#i repeat this is not my design this is my friend

[annafayeink]

Canvas of Lies

summary: Cate’s life is a careful balance of paint-splattered sweaters, rejection emails, and dreams too big to fit in her tiny apartment. Lu’s life is all charm, designer sneakers, and family obligations that come with impossible expectations. They’re best friends, polar opposites—and suddenly fake dating to help Lu survive a high-stakes family dinner. What starts as an improvised act becomes a whirlwind of tangled stories, unspoken truths, and moments that blur the line between pretend and reality. In the chaos of lies they craft together, Cate and Lu might just uncover the truths they’ve been avoiding all along.

warnings & tags: best friends to lovers; fake dating; mutual pining; slow burn; emotional hurt/comfort; fluff, angst & humor; eventual romance & smut;

Chapter Five | Read on AO3

Chapter Six

The hairstylist and makeup artist Lu had hired for me had both left a little while ago. It was just me now, alone with my reflection. The guest room was familiar—but the reflection was not. I’d barely recognized myself at first, but I had to admit they’d done a damn good job.

The loose, haphazard waves of my hair that I usually let dry on their own had been styled into something smooth that cascaded over my shoulders. Dark liner traced my lashes, just enough to sharpen their shape without overwhelming them. A touch of shimmer at the inner corners made them catch the light—just like the intricate beading of the dress.

The woman who stared back at me in the mirror looked… polished. Elegant, even. It wasn’t a transformation—I still looked like me—but there was an undeniable difference. A refinement.

I pick up my clutch and take one last sweeping look around the room to make sure I’m not forgetting anything. My spare charger is still plugged to the wall beside the bed, but I always keep it here anyway. There’s a hair tie on the nightstand that I don’t even remember leaving there but I’m not gonna need it tonight. The shorts and shirt I always sleep in are already neatly folded on the top drawer of the dresser, so Lu can’t accuse me of being a slob this time.

I ran my hands down the front of my dress, smoothing out invisible wrinkles before turning to leave with a slow exhale.

Lu hadn’t seen me yet.

Stepping out of the guest room, I gathered the fabric of my dress slightly so I wouldn’t trip over the hem. My heels clicked softly against the floor as I moved toward the living room, where I knew he was waiting.

Lu was standing near the kitchen island, back towards me. His suit is a deep shade of charcoal, a midnight blue undertone catching the light just enough to complement my dress. The top buttons of his shirt were still undone, making him look like some kind of magazine spread.

He looked effortlessly good. Like he hadn’t even tried—as usual.

As I approached, I noticed he was messing with the cuffs of his suit jacket, brow slightly furrowed and lips pouting in concentration. But then he glanced up at me.

And froze.

For a second—just a breath of a moment—he didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. His hands stilled at his cuffs, his lips parting slightly as his gaze dragged over me. Slowly, like he was trying to take in every detail. Like he was seeing me for the first time.

I shifted under the weight of his stare, heat creeping up my neck. “You’re staring.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes darkening ever so slightly before he finally blinked, like he had to remember how. “Cate.” His voice came out quieter than usual, almost like he was saying my name on instinct rather than forming an actual sentence.

I arched a brow, biting back a smirk. “Yes, that is my name.” 

“Yeah.” His voice came out almost dazed, softer than usual. Then, clearing his throat, he repeated, “Yeah. I, uh—damn.”

A laugh bubbled in my throat. “That’s all you’ve got? ‘Damn’?”

He dragged a hand through his curls, still looking a little thrown. “Give me a second. I wasn’t ready.” He gestured vaguely in my direction, his eyes flicking up and down like he still couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. “I mean, look at you.”

His voice was different now—lower, rougher, like the words weren’t quite enough for whatever was running through his mind.

I shifted my weight and shrugged, keeping things easy. “Not bad for someone who usually leaves the house in paint-stained jeans, huh?”

He huffed a laugh, still looking at me like he hadn’t entirely recovered. “Yeah, well… I think I’ve been criminally underestimating what’s under all those paint stains.”

Something flickered inside my chest—dangerous, warm, entirely unwelcome.

I ignored it and rolled my eyes, pretending like I wasn’t entirely affected by the way he was looking at me. “Don’t start getting weird on me now.”

“Too late,” he muttered, still staring.

I exhaled a quiet laugh. “Anyway, I left my sneakers here last time, right? I’m gonna need those when I escape these torture heels later.”

Lu finally blinked, like he was physically shaking himself out of whatever spell he’d been under. “Yeah, they’re in the rack by the door. You planning your exit strategy already?”

I grabbed my clutch off the counter and shot him a look. “Obviously. You think I’m making it through an entire night in these without casualties?” I lifted my foot slightly, the elegant navy fabric of my dress shifting to reveal the delicate strap of my heels. They were stunning, sure, but they were also a calculated risk. The kind of shoes designed more for aesthetics than comfort.

He leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed. “You should just bring a pair of flats to keep in my car.”

I snorted. “What, start keeping emergency backup shoes here? You trying to suggest I move in again?”

A smirk curled at his lips, effortless and a little too knowing. “You do leave stuff here all the time. Sneakers, makeup, sweaters… And somehow you always steal my hoodies.”

“—okay, the hoodie thing is totally normal. Friends borrow each other’s stuff,” I argued.

Lu tilted his head. “You’re not borrowing them. You just kinda… claim them.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s how it works, Lu. Finders keepers.”

His smirk deepened. “That’s why I keep finding your stuff in my closet?”

I scoffed. “Okay, that was one time. I left a sweater in the laundry and you hung it up—big deal.”

He shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. “Guess I’ll have to start keeping a Cate section in my wardrobe.”

Before I could retort, he straightened and pushed off the counter. “C’mon, we should go. Fashionably late isn’t a thing with my mother.” 

“Wait…” I walked over to him and grabbed the tie draped over the counter. “You're forgetting something. Come here.”

His tie was a slightly darker shade than the accents on his suit, matching the exact tone of my gown—a subtle coordination that I knew wasn't an accident.

He stepped closer without a word, the space between us shrinking until I could feel the warmth radiating off him. My fingers brushed lightly against his chest as I finished buttoning his shirt. I tried to ignore how solid he felt under the fabric, pretending I didn't notice how his breath hitched ever so slightly at the contact.

Then I looped the silk tie around his neck with a practiced motion. I focused on the knot, fingers moving automatically, but my thoughts drifted. I was halfway through an Eldredge knot when it hit me.

How normal this was. How natural. How close we always stood. How easily we existed in each other’s space without thinking twice. This wasn’t new. This was us. Whatever happened tonight, it wouldn’t change that. We’d still have this.

I tightened the knot gently, the silk gliding between my fingers as I looked up at him. “You nervous?” I asked, my voice quieter now, like I didn’t want to break the moment.

He exhaled slowly, and I felt the warmth of it ghost over my cheek. “Not nervous, just… not looking forward to all the pretense and theatrics.”

I nodded, letting my hands linger for a second longer before stepping back to check my work.

He reached up to feel the knot, smiling. “Seriously? You learned this one?”

I shrugged, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Well, someone had to. You can never get it right.”

There was something about seeing him in a tailored suit that hit differently. It fit perfectly. The crisp lines emphasized the broadness of his shoulders, the slim cut accentuated his frame, and the dark fabric contrasted against his skin. 

Suddenly, I had the unsettling realization that I was also staring a little.

I snapped my gaze up. Lu caught me looking, and his smirk immediately turned smug. “Don’t start getting weird on me now,” he echoed.

I huffed a laugh, following him out the door. “Too late.”

The estate was everything I expected and more. Grand, imposing, something that’s not just meant to be a home but a statement—the kind that screams old money and control. I remember Lu once joking it looked like a hotel for emotionally repressed aristocrats and now I could finally understand why. Everything was elegant and sharp lines, from the perfectly trimmed hedges to the windows that probably cost more than my entire apartment.

There was already a line of luxury vehicles ahead of us, each one greeted by gloved valets and ushered into some underground car dimension I would never be rich enough to comprehend.

We pulled up to the circular driveway and Lu put the car in park, turning to me with a crooked smile. “Last chance to run away.”

“Yeah, like I would ever leave you alone with the wolves,” I replied. “Besides, I wouldn’t make it too far in these heels.”

He snorted, then glanced at me with that calm, grounding look he always seemed to have in moments like this—steady, unwavering. I hadn’t even realized how tightly I was clutching my purse until my fingers loosened, the tension slipping away like the receding tide.

Lu got out first and circled around the car to open my door himself, offering me a hand as I stepped out. We walked up the steps with my hand looped around his arm, steadying each other.

The inside of the house was just as extravagant. The reception area was a cathedral of chandeliers, polished floors and gold accents. The air was filled with the soft hum of soft jazz, and the gentle clink of champagne flutes. 

Everywhere I looked, people were either subtly scanning the room or leaning in close to exchange pleasantries laced with intent. Every smile looked just a little too sharp around the edges.

Lu guided me through the crowd with effortless familiarity, greeting a few guests by name, offering nods here and there. 

I had just enough time to take a breath before I spotted her—his mother, Marina, standing near the marble staircase with a glass of white wine and that same unreadable expression she wore the night before. Regal. Composed. Frostbitten.

“Come on,” Lu said under his breath. “Might as well get this over with.”

We made our way over, and I pasted on the kind of polite smile that felt just shy of a mask.

“Mother,” Lu greeted smoothly. “You remember Cate.”

Her eyes flicked to me with that same slow scan she’d given me in his apartment—only now it was framed by a crowd and decades of social training. She smiled, technically, though nothing about it touched her eyes.

“Cate, how lovely to see you again,” she said, with a tone that made it sound like she hoped it would be the last time she saw me. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to make it. You look… very polished.”

“Thank you, that’s so much kinder than I expected” I said, keeping my tone pleasant while already simmering on the inside. “And happy anniversary.”

Her gaze lingered just long enough to make me want to squirm, then she turned to signal someone behind her. “Oscar. Come say hello.”

A man in his mid-sixties approached from a nearby conversation. He looked like an older version of Lu, with the same sharp jawline, same hazel eyes, same dark curls—even though his were already turning a little grey here and there. 

“Papà, this is Cate,” Lu said, after a brief hug.

“Cate,” Oscar greeted, offering a handshake. “Glad you could join us.”

He didn’t smile, but his tone was smoother than Marina’s. More neutral. He looked me up and down subtly, assessing. And then I saw it—the faint wrinkle of disapproval behind his otherwise calm expression. He was better at hiding it than Marina, but I could tell he agreed with her. About me. About my “relationship” with Lu.

They really were invested in making him miserable because of his love life choices.

Before the silence could stretch any further, two voices cut clean through the hum of the room.

“There you are!”

I turned just in time to see two women making their way over—beautiful, magnetic, and moving with the effortless confidence of people who knew exactly how to own a room. Their energy was a welcome rush of air, slicing through the heaviness like an open window in a stifling corridor.

They swept Lu into a flurry of hugs and cheek kisses, talking over each other, already laughing. Watching them, it didn’t take long to realize who they were.

His sisters.

And for a second, all I could think about was how ridiculously unfair this gene pool was.

Lu introduced the taller one—almost his height—as Francesca. She had Marina’s icy blue eyes but none of her chill, sharp cheekbones that belonged in an old painting. There was warmth in her, immediate and disarming, like she chose to look at you with kindness.

“Cate, we’ve heard so much about you!” she said, turning her attention to me with a smile.

“You have?” I smirked, glancing sideways at Lu, who was now doing a spectacular job of pretending he wasn’t suddenly interested in the pattern on the floor.

“He never shuts up about you, you know,” Francesca added cheerfully.

“Could you not?” Lu muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

The other woman—shorter than Francesca but curvier, with honey-blonde hair and soft hazel eyes—wrapped me in a hug before Lu could even finish introducing her.

“I’m Giovanna,” she said, hugging me like we’d known each other for years. Something in my spine eased just a little.

“We were starting to think you didn’t actually exist,” she teased, shooting a look at her brother.

Lu rolled his eyes and stepped back to my side, fingers grazing the small of my back in a touch so familiar it made me want to lean into it. The tension that had knotted itself under my ribs since we walked in loosened considerably.

There was something undeniably human about the two of them—their warmth, their humor, the way they nudged and needled Lu like only siblings could. It was like a pin had popped the formality balloon, and suddenly I wasn’t floating alone in some cold, glittering vacuum.

“We’re so glad you came,” Giovanna said, looping her arm through mine with casual familiarity. “Seriously. Our brother’s been smiling more lately, and it’s honestly suspicious.”

Something about the way she said it—so light, so offhanded—landed somewhere soft in my chest.

I didn’t think Lu had changed. Not really. He still teased me when I overwatered my plants, still rolled his eyes at my awful coffee, still talked too fast when he got excited about some new AI project he was building. He’d always been like that with me.

But maybe that version of him—unguarded, warm, a little chaotic—was starting to seep into the rest of his life. The parts of him his family didn’t usually get to see.

And maybe they were finally noticing.

Maybe this night wouldn't be all barbed looks and quiet judgment. Maybe some corners of his world were warm enough to breathe in.

And somehow, the thought that I might’ve brought that warmth with me—that maybe I was part of what made him lighter—made something flutter low and deep in my stomach.

But then Marina’s voice floated back in, smooth as silk and twice as cutting.

“Shall we move into the dining room? I believe we’re ready to begin.”

Lu’s hand grazed mine—brief, grounding—and I followed the crowd, reminding myself not to let the mask slip. 

The mahogany table stretched almost the length of the dining room—long, rectangular, and intimidating. Every place setting gleamed with gold-rimmed plates, polished silver, crystal glasses that chimed if you even thought about touching them.

Lu slowed beside me, scanning the place cards. His jaw tensed the moment he spotted his name—followed by Anastasia Ricci, two seats to the right of his father.

I followed his gaze down the table. My name sat halfway down the table like an afterthought—like punishment. Far enough that even conversation would be out of reach. I was seated beside Giovanna.

Lu turned to his mother with a smile so tight it might as well have been drawn on with wire. “Interesting seating choices, Mother.”

Marina didn’t even blink. “It’s just a table, Luigi.”

“Funny. Looks more like strategy.”

She lifted her glass and smiled towards a group of arriving guests, effectively ending the conversation.

Giovanna showed up beside us, her tone breezy but loaded. “Don’t worry, little brother,” she murmured, linking her arm with mine. “I’ll take care of your girl.”

Lu’s gaze flicked to mine. We didn’t need words. I nodded, subtly, and he sighed, reluctantly peeling away towards his seat beside Anastasia.

I slid into my chair next to Giovanna, trying not to wince at the visual across the table. Anastasia was already leaning in, her hand grazing Lu’s arm under the guise of laughter. She was animated, smiling too hard, her body angled entirely towards him.

Lu didn’t touch her back. Didn’t encourage her. But he didn’t exactly shut it down either.

I hated it.

And it wasn’t just because she’s grating. It was because Anastasia got to sit beside him, acting like she belonged there even though he couldn’t give two shits about her. It was the way she clearly thought she already owned him, no matter what. 

I forced myself to look away, grabbing my wine glass instead.

“She’s laying it on thick tonight,” Giovanna said dryly, swirling her wine. “Mother must’ve promised her something.”

I snorted softly. “Like a prize horse?”

“Exactly.” She lifted her glass in mock salute. “Win over the prodigal son, get a villa.”

I glanced towards the head of the table and caught Oscar pressing his lips together. It was barely noticeable, but Giovanna saw too.

“That’s his ‘I don’t approve but I won’t start a war about it’ face,” she said. “Trust me, I know it well.”

“You think that’s about Anastasia?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. He absolutely wants Luigi to marry Anastasia,” she said with a shrug. “He just thinks Mother’s playing it too aggressively. And the more she pushes…”

“…the more he pulls away,” I finished.

Giovanna gave me a look. “See? You get him.”

I glanced back across the table—Lu was angled slightly away from Anastasia, keeping a polite distance while she spoke animatedly beside him. He wasn’t laughing at anything she was saying.

Then—his eyes found mine. Just a glance. Just a second. But it was enough to stop everything else.

In that moment, we didn’t need words. The noise and glitter of the room fell away, and it was just us again. The way it always was.

He was telling me he hated everything. That he didn’t ask for any of it. That I’m the only one he wanted to be sitting beside.

I gave him a knowing look and smile. It’s okay, I tried to say with just that. We’ve got this.

He blinked slowly, the corner of his mouth tugging up just slightly. Then he looked away, back to the performance he was stuck playing with Anastasia.

“God, you two are disgusting,” Giovanna said beside me, amused. “You just had an entire conversation without saying a single word.”

I blinked, barely holding back a grin.

“We do that a lot,” I said, and the words came out a little too easily—like a truth I didn’t have to think about. Like it had always been that way.

Giovanna tilted her head, studying me with something softer in her expression now. Less teasing, more observant.

“Yeah,” she said after a pause, “I can see why Luigi’s so in love with you.”

I froze. The words hit me harder than I expected.

I didn’t flinch, didn’t react outwardly—but something inside me jolted. A small, sharp twitch that made my breath catch for just a second too long.

My first instinct was to laugh it off. But I couldn’t even do that, could I? I couldn’t say ‘he’s not’, or ‘give that man an Oscar’ because wasn’t this the whole point of our arrangement?

We were supposed to pretend we were in love. That was the deal. That was the line. There were rules and a script and carefully fabricated lies. 

I couldn’t deny it. Not without throwing the whole charade into question, not without making it obvious that something wasn’t adding up.

But this didn’t feel like a part of the rehearsed story. It wasn’t a line we’d practiced or a move we’d planned. 

This was someone else saying it out loud—so casually, like it was obvious, like it was real. 

It shook something loose in my chest that I hadn’t realized was even there. I reached for my wine glass again, needing the distraction. The bitter warmth steadied me more than I wanted to admit.

I’d prepared for the judgment. For the scrutiny. For his mother’s cold glares and Anastasia’s smug little smiles.

But this?

I hadn’t prepared for this.

After a stretch of silence, Giovanna spoke again, her tone light and decisive.

“I’ve decided we’re going to be friends,” Giovanna said, pulling me back with the kind of certainty only middle children and therapists usually have. “Mother sat me all the way down here for a reason, you know.”

I tilted my head. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I’m absolutely her least favorite kid.” She grinned, lifting her glass in a casual toast. “Middle child, family disappointment, emotional liability. I check all the boxes for the title of ‘black sheep.’”

I laughed—quietly, but genuinely. It felt good. Unexpected, but good.

You get why she didn’t seat you with Luigi, right?” Giovanna said, her voice dipping softer now, like she wasn’t just making conversation anymore. “She wants you to feel like a plus-one. Temporary. Decorative.”

She tilted her head, eyes scanning the room.

“And if he hadn’t gotten up this morning and decided to color-coordinate with you—very hot, by the way—you might’ve just faded into the curtains.”

I glanced down at my gown, the deep navy silk catching the light like rippling water.

“I’m… trying to take that as a compliment.”

Giovanna’s smile warmed, softer now, more sincere.

“It is one. You’re making waves, Cate—even when you don’t mean to.”

My gaze drifted back across the table. Anastasia was laughing at something Lu didn’t say, leaning in too close, her smile practiced and bright. Lu, meanwhile, looked like he was mentally calculating how many exits were in the room.

“I hate this,” I murmured, before I could stop myself.

Giovanna followed my gaze, then leaned in, her voice low and steady.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’re the one he looks at like he can breathe again.”

My stomach did a small, traitorous flip.

I should’ve laughed. Rolled my eyes. I really just wanted to say something breezy like “He’s just a good actor,” or “We’ve rehearsed this a lot.” But the words caught somewhere in my throat.

Because I couldn’t say any of that. And worse—part of me wasn’t even sure if I’d be lying or telling the truth anymore.

So I said nothing.

I just smiled tightly, like I’d accepted a compliment I wasn’t sure how to take, and reached for my wine again—like maybe the glass could anchor me better than words.

This was supposed to be pretend. A favor. A façade. 

But here was Giovanna, someone smart and sharp and way too perceptive, looking at me like this was the most obvious thing in the room.

How the hell is she seeing all of this?

I kept my gaze steady, kept my breathing calm, but beneath the surface, something was shifting. Cracking.

Across the table, Lu glances my way again. Our eyes meet, and I swear for a moment we’re not surrounded by crystal and judgment and strategic seating.

We’re just us.

And suddenly, I can breathe again too.

As dessert plates were cleared and the servers began their subtle ballet of resetting the space, Giovanna leaned toward me again.

“After dinner, a bunch of people from the art scene are showing up,” she said casually. “Some of them are old gallery contacts. I’ll introduce you.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “You… know people from the art world?”

She gave me a flat look that was all mock offense. “Cate. I’m a disaster, not uncultured.”

That pulled a laugh from me—real, sudden, and a little brighter than I expected. “Thank you.”

And I meant it more than I could explain. For the support. For treating me like I belonged. For seeing me.

A soft chime from the far end of the room drew everyone’s attention.

Marina was already rising from her seat—graceful, composed, as if she’d spent the entire evening rehearsing for a portrait no one asked her to pose for. Oscar stood a beat later, pushing his chair back with quiet precision, the kind of quiet that spoke of lifelong conditioning.

And just like that, the spell broke.

Chairs scraped back from the table in a polite chorus, conversations rose in volume like a tide returning, and guests began their elegant migration toward the lounge. Crystal glasses clinked, laughter rebooted, and dessert plates were promptly forgotten.

Across the room, Lu stood—not slowly and politely.

Immediately.

Anastasia was mid-sentence, one hand gesturing delicately in his direction, but he didn’t so much as glance at her. He didn’t wait.

He was already moving.

His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the chaos of the room faded into background noise. His steps were steady, unhurried, but unyielding—like he’d been holding back all night and now that the barrier had lifted, he couldn’t get to me fast enough.

I barely registered her disappointment as he made a direct beeline towards me, like gravity has suddenly decided it worked differently just for us.

Giovanna let out a quiet, amused chuckle at my side. “Dramatic,” she murmured into her wine glass. “I approve.”

I stood just as Lu reached me, heart thudding a little too loud for comfort. And when he got to me, he didn’t just stop and speak—he reached for me.

Without a word, Lu pulled me into a hug.

Not showy. Not performative. Just… real.

One arm curved around my waist, the other up between my shoulder blades, anchoring me like I was the only real thing he had left to hold onto. His forehead brushed my temple for just a beat—long enough to breathe me in.

And just like that, the noise of the room faded.

It was solid and grounding, like he needed the contact just as much as I did. Maybe more.

His cheek brushed the side of my head before he drew back just enough to see my face. I didn’t even realize how much I needed it until I felt him wrap around me like that. Not for the crowd. Just for me.

For a second, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at me—searching, checking, like he was making sure I was still here, still me, still okay.

Like the whole night had been leading to this exact moment.

Then, low enough for only me to hear:

“I’m going to kill her.”

I huffed a soft laugh, the tension cracking just a little at the edges. “She’s trying really hard, huh.”

“To get me to elope.” He rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “With an audience.”

His fingers brushed against my waist again, warm through the silk. The dress didn’t feel like someone else’s now. His voice dipped.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Giovanna kept me sane.” I glanced to the side and smiled. “She’s surprisingly awesome.”

“She’s the best one,” he said without hesitation, and Giovanna—still pretending not to eavesdrop—flashed us a smug smile over the rim of her glass.

Lu’s knuckles grazed gently along my cheek, and I leaned into it before I could stop myself.

“Thank you for surviving that,” he murmured.

“Thank you for making it obvious who you’d rather be sitting with,” I replied, just as quietly.

His smile came slow and quiet—lopsided and entirely his, the kind that only ever belonged to me.

“Always.”

And just like that, the tension of the evening began to unravel—one look, one touch at a time.

--

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[iodine-art]

drew @avianhasnodignity's fursona for art practice. im so happy with how this turned out.

[lucabyte]

i feel like people are sleeping on the occam's razor situation of how buckwild it is to outright accuse a guy of being a clone of your friend even if you DO have a lot of circumstantial evidence. there's other options is what im saying. they could just be like. a guy. that's a sensible deduction. you should explore that deduction. ignore my shirt that reads I <3 RED HERRINGS.

i still think odile has the correct theory on lock but she's smart enough to know it needs like... a real smoking gun to be able to bring it up without sounding insane.

anyway. (mirabelle voice) i know its rude to speculate but has anyone else noticed the grieving? they seem to be grieving. does anyone have any thoughts on the grieving? i have some thoughts on the grieving.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Out of curiosity sake… have you drawn our man Marvel Ryuji- I mean Sabertooth?

i think the absolute funniest thing about this ask is i planned for my last rgg drawing To Be Of ryuji and sabertooth cause i couldnt Not think of the design similarities

evidently i never drew that so For You my friend i give you a quick vic :]

[spacebar2]

Chat I'm insane. I'm insane. I'm. I did it again. It's Wilson Weed all over again. Chat. Chat.

THESE WERE MADE FROM JOKES CHAT.... JOKES.. AND NOW I WANT TO MAKE A WHOLE AU WITH ALL OF THEM.. IT'S WEEDBUR ALL OVER AGAIN.. sobs

𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴bur (Freakbur), Aphabur and Skibidibur. Guys...

(Characters, not creator. Not a supporter of William Gold) (just reminding you guys, even on a silly post like this.)

[choppedsouldreamer]

The stupid imp wishes for pats :3

AWWWWWW, I can't say no to that face smh, absolutely adorable. KITTY IMP H4LL!!!! I'm gonna work on something for you and @glitchy-across-aus soon, I'll try and get to it as fast as I can but for now it will be a surprise hehe...anyway have a little gacha interaction of me and CSD giving your silly son head pats, he deserves it. I STILL CAN'T GET OVER YOUR GREAT DESIGN FOR H4LL HOW DO YOU DO IT COLA??? RAHHHHAHH /silly

welcome back to my inbox btw, it has been a while since I have seen you here lol

[miodiodavinci]

i saw that you used to hint at oc stuff on twitter (don't ask me why im digging im looking for zola stuff lmao) why don't you post more about them?

i am simply terrified that if i post oc things online someone will steal the concept and run with it faster and better than i ever could have and then i will be devastated forever and ever

more seriously i have very little to show for any of my oc things (adhd brain making life difficult as per usual awawawawawa) and every time i've shared oc things in the past i've ended up never following up on it and it makes me feel bad and guilty so i've just convinced myself i will Never talk about my ocs until i have something substantial i can put out there

[orcelito]

Crochet Update

I'm making the fluffiest afghan in existence.

This is what the pattern's image is lol. I'm working on the middle rn. It is so fucking fluffy.

Also I don't think I showed the finished scarf I was making 🤔

This lil guy. Yes. It was very good practice.

I've also been working on a double crochet scarf (?) with yarn thats so small it might as well be thread hfkshfkd. It has a rly nice texture & I'm enjoying the pattern that's showing on it. Nice and crisp. Very different from the undefined fluffiness of the WIP afghan lol, though they both use double stich crochet. The afghan is turning the double stitches into V stitches though, so there are holes in it. Such is the way of an afghan, I suppose 🤔

Everywhere I've seen has cautioned against using dark yarn as a beginner bc it's hard to see your stitches with it. And Yeah, it sure fuckin is, but I've been getting by through sheer stubbornness bc I Love the color black. So I am Making black things. As is my RIGHT!!!!

[ectocs]

i will write about my ocs. i will talk about my ocs. i will write with my ocs in google docs even if they go nowhere. i will talk about their backstories. i am not afraid to do any of the above.

[mostly-imagines]

Sugar on the Rim vol. I

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

warnings: implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), mentions of sex, smut in next part

You twist the stem of the wine glass around between your fingers slowly. Your chin rests atop your knees as you stare vacantly at the tiny puddle left of the drink. You could go refill it, but then you’d have to go back out to the main room and man…you really do not want to do that. So you’ll sit here, swiping your tongue across the bumps of the roof of your mouth as if it's a fascinating new discovery.

The creak of hinges has you shooting upright, your back thumping against the stair step behind you. You’re not immediately sure how to act as though it’s normal that you’re sitting in the stairwell outside the fundraiser rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesn’t look like you’re alarmed at the sight of another person, but not so relaxed that you look as bored as you are.

Your neutrality stutters when you glance up to find the host of the fundraiser. The billionaire host of the fundraiser. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire host of the fundraiser. Your posture straightens right back up and your mouth snaps shut as you make eye contact.

Should you stand up? 

No, he’s rich, not royalty. 

You are in his house though—

He looks you over contemplatively, “I don’t know you,” It’s not accusatory, rather he says it like it’s something interesting.

You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. “Oh, uh, no—” the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, “I’m just a plus one for my boss—”

“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed. 

“Arthur Mullins.”

He looks to the side, squinting, “Mullins…he’s the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?”

You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like he’s processing through something. “I’m Bruce,” he says warmly after a moment, holding his hand out to you.

You nod before you can even think to get any words to come out, “I—yeah, I know,” you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.

There’s a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. “A pretty name.”

“Oh, it’s just…” Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.

He smiles kindly anyway, “What are you doing in here? Party’s out there, or so they tell me.”

“I…I’m hiding in here,” you admit sheepishly.

He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret—so am I,” he smiles at you like it’s easy.

Your grin matches his, “It’s your party,”

“That’s why I need to hide.” He tilts his head, “Doesn’t give you much of an excuse though, does it?”

“I don’t know anybody here.”

He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, “Your boss.”

You shake your head, “I’m just his assistant. I’m pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.”

He laughs at that, “Based on the way I’ve seen Mullins’ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.”

Well, he’s certainly right about that. Your boss doesn’t exactly “have it together” per se. He’s an unorganized man with little to justify his importance in Gotham, so he tends to insist on taking on more responsibility than he has any business having. Not to mention, he’s a bit of a try-hard and you’re constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say he’s necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. It’s honestly a bit exhausting to watch. It’s more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.

You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. “Mr. Mullins has…a unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, I’ll give you that.” You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “But that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I don’t know anyone, so..”

“Well then it sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he ribs, “Or don’t you agree?”

You smile coyly, “I would never be so bold.”

“I don’t mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.”

You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce.”

“Mr. Wayne,” you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. “I think he’s just networking.” He doesn’t have the money to give.

He nods surely, “He’s definitely just networking.” He really doesn’t have the money to give. You allow just the faintest wisp of a smile to adorn your face as you look down again.

You check the time and realize that you’ve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasn’t already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, “I should..”

He turns his head to the closed door where the chatter can be heard from beyond, sighing in defeat as he shakes his head looking back at you. “So should I.”

You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown you’re wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and you’re sure someone as wealthy as Bruce Wayne would know the difference.

If he does notice he makes no deal of it, motioning you forward gallantly to walk ahead of him.

He follows after you, hands behind his back. “Would it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?”

It’s busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and you have to sidestep past someone nearly every step you take. You stick next to the windows of the line of boutiques down the road, trying to balance window shopping and not bumping into other pedestrians.

You're in a nicer district of Gotham, truthfully an area you don't quite belong in. So far you’ve only managed to find a couple shops that weren’t several ranges above your budget. 

A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if you’re lost. It doesn’t take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and it’s only half a second longer before you realize he’s walking towards you. A few people collide shoulders with you as they move past thoughtlessly, no regard for the personal space of the idiot that stopped in the flow of traffic.

You let him approach a couple feet closer before you ask him, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” The presence of his figure in front of you allows for a break from being bumped into, as he seemingly makes for a far more easily seen and intentionally avoided target.

He sways a bit, “Bruce. I’m not sure yet,” he looks down to the couple of bags you’re holding, extending his hand out. “May I?”

It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. “Are you in a rush?”

You shake your head quicker than you meant to, “No, I—not at all,” he gestures his head forward, allowing you to walk before him.

You traipse ahead in silence for a moment before deciding against biting your tongue, “What exactly is it you’re not sure about?”

He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, “Whether or not you’ve got plans on the 19th.”

You look back at him, “What’s on the 19th?”

He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, “We’re hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.”

You blink, “You’re inviting me?” He nods. “Why?”

“I could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.”

He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, “That’s not—” you can barely make out the smile on his face as he continues on walking.

You shake your composure back together and trail after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that I’m attending a business gala without him.”

He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, “He can’t fire you for that.”

“He’ll try.” He would. A petty little man, he is. 

He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. “Well, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be for business.” And then he just lets that sentence linger.

It takes you a moment to recover from those words and begin to start processing the world around you again. After a few more feet down the sidewalk he pulls you gently to the side by your lower arm, out of the rush of traffic, and looks at you dead on, “What do you think?”

You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, “I don’t…uh, I don’t really have…” you look down, hoping to get the message across without actually having to say the words.

He glances into the store window next to you and raises his eyebrows, “Well then I’d say we’re in the right place.”

You can’t manage to tell him that this store is definitely far too expensive for you, walking through the door as he opens it for you, albeit apprehensively.

Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways. 

The spotless white of the floors and walls has you intimidated, and just as much so by less by the no doubt designer clothes lining the walls. The saleswomen all look pretty highbrow themselves, hair up in tight buns and uniforms chic.

You only break from gawking at the store to look behind you at Bruce. You note the way his eyes roam around blindly, looking for something and clearly having no means to narrow down where it might be. You take one more glance around, immediately finding the women's section with no such difficulty. 

“This way.” You say, nodding your head over to the left. He recovers nicely and lets you lead the way towards the section of dresses. You peer back at him, “You don’t seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.”

Thankfully, he laughs at that. “Well, special occasions.”

You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, “Is this a special occasion?”

He hums in consideration, “I’d say so.”

You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options. 

“What are you doing up here anyways?” you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.

“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking at him. “Don’t you need to go?”

He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, “No.”

A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that you’re in their path. 

Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. “Sweetheart,” he nudges you gently to the side, closer to him as the group passes. His hand remained open-palmed and flat as he guided you to the side, seemingly very careful not to touch you with uninvited boldness. Though you’re quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.

As your arm brushes against a rack of clothing your gaze follows, met with something rather appealing.

Bruce is quick to notice you admiring the sleek black dress that looks like something you’d see a model wearing on a runway. “You like that one?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. “It’s $800.”

He nods thoughtfully, “We can find a nicer one,” he says, though it’s clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.

“I can’t—” you restart, “I would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.”

He shakes his head coolly, “That’s alright.”

Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, “It’s not, though.”

“You like it?” He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.

“I mean, of course, but it—”

He nods affirmatively, “Then we’ll get it. Problem solved.” He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. “Pick your size.”

Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit. 

You sigh, realizing that you’re running out of time to mention that you don’t have $800 to spend on a dress. “I can’t—”

“You don’t need to,” he says simply as he takes the dress off the rack and drapes it across his arm, making his way towards the salescounter.

You try to stop your mouth from hanging open as you follow, “It really is okay, I don’t need—”

His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, “Sweet girl..” to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that he’s not looking at you right now because you’re certain the look on your face would give you away.

He still doesn’t face you as he calls out, “Come on,” as he continues on.

Obviously you’re not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesn’t even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dress…no, you’re not sleeping with him because he bought you a dress—of course not—and you’ve made absolutely no promises to do so, so what’s the harm in letting him? Really?

And yeah, maybe it’s a plus that he’s not bad looking, but how is that your fault?

You stand a bit awkwardly next to him as he puts his card in the machine, not even glancing at the outrageous number, and declines the offer for the receipt.

As you exit the store together and stand at the doors as he hands your original two bags back to you along with the new shiny black one that on its own looks like something people would pay for.

“You will be there?” he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for. 

You nod, gesturing the bag up, “Well you just bought me the dress.”

He shrugs that off, “I would’ve bought you the dress anyways.”

You linger in the midst of the ado wearing a dress that you feel far too overshadowed by, fidgeting with the half empty wine glass in your hand. Unfortunately, this time around you were invited by the host of the event and it would be extra rude to run away and hide. That doesn’t stop you from considering it, though.

A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldn’t quite verbalize, you’d naturally assumed it was Bruce. The disappointment rings strong when you turn around to be met with the sight of an even older man, who looks considerably wine drunk. 

“Hello there, Miss.,” The words themselves are polite but the salacious smile on his face and the way his eyes have no trouble roaming your body gives you a solid idea of what this conversation is going to entail.

“Hello,” you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room. 

This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. “Having a nice time?” 

The man is clearly from money, if his attire didn’t give it away his attitude sure did. There’s an heir of entitlement around him, like he’s inherently deservant of your attention—a quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce. 

You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, gesturing to the bar.

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say, gesturing your wine glass up.

A momentary flash of irritation crosses his face, but to his credit, he does a better job recovering from it than you would have expected. Though, that’s not really saying much. “Well, pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone here,”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than you’d previously received. 

Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, “Mr. Wayne,” he fawns, “What a lovely event you’ve thrown. I’m sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.”

Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. “You are…”

The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, “Alexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.”

He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. “Ah. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating cell phones.”

You’re trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.

“What exactly is a self-operating cell phone?”

Watson’s face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposal’s funding. As he rambles, Bruce’s gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though he’s not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You don’t know him well but you can say confidently that he doesn’t look pleased. 

He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. “Surely you’re not poking around where you’re unwelcome?”

Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. That’s all.”

“And so you have.”

“I—,” about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, “Yes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.” He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.

“Mr. Wayne,” you smile knowingly, turning to him. “How are you?”

The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress you’d picked out.

“Things are looking up,” he smiles, “You look lovely.”

 “Thank you,” you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. “Mr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.”

His smile turns a bit sullen, “You know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?”

You blink, tilting your head, “Thought you didn’t know who he was.”

His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing he’s been caught but not really caring. “I’m sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.”

“At the gala that you threw? I’d imagine so.”

He rolls past that smoothly, “You’re having a good time?”

“I am,” you say with a confirming head bob.

He regards the room with a numb expression, “You know, I think I’m getting bored with all of this.”

You smile at him, brow furrowed, “It’s only been an hour.”

He looks at you, eyes wide. “It’s only been an hour?” He’s exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.

“I think we should go,” he says lower.

You stare at him, bemused. “You still have a whole room full of guests.” 

He shrugs, “They’ll filter out on their own eventually.” 

He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. “What, you’re not ready to leave?”

You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”

He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor that’s significantly longer than you’d expected. 

“Do you always ditch your parties this early?” you ask, following closely.

He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, “If I can manage it.”

You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. “Aren’t some of them friends of yours?”

He shakes his head, “My friends aren’t here.”

You frown at that, “Then why do you throw them at all?”

“Why did you show up last weekend?”

You nod slowly, understanding. “It’s your job.”

He returns the nod, adding, “Only difference is, there’s not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.”

For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, you’re going to not acknowledge that incredibly accurate statement. Instead you smile politely and continue on walking. He seems to get the implication, returning it with an even brighter adornment.

“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.

His smile fades a bit, “You shouldn’t have to worry about things like that.” 

You shrug, “A day in the life,”

He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than you’d have expected from someone of his stature. He’s done nothing if not surprise you, though.

“Here,” he says, taking hold of the handle of a glass door. It opens to a garden, lit up beautifully by the moon and outdoor light. A fountain sits in the middle, water rhythmically gushing out of the top and trickling down the sides. The bite of the Gotham night air burns at your cheeks a bit and you find yourself thankful the dress you’d chosen is so long.

Bruce leads the way to an expensive marble bench positioned nicely in front of it, allowing you to sit first before following suit. Your hands find a place in your lap, clasped together awkwardly in an attempt to find warmth through contact.

It takes Bruce less than ten seconds to stand, remove his suit jacket, and drape it over your shoulders before sitting back down. The material is thicker and warmer than you would’ve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.

He doesn’t look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didn’t happen. “Was hoping it was warmer,” he murmurs.

Your focus momentarily goes to the icy cold stone of the bench under your thighs, initially finding it uncomfortable before deciding the coolness actually felt quite soothing. You remove your gaze from the gray stone and turn your head to find Bruce already focused on you.

You start to say something, though you’re not sure what it would’ve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.

Well, he certainly knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?

His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?” 

God, he’s a professional.

You look up at him and refrain from saying anything, waiting to see if he follows it up with something that will make you regret agreeing to coming out here with him.

He doesn’t.

You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. “You can’t just do this—”

He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, “Then what can I do for you?”

“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”

His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”

You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that you’re trying to sell as serious. “You’re trying to make me nervous.”

“Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, “I don’t mean to, sweet girl.”

Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. “Yeah.”

His simper grows, “I’m serious. I’d hate to scare away a new friend.”

You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, “What? We’re not friends?”

You cock your head to the side, “You’re the one who said none of your friends are here.”

He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

“You think so?” You should probably stop flirting so much. 

“Yeah,” he leans in a bit closer, “I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Maybe I want to be your friend,” his hand finds a place atop yours. 

Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, “What if I don’t want to be yours?”

His eyes are on your lips, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

You take a slow deep breath, “Your intentions are blurry.”

He smiles lightly, amused. “We’ll have to clear that up then, won’t we?” His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

You look up at him eyes wide, barely processing his words as you nod. He gently grasps your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up. His other hand finds the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you with intention. Your hands hover in the air for a second before holding onto his forearms. 

He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when it’s over, eyes still shut, trying to catch your breath. You stay like that for a moment until he kisses you once more on your cheekbone before pulling away. His hands drop to rest on your knees, the weight of them gentle.

He hums lowly, “Sweet thing..”

Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. It’s starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.

“You…” you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence. 

“What?” he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. What is it?” he asks gently.

It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, “You just want to sleep with me..”

He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. “No. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.”

That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you weren’t prepared for. 

He continues, “I would like to, yes. Yeah. You’re beautiful, of course I would, but..” he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, “No, that’s not the most important thing to me.”

You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If that’s not the most important thing to him, what is? You can’t think of what else he could possibly want from you, a billionaire who could have anything he wants..the only thing you could have to offer in his eyes is sex. 

Right?

He exhales, “If you want to leave, I’ll call you a car. No hard feelings.” He nudges your chin up gently so you’ll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.

You let him move you.

“I don’t want to leave,” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s automatic. You physically can’t help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, “Seriously. Anything.”

You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.

“Alright,” he returns your smile, straightening, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Do you need a ride home?”

You blink at him, “I’m going home?”

“You are,” he nods softly, “Do you need a ride?”

“No.”

He nods again, more like he’s working through something in his head. “Okay. You’re going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.” he stands up, extending his hand out to you, “Then you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.”

You start to shake your head, “I can—” 

He drops his chin seriously, “Think on it.”

You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.

“Alright?” Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if you’re on board with this plan. 

Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, “Okay.”

He starts to lead you back over to the garden door with a head nod and a kind smile.

It ultimately was not a decision you had to think very hard on.

You’d considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.

You’ll still admit though, there was one scenario you had missed, apparently, which is why you were immeasurably confused when you showed up and he invited you to play chess.

He’s not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, you’re able to see the manor more clearly than you had been the other night. It really is a beautiful home, clearly very old and charmed, but there’s a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. There’s portraits and photographs of his parents from when he was young and furniture decorated with trinkets all throughout, kept absolutely spotless and dust free. Everything is neat and tidy but there’s still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, it’s very, very placid.

You’ve met new money plenty of times over the course of dealing with countless businessmen for Mr. Mullins but old money is something entirely different. You don’t really have a frame of reference here. New money is almost always brash and demanding, they like things done quickly and correctly the first time around. They’re usually not very interested in hearing what you have to say (even if it would save them a lot of trouble) and prefer it when the assistants women keep their mouths shut. Bruce has proven to be very different from these standards already and you’re not sure where to begin with placing new ones.

You’re about halfway through a second game, and while you’re not awful at chess, you get the impression that he’s easing up on you considerably.

You sit on the floor in front of a short coffee table, the game having no clear lead so far.

“I think this is stressing me,” you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.

“It’s just chess,” he says, not looking up from the board.

You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, “And that’s all we’re doing?”

“As it stands, yes,” he looks up at you, though you don’t return his gaze.

“Yeah,” you sigh, sliding your rook, “But later?”

“Later?”

“Well, you said...” you meet his eyes, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”

He nods slowly, “I do. Is that alright?”

You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really weren’t okay with it you wouldn’t have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.

“Yes,” you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.

“Are you sure?” he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.

You do the same, sitting on your knees. “Yeah, I just..” you shift your weight, eyes wandering. “I’m not…overly experienced.”

He just smiles at that, like it’s endearing. Your words didn’t quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not going to throw you in the deep end.”

You nod, looking down again.

“You’re nervous,” he comments.

“No, I’m—I mean, maybe,” your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.

He’s quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. “What if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.”

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening and pulling out a lump of cash without even looking. He holds the money out to you wordlessly and you can see from the bill on the outside that it’s at least a couple hundred dollars.

You shake your head instantly, “I can’t take that.”

He doesn’t put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. “Please. I just want you to feel good.”

“Bruce—”

He wavers a bit at that but it’s more of a falter than you’ve seen from him before so it’s easy to take notice of. “What?”

He shrugs barely, “I like when you say my name.”

Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to shake almost instantly.

You exhale, “I’m not taking more than a hundred.”

“Two hundred.”

“Bruce.”

He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You don’t comment on the fact that it’s a hundred and fifty more than you’d agreed on.

You look down at the money in your hand like it’s a foreign object, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what to get.”

His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, “Anything you want,” he tells you. “What do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.”

You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t matter what I like, th—”

“It only matters what you like,” He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. “I’ll love it, no matter what you pick. Don’t worry about that.”

You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”

His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you whisper.

“I want to kiss you again,” he says, voice even quieter.

Your eyes go to his mouth and you can only manage a nod, lips already parted.

He moves forward not a second later, kissing you with more fire than you’d gotten to see the other night. His hands grab at your waist, squeezing lightly as you hook one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

You hear the clatter of chess pieces falling over as he moves nearer to you, large frame leaning over you. You push up on your knees, meeting his lips up at his level. His hands caress around your hips as the kiss gets deeper.

You just start to fumble with the hem of his shirt when he takes your hands in his, pulling them away before breaking the kiss.

“Easy, sweet girl,” he smiles, nudging you back with little force.

You groan, “Why?”

He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on the floor.”

“Then let's go somewhere else,” you nod up towards the stairs.

He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Not tonight.”

You sit back on your heels again, frowning.

He brushes your hair back, murmuring, “No. But for now, I'll kiss you ‘til you can’t think if that’s what you want.”

You really hope you didn’t perk up at that as much as you think you did.

part two

🌾🌽 i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know 🌾🌽

[icewindandboringhorror]

Other Misc. Rambling Thoughts on the topic:

(~ !!!!!!!!! if you're just reblogging this post for the Poll section, please reblog the original post without this addition* lol. ~)

(*not that there's anything super personal or weird about the addition, just that it's meant to be kind of casual Side Commentary, not really part of the Main Point Of The Poll, so it would feel kind of weird for it to be emphasized by being included in reblogs unless the reblogs were explicitly about the side commentary, etc..... if that makes sense.. ANYWAY!)

It's neat to read the written descriptions that people are mentioning in the tags, since it's almost like I can see or conceptualize the idea as well, but it's just.. I'm not SEEING it.

Like for example: I can imagine a vase, it's a muted mint green and slightly translucent, elaborate golden birds sprawled down the side in streaks of thin rough watery paint, the base material shimmers gently in the light, there's a small chip where it's cracked on the handle, etc, etc. .. But as I'm thinking about this I see literally nothing.

It seems like perhaps some people can visualize an object first, and THEN describe what they see. But I sort of work backwards. I am building the object in my mind, I can never see it, but it's a collection of concepts. Rather than visualizing all details as a whole at once, I am adding each detail one by one, building onto the IDEA of the thing.

The vase doesn't have a crack on the handle because I just automatically visualized a vase with a crack. It was more that I cognitively understand the concept of a vase, what they tend to be made out of, how they tend to look and feel, the properties they have. So based purely on that knowledge, I can imagine "a chip is something that a vase could have, it would look this way and behave this way" - more like... I'm constructing a bullet point Fact List about the object rather than seeing it.

So if you tell me to imagine an object, I can, in a way, imagine that object in great detail, but it's just.. I'm not SEEING those details, more just knowing it's qualities in a purely conceptual way. Sometimes in the tags when people are like "yeah I can see the skin of the apple, texture, little dots on the surface" it's like… I can imagine that too, I can know it's there, but just with no visual attached.

I guess rather than SEEING something and going ''ah. I know what this looks like because I have seen it''. I more just skip that visual step entirely and go ''I know what this looks like, I just randomly have a list of information about the concept in my mind.'' etc. Maybe similar to how sometimes in dreams, even though a house may look completely different and be in an entirely fake 'dreamlike' environment, you just somehow KNOW intuitively that it's meant to be your childhood home or something. Even when it looks nothing like it in reality. There's a built-in base knowledge of the properties or information of some things within a dreaming mind, etc.

--

This also makes me wonder about like.. how storytelling and myth is so important to cultures all across time. Or how this could tie also into concepts of religion.. etc. etc. If so many people really can kind of conjure these vivid images in their mind, then maybe that's part of why certain things are so meaningful to them? Like a "religious experience" being something you can actually really SEE/feel/lingering with you in your head, rather than just abstract words on a page, detached purely theoretical ideas, etc... hmmm

.

Plus also just for average emotional stuff too, even outside of broader cultural conceptual attachments..

Like, I don't think there's a direct 1 to 1 link (obviously not all people with mental illnesses that significantly reduce their emotional or expressive capacity also MUST have aphantasia or vice versa), but it's interesting as someone who DOES also have a much more lessened emotional range/pretty flat affect/etc. etc. to think like.. Maybe I WOULD be more emotional, in a way, if I could have these vivid experiences..?

Perhaps memories would hold deeper significance if they could really stay with me vividly. Or storytelling would evoke more of a deep emotional reaction to me if I could really picture and feel the things that are going on. If things were more TANGIBLE in my brain, rather than always merely conceptual highly abstracted ideas.

Kind of like, it's probably easier to get over the death of a pet or something, if after not seeing them for an hour you already don't remember what they looked like (beyond just a vague fact list of traits), and you have no vivid memories or mental reminders of them (beyond just factual information stores). COGNTIVIELY you can appreciate the idea of their absence, of course, you still miss them, but there's just no remaining visceral sensory ties. A very "out of sight, out of mind" sort of thing in terms of attachments, memories, emotions, etc. Maybe certain things are easier to "get over", when you're not having constant mental sensory reminders that occasionally rekindle your feelings about the event or etc.??

(like for example, maybe someone could remain angry about an argument longer if they could vividly replay it in their head over and over again. VS just like.. 'Yes I can factually recall the fact I had an argument, and I do have knowledge stored about what precisely was said, but any sort of sensory data such as sights/smells/feelings, etc. from the actual moment of the event are long gone and can never be conjured again in my mind." etc.)

Which again, I think lessened emotional permanence and image permanence in the mind are NOT inherently linked, can all be caused by different things for different people. And, since I can't visualize anything in my head, maybe I'm misunderstanding how it happens and the effect it may have on stuff like remembering things you miss or replaying arguments, etc. etc. But it's still a little interesting to think about, if they could influence each other to some degree.... :0c --

Lastly, It's also weird because I'm actually pretty good at estimating distance and spaces? I can quickly assemble furniture without an instruction manual, pretty easily have a concept of how much space a chair may take up in a room, how two mechanical parts might fit together - BUT, I am literally not actually visualizing anything. I cannot see 3D objects in my mind at ALL. It's like.. just based on the pure List Of Facts About Things Which I Have Observed.. I can intuitively go "oh this works like this/this is this size" just because.. I know it's that size. I don't have to see anything to know..?

But then on the other hand, I'm terrible at directions without a map (I guess because a 3d outdoor environment has WAY more complexity than like.. "Will this square fit into another square?"etc. lol ).

BUT, I also draw/sculpt/etc. entirely without references, and seem to do mostly okay at that..? Like.. I can't even remember the last time I actually used a reference or looked at anything whilst drawing. It's all muscle memory, and me just adjusting as I go until something "looks right" on paper, I never have a set image in my head (or external reference) before hand.. Hrmm....

AND.. I used to say that I had a photographic memory when I was younger, which I know NOW is not true (I always thought it was just an expression, not that people could literally see things in a photographic way). But what I was describing is, I do often associate information with imagery, just... without imagery....

Like "Oh, I know that I took my medicine earlier today because I have a distinct memory, a snapshot of a moment in time, of me rattling the pill bottle in my hands as I looked up at a stop sign while in the back seat of a car". When I say this, I can't ACTUALLY see/feel/hear a pill bottle, or vividly picture a stop sign, but it's more just a factual recall, of. Even though I don't see these things, I know they happened, the information of them happening (me hearing a sound and also looking at a stop sign at the same time) has been stored in my brain as a memory, a collection of linked facts. --

As for other senses, I cannot taste or feel anything in my head AT ALL.. wild that some people mention that. I mean, again, I can have a purely factual recall as if reading a textbook, knowing the information of 'X item typically has X texture, therefore I can imagine what it may be like to feel it' or 'X usually has this taste' etc. - but I can never actually experience those senses in any capacity in my mind alone. I would say audio is my strongest mental sense (maybe a 2.5 or 3 (if it were translated onto the above scale where 1 is most vivid and 5 is nothing)), then visual (4.5 at most, usually 5), and then taste and smell and such are just complete 5, absolutely nothing, I didn't even know people could experience taste or feeling just in their mind alone.. lol...

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

[stunie]

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁ KABEDON W TOKYO REVENGERS

TOKREV BOYS CAGING YOU AGAINST A WALL. ft. izana kurokawa, takashi mitsuya, & shuji hanma x f!reader

sfw. 1K wc. i’ve been sooo excited to write for izana !! & my head’s been buzzing w so many ideas after seeing a bunch of maid-sama edits back on my fyp <3

IZANA KUROKAWA. mild jealousy & possessiveness

You wonder if Izana can hear the rapid thumping of your heart as his arm comes to rest against the doorframe, his eyes looking intently into yours.

“Who was that guy you were talking to?” His voice breaks the silence, tone laced with the faintest hint of curiosity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, trying to compose yourself even though the proximity has heat rising all the way to the tips of your ears. “I don't know,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper. “He just asked for my number. And i said no.”

There's a moment of silence as izana processes your words, his gaze never leaving yours. You hold your breath, waiting for his reaction, unsure if you should add that you mentioned you have a boyfriend too.

“That’s all?” Izana finally speaks, his voice low and steady, but there's something in his eyes that betrays his calm exterior.

You nod. “That’s all.”

He exhales deeply, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he moves closer to you. His fingers brush against your cheek, lingering on your jaw for a brief moment before gently tilting your head to the side. “Izana?”

“Mhm,” he hums softly, his breath warm against your skin as he presses gentle kisses along your collarbone. “That sounds right.”

His lips move with a deliberate slowness to cover every inch of your skin, and you can’t help but melt into his touch as his lips ghost down your neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses along your skin. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer to him, and you sigh. “That’s good.” He repeats to himself.

“Don’t pay them any attention.” Izana reminds you, his voice dropping to a soft murmur against your skin. “You’re mine.”

HANMA SHUJI. recreation of that !! scene from maid sama (he gives u a hickey on your back), reader wearing a backless dress, ‘pretty thing,’ ‘princess’

“That’s a tiny dress you got on.” Hanma muses, long arm resting just above your head as he cages you against the wall, his face coming to hover mere inches in front of yours.

“Where’s a pretty thing like you headed tonight?”

“Well, yeah,” you pout, adjusting the thin strap of your dress. “I’m going to my friend’s birthday party tonight.”

You struggle to read the expression on his face, amused eyes lingering on the simple design of your dress, ignoring the way you huff impatiently.

“Backless?”

“Yeah, backless. I’m leaving now.” With a quick tilt of your head, you try to gauge his reaction again, a part of you skeptical to whether or not he’s planning something this time.

He only responds with a slow hum, chuckling a bit when you rudely swat his arm off the wall, gaze following the natural sway of your hips as you mumble something in annoyance and walk away.

Backless…he thinks.

That’s right— backless.

An idea pops into his head, his lips curling into a mischievous grin. Without a second thought, he reaches out to roughly tug at one of your wrists, pulling you back towards him in one swift motion.

“The hell are you doing-” you snap, your voice trailing off into a sharp intake of breath when you feel his lips press against the middle of your back. “S-shuji!” You protest, heart racing as you feel the warmth of his lips press against your skin.

There’s a pop when he pulls back slightly to look up at you, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

“Oh? You’re going? With that hickey on your back?” His voice comes out low, tinged with too much amusement for your liking.

“Hope you have fun, princess.”

TAKASHI MITSUYA. he takes care of you when you’re feverish

“You shouldn’t be out of bed right now.” Mitsuya’s voice breaks the silence, and you stop dead in your tracks.

There’s an exasperated groan from you, your hand coming to rub at your temples. Of course he would be awake— you really thought you had waited long enough before trying to sneak downstairs.

“I want cake, Mitsuya.” You whine, arms folding over your chest. “‘M not sick anymore. The fever’s gone down.”

“Is that so?” Mitsuya’s tone sounds both amused and skeptical as he steps closer, watching the way you start to fidget with the sleeves of your shirt. You give him a quick and desperate nod to confirm, and it’s all a little too suspicious for his liking.

But before you can protest further, his arms come around you, caging you against the wall, and you suck in a sharp breath as he scans you up and down. His gaze is focused and intentional— and you feel your heart rate pick up.

“Interesting,” he whispers, warm breath grazing your skin. It sends a violent shiver down your spine. “Let me check.”

“W-wait you shouldn’t—” your protests are halted as he leans even closer, until his face is just an inch in front of yours. He thinks it’s cute the way your eyes slam shut involuntarily, your heart pounding against your chest at the proximity. His forehead presses gently against yours, and you can feel the subtle warmth of his skin.

“Liar.” He murmurs softly, his lips brushing against yours so gently you almost miss it. “You’re burning up.”

[occudo]

An incomplete list of TMA fics I adore

-beacuse of this ask

(If you liked the fics I previously recommended/made fanart for, I think you'll gonna like these as well, but you know, read the tags, know what you are going into)

Yesterday is Here by CirrusGrey @cirrus-grey

Time Travel Fix-it! Slow burn! So good! So much sass from future!Jon- I doubt I have to introduce anyone this amazing author, but if you somehow missed them till now, this is your time! I highly recommend all of their other fics as well, for example one of a more recent one, The Stranger I Know Best is also a lovely read.

enthralling by Prim_the_Amazing @primtheamazing

Vampire!Martin!! I have no words of how much I love this concept, this story, everything about this. I think I'm going to repeat myself through this list, but I also recommend everything else they've written!

to fill... my heart with music? by godshaper @godshaper so their Martin and Jon design are different from mine, also they made a way better art for this- but still, I wanted to include this really good fic in this list.

Do It All Anew by inkfingers_mcgee or @crit20art

You know the feeling when you read a book that makes you cry, and after that you recommend it to your friend? Well- there is no reason I mentioned this, I'm just so normal about this fic. Or any other fic from inkfingers_mcgee... like Strange Manner of what I made another fanart way back. Also, check out their art!

Anyway, here is Aamal- she is not going to cause emotional damage.

And they were sidekicks (oh my god, they were sidekicks) by arthureameslove @arthureameslove

A lighthearted series where Jon and Martin are sidekicks of supervillains- it's just a really fun fic, also recommend everyting from this author - I previously draw fanart here for an other fic of theirs Like a Lighthouse, Call Me Home

neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well by saintbleeding @saintbleeding

To quote the aurthour: "Post-divorce Jon and Martin in a wedding-based romcom" It's such a comfort read, also has a Tim/Sasha wedding, and lots of cameos! I realised most of these authors I made fanarts for before- like this one for some kind of miraculous bind, this one is oneshot and a bit more serious in tone.

Give Me the Words by rakel @rakel-on-ao3

"Jon and Martin try to make the most of a bad situation in the Scottish Highlands. The situation is worse than they realised." You know that one post about wanting to write PWP, but it keeps turning into character study? Well, this one comes to my mind each time I see that.

i wanna find a home (i wanna share it with you) by heartshapedguy @transgenderboobs

So what would have happened if instead of the cot (tm), Jon offered Martin his own flat to stay? There is no way it's going to change their relationship, right? Such a good read, if you want some fluff, I highly recommend it!

Lucky Stars by magnetarmadda @magnetarmadda

Martin has a lovely family (except his mother) but still, he needs a fake boyfriend, and Jon comes to the rescue. It's one of the first fics I remember reading after I finished the series. It is such a comfort read of mine~

(+enjoy a rare tall Jon from me)

There are so many more fics that also deserve the spotlight, these are just the ones I read multiple times and/or didn't made fanarts for before. If you find something here you like, give them some love! Kudos and comments! They deserve it. (Also, just an extra disclamier some of these are PWP or rated T- just mind the tags)

I tried to link and tag everything, I hope it works.

[rose24207]

Just a Salesman

Summary: Your perfect world shatters when a furious stranger bursts into your home, accusing your loving, devoted husband of being a monster responsible for countless deaths.

Genre: angst

TW: swearing, mention of death

A/N: Posting sm today wow. English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Pt.2

Masterlist

You always believed in the goodness of people. Growing up in a small, close-knit town had shaped you that way.

You’d been the type to bake cookies for the elderly neighbor down the street, rescue stray animals, and donate whatever you could to people in need. When you met your husband, it felt like a gift from the universe.

He was everything you thought you’d never deserve: charismatic, attentive, and so gentle with you it made your heart ache. He would listen intently to your rambles about work, surprise you with your favorite pastries from the café downtown, and hold you close on cold nights when the world seemed too overwhelming.

You hadn’t known much about his work—“sales” was all he ever said—but it didn’t matter. He always came home to you, and that was enough. You admired how he seemed to understand people so easily, reading emotions and desires with an almost uncanny precision. He was your safe harbor, and you were his soft place to land.

But what made your marriage unique wasn’t just the way he made you feel; it was the way you balanced him. Where he was logical and composed, you were emotional and empathetic. If he brushed off a stranger’s plight with practicality, you’d step in with a warm smile and offer help. He often teased you about your boundless kindness, calling you “his little bleeding heart,” but his tone was always fond.

“You’re too good for this world,” he’d whisper sometimes, brushing your hair behind your ear. You’d laugh, kissing his cheek.

“And you’re my world,” you’d reply, never missing the way his gaze softened.

You were blissfully unaware that the man you loved and trusted so completely was hiding a shadowy part of himself, one that was entirely at odds with the person you knew.

It was a chilly winter evening when your life began to unravel. You’d just finished preparing dinner, humming to yourself as you set the table for two, the flicker of candlelight adding warmth to the cozy living room.

Your husband had called earlier, saying he’d be late, but you didn’t mind waiting.

The knock at the door came suddenly, jolting you out of your thoughts. Expecting it to be a neighbor or a delivery, you opened it with your usual bright smile, only to find a man standing there, his face lined with rage and exhaustion.

“Can I help you?” you asked kindly, though his expression unnerved you.

“You already have,” he muttered darkly, stepping inside uninvited. “Where is he?”

“I’m sorry—who are you talking about?” you stammered, retreating a step.

“Your husband,” he spat, his voice trembling with barely contained fury. “Where is that bastard hiding?”

“I think you’ve made a mistake,” you said gently, though your hands were shaking. “My husband hasn’t hurt anyone. He’s just a salesman.”

“A salesman,” the man repeated with a bitter laugh. He fished a small card from his pocket and slammed it onto the table. You glanced at it, confused by the cryptic design.

“He gave me this,” the man continued. “And because of him, I had to watch people die. Because of him, my friends are dead! You’re married to a killer!”

The words pierced through you like shards of ice. “That’s impossible,” you whispered. “My husband would never—”

“Open your eyes, lady!” he shouted, making you flinch. “Do you even know who you’re married to?”

Before you could respond, the door creaked open again. Your husband stepped inside, his eyes immediately locking onto the stranger.

“Gi-hun,” he said calmly, closing the door behind him. “It’s been a while.”

Your heart sank as you turned to your husband, his usual warmth replaced with a cold, calculating smile you’d never seen before.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice trembling.

“Go to the bedroom,” he said softly, but there was an edge to his tone that made your blood run cold.

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “Not until you tell me what this is about. Why is he saying these things?”

The room was tense, the air thick with unspoken truths. Gi-hun’s fury burned hotter as he stepped closer.

“She doesn’t even know, does she?” he sneered. “You’ve been lying to her this whole time.”

Your husband’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t her concern.”

“She’s your wife! She deserves to know the kind of monster she’s married to!”

“Enough,” your husband snapped, his voice firm but not raised. He turned to you, his expression softening just slightly. “Go upstairs, sweetheart. Please.”

You stood frozen, torn between obeying the man you loved and demanding answers. The tears in your eyes blurred your vision as the image of your perfect life began to crumble around you.

Thank you for reading!

[dravidious]

I was gonna do something for today, but then I took a nap instead. You're still cool tho.

Okay so I just realized that keyword ability counters would fit perfectly in my modified-themed set and now I'm not sure if I should just keep going with 4-color +1/+1 counters or rework a bunch of cards from 3 of the colors to play around keyword counters. I may do both eventually.

In any case, here's a random uncommon

[rebelfell]

Sooo this started out being all cute and fluffy but veered over the edge into the flangst canyon…my bad. 💌 1.8k

Thinking about bestfriend!eddie who shows up your boyfriend on Valentine’s Day.

Unintentionally, of course.

It was never something he planned to do. 

He just happened to be in CVS the night before, blazed out of his mind and wandering aimlessly while the guys argued about what snacks to get. And when he made the mistake of turning onto the designated holiday aisle, he was met with a barrage of pink and red glitter and sparkles and hearts exploding off every shelf—an absolute affrontal assault to his cynical sensibilities. 

But then he picks up this one card that catches his eye. It’s got a watercolor painting of this cute little porcupine who’s holding a heart-shaped box of chocolates, and there’s a speech bubble at the top that says “I Porcu-PINE for you!”

Eddie absolutely loses it.

He stands there making these stuttering giggling sounds and they’re coming out way louder than he intended, and the pimply and dead-eyed clerk behind the register leans over to give the laziest evil eye Eddie has ever seen. He does his best to stifle himself, but more little snickers still eke out as he picks up the envelope that goes with the card, and starts scanning the shelves for the Valentine’s variation of your favorite candy.

(Because it would be weird just to do the card, right? If he throws in some other stuff too, maybe it’ll be less conspicuous. Yeah? That makes sense, doesn’t it? Yeah, totally it does.)

Before he knows it, he’s collected a whole armload of crap. Two bags of the candies (they’re 2 for $5, that just makes good business sense), a little plushie with giant sparkly eyes (its stare is hypnotizing in an odd way, it kind of reminds him of you), and a small (tiny, honestly) bouquet of daisies wrapped in crinkly cellophane (he knows you like those way more than you like roses.)

He puts it all down on the counter and gets another withering glare from the cashier after he’s rung it all up. Eddie wonders if this guy is judging him; thinks he’s some lazy, loser boyfriend buying a bunch of junk gifts at the last possible minute. But Eddie doesn’t have the mental capability at the moment to explain that he’s not even buying these for a girlfriend—they’re all for his best friend, who he sometimes, occasionally, has some slightly inappropriate thoughts about, which yeah, is kind of inconvenient in a lot of ways, but it’s cool, he’s fine with that—

There’s another huff from the cashier as he repeats the total due, and Eddie realizes this guy doesn’t give a shit that Eddie might be a crappy boyfriend, he’s much more annoyed by the fact that he has yet to take out his wallet. And as he scrambles to do so, the rest of Corroded Coffin comes up to the front, still loudly arguing about the snacks they’re carrying in their hands.

They all give Eddie a funny look when they see what he’s getting, Grant being the first to bluntly ask who it’s for. They fall silent, exchanging wary glances when Eddie mumbles your name under his breath as he hands over a creased and wrinkled bill to pay at long last.

“That’s super weird, man, don’t do that,” Jeff argues immediately. “Just give it to Gareth, and he can give it to Annie instead. Problem solved.”

“Excuse me,” Gareth snaps, “but I’ve gotten my girl her gifts and they’re a hell of a lot better than this crap. Er, uhh…no offense.”

Their drummer winces, and his eyes dart guiltily between Eddie and his purchases.

“No—” Eddie’s face scrunches and he shakes his head defiantly. “They’re not, like, serious gifts. It doesn’t mean anything. And she’s dating that rich asshole, I’m sure he’s gonna bury her in expensive shit. This is barely gonna land on her radar,” he insists, now clutching his bag in his fist.

“So then why bother?” Jeff asks, widening his annoyingly perceptive eyes under arched brows. 

But Eddie doesn’t respond. He just stomps out to the parking lot and waits by the car. All the while thinking about all the things he can never quite manage to say out loud when it comes to you.

The next day, Eddie’s rethinking everything.

Sober now and staring down at the offerings piled up in the van’s passenger seat, he can’t help but think this might be the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life. And that’s saying something.

He talks himself in and out of going through with it about twenty times just in the ten minute drive it takes him to get to your apartment. And even as he climbs the stairs and raises his hand to knock, he has yet to decide if this is a good idea or not.

He came over semi-early, figuring you’d likely be busy later getting ready for some fancy dinner at some restaurant where Eddie probably couldn’t afford to order so much as a glass of water. 

But when you open the door, he can’t help but frown at your appearance. You don’t look like you are getting ready to go out, if anything you look like you’ve retired for the evening before 5pm.

Your face is bare except for a couple spots of zit cream, and you have on an old headband pushing your hair back out of your face. You’re swathed in the kind of baggy, oversized clothes he only sees you in when you’re ass deep in a cold or some other similarly debilitating illness. 

You don’t look sick, though. Just…sad?

How can you be sad on Love’s birthday?

“Hey, uhhh,” he says, forcing a tight smile. His palms start to sweat around the plastic handles he’s clutching behind his back. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” you reply.

There’s no sharpness to it, yet it still comes out kind of flat. Like you’re trying not to sound upset. But Eddie doesn’t push it as he follows you to the kitchen, sliding into his usual seat at your bar.

“What’s that?” you ask, eyes falling to the bag he plopped down on top of the counter.

“It’s stupid,” Eddie starts, “just some dumb little things I picked up.” For you, he adds in his head.

A small smile finally breaks the thin line your lips had been set in since he arrived and Eddie’s back broke out in a cold sweat under his leather jacket as he bashfully pushed the bag over to you.

He then watches, choking on his own heart, as you start pulling things out one by one.

You grin at the daisies, bringing them to your nose to sniff even though they probably smell more like weed than flowers after spending all night in the trailer. You squeal over the plushie, holding it up next to your face and squishing it. You hum excitedly at the first bag of candies, and laugh when you pull out a second one.

Then you get to the card.

Your eyes roll, but you can’t help smiling when you see Eddie’s nickname for you scrawled on the front of the envelope in his chicken scratch. And you’re still smiling as you slide your finger under the flap to tear through the bright red casing.

Then you read it, and your smile falls.

Your whole face does, in fact. It starts with a minute tremble of your chin that escalates into your brow pinching and your mouth crumpling into a frown. And you seem to clench every single muscle in your face to stop yourself from crying, but you just can’t keep it from happening.

“Hey, hey, wait, no, no, nooooo—”

Eddie doesn’t think, he doesn’t take a second to consider doing anything differently, he just jumps to his feet and comes around the counter to your side. He puts his arms around you automatically, letting you bury your face in his chest as you cling to him and try to settle yourself.

“I’m so-sorry, I’m s-so sorry, I’m sorry,” you babble, blubbering through the words.

“No, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I swear, I just thought it was cute, I didn’t mean to—”

“It is cute,” you wail as tears stream down your cheeks, “It’s fucking adorable!”

“Okay, then what’s the problem?” Eddie chuckles, pulling back slightly and ducking his head to look you in the eye, trying to get you to smile back.

You sniffle a few more times before you manage to collect yourself and swipe your fingers under your eyes to smear the wetness of your tears across your cheeks. Eddie’s fists clench at his sides to stop them from reaching up to do it again for you when you miss a stray one.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been in such a weird funk all day since Matt, um…”

Your voice wobbled again and Eddie’s expression turned stony, scolding himself inwardly for letting even a tiny bit of excitement rise in his chest at the thought that you might have broken up.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “I mean, did you guys…are you…”

“No, nothing like that,” you inhaled shakily. “He just…he doesn’t really do Valentine’s Day. And it feels so stupid to get upset over it. Like it’s just a dumb holiday, and I don’t need, like, presents or a dinner or flowers or anything like that. I just…”

Your arms crossed, as if you were trying to hug yourself. Eddie wished he could do it for you.

“I don’t know, I thought we’d do something,” you finally add quietly.

“He’s not even coming over?” Eddie scoffs. Suddenly the outfit made more sense. “At all?”

Your eyes closed in a pained wince. “Don’t make me feel worse, please,” you beg him somberly.

“No, I—” Eddie sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to upset you. Honest.”

His head dropped guiltily, eyes glued to his sneakers that stood out against the tile in your kitchen. He glanced one last time at all the stupid stuff he bought now strewn across your counter.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you told him firmly. “That was really sweet, Eddie. Seriously, like the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Your hand reaches out for the plushie again and you cradle it in your palm as you swoop in to drop a light peck on his cheek. The warmth of it makes Eddie’s whole face hot and he feels his neck tense from how much he wishes he could turn his head to the side and allow for his lips to meet yours. 

But of course he doesn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

He sure would think about it, though.

Eddie was still staring at his feet, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off you for long. He glanced back up to see you pushing through all of the extraneous things you were feeling to give him a smile, small as it was. He nodded and opened his arms, welcoming you back into them.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he whispered into your hair. Too quiet even for you to hear him.

I thought for a while about whether or not this is them, but I think this might be an entirely different set of idiots.

also is it just me or is v-day particularly oppressive this year?