#i was supposed to be studying and this was supposed to be a quick sketch

[berry-bread-bakery]

just saw your skystar art and OH MY GOD??? HOW DO I GET _THAT_ GOOD AT DRAWING STARSCREAM???

AAA THANK YOU!!!! It’s been a minute since I’ve drawn him and even the more recent art is a lot older. I just sorta forgot to post them, but I’m so happy you like it!!1!1 Okay, so when I first got into transformers, Starscream was an immediate favorite and i would draw him non-stop for months on end. I suppose i eventually figured out how to stylize him in a way that i wanted (even if it changed sporadically from time to time lmao). I used him A LOT to practice how to draw mechs and experiment with stylization!

Although sometimes when i think TOO hard about drawing a character i like, i analyze too much, but it’s a blessing and a curse. Sometimes everything seems to come out wrong until i have a page full of [character] where i can take notes of which aspects of each drawing I’d like to keep/get rid of. That’s how it went with my perfectionist tendencies anyway😭 But maybe don’t do what i did and beat yourself up if it doesn’t look good the first few tries unless you’re persistent enough to let that be motivation to continue and improve lol.

All in all: just doodling him a bunch and letting your hand feel out how you draw him/get used to his shapes, then everything should be swag!!!! This goes for anything, too. If you draw anything enough it will feel natural, but ALSO USE REFERENCES IF YOU NEED! Take no shame in looking at how he looks in cannon and in fanart. Studying how other artists draw things can be very helpful in understanding a possible area of struggle! I see quite a few people that think references are evil and that totally might not be you, but i had to get that out

OUGH ANYWAYS have this idw Starscream quick sketch study that i think is actually from January of this year :3 💕

[hagnoart]

So. I read Free From Falling by @xiaq months ago, first as on ao3, then in the ARC form back in November and now I am not so patiently waiting for my physical copy to arrive. All of that to say I am WEAK for Sydney and Matts and I really need to draw them both together asap and not just Matts losing his mind over how hot his girlfriend is.

The first time I drew Sydney can be found here.

Oh and it’s based on this, you probably know but still:

[frankensteinposm0]

« But you are everything to me. »

I might turn this into a comic but I have to think about it. Anyways the sillies 🫶🏻

[chaikajpeg]

elias with deer antlers

References:

"Mature red deer stag", photo by Bill Ebsen, taken 26. september 2009 in Jægersborg Dyrehave in Denmark (if that tells you anything)

2. T-Michael (a tailor and a founder of a fashion label if i'm not mistaken)

also, i hate cropping my drawings and could not decide what version to choose in the end, so please have both

[honeythegoat]

Kinds of dreams I think Kinger would have:

-Queenie you, You're really here

+Of course I am Kinger, you are here

-Please don't leave again Queenie, it's really lonely

+Where would I go without you silly

And then he wakes up :D

[dreams-and-stars-world]

I loved the snake man

[aleki-lives-here]

[aeb-art]

sighs

[r0k1z]

Abby!!! My PC on DoL

[giannaln4]

Silly Little Bet

lando norris x artist!reader

summary: You were an artist and Lando loved to do what you did best with you, even if he wasn't very good at it. (917 words)

warnings: this turns into a make out (not heavy, very short), use of y/n

a/n: hi lovelies! i know i said i was going to take a little break, but honestly i just need to not think about quali today (still crying about it idk what to tell you). anyway, this is incredibly short so i’m sorry but i still hope you enjoy it! pls let me know what you think!! feedback is very much appreciated 🫶🏻 i also wanted to thank everyone who reached out to me and sent support ❤️‍🩹 ily all so much, i really appreciate it!!

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Quiet nights were your absolute favourites. Getting to spend time with your boyfriend without having to worry about some schedule one of you had to stick to was perfect, to say the least. You always found a way to occupy yourselves, doing anything and nothing at the same time. 

Tonight, though, you got to do one of your favourite activities: art. You were an artist, a professional one, and of course he loved that about you; he loved seeing you in your element, so focused on what you did best, and even though he didn’t know yet, you loved dragging him with you so you could see him struggle a bit to at least not be the worst artist the world has ever seen.

Now, he was extremely talented, and if he weren’t a racer, he would be somewhat of an artist; he’s said it himself many times, but that was before he met you, because compared to you, he would never say that about himself, no matter how many times you have said it to him. 

Right now, you found yourselves sitting on your shared bed, facing each other, trying to win a silly little bet you made earlier. It was simple, really. You were supposed to draw the other person, and whoever loses would have to come up with a plan for dinner, which the both of you already knew would end up being a homemade meal, eating it on the couch, and watching some dumb show. This really worked out for him because, as talented as he was, he still struggled to draw real people, and he knew he was setting himself up when he accepted.

You knew that too, and you also knew he only gave in so he could have another one of your drawings of him. But that was okay, because another one of your favourite things was to admire his focused expression while he tried to replicate someone on a blank piece of paper. 

If he was being completely honest, the top reason he loved doing some type of art with you was because you would always come up to him and help with something, holding and guiding his hand or just being really close to his face as you explained something, so he would never say no to that suggestion.

“Okay, so I do you and you do me. Do I have to paint it as well?” He asked as you poured some of your art supplies on the bed.

“No, just a quick sketch,” you replied, scanning the bed as you carefully chose the pencil you wanted to use. “I’m starving, anyway.”

You started sketching each other; you were faster (and probably better) than him, but you couldn’t help but blush any time his eyes fixated on your face for too long, studying every aspect of you to try to draw it. After several minutes, you were done, just finishing up a few details before placing the paper on the bedside table next to you, away from him so he wouldn’t see it yet.

“How is it going?” You asked.

He looked up at you and yelled, “Don’t move!” When you started to get up.

"Sorry,” you whispered, going back to your previous position.

You stayed like that for a while, watching as Lando looked at you repeatedly and then back at the paper, occasionally erasing stuff. He was almost done, but there was one thing holding him back. “I can’t get it right,” he sighed, dropping the pencil.

“What can’t you get right?”

“Your lips. They look too big or too small, and now the paper looks worn out from erasing so much.” He was clearly frustrated.

“Can I see it?”

“Promise you won’t laugh?” Lando asked you with an embarrassed look.

“Of course I’m not going to laugh; why would I do that?”

“You are a real artist, Y/N. You finished a while ago, and I’ve been stuck here trying to fix it, but I’ve only made it worse.”

“Lando, you are actually talented; I don’t make you do art with me because I wanna have a laugh. C’mon, show me.”

He sighed again and slowly turned the paper, showing you the drawing. “It looks terrible.”

Your eyes set on the paper, and an endeared smile appeared on your face. “It looks great, baby.”

"No, it doesn’t; as I said, you’re an artist, and you know exactly what’s wrong with it.”

“I mean it." You whispered, leaving your spot on the bed and sitting next to him, “Maybe the proportions are a bit off, but it does look great, I promise.”

“Thanks,” he replied with a smile, a moment of silence filling the room as you both stared at the drawing. “You know, maybe I just need to take a closer look at them.”

“Oh- I guess that would be helpful." You turned your body to face him, cupping his cheek and brushing away a few curls that rested on his forehead. “Do you want help?”

He nodded and broke the distance between you, locking his lips with yours as he pulled you onto his lap and his hands fell on your hips to intensify the kiss. You got closer and closer, pausing when your bodies couldn’t possibly get any closer to each other even if you tried.

“You know I can actually help you,” you said against his lips and in between kisses.

“Uh huh” Lando replied, not really thinking about the drawing anymore.

[moonlight-joy]

A Writer’s Muse

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary:  At a masquerade ball, you share a kiss with a stranger. The next day, Benedict won’t stop teasing you about your secret rendezvous, unaware that it was actually him.

Pairing: Reader/Benedict Bridgerton

You had always known that Benedict Bridgerton was an artist.

You had seen him sketch at balls, in the gardens, during long afternoons in the Bridgerton drawing room. His fingers, always smudged with charcoal, moved effortlessly across the page, capturing the world with an ease that left you breathless.

But never—not once—had you realized you were his favorite subject.

And you would never have known… had you not found his sketchbook.

It had been left on a table in the Bridgerton library, tucked between the pages of an open book. You hadn’t meant to pry. Truly, you hadn’t.

But when you saw your face staring back at you from the pages, drawn with such detail, such tenderness—

Your breath caught.

There were dozens of sketches.

Some were simple—a quick charcoal outline of your profile, the curve of your lips when you smiled. Others were far more detailed—the way your hands rested in your lap, the way your eyes softened when you looked at something you loved.

And then—there were the ones that made your heart ache.

A drawing of you sitting beneath the large oak tree in the Bridgerton gardens, your dress flowing around you like water, your expression serene.

Another of you reading by candlelight, your face bathed in a soft glow, lips parted ever so slightly in thought.

One of you sleeping.

Your chest tightened.

This was not the work of a man who had simply sketched a friend.

This was the work of someone who had memorized every piece of you.

Someone who had studied the curve of your cheek, the shape of your hands, the way your mouth quirked when you were lost in thought.

Someone who—

"You weren’t supposed to see that."

You gasped, snapping the sketchbook shut as Benedict’s voice filled the room.

He stood in the doorway, his expression frozen between panic and something else—something vulnerable.

Your heart stammered in your chest.

“I—” You swallowed hard, holding up the book. “I didn’t mean to—”

Benedict strode forward, reaching for it. But you stepped back, clutching it tightly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. “Because I knew this would happen.”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Benedict exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark curls. “I knew you’d look at me differently.”

Your fingers curled around the book. “Benedict…”

“Please,” he murmured, voice raw, “just forget you saw it.”

Forget?

How could he ask that?

How could he expect you to unsee the way he had drawn you—not as just anyone, but as someone who mattered?

You lifted the book, flipping to a sketch—a particularly detailed one of you laughing, your head thrown back, joy captured perfectly in every line.

“This is not something I can forget,” you said softly.

Benedict swallowed. “Then what do you want me to say?”

You met his gaze, searching. “The truth.”

Silence.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his body taut with tension.

And then—

“The truth?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded.

He took a slow, measured breath.

“The truth is,” he murmured, stepping closer, “I have been drawing you for years.”

Your heart pounded.

“The truth is,” he continued, his voice rough with emotion, “I never meant for you to see them because—because if you did, you’d know.”

“Know what?” you whispered.

Benedict exhaled, his gaze dark and unreadable.

“That I love you.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

Benedict ran a frustrated hand through his hair, laughing bitterly. “You see? This is why I never said anything. Because now, you’re looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.”

You shook your head. “No.”

His brow furrowed. “No?”

You stepped forward, closing the space between you. “I’m looking at you like—like I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

Benedict stilled.

“I’m looking at you like I can’t believe it took me this long to realize,” you whispered. “That I love you too.”

His breath caught.

Then—before you could second-guess yourself—

You kissed him.

The moment your lips met, it was as if the world had been waiting for this exact moment.

Benedict inhaled sharply, his hands finding your waist, pulling you close as he kissed you back with a desperation that stole your breath.

It wasn’t hurried.

It wasn’t frantic.

It was slow, reverent—like he was memorizing every second, every feeling.

When you finally pulled away, Benedict pressed his forehead against yours, his breath uneven.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You smiled, brushing your fingers against his cheek.

“I love you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, his expression one of pure relief.

And then, with a soft chuckle, he murmured—

“Well, I suppose I shall have to sketch this moment next.”

You laughed, pressing another kiss to his lips.

“Only if you let me keep the sketchbook.”

Benedict smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

But then, before you could reply, he took the book from your hands, flipping to an empty page.

And right there, in that very moment, he sketched something new—

Not a portrait of longing.

Not an image of unspoken love.

But the two of you together, hands intertwined, a love no longer hidden between the pages of a book.

And as he looked at you, his muse, his heart—

He knew he would never stop drawing you.

Because you were his greatest masterpiece.

Please support my work with like and comment

[padmesweetheart]

Study of You

Pairing: College! Art Major!Sam Monroe x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Comfort, Domestic Romance

You were stretched out across Sam’s twin dorm bed, wearing his hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks you stole from your own room two doors down. The blanket was barely clinging to your hips, the cheap dorm mattress creaking softly every time you shifted. But the real soundtrack of the room was the scratch of pencil on paper and the occasional huff Sam let out when something didn’t come out quite the way he wanted.

He sat on the edge of his desk chair, hunched over his sketchpad, brows drawn together, hair a little too messy from where he kept running his fingers through it. The lamp cast a warm glow across his face, catching the shadows in his jaw and the concentration in his expression like it was meant to be painted itself.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. You didn’t want to.

“How long are you gonna look at me like that?” he muttered without looking up, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re making it hard to draw.”

You smiled lazily. “I’m not doing anything. You’re the one being all… artsy and broody.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “Broody, huh?”

“Tragically handsome, tortured soul,” you teased, rolling onto your side. “You’re living the full art school fantasy.”

He finally looked over his shoulder at you, lips twitching into a smile despite himself. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“You’re cute,” you said, voice going a little dreamy as you tucked your chin onto your arm. “Do you even realize how good you look right now?”

He shook his head and turned back to the sketchpad, but not before you caught the pink that bloomed across his cheeks.

You watched his hand glide across the paper, wrist loose, pencil catching the light. Every so often, his fingers would smudge something deliberately, and you knew he hated when things looked too clean. Too safe.

“You always look like you’re in your own world when you draw,” you murmured, voice soft. “Like the world’s quiet in your head for once.”

Sam slowed his movement, glancing at you again really looking this time.

“It is quieter when I’m drawing,” he said. “Especially when you’re here.”

You swallowed a little too hard at that, heart tripping over itself.

“What are you sketching?” you asked, voice suddenly more fragile.

He hesitated, then tilted the sketchpad toward you.

It was a quick study of you messy lines, some shading still unfinished, but unmistakably you. Your arm bent beneath your head, the folds of his hoodie around your shoulders, the tilt of your gaze fixed somewhere just past the viewer.

You blinked. “Is that… when I was laying here like ten minutes ago?”

He nodded. “You were just looking at me. Like I mattered.”

Your throat went tight.

“You do matter,” you said softly, reaching a hand out toward him.

Sam stood, dropping the sketchpad onto the desk, and crossed to the bed, climbing over you until he settled beside you, half-on, half-wrapped around you.

“I know,” he murmured, nuzzling into your neck. “I just forget sometimes. But then you look at me like that, and it’s like…” He paused, pressing a kiss under your jaw. “Like maybe I’m not so messed up after all.”

You rolled into his arms fully, hands coming up to his cheeks. “You’re not messed up,” you whispered. “You’re real. And you’re everything.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment he just stared at you like he couldn’t believe you were his.

“I was supposed to finish that drawing,” he murmured.

“Finish it later,” you said, curling up against his chest. “Right now you’re busy being worshipped.”

He laughed, arms tightening around you, and whispered into your hair: “Fine. But only if you keep looking at me like I’m magic.”

You smiled against him. “Deal.”

And in the warmth of his dorm room, with his sketchpad forgotten and your hearts pressed together, magic didn’t feel so far away at all.

@skyguytoast @dessxoxsworld @endairachristensen26 @bxbyysstuff @inlovewithallmusic

[bonelyheartsclub]

♡ Poplar - Valentine's One-Shot ♡

Written by @/duskyskye

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Splendid, absolutely splendid!”

Poplar gazed at your latest piece, raising it above his head. You’d tried your best to work with the tiny watercolor canvas and brushes he had available for you, but you really thought you could have done better with this one. Especially compared to Poplar’s prowess.

“I don’t know,” you thought aloud, “I don’t think it’s really all that.”

“Nonsense! The way you rendered this flower is lovely! I love the shading you did on the petals.”

“Poplar…you and I both know I was just following a tutorial. I couldn’t do that without help.” Your tone was light as you spoke, though the creeping feeling of inadequacy was still present. Of course, Poplar wasn’t taking that from you.

“Hmm…what I know for certain is that you shouldn’t be nearly this hard on yourself. Everyone begins somewhere, after all! I think you’re off to a lovely start. Now, may I?” Poplar stood, gesturing to the wall. You gave him a shrug and a nod, trying to keep the smile on your face. Without another word, he positioned your piece just above his desk mirror.

“Well, I think that makes for a lovely centerpiece. Done by an even more lovely person.” Poplar smiled, looking at the wall.

You followed his gaze. Yep. That was your piece, alright. Next to the other paintings that he had hanging. They seemed to dwarf yours in quality, the brushwork and delicate detail reflecting Poplar’s talent in his craft. You shuddered a little bit.

Poplar seemed to pick up on your discomfort, his smile faltering as he sat back down next to you.

“Does it really bother you that much? Your painting?”

You gave him a small nod. He sighed, looking downcast for a brief moment before his sockets widened, his smile quickly returning as he turned to you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever shown you my old paintings, now, have I? Oh dear, what a shame. Though surely if you’re so bothered by someone’s early works, you’d have no interest…” Poplar made a point of acting hurt, leaning dramatically against his desk. You giggled at the theatrics. Maybe you were a bit on the theatrical side yourself with how downtrodden you were being.

“Are you acting like that because you think they’re any worse than mine?”

“Darling, I KNOW they are.” Poplar gave you a quick grin before taking his cane and walking to his dresser. With a flourish, he pulled out a well-loved folder from the top drawer.

“I suppose I should clarify before I open this, but I am showing this to you with the express purpose of helping you understand that everyone struggles when beginning in a new medium. I fully expect you to laugh, to judge, and so on. All I ask is that when you reach the life drawing section, you refrain from visibly cringing too hard.” Poplar slid back into the seat beside you, placing the file on the tabletop where you had been working.

“What’s that supposed to mean, anyway?”

“You’ll find out in just a moment.”

You opened the file, which contained a relatively thick bunch of papers. The top started with a few color studies. Each labelled with various brush styles, paint colors, and blending methods. Wet on wet, wet on dry, flat wash, gradients, glazing… all things you had a vague understanding of, but more than you think you would have the patience to complete. You could tell that the strokes and coloring were not nearly as neat as the works that were displayed above your head.

Pages turned from dedicated exercises to a few applications. Circles in various colors were shaded using the previous techniques. He was experimenting with the various colors available to him. You could tell that he had also been following guides with a few of these as he got the hang of the technique. It all seemed fairly rudimentary, but you could tell that he had put a lot of effort in.

At this point it appeared he was branching out his sketching skills as well. Leaves and flowers were a common subject, it seemed. It was at that point that he broke the silence.

“Ash was beginning to garden at around the point I started to commit to bettering myself in the visual arts. It’s interesting, trying to capture the detail in such tiny little things. Though I think you can see that the subtlety is easy to lose.” He finished with a laugh.

Sure enough, the linework was notably shaky. The symmetry he had tried to go for had been lost. The lines clearly lacked confidence, and the veins of the leaves looked more like fur than anything else, somehow. Not that you could do much better if you were going for absolute realism.

“I think you still did a good job.” You said, gesturing to a couple illustrations. “This leaf looks really nice!”

“I’m well aware that they’re wonky, darling. They were my first attempts.” Poplar offered you a smile. “You don’t need to struggle to come up with compliments.”

“No, no, I genuinely think they’re good! Especially for first attempts.”

“Then I suggest you continue onwards. Though while you do, would you mind if I make a sketch of my own while you continue to peruse?”

“Go for it.”

Poplar nodded, pulling his sketchbook and a pencil into his hand. You flipped to the next page.

Poplar had shifted from leaves and flowers to objects that you recognized from around his room. A porcelain plate with floral decoration that he displayed on the other side of the room. A plush that he had carefully mounted on top of his shelves. What you assumed was either an older bed of his, or one of his cousin’s, as it wasn’t the one you were next to currently. Each had what looked like at least an hour of work poured into them. Even if they weren’t the best sketches, you could see he was gaining a better eye for detail as he worked at it.

Then you flipped to the next piece.

You could only ASSUME that what you were looking at was his first attempt at drawing chicken. 

You looked back at Chicken, who had been fast asleep on their pillow for the majority of their visit. You turned in your seat, looking between the sketch and the real thing.

“Ah. You found it.” Poplar broke into a fit of giggles. “It’s absolutely awful, isn’t it? It’s alright to laugh.”

Well, it was…certainly an attempt. Poplar had gone VERY heavy on the wrinkles. One eye was notably misshapen compared to the other, and the muzzle was disproportionately long for a cat. The end product was what you could tell was Chicken from the approximation of feline traits and almost nothing else.

“I don’t know, I think you did ok.”

“No, I absolutely crashed and burned. There are only two reasons that that sketch isn’t in the bin. The first is that when I’m struggling with a piece, it reminds me that I could do so much worse. The second is that when I’m feeling overconfident, it humbles me.”

Hearing him talk…yeah, you knew what you sounded like now.

“Should I continue going through this, or do you think that your point came across just fine?” You asked him, a slight hint of comedy in your tone. The stack that you had left to sort through wasn’t thick.

“Oh, by all means, continue. I’m still working on what I’m doing over here. Though if you’re curious about any of the other pieces within, you only need to ask.” Poplar looked up at you from his paper, gesturing to you to continue.

So, you did.

While none of the pieces invoked the same level of shock in you that Chicken’s portrait did, you could see the purpose of these sketches was very much to learn the ropes of anatomy and shape. It wasn’t like you had much room to speak, of course. It was more of a comparison to his current work than anything else. You could see things improving as you thumbed through each sheet of canvas, each work growing more refined as you went on. By the end, you could see a couple of full pieces that started to look very nice.

“So?” Poplar eagerly piped up as he saw you close the folder. “What are your thoughts? Do be honest about it.”

“It’s your beginner’s folder. I think you showed a lot of promise even back then, even if your pieces weren’t always the best work.” You stated bluntly. Poplar smiled at your tiptoeing.

“Now, tell me: how many folders in do you think I am now?”

“…I have no clue.”

“Fifteen. All as big as this one. Plus at least three sketchbooks. It’s a hobby, but I’m quite dedicated.”

Your eyes widened. Wow, no wonder there was such a jump in quality between then and now.

“No kidding you’re, ‘dedicated.’ I can see that all that work paid off.”

“I’d like to think so. Of course, everyone has areas in which they can improve with their artwork. I’ve just been working hard enough and for long enough that things come to me more naturally than they once did. For instance:”

Poplar thumbed through the sketchbook he was holding to an earlier page. On it was a similar picture of Chicken, this time with more precise proportions. A marked improvement from what you had seen before.

“I see. You did an amazing job on that.” You reached out, gently touching the paper.

“I’m glad you think so! Though I find I’m still not the best at rendering skin folds. They look more like the folding you’d find on clothing than the kind you’d find on skin. It doesn’t help that I can’t use myself as reference, what with the bones and all.”

Poplar closed the sketchbook, looking you directly in the eye.

“I never want you to feel bad at where you’re at in your art journey, my love. We all have to start somewhere, and personally, I think yours is much better than mine. What matters is that you’re trying, because if you keep doing that, then you’ll get to where you want to be eventually.”

You looked back at the piece he’d hung up on the wall. Sure, it was more of an attempt than anything, but maybe it wasn’t so bad. You chuckled.

“Yeah, I got you. I appreciate the reassurance, Poplar.”

“Any time, my love. Now, are you curious as to what I was working on while you were distracted with my crimes against art?”

You giggled at his joke.

“Of course.”

Poplar opened the sketchbook back up, turning to a point about midway through.

What greeted you on the page was your reflection, not fully rendered due to the lack of time, but still clearly you, nonetheless. Your hair was perfectly textured, your eyes stood out brightly with a small amount of rendering, and your skin looked as light as the paper it was drawn on.

“Poplar…I’m flattered.”

“Well, you know, I think it has room for improvement. Time to shade and color, for instance. There’s SO much to improve on. After all, it’s hard to compare a pencil sketch to the TRUE work of art that it’s based on…”

“Yeah, yeah!” You shoved him, both of you laughing. “Seriously though, this is gorgeous. Thank you for this.”

“Of course, my love.” Poplar leaned in, planting a gentle kiss on your cheek. “You know that if you ever feel as though you’re lacking confidence, I’m happy to give you any encouragement you need. Even if it means showing you my first attempts at drawing my cat.”

You smiled, not doubting his words for even a second.

“Thank you, Poplar… and you know what?” You pulled a new canvas from the paper stack Poplar had supplied you and confidently took a pencil in your hand. “I’m ready to start on my next piece.”

Poplar’s sockets sparkled; his grin widened from cheek to cheek.

“I’m excited to see what you create, darling.”

[bunnib4b3s]

Rafayel- Last Minute Gifts

Synopsis: With Thomas on his ass, he totally forgot to get something for MC to show that his love goes beyond her being 'just' his bodyguard. In a rush to get his gift done, with ribbons and wrapping paper strewn everywhere you stumble upon him.

Genre/ Warnings: 18+, Fluff, Friends-to-Lovers, Coworkers-to-Lovers, Smut, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Porn-with-Plot

MDNI

Word Count 2,000+

Raf did not have a sense of urgency at all. Twenty missed calls from Thomas, his phone on silent, and yet, he still couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he was forgetting something. He had already completed the underpaintings for all his artwork for the upcoming exhibit—so why did he feel like there was something else, something important, slipping through his fingers?

With a frustrated sigh, he flipped open his sketchbook, idly running his fingers over the well-worn pages. His eyes traced the lines of various sketches—each one of you, captured in different poses, different moods. Some were rough, quick gestures; others were detailed studies, the kind he poured hours into, shading every contour with the softest touch.

Then it hit him.

His stomach dropped.

"Shit."

Valentine’s Day.

And not just any Valentine’s Day—this was supposed to be the day. The day he finally told you how he felt. The day he gave you something that said everything he hadn’t yet been able to put into words.

Panic shot through his veins. He had spent so much time agonizing over how to confess, how to make it special, that he had completely forgotten to actually prepare something. The idea of just blurting it out without anything to show for it made his skin crawl. He needed something—something meaningful.

His gaze snapped back to the sketchbook, heart pounding. The answer had been in front of him all along.

He didn’t have time to second-guess himself. Grabbing a blank canvas, he worked quickly, paint and charcoal smudging his fingers as he poured himself into each stroke. The world outside faded away—his only focus was you.

The minutes ticked by in a blur of color and movement. He barely registered the mess he was making—ribbons, wrapping paper, and discarded sketches littered the floor as he scrambled to finish.

Then—

Footsteps.

The door creaked open.

His stomach flipped as he looked up and saw you standing there, taking in the scene: the chaos, the half-finished painting, the way he was very obviously hiding something behind his back.

“…Raf?”

He froze, heart hammering against his ribs. His mind raced for an excuse—any excuse—but all that came out was, “…This isn’t what it looks like.”

Your gaze dropped to the mess of art supplies and ribbons at his feet. Then to his paint-smudged hands. Then to the telltale canvas peeking out from behind him.

You crossed your arms, a teasing glint in your eyes. “So… what does it look like?”

He swallowed hard. He could lie, brush it off as nothing. But looking at you now, standing there with that curious tilt to your head, that knowing smile—he realized he didn’t want to hide it.

With a slow, deep breath, he turned the canvas around, revealing the painting.

It was you. Not just any painting—this was different. More delicate, more deliberate. The way he captured the light in your eyes, the softness in your expression—it was raw, vulnerable, honest.

Your lips parted slightly, eyes flickering over the details. “Raf…”

His pulse roared in his ears. “I—” He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to keep going. “I was going to give this to you. As a—um—a Valentine’s gift.” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, only succeeding in smudging more charcoal on his skin. “And, you know, maybe… finally tell you that I—”

You stepped closer, gaze locked on his, and suddenly, the words he’d been terrified to say didn’t seem so impossible anymore.

Maybe—just maybe—you already knew.

The room felt smaller, warmer, the air thick with something unspoken. You reached out, fingertips skimming along the edge of the canvas before meeting his hand. The touch was light, hesitant—but the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers curled instinctively around yours, sent something electric pulsing between you.

"You spent all this time drawing me," you murmured, voice softer now, more intimate. "Was it because you were too scared to tell me how you feel?"

Raf swallowed hard. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His pulse hammered against his skin as you took another step forward, closing the space between you.

The scent of paint and charcoal clung to him, but underneath it was him—warm, intoxicating, unmistakably Raf. Your free hand lifted, thumb brushing against a stray smear of charcoal on his cheek, and his breath stuttered.

"I—yeah," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn’t know how else to say it."

You tilted your head, fingers still lingering against his skin. "And now?"

His gaze dropped to your lips. His restraint was hanging by a thread.

"Now," he murmured, stepping forward so that your bodies nearly touched, "I think I'm done waiting."

His hand came up, cupping your jaw, and then—

His lips crashed into yours.

It was hungry, desperate, months—years—of pent-up tension unraveling all at once. His grip on you tightened as he pulled you flush against him, his other hand threading into your hair. He tasted like breathless anticipation and something impossibly sweet, and when you sighed into the kiss, he groaned, deep and low.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer. The unfinished painting, the mess of ribbons and paper, the forgotten gift—all of it faded, unimportant compared to the way he was touching you now.

"Raf—" you gasped against his mouth, but he swallowed the sound, pressing you back against the nearest surface, hands roaming, exploring, finally claiming what he'd wanted for so long.

"I should've done this so much sooner," he muttered against your skin, trailing heated kisses along your jaw, down your throat.

You laughed breathlessly, tugging at his shirt. "Then don't stop now."

His answering grin was nothing short of wicked.

"Not a chance."

Raf's hands slid under your shirt, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist as he pressed you harder against the wall. Your head fell back, exposing more of your neck to his hungry kisses. He nipped at your pulse point, drawing a soft moan from your lips.

"God, I've wanted this for so long," he murmured against your skin, his voice husky with desire.

You tugged at his hair, pulling him back up to capture his lips in another searing kiss. Your tongues danced as hands roamed, exploring newly exposed skin with reverent touches.

Rafayel broke away, breathing heavily. His eyes were dark with want as they raked over you. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, his thumb caressing your cheek.

In response, you grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head in one fluid motion.

His eyes widened, drinking in the sight of you. His gaze lingered on the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the smooth expanse of your stomach. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

"You're beautiful," he breathed, voice filled with awe.

His hands skimmed up your sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You shivered at his touch, arching into him. His fingers danced along the edge of your bra, teasing.

"Can I...?" he asked, eyes searching yours.

You nodded, pulse quickening as he reached behind you to unclasp your bra. It fell away, and Rafayel's breath hitched. He cupped your breasts reverently, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped at the sensation,

Your gasp turned into a low moan as Rafayel's skilled fingers continued their exploration, teasing and caressing. He lowered his head, replacing one hand with his mouth. His tongue swirled around your nipple before he sucked gently, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

"Raf," you breathed, fingers tangling in his hair.

He hummed against your skin, the vibrations making you shudder. His free hand slid down your stomach, fingers dipping below the waistband of your pants. You whimpered in anticipation as he slowly unbuttoned them, sliding the zipper down torturously slow.

Raf's lips trailed back up to your neck, nipping and sucking as his hand slipped inside your underwear. His fingers found your slick folds, and you both groaned at the contact.

"You're so wet, so perfect for me.

His fingers moved with agonizing slowness, teasing and exploring. You whimpered, hips canting forward, desperate for more friction. He chuckled softly against your neck, the sound sending shivers down your spine.

"Patience," he murmured, nipping at your earlobe.

But patience was the last thing on your mind. You tugged at his shirt, needing to feel his skin against yours. Understanding your urgency, Raf stepped back just long enough to pull it over his head before pressing against you once more.

Your hands roamed over the planes of his chest, tracing the lines of muscle. When your fingers brushed over a particularly sensitive spot, Raf's breath hitched. You filed that information away for later.

His lips found yours again as his fingers continued their ministrations, building a delicious tension low in your belly.

Raf's mouth, unable to contain the pleasure building inside you. His hand moved faster, his lips and tongue keeping pace with the movements of his fingers.

You were lost in a sea of sensations, each touch and kiss sending jolts of electricity through your body. You couldn't remember ever feeling this way before, so consumed by desire and need for another person.

As his fingers found their mark and you felt yourself reaching the edge, he pulled away from your lips and looked into your eyes. His own were dark with lust, but also filled with tenderness.

"I want to make love to you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Without hesitation, you nodded. Rafayel helped you out of the rest of your clothes before shedding his own. As he settled on top of you, skin against skin, he kissed every inch of your body with reverence.

The heat between you intensified as Rafayel's lips blazed a trail down your body. His hands caressed your curves, mapping every dip and valley as if committing them to memory. You arched into his touch, desperate for more.

He paused, hovering above you. His eyes locked with yours, filled with a mixture of desire and vulnerability. "Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice husky and warm.

In response, you pulled him down for a searing kiss. "I've never been more sure of anything," you breathed against his lips.

With a groan, he entered you slowly, giving you time to adjust. You gasped at the sensation, feeling deliciously full. He stilled, pressing his forehead against yours, both of you savoring the moment.

Then he began to move, setting a languid pace that had you clutching at his shoulders. Every thrust had you seeing stars, the pleasure building with each movement. Raf's name escaped your lips in a continuous stream as he brought you to the edge and over it again and again.

He held onto you tightly, his own release close. With a final thrust, he buried himself deep inside you and spilled his seed. You both rode out the aftershocks together, clinging to one another as if afraid to let go.

Afterwards, Raf rolled onto his side beside you, pulling you into his chest. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

"That was...amazing," you said, still trying to catch your breath.

"It was," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You stayed like that for a while longer, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking. Eventually, reality started creeping back in and with it came a sense of unease.

"What happens now?" you asked softly.

Raf turned onto his side to face you, cupping your cheek in his hand. "What do you want to happen?"

"I don't know," you admitted, feeling uncertain about how this would all work out.

"All I know is that I want to be with you." Firmly pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You couldn't help but smile at his words. "I want that too."

And just like that, all of your worries seemed to disappear. You had no idea what the future held for the two of you but for now, being in each other's arms was enough.

As if reading your mind, Raf pulled you closer and whispered against your hair. "I promise I'll do everything in my power to keep us together."

[detectivesvu]

Sharing Secrets

Mike Dodds x Fem! Reader Tags: Brief mentions of child abuse. Word Count: 3.6k "I just...hope I haven't completely messed things up."

The air of the SVU victim interview room was completely still.

It wasn’t uncomfortable per se, but it was definitely quiet and not much conversation to fill the air. After all your years at SVU, talking to victims and hearing their stories still stung just as much as your very first day on the squad.

Of course, as time went on and you had more experience under your belt, you were more confident and comfortable talking to victims. You knew that in some cases, you were the only person in their corner. You were the only person who understood what they were feeling and what they were going through. Work experience helped, but it didn’t put even a dent in the way it still made your stomach turn to hear such traumatic events day in and day out.

And certainly, adults were one thing…kids were entirely another.

Too often, SVU was handed cases of kids being assaulted and abused…traumatized and scarred for life. With the adults, you always managed to move on, but kids? Kids’ cases stuck with you forever. Hearing small, meek children tell you that they had been touched or beaten…almost always by someone they knew and trusted. It was impossible to get used to hearing and seeing that every day…it was inconceivable to believe that anyone could lay their hands on a child.

Today was no exception.

He hadn’t hardly said a word since he sat down. He was practically trembling with anxiety as he did everything he could to avoid looking at you and your detective partner sitting directly across from him. If he did sneak a glance, his eyes tended to go to Detective Dodds, who only returned a quick soft smile each time he locked eyes with the 5-year-old.

His eyes were trained on the numerous pieces of paper strewn in front of him, a variety of different colored crayons scattered there as well. He was doodling away with the different crayons, silently dreaming up and sketching multiple pictures as a way of entertaining himself…and distracting himself from the two of you attempting to speak with him.

You and Dodds had been trying to get through to him for nearly half an hour. Each question you asked only earned a meek response and an uncomfortable body movement.

He was scared to death no doubt. Confused as to why two police officers were asking him so many questions that he didn’t want to answer…and even more confused about the situation that landed him here in the first place.

“That’s a really nice picture,” Your voice — soft and full of warmth — spoke to the young boy sitting across from you. “Do you like to draw?”

He said nothing. His eyes — full of fear and yet still so full of innocence — only flickered to you for a moment as a physical show that he had indeed heard your question. His left eye was swollen and a grisly shade of black and blue…evidence of what he had endured that landed him at SVU. His head barely nodded up and down as he set the crayon in use down, his cheeks tinting pink under your gaze.

Mike studied the picture that the child was currently working on. It was no Picasso masterpiece by any means…but even Mike could put together what it was supposed to be.

“Are these your favorite foods?” Mike asked, noting that he could spot a variety of foods that were universally kid friendly.

The child gave another small nod. Eyes now focused on his hands fiddling in his lap. This boy had been through hell and back, so it was no surprise he wasn’t interested in chatting about what foods he liked with two adult strangers. If that boy knew anything for sure, it was that the adults that were supposed to love you could hurt you beyond comprehension…so trusting an adult he didn’t know was not an option unless they gave him a reason to.

It was odd though. The boy had been much more talkative when Sonny picked him up and brought him into the precinct. He hadn’t been a chatterbox by any means, but according to Sonny — the kid wasn’t so clammed up like he was now. Something was making him uneasy.

“Pizza, ice cream, sandwiches…all really good stuff. I like all of that too,” Mike said, trying to establish some kind of common ground with the kid. Mike pointed to one particular image on his picture, a rectangular shape with a symbol on it that he identified to be a certain type of fruit. “Is this a juice box?”

The boy nodded once more, shrinking down into his seat as Mike continued.

“If you want, we can get you a juice box. We have some around here.”

For the briefest moment, the boy perked up. His eyes glimmered just long enough for you and Mike to catch it and know that you were making some progress.

He cowered and shrank into himself again when he locked eyes with you, and that’s when it clicked for Mike.

“Detective,” Mike turned to you, a small, reassuring smile on his face. “Would you get my friend here an apple juice?”

Mike had a look on his face, a look that let you know he had something in mind. You and Mike — a dynamic duo as work partners — understood one another. Your thoughts often flowed together smoothly and with ease. In many ways, your bond went well outside of work. The two of you didn’t just blend together as partners…but as people. If Mike needed you to leave, then you trusted him.

“Sure thing,” You retreated from your chair. “I’ll be right back.”

Mike kept his eyes on the kid, who allowed his own eyes to follow you as you exited the room and disappeared behind the wall. He released a long breath once you were gone, unbeknownst to him that you would be watching from the other side once his promised juice box was retrieved. Mike let the silence simmer for a few minutes, not wanting to immediately start asking more questions.

It wasn’t until the boy snuck another glance at Mike that he decided to try and press further.

“So…let me ask you something. Does Detective [L/N] make you nervous?”

The boy’s wide brown eyes locked with Mike’s for only another moment as he nodded, fiddling with his small hands.

“Can you tell me why she makes you nervous? You didn’t seem to like her being here," Mike asked. "I'm your friend. You can tell me."

The boy was clearly wrestling with himself. Not wanting to give in to Mike’s question…but deep down knowing that he wasn’t here to do anything other than help him. The boy then spoke for the first time in half an hour. The tiniest bit of comfort filled his senses as he finally began to answer Mike’s questions.

“She’s pretty…” He gave the tiniest, shyest grin with a small voice.

Mike couldn’t help himself. His laugh was light and surprised, but genuine. This was the first time he had said anything, and he chose to say that.

You yourself gave a small laugh, cradling the beloved apple juice in your hand to be delivered once Mike made some decent headway in this conversation.

“He’s getting through to him.” Olivia, who was standing to your immediate right, said aloud. “Even if it’s at your expense.”

You shook your head and shrugged, completely unbothered.

“I don’t mind,” You answered. “Mike knows what he’s doing.”

Mike could tell the kid was warming up. He didn’t want to lose momentum now while he was on a roll.

“Is that why you didn’t want to talk with her in the room?”

The boy nodded and surprised Mike by posing a question of his own.

“Do you think she’s pretty too?”

Suddenly, the questioning at your expense was getting a bit personal. Mike shifted in his seat a bit -- he wasn't going to lie to this boy, but he also knew you were listening. Right now, this kid was his priority.

“Yeah, bud. I do.”

The boy brightened up, clearly interested in this ordeal. Mike didn't mind. If it distracted him from what he had been through, then he was more than willing to dish out his personal business.

“Are you boyfriend-girlfriend?” The boy straightened up, now having no trouble keeping eye contact with Mike.

“No, we’re not boyfriend-girlfriend.” Mike chuckled again at the phrasing of the youngster's question.

“Why not?” He tilted his head slightly with curiosity.

Mike's eyes widened at that question, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He wasn't expecting that question, and it caught him off guard. Mike was too far down the road of this conversation to turn back now. If he lost this kid's trust, they might never really know what was happening to him. He turned his attention back to the child, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Mike admitted, trying to maintain his composure. "We're partners...but not the kind that dates."

It seemed that suddenly the boy was very invested in your and Mike’s relationship because he continued to press on like he needed to know for his own personal reasons.

“But if you think she’s pretty, why don’t you date?” He asked. “You like her don’t you?”

Mike chuckled again, amused by the boy's curiosity and keen eye for detail. He leaned back in his chair, contemplating his answer for a moment before speaking.

"Well...you're right. I do like her," he admitted, a smile on his face. "But it's not always that simple. We work together every day...and sometimes," Mike said, hesitating for a moment, "Work can get in the way of things."

“Oh…” The boy said quietly, thinking for only a moment before continuing. “So you don’t like her more than a friend?”

Mike pondered on the question. It really was a difficult one to answer. Because the feelings he had for you weren't just that of friendship. They were stronger, deeper, but he didn't know how to articulate it to a 5-year-old child. He leaned closer to the boy, his voice serious but still friendly.

"I do like her more than just a friend. A lot more," He confessed, his smile still on his face. "But it's a bit tricky when we work together. Does that make sense?"

The boy picked up on Mike’s quiet tone, and he matched his whisper when he spoke next.

“Yeah but…why don’t you tell her you like her?”

Mike was caught off guard again by the boy's insightful question. He shifted in his chair, feeling a pang of guilt and regret in his chest. The simple truth was, he had thought about expressing his feelings to you more times than he could count. But there was always a reason not to.

He sighed, his voice low and conflicted.

"It's not that easy. If I tell her how I feel...it could mess up our friendship."

Mike realized he was probably oversharing with him. In no way was his feelings for you the child's responsibility...but the boy didn't seem burdened in the slightest -- this was the most interested he had been in talking all day. A slight smile appeared on the boy’s face as he leaned over the table, whispering even quieter to Mike.

“I think she likes you too.” He grinned.

Mike kept his expression unchanged, but his heartbeat was beginning to quicken in his chest. He knew there was no turning back from this now. He leaned in toward the boy, mirroring his whispering tone.

"What makes you think that?" He asked in a hushed voice.

The boy shrugged, but his eyes were completely lit up at this conversation.

“I don’t know…” He giggled. “I can just tell.”

Mike knew this conversation was getting way off track. The purpose of this interview was to get this boy to tell him about what he had endured at his daycare center, and how he ended up bruised and beaten — but at this point, Mike figured it was valuable to finish it out.

“You’re a smart kid,” He said. “You can tell me. How can you tell?"

Mike was impressed at how observant and perceptive this kid was. At such a young age, he had an astute sense of things that many adults didn’t even pick up on in their own relationships. The boy scrunched his eyebrows, thinking hard. Mike chuckled at the sight and waited patiently for his answer.

"Well," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "She smiles at you a lot. And she listens when you talk. Like...she really listens."

Mike was speechless. He could tell this kid was observant, but this was beyond impressive. It seemed that this five-year-old was beyond smarter than he was.

“But I won’t tell her if you don’t want her to know you like her,” The boy said. “I promise."

Mike knew that it wasn't a secret anymore, given that you were probably watching from the other side and had heard this entire conversation. Still, Mike admired the kid's loyalty. He leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile on his face.

“Thanks, kid. Let’s keep it just between us for now, okay?”

Mike knew you had to have been watching and listening this entire time. His stomach was in knots knowing that you had just heard him spill his liking for you to a child. He hoped and hoped that this kid was right, and that your friendship and partnership wasn’t over.

As if on cue, the door to the room opened — revealing you with two small boxes of the promised apple juice. The boy shrank into his seat slightly when you entered, but shared a knowing glance with Mike.

Mike's eyes darted from the boy back to you, trying to keep a casual demeanor despite the wave of nerves that washed over him. He could sense the boy's slightly timid behavior as you entered the room, and the knowing glance the boy shared with him was both reassuring and foreboding. He tried his best to act natural, standing up to take the juice box from you and set it on the table in front of the boy.

"Perfect timing, thanks." Mike said, his voice betraying a hint of tension underneath.

She knew Mike was going to try and continue the conversation with the boy now — and get the full story of the abuse he had endured. She wouldn’t be sticking around - just long enough to give him his juice.

“I brought you a second one…just in case you were extra thirsty.” she smiled at the boy, her heart pounding at the new knowledge of Mike liking her so much more than she ever realized. “If you want anything else, let Mike know, okay?”

The boy took one of the juice boxes, unwrapped the straw and punched it into the hole.

“Okay,” He gave her a shy smile. “Thanks.”

The thought of you potentially knowing Mike's feelings for you — the fact that he may have given away his secret to you via a 5-year-old — was almost overwhelming. But he pushed it aside, needing to focus on the task at hand.

As you excused yourself to leave the room, he shot you a quick nod, a silent thank you for the juice and giving him and the kid some privacy.

“Okay, buddy…” Mike said calmly, trying to shift gears. “Can you tell me about your daycare teacher?”

For the next hour or so, Mike and the boy talked back and forth. The boy told Mike all the details of how his daycare teacher abused him and other kids in his class — and gave SVU enough reason to question and potentially arrest her.

Through the boy's detailed and sometimes-heartbreaking account of the abuse he and others had suffered, Mike listened intently, his heart breaking a bit more with every new piece of information. He jotted down notes as the boy spoke, making sure to capture as much information as possible for the investigation. The more Mike learned about the daycare teacher's treatment of the children, the more determined he was to bring her to justice.

When the boy was out of things to say and SVU had enough information, Mike stood from the table and held his hand out to the boy.

“You’ve been very brave and helpful to us,” He said, smiling once more when the boy walked around the table and took his hand. “Thank you for helping us.”

The boy nodded, walking out of the room hand-in-hand with Mike — entering Olivia’s office where you, Olivia, and Carisi were waiting. Olivia wore an expression of curiosity, Carisi looked as if he was about to explode to go tell the entire squad room what just happened, and you were looking at Mike...purely in awe as he stood in front of you.

Mike squatted to meet the boy’s height, gesturing toward Carisi with a grin.

“I need to get back to work now. Detective Carisi is going to take you now, okay?”

The boy nodded again, leaning in to whisper one more thing to Mike before going with Carisi.

“I won’t forget our secret.” He said, and Mike patted his shoulder affectionately.

Carisi took the boy with him, leaving Mike alone with her and Olivia. As Carisi led the boy out of the office -- no doubt going to tell Fin and Rollins about this -- Mike stood up and stood stoically, now facing you and Olivia, his nerves mounting. He avoided your gaze, focusing instead on straightening out the notes he had taken during the interview. The silence in the room was deafening, and Mike's heart was hammering in his chest.

"I'm going to call Barba," Olivia said, which was Olivia's way of saying she was leaving the room. “I'll send Fin and Rollins down to that daycare center."

Mike nodded in acknowledgement as Olivia relayed the news about the teacher, his heart racing even faster at the impending prospect of being alone with you. He swallowed hard, bracing himself for the conversation that was to come. Olivia swiftly left the room, closing the door behind her.

Mike stood frozen for a moment, mustering up the courage to finally look over at you. He took a deep breath, his gaze meeting yours. It wasn't like Mike to be so nervous. Mike was always confident...super focused on work. But right now, he was terrified that your partnership and friendship was ruined.

He could tell you weren’t angry with him or anything of that nature. If anything you looked…relieved.

“So…” You couldn’t help but flash a small grin, his chest fluttering at the sight. “You think I’m pretty?”

Mike let out a nervous laugh, a mix of relief and anxiety coursing through him. Seeing your small grin made his heart skip a beat. He couldn't deny it now - he was about to see the outcome of his confession.

"Guilty as charged," he admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "That kid wasn't wrong."

He paused for a moment, the weight of his feelings for you heavy in his chest.

"I just...hope I haven't completely messed things up."

“Come on, Mike…” You took a step closer. “You know it would take way more than that to mess things up between us.”

Relief washed over him as you took a step closer. The distance between you guys was shrinking, and he could feel the tension in the room growing. He studied your face, searching your eyes for any hint of rejection.

"I was worried that you'd think this completely changed everything." He said, his voice quiet but firm.

"Well…it certainly does change things…in a good way." You smiled.

Mike's head was spinning. This was certainly not how he expected his day to go...and for the first time ever, he was distracted from the current case at hand.

He took a cautious step forward, closing the distance between you guys even further. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of doubt. He saw nothing but genuine hope.

"The kid was right after all," You said. "But this is a conversation we can have when we get this case figured out. We need to get him taken care of."

He gave a slow nod, his gaze locked on yours. As much as he wanted to blurt out everything he was feeling, he knew you were right — there was work to be done first.

"You're right," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We need to focus on the case. But when this is all over…"

"When this is all over..." You finished his sentence for him. "We will see where we go from here."

The promise of "what's to come" overwhelmed him like no other. It had been so long since he had something other than work to focus on. He took another step forward, the urge to be closer to you nearly overwhelming him. But he stopped himself, knowing that until the case was closed, he couldn't act on any impulses.

"Right," He agreed. "How about dinner at my place?"

Your smile grew, and a slight heat rushed your cheeks.

"It's a date."

The matter was put to rest for now. They had work to do and a case to solve. But neither of you could deny that it sat in the back of your minds for the rest of the day. The day had taken an unexpected turn after all, and a most welcome one at that.

Mike was patient, and he knew with a little more time you would be able to see where this would lead.

Although, you both already had a pretty good idea of what that would be.

[keyoftheskeleton]

Stage/Fright, but it's all of the suspected references/nods/allusions to IN9 episodes (also including likely nods to TLoG and Psychoville!)

INCLUDES HEAVY SPOILERS !! Read at your own risk. I warned you :]

Before I begin, I'd like to thank @spcvarney, @wintersoulwitch, @eliebluebell, @tynatheavocado and @somuchwatersoclosetohome for noticing some of these, too! BA (Hons) in Stage/Fright Studies continues!

Disclaimer: By no means are half of these even confirmed to be proper callbacks, it's more so based on mine and a few other people's findings. I'm not Reece nor am I Steve, so of course I'll never know if all of these were intentional or not intentional, and therefore I am not claiming these as being either!

ACT 1

The theatre sketch is set during a performance of Hamlet, similar to the TLoG sketch where theatre-goers comment on Hamlet as if it were a football/soccer game. (Multiple performances, seen in TLoG Live at Drury Lane)

"A House Divided" reveals that Reece's character in the theatre sketch is named Haig, perhaps a reference to the moviegoer with the same name who was pestered by Henry and Ally. (TLoG)

A character having a severe peanut allergy, being killed by sprinkling peanuts on his food in order to kill him off. (Similar to Maureen and David’s original idea on how to kill Robin in season 2 of Psychoville.)

The text messages appearing on stage, as well as the phone just not being great at picking up voice-to-text, autocorrecting terribly. (A Quiet Night In)

Steve’s character getting electrocuted. (Dead Line)

Haig's voice reportedly becoming somewhat more Edward Tattsyrup-ish as the run has progressed. (TLoG)

"Chekhov's pun", while obviously being a play on "Chekhov's gun", is related to the episode Riddle of the Sphinx.

The joke about Reece having to do a "really quick quick-change" and needing something funny to cover the fact that he was slipping off stage. While not an exact reference, I'm sure we're all aware of the fact that Reece, Steve, and Mark are the masters of incredibly quick and intricate quick changes. (TLoG)

The characters of Tommy and Len, as well as just the whole sketch. (Bernie Clifton's Dressing Room)

A kidnapping sketch. (Kid|Nap)

The kidnappers being the burglars. (A Quiet Night In)

The kidnapped celebrity's house is aptly on Mulberry Close.

The number on the bin is 18.

Kidnapper/Eddie!Len is similar in mannerisms to both Barry Baggs and Tubbs Tattsyrup. (TLoG)

Kidnapper/Ray!Tommy is similar in mannerisms to both Geoff Tipps and Lisgoe. (TLoG) ("Y'know I've got this gun don't you??")

Len tries (and fails) to use a gnome to break the security light. (Mulberry Close)

Big emphasis on "no names!" (The Bill, "you're the one who mentioned Susie, you said no names!")

Male hostages wear a paisley dressing gown, just as Squires does in Riddle of the Sphinx.

A relatively broad one (one of many to come, I'm afraid), but Len getting the kidnapped celebrity's show or character name wrong is similar to Jonah calling Devonshire a different county name every time he saw her. (The Curse of the Ninth)

Tommy referring to the kidnapped celebrity as "the commodity". (Psychoville)

The phone call to Lady Linda Lockwood involves the kidnapped celebrity pretending to be someone else (the live-in lover of Lady Linda Lockwood), specifically involving singing over the phone. (Last Gasp)

The wardobe full of people as the kidnapped celebrity tries to hide inside. (Sardines)

The single black shoe in the wardrobe. (Diddle Diddle Dumpling)

Tommy having to knock and ask Len to invite him back into the house. (The Stakeout)

During the call with Spengler, he mentions that Len/Eddie and Tommy/Ray are “brown bread, dead”. This could be a reference to the use of Cockney rhyming slang from Mother’s Ruin, as well as the fact that the exact line is in Psychoville, too.

While on the phone with Spengler, Tommy finds out that the house they were supposed to go to is a bungalow, and not a house with stairs up to another floor. (TLoG anniversary specials, where Geoff seemingly murders Pauline.)

The paper with the address on it was upside down, causing Len to go into the wrong house. (Once Removed and Wuthering Heist.)

Len mentions the fact that the job 'next week' is going to steal a painting from another house. (A Quiet Night In.)

The gun "having the safety on", but going off and killing the kidnapped celebrity anyway. (Wuthering Heist, as well as TLoG Apocalypse [RIP Mark Gatiss 1966-2005 /j].)

ACT 2

The phrenology bust in the background. (The Trolley Problem)

The various jars of body parts. (Private View, Love is a Stranger, as well as the TLoG vinyl collection.)

This is the second time we see an IN9 character played by Reece get hypnotised. (Zanzibar)

Funnily enough, this is also the second time we see an IN9 character played by Reece brutally have a portion of his leg chopped off. (Mother's Ruin)

The break of tension when Abby comes in to deliver the drinks order is similar to the break of tension seen in Seance Time when the crew reveals themselves to Tina.

Maggie had initially asked for a chai latte. (The Stakeout)

Vince didn't have enough time to finish the cryptic in the Guardian. (Riddle of the Sphinx)

Sherry's audition tape is for 'Amazon's Dante's "Inferno"/"The Divine Comedy" show'. Tim Key name drop. (Plodding On)

Technically speaking, Amazon's show is the same as, or at least similar to, the Ninth Circle. (Simon Says)

The whole idea that there is a ghost backstage messing with the cast of "La Terreur de L'asile". Sherry being spooked by a fake head. (Dead Line)

"We'll give the role to Sheridan Smith." (The 12 Days of Christine)

Marcus gets Abby's hopes up about potentially taking the role that Sherry was scared into abandoning, only to crush them. This is similar to Rosie Cavaliero and Steve's exchange about the part in "The Divine Comedy". (Plodding On)

The head falling to spook Sherry earlier fell in the exact same place as the light that fell and killed Steve, a physical reference to "it wasn't a ghost, it was a warning." (The Bones of St. Nicholas)

Reece and Steve both dying after finishing season 9, meaning they've both died after finishing their 'ninth symphony'. (The Curse of the Ninth)

The mention of Reece and Steve's inside joke of whoever gets to the office first pretends to be dead, waiting for the other to come in and see. (Mentioned in both Plodding On and The Party's Over.)

"I can't believe the twist was that you were a ghost all along!" "We really have run out of ideas." (Plodding On, "we've only done it three times.")

Reece being a ghost all along and being the cause of Steve's death is very similar to Maureen being a ghost for all of Death Be Not Proud and being the ultimate cause of David's death.

Reece's distaste of his understudy "fucking little Toby". A stretch, perhaps, but certainly reminiscent of themes in The Understudy.

Reece intending to kill Toby, though accidentally killing Steve instead. Similar to Maxwell unknowingly intending to kill Jorg, though killing Yves instead in La Couchette.

The entire amazing performance that is Tears of Laughter. (Bernie Clifton's Dressing Room)

The wordplay near the end of Tears of Laughter is incredibly similar to the wordplay featured in lots of IN9 episodes, more specifically Wuthering Heist and Zanzibar. The "plethora, that means a lot!" line, for example, is in Wuthering Heist.

"We'll leave the light on so you don't get lonely!" - Toby leaving the light on for Reece and Steve is like how Beattie leaves the radio on for Maureen and David. (Death Be Not Proud)

Other small things, and a slight plug for Percy's running celebrity guest list (huge props to them!):

As of 05/04, Joe Pasquale, Joel Dommett (host of The Masked Singer UK), Jonathan Ross (judge on The Masked Singer UK) and Jason Manford have all appeared as the kidnapped celebrity. This is just funny to me as Joe and Jason are mentioned by name in the show, and The Masked Singer is mentioned as well.

Mark Gatiss, a fellow member from The League of Gentlemen, was a kidnapped celebrity (much earlier in the run than a lot of us thought he'd be, let's be honest). I am jealous of that audience.

When The Actor Kevin Eldon was the kidnapped celebrity, he caused Reece to start singing the Hokey Cokey, a reference to Henry's consequence of being hypnotised in Zanzibar. I am also very jealous of that audience.

When Denis Lawson was the kidnapped celebrity, the comment Len makes about their job next week was slightly altered to mention the fact that they were stealing a painting from a man who looked very similar to Denis Lawson, a nod to the fact that Denis played Gerald in A Quiet Night In. I was in that audience!

When Elaine Page was the kidnapped celebrity, her and Steve did a small portion of “I Know Him So Well”, sung in Empty Orchestra. (My Empty Orchestra loving heart is overjoyed.)

Several kidnapped celebrities obviously referred to Reece and Steve being in The League of Gentlemen. David Walliams said that he "preferred when they worked with Mark Gatiss, AND JEREMY DYSON!" Also mentioning their TLOG past, Jonathan Ross reportedly praised Mark Gatiss’ “swan-like neck”, while saying that Steve looked like a hedgehog, and Reece was “easily forgettable as a short, bland, fairly handsome guy”. Ironic, as he then forgot to mention Jeremy Dyson.