the phone with Castiel barely audible. Dean catches snippets – "...found her on the highway… a nephilim… no, like Jack, but… completely lost…" The tension in Sam's shoulders, even from a distance, is palpable.

Dean gives Morgan a quick tour of the living quarters. He shows her an empty bedroom, a spare set of clothes he digs out from a closet, and the bathroom. He explains how the shower works, how to use the toilet. She absorbs it all, her pale eyes wide, asking simple, direct questions about mundane things. "This… water… it falls?" "This cloth… it makes the body clean?"

It's unsettlingly familiar, the echoes of Jack's early days. The same profound ignorance of human custom, the same innocent gaze that belies immense power. Dean finds himself strangely calm, perhaps because he's done this before. He knows how to guide a cosmic being through the simple intricacies of human life.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Later, Dean finds Sam still in the library, pacing. "Cas is on his way," Sam says, running a hand through his hair. "He's… concerned. Said he'd get here as fast as he can."

"Figures," Dean mutters, leaning against a bookshelf. "What'd he say about Morgan?"

"Not much he could, without seeing her," Sam replies, sighing. "Just confirmed what we already know. Nephilim are powerful, a threat to Heaven and Hell, and a beacon for anything looking for power." He pauses, looking at Dean. "You really think she's harmless, Dean? She's not like Jack."

Dean shrugs. "She's not like anyone I've ever met, Sammy. Except maybe… Jack. She's got that same confused look, like a puppy who just realized it has opposable thumbs. Give her a chance. We'll figure it out." He knows the skepticism in Sam's eyes is justified, but something in him just can't write Morgan off. Not yet.

"Alright," Sam says, though the word comes out laced with exhaustion. "It's late. We'll get some sleep. Try to get some more answers tomorrow."

Dean nods. He walks Morgan back to the bedroom he's set up for her. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, the borrowed clothes a little too big.

"Is this… my resting place?" she asks, looking up at him.

"Yeah, kid. You sleep here. We're just down the hall." He points vaguely. "If you need anything, just… yell. Or something."

She nods, her expression unreadable. "I understand. I will try to think about everything that happened today during this 'sleep' period."

Dean manages a small, tired smile. "Sounds like a plan." He lingers for a moment, then backs out, closing the door softly behind him.

The bunker settles into a tense silence. Dean heads to his own room, the familiar scent of old leather and dust a faint comfort. He strips down, tossing his clothes into a pile, then collapses onto his bed. The day's events replay in his mind: the desolate highway, Morgan's pale, questioning eyes, the floating mug. He can still hear the simple, yet profound, quality of her voice.

He closes his eyes, exhaustion pulling him down. He’s brought a lot of things into the bunker over the years – monsters, demons, angels, even Death. But a nephilim, completely new and utterly lost, found on the side of a highway… that's a new one.

It’s going to be a long night. And a much longer tomorrow. Dean drifts off, the quiet hum of the bunker the last thing he hears, the faint, persistent whisper of Morgan echoing in his mind.

[alfafilly]

Dyo concept art! It's so wild to me I only made him barely over a month ago, it feels like it's been ages! What went through my silly lil brain while making him is under the cut! It's long and rambly, though lol

History first: Darkrai have been in my top fav pokemon for uhhh I guess since The Rise of Darkrai, really?? I have a particularly fond memory of watching the movie broken up into a dozen 480p quality 9-minute parts on YouTube back in 2007. I watched it with my friend in either AIM or Yahoo Messenger! All I remember is us crushing over Darkrai being a lil deviantART emo boy looool I have joked on and off over the decade+ since that Darkrai was my "husband".

I've collected Darkrai TCG cards and have only a couple pieces of misc merch, so I've mostly only been a casual long-term fan. However, my partner got me that Astral Radiance Darkrai trainer box for Christmas and it made me fondly reminisce on the movie. Ended up watching it soon after and HELLO NEW HYPERFIXATION!

When designing Dyo my only prompts were "cunty Darkrai" and "This is my Husband". As I thought more into it, I specifically wanted him to have a couple features design-wise:

Leggies

A neck lol

Big hands for crushing me with

Scars (because my type is injured old men I guess)

He took on more animal qualities in his features as I doodled him. That wasn't really intentional, I'm just a one trick pony I suppose. I did not plan for him to have paws or a beak, for example. He was just born that way.

I wanted his body to be more humanoid, which is why he doesn't have the big carapace-chest-thing Darkrai have. I love that on Darkrai but I did not love that on Dyo specifically. Why? It's in the way for top tier cuddling! I don't wanna cuddle a carapace, okay?! I'm a carapace-cuddling HATER! There I said it!! To kinda make up for it, he just has a more stylized basic-bitch man chest and I made his neck collar have more pronounced spikes. I thought about making all the spikes big, but then his face would be covered in certain angles.

I've seen different versions of Darkrai with mouths and found it kinda funny we all give them goopy jack-o-latern styled shapes. Why do we DO that?? I ended up changing his bottom jaw to be like a graboid because I had an epiphany while at work and couldn't let the thought go. God, what a freak!

Misc:

His hand scars line up with the chest ones (as if he covered his face during impact) but it wasn't until I made the final ref that I realized I drew the scars incorrectly in all the concept art OOPS

I wanted him to have a mini-skirt initially, but I draw it different lengths now. Since Darkrai legs aren't real legs but some kinda appendages they stick out, I head-canon the skirt is made up of some weird matter he can shapeshift and the longer he makes his legs the shorter his skirt becomes LMAO

Nikki Minaj Booty?? I dunno. Don't look under there. That's private!

Darkrai hands are kinda funky in a lot of official art (especially in the TCG) so in addition to his thumbs being secret when idle, he also gestures his "thumb" as an index finger. They're just silly!

Originally his personality was a lil more moody which is why he looks like he has Resting Bitch Face.

He wasn't originally meant to be shiny. I honestly don't know why I made him shiny? I probably just thought the color scheme fit his personality more. Though I did end up making his eyes stay blue because I really liked the look of blue scars/fleshmeat and didn't like him having green eyes. It just looked weird to me? So I made the choice to just make his pupil green instead.

Last but not least... I named him Dyo after Dio Brando from Jojo because it just clicked and felt?? Right?? I didn't wanna name him that at first, though, because my partner and I breed mice and one of them is named Dio and it felt awkward having an OC named after a pet mouse loooool But I just couldn't stop thinking about how perfect it was! So I settled with keeping the name, but giving it a dumb spelling to match my Lugia OC Cady (pronounced Katie), to which he is Frenemies with.

Since designing him, several of his features keep getting more pronounced, namely his skirt, paws, and not-tail. What's he gonna look like by the end of this year?? Who knows!!!

I'm really, exceptionally happy with his character design. He's got really fun shape language and has been just super duper fun to draw!Honestly, he came out better than my plans for him! I feel like he still reads as a Darkrai but feels very "me".

Thanks for reading~

[bitchinbarzal]

Elodie breaks a bone and insists her dads whole team signs it

It happened on the playground.

One minute, Elodie was showing off her new trick on the balance beam. The next, she was flat on her back in the wood chips, holding her arm with an expression that screamed: this is very dramatic and possibly historic.

By the time Kaia arrived at school, Elodie had already told the nurse, two teachers, and a kid from the second grade that she’d probably never use her arm again. She was a pro at this point. Her last break had been two years ago — she still had the signed pink cast in her closet like it was a museum piece.

At urgent care, when the nurse asked if she’d ever broken a bone before, Elodie nodded solemnly. “Left arm. Age three. Livingroom table. Daddy’s old girlfriend yelled. It’s kind of my thing.”

Clayton showed up during x-rays, wide-eyed and breathless straight from the rink. Elodie beamed when she saw him. “Hi Daddy. I broke it again.”

The break was clean. No complications. When the tech wheeled in the casting materials and asked what color she wanted, Elodie didn’t even blink.

“Pink. With glitter. Obviously.”

The next day, they were at the rink before practice and Elodie was already cradling her cast like a precious gem. She marched right into the locker room like she owned the place. “Okay,” she announced, holding it out like royalty. “It’s time.”

Clayton turned from lacing his skates, confused. “Time for…?”

“My cast,” Elodie said seriously. “You need to sign it. You and the entire team.”

Kaia, standing just behind her with Weston on her hip, mouthed an apologetic sorry to the guys.

But the team? They were already grinning. Keller’s kid? No way were they saying no to her.

Logan Cooley drew a full cartoon of himself scoring a goal. Doaner signed with a motivational quote that was far too deep for a seven-year-old. Kess added a glitter sticker and wrote “Queen Bug Forever” in bubble letters.

“Save the top,” Elodie told them all. “That spot’s for Daddy.”

Clayton signed it last, slow and neat across the curve of her cast:

“Love you always — Dad.”

She looked at it like it was a trophy.

That night, as Kaia helped her brush her teeth one-handed and tucked her into bed, Elodie yawned dramatically. “I think this is the best cast yet.”

Kaia smoothed her curls. “Better than the first one?”

“Way better,” Elodie nodded. “More glitter. More autographs. Higher drama.”

Kaia laughed. “You planning on doing this again or…?”

Elodie grinned. “Only if the monkey bars ask for it.”

Kaia rolled her eyes. “Okay, maybe we skip the monkey bars next time.”

As Kaia turned off the light and kissed her forehead, Elodie whispered, “They all signed it. Even Kess. He said I’m tough.”

“You are,” Kaia whispered back.

And in her bed, cast propped carefully on a pillow, Elodie Keller fell asleep with a smile. Because breaking her arm? Not ideal. But making it a whole event?

Now that was what she did best.

[quibbs126]

So a couple of days ago, I decided “you know what? I might as well try my hand at human designs for the Cookies”. Granted I only did the bust because I’m lazy. But yeah that’s what this is

And in addition to that because I thought it’d be fun, I gave myself a rule that the characters can only have natural skin, hair and eye colors, unless their character would make relative sense to have dyed hair or colored contacts, as you can see with Princess and Wildberry

I drew Dark Choco and Dark Cacao first since they’re my hyperfixations, they should be the first ones I draw. And then I drew the Hollyberry family because with their pink and blue hair, I thought it’d be fun to try and change them. But after I finished them, I didn’t know who else to put nor did I have a lot of room, so I just left it at them

I’m just gonna list random things about the designs now

I’m not entirely sure where Dark Choco and Cacao’s streaks come from, but I couldn’t just get rid of them. For Dark Choco, I’d say either dye or stress, and for Dark Cacao, either stress or age (though given he’s had them streaks since a young age, stress is probably the more likely option)

I gave Dark Cacao grey eyes, but maybe I should have gone with black instead. Probably more realistic. And for that matter dark eyes probably would have been the better option for Wildberry too. Hm

I admit, I probably should have gone with a lighter red for Hollyberry, Royal Berry and Princess’s hair, but I gave them that shade since I thought Hollyberry would look good with dark red hair

I really didn’t want to draw Hollyberry’s hair, it was a pain. I’d much rather draw it down, but the updo is more accurate to her, so eh

Royal Berry looks like a barber to me

I made Jungleberry and Tiger Lily’s hair black because I feel like it’s a thing for blue to be a substitute for black, like in older movies and such, so I did it the other way around, and also it wouldn’t make sense for either of them to have dyed hair

This was my first time drawing Jungleberry and I quite liked drawing her

Drawing Princess here was what finally got me to understand just what her hairstyle is supposed to be. I know I’ve seen it before, I think in Berserk, but I don’t remember who had it so I can’t show you a picture of what I mean. But I get how her hair works now

Speaking of her hair, I admit, I took liberties with making her hair curly, especially since no one else in her family has visibly curly hair, but to be honest I think I did that because I have dark red coily hair that’s also curly. So I was probably just taking reference from myself. I also share dark brown eyes, but I have no trace of her melanin, I am very pale

I made the red/pink eyes brown since I figured those were the closest colors and a good translation, but I ran into a problem when I realized Jungleberry already has brown eyes. So just shh there, ignore it

I don’t know how dreads work I apologize

In my head Wildberry dyes his hair red because that’s Hollyberry’s hair color, hence why it’s red and not pink

And I think that’s about it. I’ll probably do more of these since this was fun, but I don’t know when or who I’ll do next

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for my fanart and how I responded to someone's negative reaction of it?

Okay so some background to start. I'm (genderfluid, 18+) in a fandom that was originally a book and got a live action adaptation several years ago. The adaption is MUCH more popular than the book series and honestly very different from it (a lot of characters have different backstories, the main character doesn't have a brother in the adaption, and ages were changed) but very few people have read the book series. (Admittedly, the fandom is not very big. It's actually the smallest one I'm in, which means I'm kinda limited in the number of people to interact with) Anyways! I'm in a discord (it's 18+ tho I don't know the actual ages of anyone else involved) for this fandom and although they promote themselves as being for both book and adaptation fans, according to the roles I am one of five people of the 40+ people in the server who have read the books, so that's not a lot.

Now, for Valentine's day I made fanart of the main couple, the mc and his wife (they get married in the series. In the books they are already together in the beginning but the adaption wanted drama and decided to not have them be together in the beginning. One of the changes that I very much do not like.) They're the most popular ship in the fandom. I love them. Anyways, I shared it in the Discord for Valentines and did not get a nice reaction.

See, in the books, both characters are white, but in the adaptation the wife is black. (The mc looks different in the adaptation too, shorter and with different hair and eye color, but he's still white) I drew the book version, because that's what I like. They're my blorbos.

Another person in the server took MY art and recolored it so that the wife was black and posted it in the server with a comment about whitewashing characters of color. I told them that I didn't whitewash her and that it was really fucking rude to edit someone else's fanart. They replied that she was black, I was racist, and posted a screenshot of a Google search asking the race of the actress who plays the wife in the adaptation. I replied with a screenshot of the her books' fanwiki page and said that my fanart was of the books and if they wanted fanart of the adaptation they could make it themself. They asked how they were supposed to know it was from the books since nobody read them and they were shit. I replied that they could realize the mc AND his wife looked different, that I read the books, and they were better than the adaptation, and how would they know if the books were shit since they obviously hadn't read them?

Anyways then the mods stepped in and made us break it up. One of the mods (the only one to have read the books) dmed me and told me that they understood my frustration and that another mod was talking to the person I had been fighting with about respecting other people's work but I needed to understand that assuming I was racist and whitewashing wasn't going to be uncommon since the books weren't as popular as the adaptation and I needed to be respectful when people confronted me with this. I replied that if the other person had confronted me directly and not just assumed the worst and edited my work I would have been more respectful. The mod agreed that the other person was out of line, but the whole thing seemed to be one giant misunderstanding so neither of us were getting strikes against us this time.

Anyways, the mods added some rules about not editing people's work and a thing in the announcements channel explaining the differences between the books and the adaptation but everything in the server has been really tense especially since people in the server started vague posting on Tumblr, some people favoring me others favoring the other person. I blocked the person I fought with on Tumblr but neither them nor I were involved in the vague posting.

(also idk if it matters but I'm white, idk the ethnicity of of anyone else involved)

So! Tell me, AITA?

What are these acronyms?