#i’m not even drawing i’m just finger painting but whatever it’s fine

[kinokoshoujoart]

ibispaint x just gives you process video of your drawing????? automatically??? that’s kinda cool (a feeling of being watched increases) anyway please take a speedpaint ft the song that inspired it

[mephisto-reporting]

Husband?

About: How does he react when you accidentally call him your 'husband'? Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. My inbox is open for prompts and requests :)

RAFAYEL

The evening was going smoother than expected, considering Rafayel had dragged you along to one of his many gallery showings. He had made a big deal about how you should be the one showing off his work to the public, claiming he didn’t want to deal with the “art-snobs." Yet, the second you both arrived, he quickly preoccupied himself on his phone, leaving you to handle most of the small talk.

One of the visitors, a curious older woman, was admiring a painting of his, a chaotic burst of color with soft hints of golden light. You were discussing Rafayel’s "creative process" (whatever that was—he hadn't told you much before retreating to his phone), when she asked how long you’d been working with him.

“Oh, it’s been a while now. It’s honestly amazing seeing him grow like this—my husb—” You froze mid-sentence, realizing the slip just as it left your mouth.

"Husband?"

The word hung in the air for barely a second before you felt Rafayel’s presence shift. His head shot up like a bolt of lightning, his playful, cunning eyes locking onto yours. You could practically feel his grin before you even dared to glance over. You didn’t even need to turn around to feel his gaze burning into you, practically shouting, Oh? Husband, you say?

“Husband, huh?” Rafayel drawled, pocketing his phone and sauntering toward you with that signature smirk of his. “I didn’t realize we were making things official tonight. If I’d known, I’d have worn something even more dazzling.”

You flushed, attempting to stammer out a correction, but he was far too pleased to let you off the hook that easily. He leaned casually against the gallery wall, one arm crossing his chest as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart.

He gently took your hand in his, his dramatic flair dialed up to maximum as he pressed an exaggerated kiss to your knuckles, clearly relishing the moment. "I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised. Who wouldn’t want to marry someone as charming as me?"

The visitor chuckled awkwardly, clearly not sure whether to stay or go, but Rafayel was already having way too much fun. “Of course, as your loving husband,” he continued, drawing out the word in a singsong voice, “it’s only fitting that I’m showered with even more attention now, isn’t it? I expect lots of praise, darling. I mean, just look at me." He struck a faux thought-provoking pose, tilting his head and flipping a lock of his perfectly tousled hair.

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but at the same time, his antics made you laugh. “I didn’t mean to—"

"Oh no, no,” he interrupted, wagging his finger playfully. “You can’t take it back now. The word’s out, Miss Bodyguard. You’ve called me your husband. That means you’re stuck with me. Forever.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Does this mean I get to cheat at board games forever too?”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as you playfully swatted at his shoulder. “As if you needed a reason to cheat more!”

Rafayel laughed, that familiar bratty grin plastered across his face. “Well, if I’m your husband now, I think it’s only fair I get first dibs on everything. Cards, claw machines—oh, and don’t forget, I demand the comfiest seat when we binge-watch our shows.”

Despite his teasing, the warmth in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. You could see the genuine delight he took in your slip-up, how pleased he was at the thought, even if he’d never admit it outright.

“Fine, fine,” you sighed dramatically, playing along. “But don’t expect me to let you win at everything, ‘husband.’”

Rafayel beamed, and for a moment, that bratty, carefree mask of his slipped, just a little. He tugged you closer, his voice softening as he murmured, “Deal.” Then, just as quickly, he switched back to his usual, cheeky self. “Now, let’s go, wife. You’re required to be by my side while I survive this boring night. ”

Shaking your head, you laughed, unable to hide the smile creeping onto your lips. “You’re impossible.”

The woman, watching the scene unfold with a warm smile, laughed. “You two make quite the pair.”

“Oh, we do, don’t we?” Rafayel quipped before lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear, leaning in ever so slightly. “You’ve really outdone yourself, calling me that in front of witnesses. Now they’ll all expect a wedding invitation.”

Your face burned as you tried to shush him, but he was loving every second of it. He tilted his head, his hair catching the light as his smile softened into something more genuine, the bratty exterior fading just a bit. “Still… I can’t say I hate the sound of it,” he murmured, brushing a finger lightly under your chin before pulling back with a playful wink. “I might just get used to hearing it.”

You could only manage a huff of exasperation, but deep down, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter at the way his teasing had just a hint of sincerity behind it.

Rafayel, always dramatic, and yet somehow, just when you least expected it, a little bit sweet.

ZAYNE

You and Zayne were in the middle of your usual weekly grocery run, efficiently dividing and conquering your list to save time. He’d taken off towards the produce section while you headed for the rice aisle. As you browsed the different varieties, a middle-aged man beside you struggled with lifting a heavy bag of rice.

"Need a hand?" you asked, stepping in to help. The man smiled gratefully as you hoisted the bag into his cart with ease.

"Thank you, young lady," he said, rubbing his wrist. "My arthritis is flaring up today. Getting old’s no fun."

You offered him a sympathetic smile. “No problem at all. My husband’s a doctor, actually. I’m sure he’d tell you to take it easy on that wrist."

The man nodded in agreement, offering you one last thanks before heading off. You turned back to your cart, completely unaware of the word you had just let slip—husband—or the fact that Zayne had returned in time to hear it.

You felt him step up behind you, his presence calm yet undeniably magnetic. When you finally glanced over, he was standing there, hands in his pockets, a small, amused smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Husband, hmm?" he said softly, his tone more curious than teasing. "That's... new."

You froze for a second, eyes widening as you realized what you’d said.  You opened your mouth, the words tripping over each other in a rush. “I didn’t— I mean, it just—slipped out. We’re not actually—I mean, obviously, we’re not—” You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and no amount of backpedaling was helping.

Zayne didn’t seem in a rush to let you off the hook. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with an ease that made your heart stutter. “You know,” he said, voice as calm as ever, “if this is your way of bringing it up, there are smoother ways to do it.” His teasing was subtle, barely perceptible if you didn’t know him well, but it was there in the gentle tug of his smile.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Zayne, I didn’t mean to—”

But Zayne, ever level-headed, merely took your hand in his, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “It’s not like I mind the idea.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that, and you looked up at him in surprise. There was a softness in his usually stoic gaze, the kind that made your stomach flip. He continued, his voice measured but affectionate, “Seems like the next logical step, doesn’t it? My parents have been asking me when I’m going to take that step with you for a while now.”

His calm tone made the statement feel both casual and monumental at the same time. “Wait, your parents…?” you started, blinking as your brain processed this new information.

“Mhm,” Zayne replied, still holding your hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “They’ve been pretty vocal about it, actually. But I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

The right moment. Those words hung in the air, and you could feel the weight of what he was saying. He was serious—calm and casual, as always, but serious. Your breath caught, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade into the background. It was just you and Zayne in that grocery aisle, hands linked, talking about a future you hadn’t even realized you both wanted.

“Only if you wanted to, of course,” he added, his thumb still tracing soft circles on your hand. “I wouldn’t do anything unless we both agreed.”

You stared at him, a smile slowly spreading across your face despite the initial shock. “You’re really suggesting this now? In the middle of a grocery store?”

Zayne smirked, his usual pragmatic self. “Well, we’re already talking about it. Might as well make use of the time.” He glanced down at your joined hands, his tone softening again. “Besides, I think it’s worth discussing what our future looks like, don’t you?”

Your heart swelled at his words, and the warmth of his hand in yours was enough to make you feel grounded, no matter how your emotions were spinning. “Yeah,” you said, smiling as you squeezed his hand gently. “I think it’s definitely worth talking about.”

Zayne leaned in closer, his lips brushing your temple in a rare public display of affection. “Good,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet kind of affection that made your chest tighten. “We’ll talk more later.”

He pulled away just as smoothly, picking up the cart with a practiced ease, as though he hadn’t just suggested the two of you start planning your future together. His eyes twinkled, a subtle tease hiding behind that usual calm exterior of his.

“And for the record,” he added, as the two of you moved on to the next aisle, “I wouldn’t mind hearing you call me ‘husband’ again.”

Your cheeks heated again, but this time, you didn’t bother trying to hide your smile. “Guess you’ll have to earn it first, doctor.”

Zayne chuckled softly, that familiar, grounded confidence in his voice. “I’ll be sure to work on that.”

SYLUS

The desert sun was relentless, and you could feel its heat pressing down on you as you stood beside Sylus, waiting to be seated inside the restaurant. He had dragged you out of Linkon on one of his mysterious ventures—no explanation, no warning, just the two of you thrust into the desert with little more than his cryptic directions. And while Sylus might have thrived in the N109 Zone's shadowy world, he was decidedly out of place here in the glaring sunlight,already starting to show hints of discomfort.

You glanced over at him, squinting slightly under the bright light. His expression was carefully controlled as always, but you noticed how his hand twitched subtly as if annoyed by the heat. The two of you had been waiting to be seated inside for a while now, and you decided it was time to speed things up.

Catching the attention of a passing waitress, you waved her over, putting on your best expression of concern. “Excuse me, my husband and I were hoping to be seated inside. I’m feeling a little faint under the harsh sun,” you said smoothly, the lie of you feeling faint rolling off your tongue with ease.

The word husband had slipped out so naturally, you didn’t even realize your mistake until the waitress nodded sympathetically and promised to get you a table indoors right away. As she walked off, you felt a cold gaze slide over you, and you turned to see Sylus staring down at you, one brow raised, a slow, dangerous smile creeping across his face.

“Husband?” His voice was smooth, but there was a teasing lilt beneath it. “Did I miss a wedding, wife?”

Your breath caught in your throat. "Wait—no, I didn't mean—" You started to stammer, heat rising to your cheeks, but before you could backtrack any further, Sylus’ arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer to his side. His grip was firm, possessive, and you could feel the smug amusement radiating off of him.

“I like the sound of that,” he murmured, leaning in just close enough for you to catch the scent of the desert air still clinging to his clothes. His lips ghosted near your ear, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Maybe this is a sign I should make it official.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing as you tried to keep your composure. “Official?” you echoed, your voice coming out a little more breathless than you intended. “What—what are you talking about?”

Sylus’ smirk widened, his amber eyes gleaming in the sun. “Oh? Cat got your tongue, Sweetie?” he teased, his tone dripping with amusement as he let his fingers trace a light circle on your hip. “You seemed so sure a moment ago, wife. But now? Speechless.”

You blinked, trying to gather your wits, but the sheer cockiness in his tone was making it hard to think straight. “I…I was just…helping us get a table,” you protested weakly, trying to pull away from his grip, but his hold only tightened.

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” he drawled, clearly reveling in your flustered state. “But now that you’ve set the bar so high, don’t tell me you’re going to back out on me. After all, you made quite the declaration back there.”

“I wasn’t—” You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him as you regained a sliver of your usual confidence. “You know it was a slip-up, Sylus. Don’t start getting ideas.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Ideas? Sweetie, I live for ideas.” His grip loosened just enough to let you step back, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t about to let you wriggle out of this one easily. “But let’s be honest, you didn’t hate it. Calling me your husband.”

Your face flushed again, but this time, you managed to meet his gaze without faltering. “I didn’t hate it,” you admitted, folding your arms, “but don’t go thinking you’ve won. I’m not about to sign any papers just because you liked hearing it.”

Sylus tilted his head, the playful smile never leaving his lips. “We’ll see about that, kitten” he said, the threat—or promise—hanging in the air between you as the waitress returned to guide you inside.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. “Please, Sylus. You couldn’t handle being married to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning in with that infuriating smirk. “Oh, I think I could handle you just fine, sweetheart. You’re the one who might need to keep up.”

You shot back, “Keep up? I’d be carrying you the whole way.”

“Careful, Sweetie. That sounds an awful lot like a challenge.” He chuckled, his hand brushing against yours again. “Now that’s a tempting thought.”

“Tempting? Try exhausting,” you quipped.

As you walked beside him, you felt his arm brush against yours, and the sensation lingered far longer than it should have. Sylus, of course, said nothing, though the smug expression never quite left his face.

This was clearly far from over. And judging by the glint in his eye, Sylus was going to make sure you never forgot your little slip-up.

XAVIER

The café was quiet, filled with the soft murmur of patrons and the comforting smell of fresh pastries. You and Xavier had settled in for a peaceful afternoon, your table already adorned with a delightful array of treats. He had requested a simple drink—no whipped cream. The barista returned, placing his drink in front of him with an impressive mountain of whipped cream on top. Xavier, as calm and indifferent as ever, simply blinked at it, showing no signs of complaint. He wasn’t going to say a word about it, but that didn’t mean you were going to let it slide.

Excusing yourself, you raised a hand and called over a passing staff member. “Excuse me,” you began, with a polite smile. “My husband asked for no whipped cream on his drink, but it looks like there’s some here by mistake. Would it be alright for us to get it changed?”

The words tumbled out so smoothly that you didn’t even realize your slip-up until the staff member nodded apologetically and hurried back to fix the order. It was only when you turned back around that you saw Xavier sitting there, looking unusually... stunned.

He was blinking slowly at you, his expression softened by a hint of confusion and—was that amusement? “Husband?” he repeated, his soft voice barely more than a murmur.

Your face flushed as you fumbled for an explanation. “Oh, no, wait—! I didn’t mean—” You stammered, desperately trying to backtrack. “That just slipped out! I meant to say…uh my boyfriend? Partner? Date? Not—well, not husband, obviously…”

Xavier continued to blink, his face now showing just a little more expression than usual. The faintest curl of a smile played on his lips, and he tilted his head, considering your words. “I must’ve missed that chapter in the 'Guide to a Healthy Relationship,'” he said in that calm, unruffled way of his. “I didn’t know we’d moved on to the husband-and-wife stage.”

You groaned inwardly, burying your face in your hands. “I swear, it was an accident. Just ignore what I said.”

But Xavier was clearly in no mood to let it go. “So, dear wife,” he continued, completely unfazed by your protests, “do you think we’ll have matching mugs in our future? Maybe get a nice house, with a small garden and a picket fence?”

You shot him a playful glare, but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to stay annoyed. “Very funny,” you muttered, though your lips were twitching at the corners, betraying your amusement.

“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Xavier said, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying this far more than you expected. “I wonder how long it would take for people in the association to start sending us wedding gifts. Or perhaps they'd just send weapons... you know, as a gesture of goodwill.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think wedding gifts are really their style, Xavier.”

“Hmm, you’re probably right,” he said thoughtfully, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But you did call me your husband in public. Shouldn’t we at least play the part now?���

Your cheeks were burning, but you couldn’t resist playing along with his ridiculousness. “Fine,” you said, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “But just so you know, dear husband, you’ll be the one doing the dishes.”

Xavier chuckled softly, the sound rare and surprisingly warm. “As long as you take care of meals. A fair trade.”

You were about to retort when the waitress returned with Xavier’s newly corrected drink—this time, free of whipped cream. She set it down with a smile, glancing between the two of you as if she’d picked up on the playful atmosphere. “Here you go,” she said. “No whipped cream this time, sir.”

Xavier’s eyes glinted as he thanked her with a nod, and after she left, he looked back at you with a satisfied expression. “See? Husband perks,” he teased, taking a sip of his drink.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the smile spreading across your face. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he said, the teasing lilt in his voice gentler now. He took your hand under the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But... thank you,” he added after a beat, his voice softer and more sincere. “For speaking up for me.”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off by the gratitude in his tone. “Of course,” you said, squeezing his hand in return. “That’s what wives do, right?”

Xavier let out a soft laugh. “I suppose so,” he murmured, his lips quirking into a rare, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

In that moment, with his hand in yours and the gentle teasing in the air, it was easy to forget the world outside the café. Just the two of you, playing pretend—but maybe, just maybe, something more.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

[misaerabl]

In Between the Lines

Artist!Ellie X F!Reader

MEN DNI around 4k (?) words

summary : Ellie, a street artist, began working near your place. She quickly caught your attention. After a few days of observing her, you decided to buy one of her paintings. Now, you find yourself returning every day, not entirely sure if it's her art or the artist herself that draws you back.

warnings : none i guess (THIS ONE IS SFW)

a/n : this was my first fic that I've ever posted on tumblr! This story has been revamped but i will not be deleting this version, if you want to read it it's in my masterlist! thank you so much for all the love you've been showing me... I love you all and I am so greatful to all of you!

Start ﹒✿﹒

Returning from your morning jog, you grab a cold glass of water from the fridge. As you sip, your gaze drifts to the painting you bought from a street artist two days ago. Something about it captivates you, though you can’t quite say why. Drawn closer, you let your fingers hover over the small, cursive signature: Ellie W.

"Ellie..." you say underneath your breath.

After a few more minutes of contemplation, you step outside and take another lap around the block. About eight blocks from your building, you spot her—Ellie—setting up her easel. Her hair is in a loose half-up, half-down style, and you can’t help but smile at the sight.

You settle on a bench behind her and watch as she begins to paint, completely absorbed in her work. Then, she glances over her shoulder, catching you in the act.

“Hey, stalker,” she says with a playful smirk.

"Uhm... Me?" you ask, looking around to ensure there’s no one else before pointing to yourself as you pull out your headphones—though they weren’t actually playing anything.

Ellie chuckles, turning fully in her chair to face you. "Yes, you." She rests her elbows on her knees, giving you a playful look. "You're always here, but you never buy anything."

You pause, a bit flustered. "I just… I like watching you work." Realizing how that sounded, you quickly add, "I mean, I don’t have much talent for this kind of thing, so it's kind of fascinating."

"Oh, so you do like watching me work?" she teases, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

You scoff, taken aback by her boldness. You’re not even sure why you’re there, but her audacity is outrageous. "Whatever makes you feel good about yourself," you reply.

"Well, I can’t help being confident," she retorts with a playful tilt of her head. "How could I not be when a pretty girl watches me every day?" Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you look down to hide your reaction.

"No more comebacks?" she teases, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Did I make you blush, pretty girl?"

You take a moment to compose yourself before replying, "That’s not confidence. That’s arrogance. Do you flirt like this with all the girls who buy from you?"

"Only if they're pretty," she chuckles, a playful smile spreading across her face.

You pause, uncertain, and say, "Just let me know if you need me to leave. I don’t want to disrupt your creative flow or anything."

"No, it’s fine. You can stay and watch," she responds, turning back to her easel. A wave of relief washes over you, but Ellie hears your exhale and glances back, choosing not to comment. Instead, she immerses herself in her work, the air thick with an unspoken connection.

"Can I ask you a question?" you break the silence.

"Yeah, sure," she replies, her eyes fixed intently on her canvas. She’s deeply focused, capturing the essence of the streets around her.

"Why do you paint around here? I haven't seen you at all until a few days ago," you ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

She takes a moment to gather her thoughts, reaching into the bag beside her for her paints. "I just moved nearby. I’m only doing this as a sideline," she explains as she begins to add color to the canvas. "I run a business close by, but they don’t really need me much."

You didn’t expect that answer, so you quickly pile on another question. "Is your name Ellie?"

She turns to face you, a playful smirk on her lips. "Yeah, how’d you know? I was only kidding, but are you really my stalker?"

She already knows the answer is no, likely because you saw her signature on the artwork, but she enjoys teasing you and watching your reaction.

"No!” you jolt up, heat rising to your cheeks. “I—I just saw your sign on the painting I bought a few days ago…” You scratch the back of your neck, feeling embarrassed.

“Chill, princess, I was kidding,” she replies with a playful grin, clearly enjoying your reaction.

You let out a nervous laugh, relief washing over you. “Right, of course. Just trying to keep up with you, I guess.”

Ellie chuckles and returns her focus to her canvas, adding delicate strokes of color. “Well, if you’re going to keep watching me, you might as well learn something. What do you think of my technique?”

You hesitate, taking a moment to observe the way she blends the colors. “It’s really impressive. I never thought I’d be so fascinated by someone painting.”

She glances back at you, a playful spark in her eyes. “Fascinated by my talent or my charm?”

You smirk, feeling a rush of confidence. “A bit of both, I suppose. But don’t let it get to your head.”

She laughs, her smile infectious. “Too late for that! I thrive on flattery. But seriously, if you want to learn more, I can show you some techniques. You might just surprise yourself.”

You blink in surprise, caught off guard by her offer. “You’d teach me?”

“Of course! But only if you promise to stop lurking like a lost puppy,” she teases, winking at you.

“Deal,” you say, a grin spreading across your face as you settle in to watch her work, your excitement growing at the thought of learning from her.

“Wait, you don’t need me to pay you or anything, right?” you ask, suddenly concerned.

She rubs her chin in mock contemplation, a playful smile creeping across her face. “How about… I take you out? How’s that for your payment?”

You blink in surprise, your heart racing at the suggestion. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” she replies, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Consider it a thank-you for keeping me company and for being my first unofficial art student.”

You can’t help but grin. “I’d definitely take you up on that. Where are we going?”

Ellie shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t know yet. We could hit up that new café down the street, or I could show you the best taco stand in the area. What are you in the mood for?”

You think for a moment, your mind racing with possibilities. “I’m always up for tacos. But I’m also down for anything that involves food and good conversation.”

“Perfect! Tacos it is then,” she declares, clearly pleased with the choice.

She stands up and dusts herself off, and you quickly step in to help her clean up her supplies. You gather her paint tubes and brushes, making sure everything is neatly packed away.

﹒✿﹒

When you reach the taco stand, the scent of spices fills the air, and you both dive into the experience, trying different flavors and swapping bites of each other’s orders. “Okay, this is definitely the best taco I’ve ever had,” you admit, savoring the blend of flavors.

“I told you! This place is a hidden gem,” Ellie beams, clearly proud of her choice.

As you enjoy the food and the warmth of her company, you realize this spontaneous outing feels less like a casual dinner and more like the start of something special. The laughter, the teasing, and the easy flow of conversation make you feel at ease. You can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of a deeper connection—both as friends and something more.

You stare into her eyes, your gaze briefly darting to her lips. She notices and smirks, a playful challenge flickering in her expression.

You feel a rush of heat flood your cheeks, a silent acknowledgment of the moment hanging between you. For a heartbeat, the world around you fades, and it feels as if time has slowed down.

“Are you just going to stare, or are you going to say something?” she teases, tilting her head slightly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

You clear your throat, scrambling to regain your composure. “I, uh… I was just thinking how focused you are when you paint,” you stammer, trying to redirect the conversation. “It’s really impressive.”

She laughs softly, the sound warm and inviting. “You’re smooth, I’ll give you that. But I’d prefer honesty over flattery any day.”

“Alright, then,” you say, gathering your courage. “I was also thinking about how… captivating you are.”

The playful glint in her eyes shifts to something softer, and the air between you feels charged with potential. “Well, I appreciate that. It’s nice to be seen beyond just the art, you know?”

“Absolutely,” you reply, your heart racing.

She steps a little closer, the distance between you narrowing. “Maybe you’ll get to know me better if you keep coming back,” she says, her voice low and inviting

The challenge lingers in the air, and you can’t help but smile, knowing that this connection is only just beginning.

End ﹒✿﹒

a/n : okayyy that's it for now y'all. I wrote this at like 11:30pm and i just couldn't sleep. I will be posting the 2nd part soon!

[callsign-rogueone]

the south star

sawyer henrick x reader part two of sawyer and peach's story words: 1.9k 🏷: no book spoilers (yet) and no warnings. just these cuties figuring out how to make this fake-dating thing work. it's totally definitely fake, right? falling in love with your childhood best friend would be crazy.

It’s easy to spot Sawyer on this side of the school — he’s the only one dressed in head-to-toe black, and by far the tallest student around.

Not that there’s many people here at this hour. You’ve both already had dinner, and a few of your classmates who have early morning shifts tomorrow have already gone to bed. 

He settles into the seat across from you, offering you a warm smile that turns into a frown when he sees the book you have open in front of you. “Did I keep you waiting? I’m sorry.”

You finish a sentence and set aside your notebook. “Not at all. I was just getting some studying in — this botany course is harder than I thought it would be. What did you want to talk about?”

He takes a breath, deciding to jump straight into it. “Boundaries. We need to decide — you need to decide, really — how far you want to go with this. I don’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable— that’s why I’m here, because he’s making you uncomfortable.”

Easier said than done. Where do you draw the line? Where does he want to draw the line? What if you make him uncomfortable by crossing it? You don’t want to ruin your closest, longest-standing friendship. Closest if you don’t count that big gap of the last two years when you’d only spoken to each other once — but before that, he had been your best friend — and at times your only friend — since childhood. He still knows you better than any of your healer friends.

He can see the gears turning. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching across the table. His hand stops an inch from yours, because you still haven’t said anything. “If you don’t want to do this, I get it. My friends meant well, but they can be…” he trails off, looking for the right word.

“No, it’s okay,” you say after a moment. “I’m fine with whatever you are. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You move your hand closer, setting it on top of his. He cradles your fingers in his palm, his thumb brushing over your knuckles gently. It takes everything in you not to shiver at the gentle touch. 

He smiles, shaking his head. “I knew you’d say that. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Ridoc, it’s how to commit to a bit. I’m locked in. I’ll take this as far as you think it needs to go.”

That’s all this is, a bit, an act. You know that, but why does the reminder sting?

He’s still holding your hand, thumb still idly stroking your knuckles. His eyes catch on your nails, lingering there a moment, admiring them. “You’re really good at that. The paint is so neat.”

You feel a little squeeze of pride at the compliment, but you don’t admit that you’d spent extra time on them this week, to make sure they were perfect — filing the tips into perfect ovals and cleaning up the edges with a tiny brush, putting an extra coat of gloss on top. 

“Polish, not paint,” you say with a soft laugh. “And healers need steady hands, don’t we?”

“I didn’t think about that. I guess so.” He realizes that you still haven’t answered his question, still haven’t drawn a specific line in the sand. “Just think about it, okay? And if I ever do anything that crosses a line or makes you uncomfortable, even if it’s something we agreed was okay earlier, you let me know, okay?”

You nod, taking a moment to find the words to respond — you’re lost in his eyes, in the soft concern there.

Has he always been this beautiful? 

“Okay,” you finally answer, more quietly than you’d intended. “I’ll think about it. And thank you. For agreeing to do this, and for being so nice about it.”

He offers you a shy smile. “Of course. Now, my first official act as your totally real boyfriend.” He lets go of your hand, laying it back down on the table gently. 

There’s that stinging feeling again. You push it away, looking up at him. 

“I won this in my first challenge fight, my first year,” he says, unsheathing one of the knives from his hip, “and now I’m giving it to you.”

You raise your eyebrows, amused. “Is this some rider’s tradition I don’t know about? Giving people knives as a romantic declaration?”

“Not that I’m aware,” he answers, “I just want you to have something to defend yourself with.” 

Your joking smile immediately falls. “I don’t know, Sy…”

He flips it around with ease, extending the hilt to you. “Just hold it for a second.”

You take it carefully, weighing it in your hand. It feels entirely different from the small knives you’d use to prepare ingredients; this isn’t made to chop up leaves, but to cut skin, and not in the precise and delicate way that a scalpel would, but with the intent to cause damage.

He reaches out to adjust your hold on it, gently moving your fingers into the proper grip and wrapping his hand over yours. 

You feel the metal warm up under your palm, your breath catching as it moves — molding itself to the shape of your hand, making four groves the perfect size and shape for your fingers. Your eyes snap up to his. “Did you just…”

He realizes he never told you about his signet. “Yeah,” he says shyly, letting go of your hand. “How’s that feel?”

“Better, but still… wrong.”

“I know it feels weird. It’ll take some getting used to. And I hope you won’t ever need it, but you should still have something. Just in case.”

“Okay,” you agree, setting it down on the table and reaching into your bag. “But then I want you to carry this around.” You set a length of stretchy cord down beside it, along with a roll of bandages.

It’s his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Bandages, and… rope.”

“A tourniquet,” you correct. “If someone’s losing a lot of blood—”

“Wrap it around as tightly as you can and tie it in a knot,” he finishes for you, pocketing them. “Got it.”

“On the side of the wound that’s closer to the heart,” you add, and he nods in understanding. “Good.”

“Now, if I want to teach you how to use that, I’m going to have to learn how to do stitches, aren’t I?” He asks, nodding toward the dagger.

“Stitches might be a bit advanced. But I’ll think of something.”

He gives you that sly smile you’ve missed so much. “Are all of our dates going to be educational?”

You flush, realizing that this is technically a date, even if you’re just sitting here talking. “Not all of them. We need a break sometimes. Which leads me to our next order of business. We both have the day off tomorrow, so we can stay up a little longer. C’mon.”

You stand, shouldering your bag and leading him down the hall and through a door he hadn’t noticed, onto a small patio.

“I like to come out here sometimes and just look at them,” you say quietly.

It takes him a second to realize what you’re referring to — but then he follows your gaze up to the sky. The August evenings are finally darkening at a reasonable hour, hundreds of tiny twinkling stars visible overhead. 

You sit down on the sun-warmed stone, Sawyer settling beside you. 

He’s the first to speak, starting the conversation quietly. “After that whole mess at the land-nav exercise, I did some more reading about celestial navigation. You see that one really bright one, over there on its own? That’s the south star. It doesn’t move with the seasons like the rest. The others come and go, but it always stays in the same spot.”

“Do you think it gets lonely?” you ask softly, lying down to look at it better. “Always staying in one place?”

“Only you can make a star millions of miles away have feelings,” he says with a soft laugh. “Maybe. But its friends come to visit every year, and it has the moons for company.” He looks over at you. “But this isn’t about the stars, is it?”

You sigh, shaking your head no. “I want to be here, I really do, but sometimes I feel terrible for leaving them. Especially this time of year.”

He doesn’t need to ask who ‘they’ are; your distant upward gaze at the moon is enough to clue him in. You’re talking about your family, feeling guilty for heading off to school and missing the harvest.

You continue in a whisper. “I know they all encouraged us to go, but… I worry about them, how they’re doing, if the harvest was enough to pay the bills. I know they wouldn’t tell me if it wasn’t, because they know I’d drop out and go back the moment I heard they were in trouble.”

“I think about that a lot. And now that I don’t have that option, and I’ll be gone for four years, not three…” he sighs. “I never told them I had to repeat. I just don’t want them to be ashamed of me.”

You turn your head to look at him. “They could never be ashamed of you, Sy.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” you answer, rolling onto your side to face him properly. “Their son is a dragon rider, not to mention the executive officer of his squad, and he can literally bend metal without even touching it. I know you’re around a bunch of badasses with magic powers every day, but to us normal people, that’s really damn cool. So what if it took you a little longer than your friends? You’re the real deal. You’ve got the relic to prove it.”

You realize that he’s never really shown it to you, and that you definitely just admitted to checking him out that day in the infirmary, but you brush past it quickly. “But all that aside, you’re kind, empathetic, funny, strong… you’re a great guy, Sawyer, and an amazing fake boyfriend.”

He flushes even redder.

You smile. “I could go on, but you look like you’re gonna catch a fever, so I’ll stop for now. Just know it’s the truth, every word.”

He looks back up at the stars. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

“Of course, Sy.” You reach out across the stone, brushing your hand against his. Your heart races as he intertwines your fingers.

“For what it’s worth, you’re an amazing fake girlfriend too.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. That was a world-class pep talk. And I feel very safe with my new rope.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Hey! I was serious about that. You guys are always showing up and getting blood all over the floor. It would be nice if you could keep it in. Especially now that Nolon’s out all the time and it’s just us normal folk around to help.”

He laughs, squeezing your hand gently. “I promise I will keep as much of my blood inside my body as I can.”

“Good.”

You pull your gaze away from the constellations on his cheeks, looking back to the ones lighting the dark, just in time to see a streak of light cross the sky.

“Make a wish,” you instruct, closing your eyes.

Neither of you say your wishes aloud, but you both hope they’re the same.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

A/N: Nesta has had many metamorphosises within the series, but one of my favorites is her relationship with her sister and how that has changed, especially Feyre. And when Noah dropped Stick Season and I heard Orange Juice, I just knew that it was Nesta and Feyre's song. This is short but hopefully sweet. Hope everyone enjoys! cc:@nestaarcheronweek

Read on AO3

The streets of Velaris are strangely quiet this time of evening, most of the residents either wrapped up in their homes or holed up in one of the local taverns for the night. The street lamps and building windows all flicker with golden fae lights, only adding to the ambiance. The first snow of the season falls in soft swirls, catching in Nesta’s hair and eyelashes and further adding to the quiet peace. Even her footfalls don’t make a sound against the snow dusted cobblestones as she walks.

The wrought iron fence that surrounds the River House comes into view, ivy twisting around the metal and up the stone of the home. Just the sight has Nesta’s heart pressing up into her throat, memories breaking free from their cage in the back of her mind and threatening to overwhelm her again. Her skin crawls at being back here again, standing in this place again.

For a moment, the snow melts away around her. For a moment, it’s green grass and flowers. For a moment, raucous laughter floats through open windows and billowing curtains. For a moment, it’s six months ago.

Shaking her head against the cloud of memories, Nesta unfolds the piece of parchment in her hands again, reading the slanting, looping script of her youngest sister.

Come over, please? The party’s gone slower

With a soft sigh, Nesta folds the parchment again, slipping it back inside the pocket of her dress. She swallows down the emotions welling in her chest and pushes through the front gate, following the footpath up the steps and to the front door.

She barely has to knock once before the door is pulled open, Feyre standing on the other side. She’s dressed comfortably with a soft looking sweater and leggings, golden brown hair the same shade as Nesta’s own tumbling down along her shoulders and spine. Though the sleeves hang long, Nesta can still spy paint flecks stuck to the skin of her fingers, can still spy the short nails that are indicative of the habit that still clings to her youngest sister from when they were girls.

“Nesta,” Feyre breathes, offering a small, friendly smile. “I’m so glad you could visit.”

Feyre steps back, gesturing with her arm for Nesta to step inside. Already, Nesta’s eyes start to flit around, noting everything that’s changed. Everything that hasn’t. Her eyes linger on the portraits in golden frames lining the large staircase, lining the hall that leads to the large living room beyond.

“There’s orange juice in the kitchen,” Feyre continues, drawing Nesta’s attention back to her and leading her down a different hall. “We bought it for Nyx, but it’s yours if you want it. I know you got sober.”

“Six months,” Nesta offers, following Feyre into the large kitchen. “On the dot.”

Feyre’s steps pause, and she turns to smile over her shoulder. “That’s great, Nesta.”

She continues deeper into the kitchen and toward the ice box, pulling the door open. Her hands hesitate, and while her back is turned, Nesta recognizes the way Feyre’s fingers curl and twitch, the way her shoulders stiffen. It’s clear that her sister is frowning at whatever she sees, more likely what she doesn’t see.

“Just tea is fine.”

“Right,” Feyre breathes, letting the door fall shut again. “Tea.”

Feyre turns her attention to the cabinets, rummaging to get the kettle full and placed over the flame. The clink of dishes, the shuffle of tea leaves, it all fills the space between them, breaking up the underlying tension threatening to bubble up and stifle them both. With a soft sigh through her nose, Nesta lets her gaze drift back toward the kitchen doorway. Toward the faces and voices she hasn’t encountered since she moved away from the city. They float down the hall and into the kitchen like ghosts on the breeze.

The whole city is like a ghost town, roots and branches twisting like limbs reaching toward her. Shadows creeping out from every corner and alleyway. Nesta feels as much as a stranger in Velaris now as she did six months ago. As much a stranger as she felt in her skin. As much a stranger as she felt in this family.

And if she closes her eyes, Nesta can still see that hillside she passed when she arrived. She can see the white stone, glistening as brightly as the snow that swirled around it. Can see the monument that rises like a beacon, like a ghost all its own.

“I saw father’s grave earlier,” Nesta comments, her voice quiet.

Feyre nearly drops the teacups in her hands, but steadies herself and she sets them down on the counter in front of Nesta. “Elain had the monument built. She tends to the flowers around it every week.”

Nesta hums, taking a sip of her tea. It burns almost as much as the anger flaring through her veins. Almost. No matter the time that’s passed, it still fills her like a raging sea, still scorches like those silver flames she’s tried to swallow down. There’s no escaping it some days. No way to stop it from pulling her and drowning her through her silent screams.

“You know,” Feyre begins, sliding the tip of her finger along the rim of her teacup. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you to come home for so long.”

“Velaris isn’t my home,” Nesta reminds her, dropping her gaze to the swirling liquid of her tea so she won’t see the expression she’s sure will take over her youngest sister’s face. “Besides, we both know I’m third in the lineup to your lord and savior of a High Lord.”

“That’s not fair, Nesta.”

“It doesn’t matter anyways.”

Feyre sighs, a sound that Nesta knows well, one that tells her that her sister clearly disagrees but is swallowing down her argument. “I didn’t think to ask you where you ended up after you left… or why you left in the first place.”

She says the last part quietly, her voice trailing off, and guilt roils through Nesta’s gut and cloys up her throat. But she refuses to let its roots twist around her ribs, refuses to let it settle. Because she still remembers how it felt six months ago. She still remembers every cut, every bruise, every open wound that festered beneath her skin. Every ache that weighed down her soul. She still remembers the way her heart felt changed until it was little more than an unwelcome intruder in her chest.

“After the war… after the Cauldron, really, everything changed,” Nesta explains, finally raising her gaze back to Feyre’s.

“I know that everything was difficult for you…”

“No, you don’t understand. The world had changed. My life had changed. My heart and my very soul had changed, and yet you hadn’t changed at all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you find it strange that after everything that happened, you just went ahead and carried on? You came back here and celebrated as if nothing had happened. Everything had changed irrecoverably for me, and for you, it was just another day.”

“Nesta–”

“Did you know that the last time I drank, I was right here in front of your house? That I passed out right there in your lawn?”

Feyre’s entire face shifts with the admission, pain spilling through her blue eyes. “You–I didn’t know.”

“Gods, I must look like crow to you now compared to everything you have. Just pulling you down.”

Nesta pushes her half finished tea away from her, moving to step back and head toward the door, but fingers curl around her forearm, holding her in place. Feyre’s expression is pleading, but there’s understanding flickering beneath it as well. It’s the sort of look only a sister can give. One who shared the teeth and the claws. One who can recognize and see through any mask or bullshit.

A mirror in the truest sense.

“It wasn’t your fault, what happened to father,” Feyre tells her quietly.

Emotions clog up Nesta’s throat until she fears she won’t be able to breathe. But she doesn’t dare break away from Feyre’s eyes, doesn’t dare pull away from her sister’s grip.

“You didn’t put those bones in the ground.”

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

the boy is mine (H's Version)

hi, no long no see in this fandom. but @carolmunson put out a call for writers and I wanted to dive in! see her prompt: here.

It's a romantic night in and that means that sometimes a lot of feelings come out.

Eddie Munson x Gender Neutral Reader

CW: This is a lot of fluff, but some minor heated moments. Post S4, cannon divergent.

______________

The day was boiling--no breeze to cut through the stiff air. But now, as the evening settles, the curtains from the open windows billow just a little. The air is a whisper on the back of your neck as you bring your knees up to your chest. The notebook slips down just a little on your thighs, but you push it back up to get the right angle. Eddie will undoubtedly have a snide remark about your position, but you know the moment he settles back down on the couch, he too will be curled up. Most likely around you, and you’re praying the night gets just a little bit cooler to withstand the walking furnace that is Eddie. 

“Fuck me,” Eddie groans. 

You look up from the work you’ve been doing in coloring in the drawing Eddie sketched out earlier in the day to find Eddie frantically swinging open cabinet doors. He opens another door, without closing the other. Disaster flashes before your eyes. Stitches, a bloody puddle on the floor, should Eddie not be careful and--

Thunk! “Son of a bitch!” Eddie howls, holding the back of his head. In all his hurry, he popped up from the cabinets at the bottom only to smack his head on the corner of one of the open cabinet doors. 

“How many fingers am I holding up?” you call out with a giggle. 

“Looks like 16,” Eddie calls out, eyes narrowed in a squint. There’s only four fingers up. 

“Hmm, I think you’re fine,” you laugh but push up off the couch. There’s the slight shuffle, the almost silent peel of feet off the tiled over kitchen floor. Part of it due to the whatever waxy cleaner you’ve convinced Wayne to use. “Let me see,” you command gently after your approach.

“Careful now, I’m fragile,” Eddie pouts but pulls hand away from the spot. 

“Gonna need a flashlight to get through this thicket,” you tease but gingerly touch at his scalp. There’s nothing damp so you don’t think there’s blood. Eddie tenses under your touch. “Sorry,” you whisper. It doesn’t stop the assessment, but you are more mindful of the pressure you’re using. 

“It’s okay,” Eddie returns his voice soft like yours. 

“What are you even looking for?” So far, you don’t think he broke skin. One good thing, but you are a little worried about something deeper too. 

“A cup. I could’ve sworn I did dishes,” Eddie huffs. “I’m running out of, like nice cups.” You watch Eddie point to the plastic cup on the counter--ones that you’re pretty sure were holding some sort of soda from a gas station in their first life. “Those are the only ones left.”

“Honey,” you coo, urging Eddie to turn around. He doesn't budge, but you press into his back, right above his hip and he turns then. “Those cups are fine.”

“No they’re not,” he sighs. 

“And what makes them not okay, huh?”

“You deserve your Coke in a chalice. Not the 7-11 trash.”

“Perhaps I consider 7-11 cups a chalice,” you return, pressing Eddie’s cheeks together. His lips bubble at the force and you plant a kiss on them. He tastes vaguely like vanilla. The frosting off the cupcakes you two shared earlier still paints his lips sweet even though it’s been a couple hours since they’ve been consumed. 

“You know you don’t and so do I,” Eddie whispers against your lips. His hands find your hips. 

“Hmm, I think I could be convinced.”

“You sure they’re okay?”

“Cups won’t ruin the night, I promise.” 

You don’t need anything fancy. You never have. But you get it. You know Eddie’s always going to want to give you the best. The thing you just wish you could convince himself off is that it’s his best that matters. Whatever Eddie gives you is the best because it’s him--it’s him giving it to you. But you don’t think the words will penetrate. Eddie’s hard headed in his own way, stubborn to his core when he wants to be so you hope that actions do speak louder than words. 

You seal your lips around his again and hum into the kiss when Eddie tugs you in closer. He’d promised a night in--dinner, movies, laughs, anything and everything as long as it was just the two of you. And he’d delivered thus far. Pizza had been called and delivered promptly. When you asked if he had any more Cokes from the case you brought over a week ago, he proudly declared he’d left the last two just for you. Your requests for a cup is what started this, but cups don’t mean a thing when all you’re thinking about is how the scent of Eddie presses against your nostrils and into your lungs like heaven. 

You’ve missed him--missed this. Your new job took more time than your old one. Not a bad thing considering that it was only an extra hour, but it meant having a new routine. It meant one hour less in your day for you to get through the slog of laundry, and dishes, and bills, and errands so that you could sit like a schoolgirl on the phone, twirling your fingers around the cord to talk to Eddie on the phone when you couldn’t visit him. Weekends now are more sacred than ever and you cherish the thought of being able to spend quality time with your boy. 

Eddie’s fingers press through the cotton of your shorts. He tugs you closer, and closer, and closer to his body. He’s warm--as always. But beyond that, beyond the wild curls that always call out to your fingers to be tugged on, or just caressed, Eddie is real beneath your fingers. Through the cotton of his t-shirt, you know what lies beneath. But you are grateful that the t-shirt is still warm. Arousal settles into your stomach, tightening your muscles as Eddie drags his fingers up your spine. But you pull back, the wet echoing smack of a broken kiss hanging between two of you as you both pant. 

“If you don’t stop, we’re going to have a problem,” you laugh as Eddie’s teasing touch moves further and further south on your body. 

“Maybe I’m looking for a problem,” he teases. 

“I am looking for a cup to put my Coke in to have pizza with my boyfriend while we watch movies we’ve seen a billion times. Because you are trouble.”

“You started it,” Eddie squawks indignantly. “You kissed first!”

His hand doesn’t stop traveling. He’s cupping you over the shorts and the ache hits you--bone deep but you don’t falter in your resolve. “Pizza. Movie.” It’s all you say before peeling yourself from Eddie’s hold. “Bring the chalices please,” you call out over your shoulder as you walk back to the couch. 

Eddie snorts but you hear his shuffled steps behind you and you know he is following. The lid to the pizza box is flipped back and the melted cheese greets you with a hefty waft. You grab a slice, the cheese pulling slowly away from its neighboring pieces. Eddie grabs a napkin and holds it just under the slice which you can only assume is threatening to drip grease onto the carpet or your lap. 

“Three good things,” Eddie commands as he reaches for his own slice, asking for the details of three good things that happened in your day. 

You hum around your bite, the pizza still hot just a little as you recount the day. “I’m no longer on the probationary period at work as of yesterday which is great. No one’s breathing down my back anymore. I finally got those jeans hemmed. And I get to enjoy pizza with my boyfriend. Three things--your turn.”

“I got the interview for the record shop,” Eddie starts. “I actually finished a drawing, speaking of which, I swear if you get grease on it,” he laughs pulling the notebook from your lap and tossing it floor away from the coffee table. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you rush out. “I’m still working on coloring it though. Forgot.”

“No harm, no foul. And lastly, I, too, am getting to enjoy pizza with my lovely partner, who did not do such a great job at making sure I wasn’t concussed.”

“I’m newly licensed to sell insurance. I am not licensed to make sure you’re not a walking threat to your own safety.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek--wet and greasy, but you don’t shy away from it. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Oh, I know,” you laugh, turning to look at Eddie. His gaze is soft, big eyes dripping with sincerity. You think you can feel the adoration radiating off him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I love you, you know.”

Your first inclination is to shove it off with a joke. But you can imagine how well that would go--not well at all. “You’re going to make me blush,” you huff, ducking your head. 

“Aw, no, don’t be like that. Let me see it. Let me see you blush,” Eddie laughs, reaching out to bring your head up by a gentle tug on your chin. 

Your face is hot; you can feel it warming the longer Eddie takes you in. His gaze is intense, eyes taking in everything from hairline to chin. You watch the flick of his gaze, as he stares down at your nose, back up to your eyes. His smile is soft and sweet, like the stroke of his thumb over your bottom lip. 

“I’m going to make you proud,” Eddie whispers unlike his normal bravado. Where you know Eddie carries himself with the mask, the loud and brash man unafraid, the quietest remarks are the ones that usually send you into a flatline. 

“You should make yourself proud,” you correct. You’d be a flimsy goal--something akin to trash billowing in a strong wind. It could change all in an instant.

“Making you proud makes me proud.”

“I’m already proud of you.” 

It’s Eddie’s turn to duck, hair falling into a wavy curtain around his face. You discard your crust--which you’re more than likely never going to fish--to a corner of the box and find Eddie’s face behind his hair. “No, you can’t hide either.” Your thumb strokes along his jaw and his eyes flutter close. “Tell me,” you return softly but it’s clear you want an answer, “Do you like that? Being told you’re making someone proud?”

“And you’re telling me you don’t?” Eddie scoffs. 

“Oh, no, I do. But I just want to hear you say it.”

“I like being told I’m making someone proud.” The sentence wavers at first, like Eddie might not be sure he can even get the words out. But the end is strong. Like the mere utterance is enough to solidify the truth within. 

“I’ll make sure I tell you more often then, okay?”

“Okay.”

His gaze drifts down and you know what he’s asking for, so you press in, lips sealing his again. A kiss soft enough that even you think twice if it’s real or not. Eddie hums this time, when you pull away, his head pressing into your shoulder. You can feel the smile on his face as his lips brush over your bicep. 

“Your slices are going to get cold,” you tease when Eddie stays buried in your shoulder for another minute. The third slice you’d been reaching for will go cold too, but that matters much less. 

“Let it,” he hums, burrowing now in your armpit. 

You grab the TV remote before you reach behind yourself to make sure the throw pillow is in place against the arm of the couch for an added layer of cushion. Once you’re sure that it’s in the position you want it, you recline back and open your arms for Eddie to crawl into. He wastes not a second to settle his head onto your chest. 

“Good thing we’ve got microwaves now, right?” you tease, pressing play for the VHS.

[earthry]

Affirmations For Papa | Secondo x Reader

Content / Warnings: Papa Emeritus II/Reader, SFW, 1.1k words, Secondo Angst

Author’s Note: Much thanks and love to @angelohspeak who encouraged me to post this <3 this is also definitely heavily influenced by our talks about Secondo <3

You introduce affirmations to Secondo and he has trouble accepting them.

“You’re not even trying, are you?” You’re sorely unimpressed with Secondo’s first few attempts; like a school boy blurting out whatever apology he was forced to give without any self reflection. You prop yourself up with an elbow, turning in bed to give him a leveled stare. He doesn’t look even remotely sorry, but he does scowl.

“What the fuck does that mean?” He looks frankly, a little insulted under the candlelight, his brow pronounced and furrowed in a furious manner. You do your best to soothe his ego with a sweet voice, brushing your thumb against his angry little wrinkles. You love the feeling of his skin against yours; some nights you’re content to just map out his body, traveling hands warm to the touch as you explore your lover.  

“It’s not that I think you’re lying, mio caro. I just mean, you have to take it seriously. You have to think it and say it at the same time, you can’t just spit it out like it’s a rotten tomato.”

“Might as well be–” He mutters, eyes cast elsewhere before wincing when you give him a little kick under the blankets. “Satanas, woman, alright I’ll do it!” 

He curses and rubs his leg with a wounded huff and the night echoes with soft petals of your laughter. You continue to gently massage his forehead and cheeks of wrinkles from his scowl. A few moments of silence pass as you settle, before you nudge him. “Well?”

“I’m… I am.. enough.” He mumbles so quietly you have to strain your ears. His body is still tense against yours, rigid as a board. Like he doesn’t understand why you’re doing this, like he doesn’t understand why it’s so hard to say something so simple with confidence. In front of anyone else, he knows he can shoulder it, knows he can announce it to the whole ministry if they asked. But with you he crumbles, with you he can’t lie. It’s not only because he knows you’d see through the lie within a heartbeat, but also because he cannot bring himself to. 

Even in the dim lighting, you can see the turmoil warring across his features and reward him with a kiss to his nose for his troubles, which scrunches despite the pleased hum it draws from him. His shoulders are still tense, a violin string taunt against it’s foundation.

“Again,” You coax, voice soft. Your fingers trail down his cheek and he leans into your hand only marginally more relaxed. 

“I am enough.” It’s louder, but you know him well enough to hear the hesitancy in his voice. This time you place a kiss to his temple. 

“Again.”

“Cazzo, haven’t I said it enough?” He speaks harshly but you hear it for what it is: a plea. You can feel him begin to pull away but you don’t let him. “Per favore amore mio, why are you doing this,” he says roughly. He’s sat completely up now, and you push yourself off the bed as well, leaning against the headboard as you regard your lover.

“Because I love you, and you deserve to, too.” Your answer draws a sharp inhale from him, and he lets his head fall onto you, forehead resting against your shoulder. 

“This is stupido but fine. I am enough.” 

“Thank you.” He receives a soft kiss to his lips that he chases until you pull too far out of reach. Your grouchy lover swears up and down that he never pouts but right now? He is definitely pouting. “Mm, we’re not finished yet. Next one, okay? I am doing my best.” There’s a heavy sigh against you before he mutters it back to you. You know how hard this is for him, so you let that one slide and reward him with his kiss. Slowly, you begin cycling through your list, your kisses traveling between his cheeks to his forehead to his hand to his lips again. He savors each one, and with each phrase, you try to paint him the way you see him. You wish he could see it too. 

I am worthy of love. I am more than a body. I can accept love from myself. Everything that I am is enough. I am allowed to choose myself.

It’s that last one that does it. He’s gotten quieter and quieter but that last one he can’t even finish– he just can’t do it no matter how hard he tries to shape his lips around the words, no sound comes out and before he knows it, his cheeks are wet. 

Papa Emeritus II is not a crier.

But tonight, he is laid bare in more ways than one. His voice strangled, tapering off as he shuts himself down. You can see wide shoulders curling in on itself protectively, little tremors making themselves known. He’s not a crier, he doesn’t sob or sniffle or wail. He’s quiet and you pull him into your arms. He’s no longer alone, and you wrap your arms around him and for a second his body is stiff before it practically melts and he collapses into you. He’s still silent, but you can feel the wetness against your neck and you hold him together. 

He doesn’t talk about it often; doesn’t even like it being mentioned most days, but sometimes when he looks into a mirror he doesn’t recognize himself. Doesn’t recognize the shape the church has push and pulled him into.

“I feel a little... used,” He admitted one night in the safety of your bedroom, in the safety of the darkness that swallowed the two of you. You hold him close and he buries his face in your shoulder. “Everything I’ve been taught has been by the church, for the church and this message they want to send the world. I don’t really know anything outside of what they’ve given me.”

It wasn’t as if he hated it. He had his own visions for the church, he loved his followers, his people. He enjoyed partying up to the early hours of the morning, loved indulging in the carnal pleasures of papacy.

But the mornings, the comedown?

It was like it was another man in that hotel bathroom mirror staring back at him with smudged paint and lipstick marks. They might as well have been tattooed to his skin with how hot they burned.

“I feel so detached sometimes, that I don’t know what to do.”

The room is still except for Secondo’s shaking shoulders and your comforting murmurs. You tell him to take as much time as he needs, you tell him you will always be here, you are always on his side. (His side. His side and not the church’s, isn’t that a wild thought?)

But most of all, you tell him what he cannot bring himself to say just yet, you tell him the one thing he's never been told before by anyone. Not his mother, not his father, not the church or sister imperator. Not a single soul until now.

He's allowed to choose himself.

And maybe, just maybe-- maybe he begins to believe it.

[inkheartedwanderer]

hold the sun || r.b.

robin x fem!reader (obvs!)

content:  fluff! a lil bit insecure robin (blink and you’ll miss it) and that’s all i believe. happy pride everyone! i’m a bit late, but i want guys to know this is a safe place for you. i see you, i hear you and i love you. 

this one didn’t turn out exactly how i wanted it to, but hope i made robin some justice, she’s my favourite girl and i want to start writing for her too.

word count: 1.1k

In the quiet of a particularly hot summer afternoon, the only things you can hear are the water of the lake softly kissing the shore a few feet ahead of you, the shrill singing of cicadas, and Robin's low, mindless humming.

The sunlight paints swirls on the back of your closed eyelids, it makes the skin on your cheeks tingle, and you know you’re probably going to get sunburnt, but you can’t be bothered to get up, walk all the way back to the car and try to find your yellow hat.

You don’t want to move. Robin’s leg is casually thrown over yours as the girl lies by your side on the blanket, and you would feel embarrassed about how fast your heart is racing if your brain didn’t feel so mushy right now. 

You’re not even sure she’s doing it on purpose. Shielding your face from the sun with your arm, you open one eye, nose scrunched up, and sneak a peek at Robin. 

She looks lovely in her navy blue swimsuit, the one she bought the day you two decided to go shopping after work.

Her hair, still damp from your swim at the lake after lunch, shines like gold in the daylight and sticks to her bare shoulder and back creating patterns you feel the sudden urge to trace with your finger. You don’t. Instead, you settle for looking at her as discreetly as you can. 

Freckled nose and long lashes, a slight tan from all the afternoons you've spent just like this one, far away enough from Hawkins, in your secret spot by Lake Jordan. Remnants of her mascara smudged around her eyes. Fingernails painted red.

She’s drawing something on her sketchpad, her strokes short and certain, lips pursed in concentration; absentmindedly singing a The Cure tune under her breath.

It’s funny, you think. 

A few weeks ago you didn’t even know her name, didn’t even know she existed. She was just another number in Hawkins High’s demographics, and you were just one of the unfortunate few who would spend two endless, sticky-hot summer months working a shitty part-time job instead of going on holiday. 

At The Palace Arcade, no less.

It smells like old candy and stale popcorn, chlorine and sunscreen. The carpet is old and tacky and it has stains that won’t go away. Kids go in droves to find respite from the burning midday heat and scream and scream until you get a headache.

You don’t make enough money, that’s for sure. But having met Robin one cloudy day while you were both on your respective lunch breaks makes it well worth it.

“You’re staring.”

Caught.

You blush furiously and look away, your so face hot from the sun and the embarrassment that you don’t dare to make eye contact. “Am not.”

“Are too.” She puts her pencil and sketchbook away and chuckles under her breath. “It’s fine, I get it, I would stare at myself too.”

She’s bluffing, and you both know it -she can be as insecure as any teenage girl in this day and age, but her boldness has caught you by surprise. You stammer. “Yeah… Whatever, Buckley.”

Robin’s amused smile turns soft when she notices the red on your cheeks. She leans forward and the fleeting feathery feeling of her lips on the corner of yours only makes your heartbeat pick up.

It’s curious, the effect she has on you still, even after so many nights spent together stargazing, so many afternoons at the Lake, so many stolen kisses in the water, and in your car, and behind the building where you both work, when it’s dark and empty.

You blame the butterflies in your chest for the way turn you turn your head and chase after her mouth, one hand reaching out to rest on the crook of her neck and pull her closer to you. She tastes sweet, like the watermelon ice pops you had after lunch and her vanilla chapstick; and the tips of her hair, lightened by the sun, tickle your face.

Robin sighs a happy sigh and rests her head on your shoulder. 

The silence that follows it’s comfortable, easy. Things are easy with Robin. Her breath is warm where it touches your skin, and you’re almost certain you’re breathing in synch. Your hand finds hers blindly, knuckles brushing against each other, 

“I don’t mind you staring.” She says, at last, her voice barely a whisper.

You humph. “I wasn-”

“It makes me feel pretty.” If her boldness was surprising, the badly-hidden shyness in her voice is downright shocking.

You twist your head to look at her, bewildered. Her face is hidden between your arm and the blanket, which surely can’t be comfortable and which makes you pout. Your free hand finds her chin and you softly pull to make her look at you.

“Aw, Robs. But you are pretty.”

It’s her turn to blush. “Am I?”

“Yeah. Beautiful, I’d say.”

“Shut up.” You giggle when she does, snort when she hits you, jokingly, on your shoulder.

You and Robin lean forward at the same time, both eager to close the gap between you again. She kisses you firmly, like she has something to prove. You kiss her back hoping you can prove to her how much this, her means to you.

Breathless when you finally pull away, you lie down again, a dopey smile making its way across your face. Robin smirks and goes back to her sketchbook. 

“Can I see?” You ask, the side of your face pressed against the soft fabric of the blanket, one eye squinted to shield it, once again, from the light.

“Hmm?” The girl hums, lost in thought and concentration.

“The picture.”

“Oh.” Robin shows you. Your own face greets you, laughing, eyes half closed. It’s a rough sketch and you don’t think your haircut is exactly like that, but it’s obviously you and you look so happy and so beautiful. “Wow, Robs. It’s great.”

She brushes her hair away from her face -you swear it shines on its own, a golden crown, a halo, and then she kisses your nose. “It’s not great.”

You smile. “It’s perfect.”

                                                           🌷 🌷 🌷

a/n: this definitely didn’t take me 2 weeks to write and i’m definitely not having the worst block rn :( i hope it’s not to bad. 

likes, reblogs, comments, anything is welcome!

[cirqosmos]

CAMELLIA'S FATE

"Would you come?"

2023 | 13+ | ONESHOT × 6k | TATTOOIST! PARK JAY × READER

SUMMARY was it a string of fate when your bestfriend claimed your art as her own, that not even after six years does it suffice the desire for revenge blooming in your heart, claiming it as a call for making it even—that you stumble upon a tattoo studio, and your eyes falling upon the same flower on a young man's neck.

WARNING/GENRE emptiness, lost of passion (?), slight profanity, angst, fluff, romance, reader is a painter!

AUTHOR'S NOTE a short story I wrote during a period of writing and art block. well, it ain't that short anymore 💀

“Huh.. What should I do?” You pouted with your head buried deep inside your arms as another art block hit you like a truck.

Studies had by far consumed your life to the point you couldn’t grab the paintbrush between your fingers and create something, and now that the semester had ended, that you had free time laid across in front of you like a vast ocean waiting for you to swim through it, you couldn’t.

It was as if something is holding you back which had you wondering if this was the end for your childhood passion?

Draw something simple. You thought. But it seriously ain’t that simple to brush the tips of your paintbrush against the gigantic canvas. Still.. You lowered your neck, utimately focusing your orbs onto your paper, hoping or waiting for something to come out of it.

What would it be? A person? A furniture? The nightsky? The empty can on the edge of the desk beside you? What is it?

Your finger swayed the paintbrush across the canvas over and over again but to your dismay, nothing came out of it — only scribbles of something you couldn’t comprehend, in which you originally thought of a house.

Your phone's screen turns on with a notification popping up along the lockscreen.

[11:49PM] Somi<3: hiyaa, the competition’s gettin close :( i’m nervous

[11:49PM] you: that’s fine *patpat* you’re so good at art, pretty sure you’ll get top 1 yk

[11:56PM] Somi<3: reallyyy? ><

[11:57PM] you: ofc ofc, now just get to your hmw and just keep practicing :3

The flamboyant flower showcasing it’s magnificent beauty up on the ceiling, the engraved pattern across your ceilings, you remember that you once stepped on the ladder when your parents were renovating your room and you took the chance to did so despite the danger. Painting over the ceiling with the pink-stained paint brush between your tiny fingers, with a smile so wide and bright, eyes crinkling to half moons as you did so.

Well, the flower you drew turn out horrible to say the least, with the outline wavery and inconsistent, the colours were not bold enough on some parts and some of them going past the outline.

Eyebrows twitching upon the sight, you scoffed in a lighthearted laugh. No matter how ugly it was to be honest, it had managed to stay that long.

Long enough to not be erased by the changes of time, the plants grew old, the furniture had their paints peeled off, the tv in the living room had begun glitch off, the store you’ve been to had been shut down for whatever reason, and even the star in the sky exploded to ashes when the time has come. But for whatever reason it has, the flower you drew on the ceiling yet still manage to look as beautiful as ever. You let out a giggle at the thought of that maybe the drawn flower had a purpose that’s why it was still boldly alive in sight.

Without much thought and the smile still ever so bright on your lips, you begun to draw on the paper with the flower in thought—wishing for your efforts to pay off, cause that's how it works right?

However, jokes on you, your efforts was futile.

Truly futile.

Your vision turning into a field of vagueness as your tears drowned you into the deep ocean — those that held spike up thorns below the sea.

Why are you crying? Why aren’t you fighting back?

Tightening your fist so tight that your nails began to hurt your palms, there was nothing really left to fight back anymore since you aint got nothing left anymore when the fruits of your efforts were ripped away from you with no mercy nor one glance of contempt for all of their eyes were on—

Her.

“Somi! Congratulations! You did really well!”

A giggle so loud and so annoying it clutches your heart within, there she was in her brightest glory; bouquets of flowers beneath her arms, bright blonde silk hair going down her uniform skirt—those that you once brushed with a hair comb back then. That piece of beige hairband that had the signature butterfly pattern on it, one that matched with the one on your hair right now.

Seeing her gave you nothing but resentment and anger.

One by one, each and one of them in line up in the stage as they congratulated her for winning the top prize of the masterpiece of an art, something she said was her own.

Bullshit. It wasn't yours. Thus you screamed in the back of your mind, head so low you could see nothing but your tears staining the red carpeted floor. The raging applause submerging you into more pain, pain and pain! You couldn’t take it anymore, the scene that mocks you to your very core; the girl that you claim as your bestfriend stole everything from you and yet, and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to stand up and walk straight to her and give her a piece of your mind.

For it’s no use, the only thing it would do was ruin your reputation and you can’t do that. You know you can’t do that. You can’t..

You stood up on your feet with eyes glaring deep at the girl herself, who in turn finally noticed you after awhile. Your breath hitched in so deep when you observed the corner of her lips tugging up to her cheeks, and her brown orbs stared at you in a mere contempt.

That alone was sufficient for one sentence to arise inside your starving soul for revenge, You’ll fall. Just like that flower behind you. One day you will.

At last, you turned your back out of spite–full in rage as you did so. With the spectacle of a scene behind you holding a thousand emotions of joy, flashes of camera filled the entire room.

“Somi! Look at here!”

“1, 2..” flashes of the camera consumed the entire space every few seconds, “3!”

“The painting truly is breathtaking, isn’t?” two women from behind marvels at the colossal canvas before them.

“Truly it is, that painter is so talented it’s making me jealous.” The other in turn, giggled.

“Well, it does takes an effort to reach such prestigious level.”

You returned home, dropping your bag on the ground as you did so, taking the jug to pour a water in the glass. The dim light from outside reflected against the glass, forming a sea-like diamonds. But you knew, it didn’t came from the glass.

Your source of inspiration, your muse. All was vain, truly futile. Hoping that it would turn out well. Except it didn’t turn well.

Your very source of inspiration and effort had been stolen, now leaving you with nothing but emptiness. You were nothing and you had nothing now.

The wooden paintbrush snapped into separate pieces as you smashed it against the floor, a mockery metaphor of yourself. It has been months. Months it was since that incident occured and ever since then you couldn’t find the heart to lay the tip of the paintbrush against the canvas anymore.

As if something was missing from your heart, what is this? It felt like you no longer have the love for painting anymore, it felt like there was nothing to let out anymore even when you have dozens and dozens of ideas kept hidden in your journal, something you occasionally wrote onto whenever you had burst of ideas.

And yet, when you took them out, when you tried to paint again—there was no beat that rang through your ears and hug your heart. It’s suffocating. It’s too empty.

“I don’t like.. To paint anymore?..” a question you laid out against yourself, merely vibrating through the entire studio. Your dark orbs fell on your palms as you splayed it before you, “Please.. Come back.”

“Give it up, (Name). There’s no way you could do anything against her parents..” your classmate mumbled as she took another bite from her ice cream. "You can always make another painting again?"

Those words rang deep in your mind, mocking your very soul. It ain't that easy. Pouring your entire soul to a creating a piece is like raising your own child with utmost affection and care, and to have it mercilessly rip apart from you is akin to ripping your soul away as well.

A hollow, hollow hole inside your body that you were unable to see—only grew even bigger and wider.

Weeping in the corner of your room, as you buried your face in comfort of your arms. “W-was it my fate that it had to be this way?”

「6 YEARS LATER」

“I apologise but we don’t take any customers who don’t do an appointment first.” the man apologetically bow down, surprised you were but didn’t protest.

How could you? You gulped down your throat in embarrassment as your orbs darted around the studio's signboard;

Quite a bit embarrassed to say the least that you didn’t plan it first but what can you do? You bow down parallel to the ground, turning towards the street as impatience consumed you. You raise your wrist, staring at your watch with the small arrow pointing towards 11 am—a few hours left before 4pm—the ticking clock signifying the end.

You couldn't afford to wait another week and find another tattoo store. Not anymore.

It has been 6 years since that fateful day, a horrendous fate you simply wishes you could forget but life is too miserable to let you to even do so—not when your eyes fell on the devil—your ex best-friend's face was splattered on the billboard, interviews, offers, every single thing had her on the pinnacle of the world.

Because of your artwork. From the very beginning, it’s not that she wasn’t good at art, heck she was talented in it but didn’t care enough to put an effort for the final competition. She even told you and persuade you to join instead, but foolish you were that you didn’t realise she was a double edge sword. Two parts of you were wishing for her demise, and another wishing that she would soon realise her mistake and come begging at you but you know that won’t happen.

The world, and it’s people are far too prideful to admit their mistakes, after all. We all trample on each other, and only very few people can manage to be selfless. It’s not that being selfish is bad, nor being selfless is—and there will be a time where we are forced to put ourself or another, yet what you couldn’t accept was when they deliberately chose to do so.

That’s what you can never forgive. It’s unforgivable.

6 horrendous years of lifetime wasted upon a single betrayal—back then you were 19, now you were 25.

Since the days of your spring, you always wanted to have a tattoo, not a flamboyant one, a simple one that is for a simple reminder to accompany you throughout your life but now you couldn't have thought that it would be through this way.

A few days ago, you've heard that Somi's public fansign will be held at the city, which is today. You've been waiting for this very day. Clutching the labeled tiny bottle in your hands had you taking a deep breathe, fear consumed your veins as you imagine how her face would evaporate once you threw this on her. Sure, you were breathing but there was no root of life anywhere inside you anymore, so why would she?

Today should be her last day, however she should be grateful as she won't be alone in the underworld, after all. You'll escort her back to where she truly belongs judging by what she did to you.

“Miss!" You paused on your tracks immediately. "You don’t have to leave, I can do it for you.” a breathless sigh emits from the man behind you.

“But—! That’s against the rules. You knew Sir. Park would-”

“It’s okay, I got my last client done so I’m free anyways. Plus, you wouldn’t blow up my cover, wouldn’t you?”

The other guy ruffled through his hair, simply sighing in return. “Ugh, fine.”

A chuckle emits from the person who called for you. “I knew I could count on you.”

You slowly turned to the man in question—jet black shirt, rolled over sleeves, tall frame, black slicked hair, pair of silver round earrings, metal piercing on the top of his ear, tattoos of what you make out to be florals adorning the left side of his neck since his collars hid almost a part of it, and that radiant smile of his. His eyes glowing and his cheeks growing—a stark contrast from his outer appearance.

Hot. That's it. He's drop dead hot.

"Miss—" the man's gleaming eyes fell on your shorter frame, pausing for a millisecond before clearing his throat, gesturing his hands inside the studio. "This way."

"U-uhm, thank you."

He guided you inside the shop where a leather foldable chair was laid across the centre of the room, and a bunch of containers with tools specifically made for tattooing was placed on the table.

You sat on top of it, making yourself comfortable but somehow you choke on your saliva when the boy sat on another chair, leaning a tad bit close far to your own liking. Or was it just really your first time that the close proximity caught you off guard?

"So?" almost akin to a dropping melody, your stomach evaporates with his voice much to your surprise. "What kind of tattoo would like to have on your skin?” He asked, still having radiance adorning his face, the question were voice out too lively and joyous for no reason.

He's hot. You gotta admit that, but drooling at this point won't get you anywhere. Too bad, you met him a tad bit late or else you would've make a first move.

"M-miss?"

"Oh! My bad, my bad." You brush it off nonchalantly, clearing your throat.

Seems like this type of job doesn't do any justice to him, in your opinion. You’d expected that tattooist would perhaps be cold and indifferent, however he was no close to your impression of one. But does your opinion matter? So you kept it and stayed silent from voicing out such hasty words just like before.

“A flower.” you fiddled through your bag, mentally cussing yourself for a whole minute before your fingers came into contact with the cold metal—finally swiping through your gallery and handing your phone to the man.

His dark brown orbs beams alike the sun rays as a noticeable grin pulled up within his cheeks which made you raised your eyebrow in confusion.

"I have the same tat, if you want to see just for example of how it would look like on yours." Excitement laced his voice.

Appalled by his suggestion, you simply replied. "Sure."

Jay didn't expected you to simply agree so quick, which had him letting out a few coughs in attempts to conceal his initial shock.

Quite flustered inside but his outer demeanour remain calm and composed as his fingers made their way through the hem of his collars, each one unbuttoning his shirt till it was enough for his collarbone and chest to be half exposed, revealing the masterpiece adorning his skin.

You didn't expect yourself to be this surprised or even speechless, yet it was truly gorgeous over how the patterns were carefully drilled into his skin and how the outline were so bold and lively despite its colours being only grey and black. You almost forgot that you loathe this flower alot, to be honest.

You inhaled a deep breathe, blinking utterly slow to take in the beauty. "So pretty. D-did you got this from someone or?"

"I did it myself.." Jay replied in a nonchalant manner, yet goosebumps washed over his skin as you leaned closer observing his tattoos in amazement. His orbs rattled against the walls, trying his best to avoid looking at you. Now that he wonder after an eternity watching the walls, has it always been this dirty? Gulping with his lips pressed tight. "W-would you like the exact same as this then, or something different?"

He breathe a long sigh after you fixed your posture, his hands fiddled the hems of his black sleeve to dampened his rampant heart—wondering if you could hear it a moment ago.

"Something like this, however I think.. It would look like we are having matching tattoos then.” You let out a small giggle at that thought, rosy hues dusted off his cheeks when you mention that particular sentence. “Ah, I want it to have a color then. That way, it won’t seem like it.”

Jay's nails dug under his chair, his arms frozen as he processed your words from within.

"Did I said?.."

"No, no— Nothing wrong with that." You observed him pressing his lips tight in an awkward manner as he stood up, the chair creaking as he did so. Standing he did, before the shelves filled with numerous ink bottles of all colours and shades. His hand gestured over them, attentive he was you observed, seemingly waiting for your answer. "I’ll get the color for you then.. Which one?”

"Hm,” pointing your index finger towards the ink bottle with the label, “Red”

His fingers quickly wrapped itself around the bottle, focusing on the label for a good three seconds looking back at you, pulling up a small smile. “Red, I see? That’s a pretty good choice. It’s apparently rare for me to have clients choosing red for tats.”

“Really? That’s new to me.”

“Yep, then.. what kind of red would you like on your camellia?” Again, he stood before a shelf with red ink bottles with all different shades.

Sighing, you stood up, brushing the bottles but not almost to avoid being rude by touching someone’s else personal tools and supplies. It didn’t go unnoticed how the young man beside you, were immensely focused at where your fingers go on about.

“How about ruby?” you gestured your index finger towards the specific labeled bottle, a memory of the gigantic canvas flashes through your mind. “ I don’t like it too bright, actually.” Better if it’s darker in shade—that it would serve her mind till engraved in her soul, the very fruit of her own actions towards you.

Jay lapped his tongue over his lower lip, gulping down his throat as he nodded. “Very well then.”

Nodding as you went back to your seat, it caught you off guard when your eyes fell on the man. Clearing your throat to get his attention, "U-uhm, sir?"

His left eyebrow raised in confusion, doe eyes enveloping your form and it didn't help at all with what you're seeing right now.

"Your shirt.." you held the need to say anything further considering how his eyes ogled out at his exposed torso, giggling awkwardly he did as he buttoned his shirt back. "L-let's get it started then?"

"Alright!"

"So, where do you want to have it on your skin?" He asked, which to you was a bit vague. "On your arm? Your hand? Or.. your back?"

"Hm?" Your eyebrow furrowed at every body part he mentioned, and it only deepens the more your brain processed it. Oh fuck, right. How did I even forgot? "H-ow about m-my neck?"

Pain, that's all you thought. But you seriously wanted the tattoo to be as obvious as fuck for your ex best friend's eyes to ogle at. So you were in utter dilemma. "It.. doesn't hurt that bad, right..?"

"The neck is the most painful part to get a tattoo."

Well shit, I'm screwed. You whimpered as your back slouched in devastation, forget about revenge—you're seriously a dumbo for doing a last minute plan. Your eyes darting over the wall and to the patient man standing before you, you held the need to pout.

Jay noticing your dilemma, cleared his throat. "How about the side of your neck? Just like mine? It doesn't hurt that bad, actually."

"Are.. you sure?" Forming a comforting smile, he nodded. "Alright.."

"Alright! So.." Jay held the need to blink like a maniac as he gestured to your collar, "Your collar, we need to tattoo the side.. of your neck right?"

"Huh..?"

Oh.. right. How did you even forget? Your cheeks began to heat up by the thought as you slowly unbuttoned your shirt, your shoulders slightly exposed as it dangled off.

Your body froze on it's own when his delicate touch brushes against your bare arms, his right hand pulling up your right sleeve back to your shoulder. You didn't realise him closing the distance with you as you were in your deep thought, holding your head low in attempts to avoid his dark grey orbs looking into your soul. Yet his voice causes tingles around your neck, goosebumps washing over your skin.

"We just need the side of your neck, okay..?" Delicate to touch, the twinkles of his eyes met yours. "Relax."

Those blooming bouquets—a symbol of mockery to you along with the gigantic canvas you've created with nothing but pure efforts were presented before everyone as her's. Those silky blonde hair that dangled off her shoulders simply flooding your eyes with tears. That smug look of hers that resurfaced after people were gone, which was evidently for you.

A set of bustling applauses filled the space, a melody to her ears and a mockery to your existence—causing the ground beneath you to shatter into a neverending hollow sinkhole.

“Agh!-”

The sight of the beige-coloured ceiling was what met your wide shot eyes for a whole minute before the drilling pain brought you back to reality, causing your mouth to hang apart—whimpering with every contact of the needle.

“It might hurt, but it has to be something you got to bear if you want the camellia on your skin..”

You almost forgot, how could you even? Your dazed orbs slowly fell on his face as he keeps talking to you even when you couldn't really understand him—his voice soothes the strings of your heart so much it had you calm down instantly despite the tip of the needle punching under your skin every millisecond.

Vagueness encircled around your vision, yet his portrait remain crystal clear due to the close proximity—his faint cherry lips moving with motion as he uttered inaudible words, the set of dust particles fleeting across the tip of his nose, hitting the sun rays from behind him. His eyelashes fluttering in a delicate motion as he remained immensely focused—he seems fitted enough to be your muse, doesn't he?

"You slept really well." He said, causing your cheeks to burn in embarrassment. Now that he mentioned it, you did slept judging by how much time had passed since the session started.

Your eyebrows furrowed at his words, wondering if you were his only client that fell asleep during session. Holding the need to cringe as you imagine yourself sleeping ever so comfortably before a stranger. "U-uh? Am I the..?"

He hummed in return, but before you could even explode. "It's nice though, that's how I know I'm doing good." The apples of his cheeks grew wider, melting your heart to a dripping honey.

At some point, the pain was nonexistent, partly of it because of his advice, and partly was observing him throughout the entire session.

“If I may ask, why do you want to have a flower as a tattoo?” He asked, which to you was kind of abrupt.

“Don’t you have any customers that like a flower tattoo before?” you asked him suspiciously in which he let out a soft giggle, amused by your reaction.

He shook his head ever so little as he smiled, “Of course I did, just a bit curious about.. you.”

Huh, flirty I see. You hummed inside your head, a bit amused.

"I could say the same thing to you too, why of all things—a flower was your last pick?" you asked him.

"It saved my life."

Ha, saved his life? What a stark contrast that flower did to you and him. While it saves him, it brings destruction to you instead. These ferocious petals serve a whole different meaning to you and him.

"You?.."

“There isn’t anything interesting in particular, just something I..” you paused in between, trying to carefully pick out your words, “Have to do in order to make something alive again.”

“I understand.” his lips tugged up in a small smile, and the rest soon formed into a calming solitude. You expected him to raise another question out of curiosity but to your surprise, he didn't. Somehow, it brought a calming river to your heart that he simply choses not to.

You weren’t quite sure if he notice since he was too absorbed in what he was doing which is pretty understandable, either way you watched him as if he was a scenery or more like a season, if it was a season then—cold spring would be the perfect season to describe him altogether.

He’s hot, you gotta admit. Not that you were so into him, but you gotta give it to the fact that he had that aura that somehow pulls you into wanting to know more about him, atleast, or you can call it curiosity at the best.

“Your name?” you blurted out without much thought. After all, what could go wrong in asking a simple name? After all, this would be the last time.

“M-my name?”

“Hm.. yes.” you raised your eyebrow at him, noticing that he’s a bit slow at picking things up despite his cold upfront aura.

“Jay. You can call me Jay.” he looks down, eyelashes fluttering.

“Mr. Jay.." the name tasted like melody on your tongue, "Suits you pretty well.”

You could notice that he was truly shy, a stark contrast from the tats adorning the side of his neck and down to his arms. “What’s yours?..”

“(Name).”

“It suits you too, (Name).” Simple and straightforward, yet it felt so comforting to hear him imitate your way of speech.

“Thank you-” your breath caught in the back of your throat when his pretty dark orbs looked deep into your soul.

“S-sorry.” He mumbled as his eyebrows knitted together.

“Never mind bout it,” you brush it off, but appalled by those unusual reactions that you can’t seem to get used to. “I-it hurts.. though."

“Oh right-”

He hummed in the back of his throat, those chords of his voice vibrating through your eardrums as the passage of time flowed. The chill atmosphere enveloped your form—despite the drilling tool under your inner skin—hushing you back to slumber despite your efforts trying to resist it. However pitch darkness consumed your vision, and you heard his voice echoing through your slumber. "Sleep well, miss."

Jay observes your eyes falling into deep slumber, taking another look at the labeled 'ruby' bottle for a few moments and back again to your ragged out form that he somehow founds to be emitting solemn. You seem tired, sad, and that you seem to have been crying for god knows how long, it was a baseless assumption, for sure. But he could feel it. Somehow, you reminded him of the day he was like you before.

Softened breeze a few minutes ago has formed into a harsh punch to his face, that belongs to a particular someone as he to felt it against his skin.

“You can’t see a thing! How can you even paint? How can you even?!”

Cans of filled up paints scattered on the floor, while the the dripping colourful shades dripped from his splayed fingers to the ground, biting his lip in desperation, he answered in full blown outrage.

“It’s not my fault that I can’t see anything! Besides, color is not the only medium for art!”

“This won’t do, this is hopeless. You’re hopeless.” The man shook his head, eyes filled with both contempt and annoyance, and with that he stormed off. “Give up, people like you who can never see colors aren’t fitted for this industry. Just give up, Jay."

The thought of his father's words voicing it rang like an ominous bell across the empty labyrinth of the mind and heart of the young man himself.

The door slammed before his solemn, broken form, drenched on colours he could never had the chance to differentiate.

Voice so hoarse it sound so pitiful with the mixture of the empty nightsky. He looks up to prevent any more tears to fall down his cheeks. "What a joke..” a breathless sigh puff up in the air mixing with the tiny dust orbs, tears of moonlight called out for help. “Ah. Was it fate that I had to be born this way?”

He turns his phone open after a short sigh of pain, ragged fingers and chip nails scrolls through the countless pictures of stranger splattered across the internet—smiles, laughter, eyes crinkling akin to half moons with their fingers wrapped around the shiny wine glass as they raise it up to the ceiling, another one has their parents standing on their either side for their graduation photo, swipe down a tiny bit more—and a sweet picture perfect of a small family reflected against his dark orbs.

“Huh..?” the tip of his finger glued against the glowing screen as his eyes hovered on it, pupil dilating as it continued to observe the painting slowly. His breath caught to the very back of his throat, his lungs tightening as it took all it got, tongue remain frozen to the edges of his teeth as his mind tried to make out of what he was seeing.

Monochromes. The shades akin to a graveyard and the deafening silence of crow engulfing his sight but.. Intricate patterns of something flew across his eyes, where was it? He looked up, head snapping to where that object flew to. Gone. Gone it was.

What was that? He looked down at his phone again, the painting; the canvas was massive, with dried acrylic paint on the edges, and the composition laying on between where it’s main character was no man nor woman, nor a child nor an animal, neither a furniture nor a statue but..

A single flower standing out against everything.

“It’s so b-beautiful..” sniffing as he stuttered, pausing in between as he finally kept his eyes closed, not noticing that he had it opened wide and bright in taking the colossal beauty of it that it had grew dry with the wind hitting right against it. As he fluttered it open, his eyes was greeted by the mesmerizing beauty once again.

He couldn’t make out of what kind of color it was yet it’s wholly captivating, perfectly showcasing the artistic skills of the creator—efforts evident, and passion enveloping the gigantic canvas.

“I wonder what is it called?”

An unnamed flower unfolding it’s monochrome robes to the core of his heart, it felt as if he finally had a reason to live for.

"Camellia." Jay breathe out as he meticulously drilled the ink into your skin, taking a form of the flower he wholeheartedly adore. Flowers, it was surely not his first time to have a client wishing for a flower as a tattoo, and surely you won't be the last client either. But the fact that you asked for a specific flower that holds a tremendous meaning to him—brought him inner solace and bliss that you gave him the chance to do so.

For sure, it wasn't probably your intention. But Jay still would like to think of that, nevertheless.

Imitation is the best form of flattery, it shows how you're adamant and determined to be as skilled as the one you look up to regardless of art form. As the passage of time stretched even further, so does the artist himself; each soul grows to their own uniqueness.

And to Jay, himself—he aspires to be as good as the artist that created the painting—the fact that the artist had such blazing passion and skills that it brought the whistles of life to his soul, brought him a tiny doses of envy. But it was those emotions, that kept him going through all seasons despite the obstacles.

His eyes fell on your sleeping face once again, wishing for you to be happy once you see it, hoping that it would bring you the same effect the way it did to him. "(Name)."

"Just give up," familiarity yet indifference laced the blonde haired's aura, her crimson lips pulled up to her cheeks—forming a menacing smirk. "No one would believe you, (Name)."

Rattling orbs shot wide open, your hands clutched your chest—rampant heart behind those ribs vibrating through your eardrums. The dream, no the memories—pulling you back to your ugly reality.

Confused, you raised your eyes—looking for Jay, yet he was nowhere to be found in the midst of the silent space. Your eyes fell upon the clock on the wall before you, it’s arrows pointing towards a sunset hour making your jaw dropped slightly.

2:54pm—exactly one hour left before the fateful hour. You faltered for too long, didn’t you?

"Hey, you're awake." Jay's long fingers fiddled deep his pockets, approaching you from behind.

"Oh, um. Why didn't you wake me up?"

Taken aback but regained his composure just as quickly, "Just.. you've been sleeping really well. So I thought I'd let you get a few more hours, you know."

"Ah," you found yourself a tad bit wavered by his words, tucking the hair strands covering your vision behind your ear. A genuine smile adorned your lips, feeling grateful for his seemingly insignificant consideration. "Thank you.."

“No p-problem, so why don’t you look at it?” Jay's eyes darted over the chair beside him, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked back at you again, on a particular spot on your neck.

Only then you realise the stinging pain on your collarbone. You turned towards the mirror behind you, stroking your finger against the faint red and stinging spot.

It hurts. But it was worth it as the engraved intricate petals adorning your neck, was a sugary sight to your eyes. “It’s so pretty.” you swallowed a lump of saliva down your throat in attempts to prevent the salty tears forming in your eyes, for it truly was breathtaking to look at.

You captured the sight of his familiar beaming smile harmonising with his eyes as always from the mirror's reflection, evidently proud of his artwork adorned on your skin.

Smiling at yourself, you swiftly turn the chair facing him. Standing up on your feet, you leaned in closer—not that close, but enough to take some reaction out of him that you wanted to see once more before you go. One last time.

“Thank you, Mr. Jay.” you said, "If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have the chance to.. you know."

“I-it’s my pleasure, Miss (Name).” he looks away, abashed in silence yet the rosy hues on the apple of his cheeks were giving it away for you.

“Well then, I’d have to go.”

You weren't sure if it was a fragment of your imagination—that his dark grey orbs seems to lose sun rays within it. However the twinkles of his eyes returned as he gave another smile to you clenched your heart this time, as you walked through the hallway you entered a few hours ago. Feeling a bit emotional, unfortunately.

Pausing just before the entrance's edge, turning your heels around to take another look at your favourite smile, “I wish you a good day.”

"Have a good day, too." Jay nodded, feeling a bit lost at the sight of the soft strands of your hair flowing down the twinkle of your half-moon smiles as it reflected in grey hues of the sunlight.

Facing the long street ahead of you with a decided destination, you raise your arms—waving your hand at the boy without looking back. You weren't sure if he was still there, maybe.. he wasn't looking anymore. You didn't dare to turn your head so as to not raise any hope, not anymore. Not gonna lie, you wish you could stay a bit more.

A destination that leads to the root of your destruction, would you atleast try to hold yourself? Maybe not, this tattoo on your neck serves a reminder of your ruined life—to finally get it even with her.

Coal washes over Jay's vision like fleeting dust.

He, himself, had always been in a state of dust particles washing over his monochrome vision. Just like right now as he watches your figure walking off the street— fleeting particles follow you from behind, encircling around your motion. The colours he couldn't see are for sure muted and distant, however your energy brought this monochromes into blooming hues.

Somehow it also feels odd to see the flower he adores on a girl he barely knew, a simple name that he can only taste on the tip of his tongue.

But all it was to him, was akin to ashes of coal in different shades. However, you stood and went away in the brightest shade of coal despite the colourless land. Your hair swaying with the breeze as you walk off, the way you carried yourself was something that he couldn't fathom.

Somehow, an ominous thought washes over the back of his mind, constantly pushing it further; would you float away like the passing clouds and never return again? He shakes off the thought, letting out an awkward chuckle. What would he gain from this either way? You were just another client, after all.

Another client.

“Miss!”

Feet stuck on the ground after his voice flew into your ears, your stomach grew butterflies as you turned your head over your shoulder to look at the distraught boy.

“What’s the matter.. Mr. Jay?”

Jay gulped down his throat, avoiding your gaze as he approached you like the motion of fleeting petals. His feet betraying his initial thoughts, causing him to look even more distraught. “I— ah.. forgot to say, but.. you have to come here next week to check your tat twice just for safety measures, you know.”

“Next week?..” raising your eyebrow at the thought, you were appalled that you even hesitated. There’s no more next week, nor a tomorrow—it’s all pointless. Your glistened orbs fell on your dappled yellow shoes. “I don’t think I can. But I appreciate it, Mr. Jay."

His hands behind his back formed into a slight fist.

"B-but.. I don't think the camellia's gonna survive if you let it just like that, you know." Jay took two steps closer, his feet stuck on the ground as the firm breeze brushed the monochrome petals on the side of his neck, just like the freshly engraved on yours. "The colours, I mean."

"Huh..?"

Now that you look at him with the golden hues of the sun infused in his eyes like honey, you've come to notice the desperation, determination and hope evident inside those softened orbs, and most importantly—the silent blooming of affection.

“Would you come?”

「 talesofyuan on tumblr 2023 」 all rights reserved. do not copy or post without permission.

[unknownzapy]

HII!! I saw your requests are open so I wanted to request a matchup if that was alright, im looking for a platonic relationship if that’s fine and since I saw that someone requested for helluva boss I would really like that and also the amazing world of gumball and FNAF ^^ so now I shall introduce myself✨

My name is Joey I go by a nickname which is Asmo (as Asmodeus), im 14, i use he/him pronouns, im transgender, aromatic and unlabeled, my MBTI is ENTP, im also adhdtistic and I’m 5’6 with brown shoulder length hair, i wear glasses and im pretty much in between skinny and chubby? i dress in a lot of styles actually which are goth (trad goth, romantic goth, mall goth and nu goth), gyaru (hime gal, himekaji, agejo, rokku, manba, and kogal), scenemo and also ouji and lolita

My personality is ENTP but I’m usually pretty awkward when I meet someone so it may take some time to get used to the person before I start emoting freely, i love to ramble about my interests to people that I’m comfortable with, im also not afraid to get snarky if someone bothers me to much, im also pretty protective of the people I love and my interests LMAO, also I love making sexual jokes and I love making the goofiest jokes to exist like “im the ohio god” and I also love to make fun of kids on voice chat in roblox

My hobbies/likes: anime/manga, fashion, art (drawing, pottery, painting, digital art, animation, etc), cooking, learning new languages (like Japanese and Spanish), i also like to do gym which most people don’t like, listing to music/making music (I’m a vocaloid producer), musicals, hanging out with my friends, gaming, going shopping, and hotels

Dislikes: negative mentions of my voice, comparing me to people/saying stuff like “you remind me of ____”, also spiders I scream whenever I see one… no joke, insulting what I love, fish, uncomfortable places like sleeping on a couch

Thanks!

Helluva Boss Matchup Is…Loona!

Let’s be honest here, Loona and you would be friends immediately. The both of you are quite awkward when trying to put effort into meeting new people you like, have similar fashion senses (*cough cough* More so on anything Goth, Emo, or anything remotely “edgy” and “cool”), and finally both of your protective natures for your loved ones, even if Loona doesn’t show it that much.

At first, the Hellhound didn’t care for you as much as any other bystander, seeing you only as another sap living in Hell (or Earth, if you prefer). But then again, she’ll warm up to you and give a new friendship a chance, Loona couldn’t help but laugh at your vulgar jokes and vibe to your music tastes, which is a rarity in the I.M.P Business.

Blitzo, on the other hand, is rather protective of his daughter after realizing that she’s becoming slightly more extroverted lately, though he is happy that she’s making friends on her own and having a social life outside of the business.

Face it, Blitzo would definitely join you in the sexual jokes and light banter after a week of meeting you. Though, if you’re uncomfortable with him egging you on about these unfiltered puns, then he’ll back off entirely and potentially diminish your friendship with his only kid because of it.

Anyways, onto other details. Loona loves your body shape and doesn’t really care what you look like, as long as you're cool in her book, even if she’s snarky about it with her fellow coworkers (such as with Moxxie). Speaking of being snarky, Loona feels as though she can be her true self with you without any form of consequences, especially with the two of you playfully going at each other’s throats over video games or face to face.

Whenever someone else gets smart with you or tries to bully you for whatever reason while she’s in the room, The Hellhound will pause her fingers above her phone and stare at the one who offended you, giving them a bombastic side eye and silently daring them to repeat what they just said to you. If the offender continues to mock you, then Loona will forcibly take matters into her own hands and kick their ass, literally and figuratively.

She’s the type to watch over your shoulder slightly as you work on your favorite hobbies, and maybe even tries to do some of them herself. However, she admires you for doing pottery and art better than she can, seeing as though you’re more crafted in the subjects than she is. Please gift her a piece of your talent, I’m begging you 🙏🏼 🥺 Loona will definitely keep a drawing you did for her on her wall in her bedroom because she sees you as her younger sibling as this point.

As a transgender person, The Hellhound was pretty open minded and accepting, given the fact that her dad is having an affair with an already married man, but that situation is for another time to talk about. It’s complicated as it is. With you, however, Loona always opt to use your proper pronouns and surprisingly remembers them without mistake.

If anyone isn’t aware of your preferred pronouns or simply refuses to use them for whatever reason, then you can bet your ass that she’s standing up for you until the other person backs off. On a completely unrelated note, I’d also like to add that the two of you horse around like real siblings, rough housing and all, if you’re down of course.

For your sexuality, on the other hand, Loona was a teensy bit confused, but with enough explaining, she understands completely and is quick to question others if they decide to bring you harm because of it. She knows when push comes to shove real quick, so don’t worry about your safety too much, she works with an assisation group after all.

For Millie and Moxxie, they sort of see you as their own nephew and treat you as their own. Of course, the I.M.P are your new family now, so get used to a lot of action and various forms of platonic love 🥰.

Five nights at Freddy’s Matchup Is…Ballora!

At first, Ballora was the one who confronted you firsthand for whatever reason she may have had, though realizing your discomfort, she backs off and takes her time speaking to you. She is an unfiltered and honest character, which is why she hates “playing pretend” (or in my mind at least), May it be bad or good is entirely up to you.

She’ll most likely remind you how talented you are, wanting you to be your best, authentic self, despite what others may think of you. However, Ballora can’t force you to do something you are uncomfortable with, and will hold back with her advances.

In theory of the FNAF fandom, She is the mother and wife in the Afton Family, and her maternal personality will be directed to you as well, even in death. If the theory is false, then Ballora will treat you similarly to the children that come and go, though with more respect of course, considering that you’re a little older.

Now, onto your appearance. I feel like she’s the type to admire and adore someone despite their looks, and will tell you how amazing you look. For you, though, she’s astonished that you have varying clothing styles that even she hadn’t realized existed before. She’s beyond flabbergasted and speechless, which is a good thing; Plus, she wishes to dance with you someday in these clothes and show you off to the minireenas, even if you aren’t good at dancing at all.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but Ballora will show your art (and yourself) off like each one is your best prized possession. Though, she will avoid giving you the limelight if you seem to be uncomfortable with her high praise and try her best to take it back a few notches. She’ll most likely keep your art on her walls in her Gallery room, however kept in a more secluded area where kids, or anyone in general, can take them down. Only she can admire them, so she hates it when someone rips them up; Ballora learned the hard way.

For your singing and music tastes, Ballora will most certainly dance to it. You sing, she dances, the perfect duo 💪🏼. Sometimes, she allows the Minireenas to show off their own skills as well or join in on her dancing too. Wholesome, is it not?

When it comes to your gender and sexuality though, it takes some time for her to understand due to the fact that she was built in the late 80’s, where people were closeted for many reasons. Plus, she basically “lived” under a house for god knows how long. Though, I doubt Ballora will dislike you simply for your own preferences, and a matter of fact, Ballora has a newfound respect for you. Personally, as stated earlier, I feel as though she is the type to value honesty above all else, however will not push you to do something you’re not comfortable with. So with the fact that you trust her enough to reveal this information, Ballora can’t help but feel honored.

If anyone brings you trouble for who you are and what you like, her Minireenas (and maybe some Bidybabs, too, if Baby allows it) will take care of the offender, don't worry too much. Also, she can’t leave her stage during the daytime unless rented out, so the news of what happened will depend on the day. By the end of the day, Ballora will always be there to comfort and soothe you as best as she can if need be.

Lastly, your sense of humor. I feel as though Ballora has a dry sense of humor, while yours is more “wet”, if that makes any sense at all. Her laugh is similar to that of Fenneko from the anime “Aggretsuko”, but she genuinely will laugh at your Ohio jokes, even if her steel face says otherwise, so being an animatronic has its faults for being non expressive.

Ballora, as a whole, admires for who you are and supports you through and through. She’s the animatronic to praise you, even in your lowest of lows, she’ll be there to comfort you.

The Amazing World of Gumball Matchup is…Tobias Wilson!

As the best for last, Tobias will treat you with absolute royalty in a way that spoils you rotten. For example, he will buy you the art supplies you wanted for a year now or even go as far as to (platonically) “rizz” you up with incredibly, yet ridiculously, expensive gifts that no one else is able to buy and show off his “buff muscles” along with it.

At first, Tobias genuinely thought you hung around him purely because his family was rich as hell. The more the two of you did hang out, however, the more he realized that you actually wanted to be his friend, albeit in an awkward manner from the start.

From that point on, the little guy tried his best to act like a real friend and not be a jerk for once (like in the show itself), so it takes him a hot minute for him to be more of a decent person. Instead of buying you expensive items, and depending on your (platonic) love languages, Tobias will try to meet your expectations as a friend from then on.

When it comes to hobbies, Tobias will stare at you like “👁_👁” in amazement and astonishment, mesmerized by your talent. May it be your pottery, cooking, or even learning a second language, he tries to either show off to get your attention or one up you in a playful manner, covered in clay, paint, and pride. Tobias probably summoned his paralysis demon in Latin by accident thanks to you, so there’s that/j.

Tobias will always question you as to how you got so many hobbies and still manage to create masterpieces, even if he does watch you create them like a child wondering how the Detachable Thumb Trick works, despite it being explained to them more than 12 times. Homeboy will praise the literal floor you walk on just by this alone 💀.

When it comes to Gym class, though, he will definitely get competitive with you while everyone else is exhausted, especially with Dodgeball. The two of you are wild with it, either you throwing the balls and him dodging with ease or the other way around, making the both of you that “one kid who becomes Goku” in Gym class. During this, most of the class will choose sides as to who would win or record the scenery before them. By the end of the period, everyone left with stunned bafflement and amazement, all in a good way. Now these classmates have a reason to go to Gym now, all thanks to the both of you, lol.

Besides this, Tobias totally vibes with your humor, especially the sexual ones. He’s the best one on the list with your sense of comedy and the type who would egg you on like a wingman, though if he accidentally goes too far with someone such as offending them or making them mad, he’ll immediately apologize and find a way to make it up to them. Especially if they were a friend of yours or a loved one, seeing as though he does try to be a better friend and person in the canonical show.

Understanding your sexuality and gender is a whole thing of itself. Considering his age, he’s new to all this, but understands the meaning behind them on the first try, absorbing this information like a sponge. Surprisingly gets your pronouns right on the bat, and will definitely swing at anyone who misgenders you. Tobias will treat you the same like always, but his respect for you has risen by 9,000. The rainbow child understands you the most when it comes to this stuff, so the two of you are immediately best friends from then on.

When it comes to other people giving you trouble with your interests or gender identity (or any part of you at all), Tobias will defend you like a white knight in shining armor. But in all seriousness, he’ll be by your side through thick and thin, even if he isn’t the best athletic and physically built person in the school.

By the end of the day, Tobias is your best friend until the very end. He deeply respects you the most out of everyone around him, most likely outweighing his envy for Gumball and his wild adventures and that’s saying something. Which is a good thing, by the way.

Additionally, He would never be the type to put you into situations where you’re uncomfortable, including to subject you to your fears (spiders, in this case) or compare you to someone else. Even if he did, it would probably be by accident and will apologize profusely after realizing this mistake.

While Tobias spent some time with you, he genuinely changed for the better; Not flirting with girls (even when they’re explicitly taken), showing off his money and “muscles”, ect. and decides to just be a relatively normal kid. He still has his moments but it isn’t as bad as he used to be, plus he always backs off when a girl tells him “no” or shows hints of uninterest.

Tobias became more of a class clown overtime, knowing when to take a joke and being the subject of a quick laugh. After all, Who wouldn't want to be friends with this rainbow goofball 😉.

[rosethreeart]

Okay. Another prompt then maybe >:3

1.Ned got injured doing something dumb but Abigail thinks it is really serious. (Broke a few fingers or whatsnot oopsies) during work or what and comes home with a cast on the place he hurt himself.

2. Ned forgets to do his hair up all day (for whatever reason) and it is a world meeting day and Abigail doesn’t point it out to see people’s reactions to Ned w his hair down.

I went with 1 :D!

It's here on Ao3 too!

Summery: Ned takes a fall, and Abby is there to kiss it better.

Word Count: 726

Title: A Broken Hand is a Good Way to Get a Kiss

Concern was the first thing he was greeted with the minute he had walked into the door. Rapid questions were fired from all directions as Abigail flit about him, assessing any and all damage; the smallest of cuts or bruises would not go unnoticed as long as she's there. 

“Abigail—”

“Are you okay? What happened? How bad is it? How—”

He grabbed her shoulders. 

“Abigail.”

She slowly looked up as her breathing evened, hands still fidgeting, desperate to coddle. Even though he was the injured one, she was the one who looked like she wanted to cry.

That was one thing he loved about her. She was always so kind and caring towards others, always willing to put even complete strangers before herself. That type of kindness was rare amongst their kind. He was glad he gets to see it regularly now because of her. It’s even begun to rub off on him. Which was how he was even in this situation to begin with.

He took a deep sigh, eyes crinkling due to his soft expression as topaz met what was currently a royal blue. “I’m fine. I promise.”

Her shoulders seemed to sag slightly as she reached for his left arm, which was currently wrapped in a cast, “Can I ask what happened?”

He takes a few seconds to answer, too entranced by the way her small hands barely fit into his. How gentle and soft they were. How warm they felt….

She squeezes his hand slightly, worry now drawing back on her face as if relief was merely an eclipse. 

“I’m alright I just…” He hesitates a moment, blushing slightly. He was never very good at expressing himself verbally.

He stammers a bit, “I..uhh..mm..”

Her head tilts slightly to the left.

He looks at the floor.

He needs to clean the carpet. The dishes need to get done too. Oh and of course the laundry—

“Lars?”

“Sorry, it's a little embarrassing.”

“That’s alright sweet pea, you don’t have to talk about it?”

He fails to force down a slight grin when that affectionate little pet name of hers rang in his ear. 

“Truthfully I broke it falling off a ladder in the studio,” he finally admits. 

He never really was one to brag about things he actually enjoyed, Abigail being one of the few exceptions to the rule, but he was quite fond (and very good) at oil painting. He had a small little studio nearby which he would occasionally rent out for cheap for local artists.  

“Why were you on a ladder? What could an almost 7 foot-tall man need with any more height?” Abigail's eyes glistened as she teased, her lips pressed into a thin line trying to hold back a grin and laughter.

“I was trying to fix the curtains to let in some more natural light but…it seems I might have to go buy a new one…and a new curtain rod…and maybe a few buckets of paint...and a shelf…”

He was just happy the paint didn’t land on him, he would have looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. How embarrassing that would have been!

Oh how pitiful he felt, especially with that expression she gave him, as if he was a lost little puppy on the street who just walked into a wall. 

“Aww I’m sorry babe, anything else hurt or just your hand?” She dusted and smoothed out his shirt, which had wrinkled from its usually pristine condition due to the…incident. 

“Besides a bruised ego and some sore muscles?” I don’t think so.”

He leaned down as she stepped on her tipsy-toes to place a gentle kiss on his lips. Somehow he started feeling better already. Maybe he should get some more of those. Who knew? Maybe kisses could be a cure after all.

“Alright-y lets get you something for the pain and some warm food in your belly before you start feeling any worse,” She says, not waiting for an answer as she gently guides him into the dinning room.

Some food and something for the pain would be a good cure too though…

That beautiful portrait of her surrounded by a field of forget-me-nots and tulips could wait a while, he supposed. Besides, he’s got the real deal in front of him right now. The real Abigail was much better than a painting.

[magic-hcs]

Hii Sora!! I absolutely love your interpretation of the characters!! congrats on the 200 followers, and it's very sweet of u to do match-ups! I hope you're doing well :D

Multiple matches is fine, and I don't mind poly! do whatever u want :)

Gender: Genderqueer

Pronouns: Any!

Sexuality: Omnisexual

Appearance: I'm tall, broad, chubby, i have short n shaggy light brown hair, blue eyes, i wear glasses, i have acne scars, and a few piercings. I have a deep voice with a slight southern accent. my clothing style could be described as grunge and y2k

Personality: introverted, loyal, quiet but talkative at home, sarcastic, a bit intimidating, blunt, hardworking, compassionate, silly, and confident

Soul Trait: Integrity

Hobbies: cooking, drawing, painting, singing, playing piano, studying, finding new music, and playing video games

Likes: music of all kinds, rainy days while staying inside, fidget toys, fluffy blankets, cartoons, candles, learning about random topics, early mornings, pasta, sweets, those so obviously fake that it's funny ghost videos, comedy, storytelling, dogs, cats, and other animals

Dislikes: unexpected loud noises, crowds, arguing, certain textures/sounds (I got sensory issues), and bigotry

Hope that's good, thank you so much!! ^_^

I’m happy you enjoy my interpretations of the boys! Also thank you! I’m doing well, I hope you’re doing well too. Thank you for being patient!

Matchups are closed!

~~matching…~~matching~….~matching~~…~DING~

You match with Mastiff and Red!

✨✨

(SF Papyrus) Mastiff:

Your compassion, bluntness and confidence drew Mastiff to you. But your silliness and loyalty made him stay. Loyalty is a big thing to Mastiff after all, he has a hard time opening u0 to people because of his trust issues. So you being loyal will definitely aid you in the journey of cracking open Mastiff’s guarded shell.

Mastiff is one of those guys who has an intimidating resting bitch face who doesn’t react a lot with his face and instead with his body language. But he’s also that kind of guy who would snort at a fart joke and create chaos with his gremlin tendencies. So when you’re friends or even more, you’ll be getting the honor of seeing this side of him often.

Snorts whenever you get sarcastic, he’s just watching from the sidelines almost eating popcorn as you direct your sarcastic remarks at others. He doesn’t mind if you direct those comments at him, Razzle is a sarcastic ass so it won’t offend him.

Mastiff is not really talkative, he listens more often. Sometimes throwing in a few words but he mostly just enjoys listening to you talking about everything and nothing.

You two often play video games together, sometimes Coal decides to insert himself in your video gaming sessions just for fun, or to tease and be a menace to his brother when Mastiff has a crush on you he has yet to acknowledge.

You got a free taste tester right here if you ever decide to make something new. Mastiff never passes up a good meal, nor does he waste it!

He’s quite interested in those fidget toys you got. He has tried a few out and thinks Coal would really enjoy them too. Whenever he spots some new kind of fidget toys he takes it with him and gives them to you.

Mastiff will always make sure that Razzle talks a bit softer when you’re around because Razzle can be one very loud boy when he isn’t conscious of his own volume.

✨✨

(UF Sans) Red:

With Red too, loyalty is very important. Without it one can’t get very far with Red.

He likes your silly attitude and likes to joke around with you. This man will legitimately snatch a taste from the food you’re making when you’re not looking.

Red likes to watch you play the piano, he can’t help but be enthralled with the way your fingers move across the keys. The moment you offer to teach him and lay your hands upon his Red’s a goner.

You two are so competitive when playing video games. It doesn’t after if you’re not competitive normally, Red is capable of pressing the buttons that make you competitive.

You two often cackle at those horribly fake ghost videos. Be prepared for Red to bash and roast everything. He’s a bit of a video nerd, don’t mind him.

Red doesn’t like crowds too, so with him you don’t have to be worried about having to be forced into a crowd because he can just shortcut you guys to a more calming place.

✨✨

I hope you enjoyed!

[stuffielovinhours]

hi! i’m 18 and i’ve been privately interested in age regression for a long time - i think i’ve even unconsciously started to regress slightly because i get in a weird headspace and seek specific activities and stimulus (like music, shows and books i watched and read as a toddler, stuffed animals, even increased and more childish stims) when i’m feeling certain ways. I go partially nonverbal and i get more sensitive and clumsy. despite all the research and “unexplained” draw to it i’ve had, i kind of don’t know where to start. i don’t know how to tell if i’m regressing, i don’t know how to do it intentionally, i don’t know my age range or if it’s even something i’m capable of at all. i’m not very comfortable being taken care of in this specific way, i can’t be vulnerable enough with a potential cg to have that kind of relationship. even though its something i crave, i’ve gotten very good at self-soothing and self-governance. i’m also autistic, and already have trouble identifying my own emotions, so it’s a little bit of a non-starter. do you have any tips for someone falling into age regression with no understanding of how to be intentional, or someone who wants to try it out and doesn’t know how to get there?

Hello lovely! I'm sorry it took me so long to get to this ask, I was trying to figure out the best way to word my advice and then life distracted me from my inbox ><

First of all, know that it's completely okay to be unsure if you're regressing or not, and there's no pressure to label your headspace as anything if you don't want to. You don't even have to have a specific age or age range to regress to! "Younger" is a perfectly fine way to describe your age :3 To see if you can do it voluntarily you can maybe actively partake in the stimuli you tend to seek out, even when you don't feel the urge to, and see how you like it in your usual headspace. Does it make you feel floaty and tiny like your involuntary sessions do?

I too crave the comfort of a cg, but I'm comfortable being on my own and taking care of myself. I choose to not seek out a cg and although I'm getting better at being vulnerable, I don't see myself letting anyone take care of me in that sense. You can be a regressor, age dreamer, noncom tiny - whatever you choose to call yourself, without a caregiver. That's valid. Super valid.

For tips, all I can say is let yourself do childish things. Indulge your inner kid! And do it on purpose! You could recreate things you did as a child, or try out new activities. Finger paint, cuddle lots of stuffies, watch new cartoons, fun ones and weird ones, really get in touch with your likes and dislikes. Experiment! Looking up resources and finding others' experiences in the community can also help you get a feel for your own emotions. I know some autistic people who take to age regression, age dreaming and similar coping methods to help with life.

At the end of the day, your headspace is just that, yours. Do what makes you comfortable and happy.

(As an end note, to my understanding: agere is when you cognitively regress to a younger age, agedre is when you behaviourally regress and do childish things without feeling a change in your mental age, and inner child healing is a similar coping method used in therapy. Experiment to see what you experience, and most importantly, enjoy yourself <3)

[malachitezmeyka]

I’ve been so completely out of it all day bc of last night’s revelation, it’s literally been the only thing I could think about, and the deeper I get in analysing my life experiences the more realisations I come to, and each one feels more horrific than the last.

Not horrific as in terrible, but as in it feels like whatever remains of my sense of self is completely falling apart. I thought I was bi for so long, didn’t even spend a single second questioning it. Never did I even think that I may be wrong, it seemingly made too much sense for me to be wrong. But the sense it made was the fact I was attracted to both male and female characters in animated shows, not real people.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a crush on a real person before. Not on someone I knew irl, nor on some actor/celebrity, nor on someone I saw on tiktok or wherever. And it’s like, I can acknowledge someone is attractive, even that someone is beautiful or hot, but it’s never personal when I do. Pretty girls I see don’t linger in my mind at all. I can’t picture myself dating them or getting intimate or kissing them or anything. It’s a purely aesthetic attraction with no feelings behind it. With animated/drawn characters it’s different, I can actually feel all the physical side-effects of looking at someone you’re romantically attracted to. But when the scale of a drawing slides too far towards realism, like with museum paintings or even that one Suiren portrait I drew once, the attraction fades again. I’m just not and have never been attracted to real people.

At my old school the topic of which celebrities you found hot came up often and I never knew what to say. Naming the ones I knew were conventionally beautiful but I wasn’t personally attracted to felt like lying, so eventually I started naming people my mom found hot. She’d tell me which actors she had a crush on when we watched movies or shows together and I pretended to see her point. After a while I managed to convince myself that it wasn’t pretending and that I really agreed with her. I realise now it all boiled down to purely aesthetic attraction again, I had no genuine interest in them. And one could assume it was just my preference for women showing, but female celebrities faced the exact same treatment from me.

I started reevaluating a lot of sexuality-related feelings and life moments. My dad’s SIL often laments how I’m 17 and don’t have a boyfriend yet, and when I say I don’t want one she goes “Why? It’s not like you have to sleep with him, wouldn’t it be nice to be gifted flowers and taken on dates and the like?” I usually just shrug but my internal answer was always a resounding no. I once again thought I just liked girls more, but when I actually thought about what if dad’s SIL wasn’t homophobic and posed the question in a sapphic way, I realised that my answer wouldn’t change. I don’t want a partner of any gender or to be taken out on dates or anything like that.

It was here that things really started to go downhill for me last night bc then, once I realised I didn’t want a girlfriend, I turned my attention to the more sexual side of things. It’s possible to be aromantic and allosexual, right? But I’ve known for a while that a lot of sex-related things are a very big ick for me, penetration of any kind being on top of the list. Forget dicks and toys, I don’t want fingers or tongues inside me either, not have I ever used a tampon. But not everyone likes penetration, that’s fine, there are other things. But the thought of someone lavishing my tits with affection just makes me way too hyper aware of them which triggers my dysphoria, and I’ve always found kissing to be extremely gross, and… pretty much every sexual act I can think of causes some kind of rejection in me. Fantasies are fine, fics/writing are fine, even watching porn is fine for the most part (even then, I can only get off to it if I imagine 2d characters in place of the people), but the second I think of something actually being done to me? It makes my toes curl in a very much bad way.

I’m by no means a completely non-sexual being, quite the opposite actually. I’m horny a lot of the time and it’s completely normal for me to get off at least once almost every day, but again, it’s all only in fantasies (which never feature me, only characters). I’m so averse to the idea of fucking or being fucked that I don’t even touch myself, ever. I accidentally discovered that rubbing my thighs together in a specific way feels good when I was younger and have just been doing that ever since. I’ve tried using my hands but it’s just not pleasurable in any way. I really don’t want anything or anyone touching me, ever, at all. And it’s so weird to realise because it seems natural for someone with as high of a libido as mine to want to be fucked, right? But the mere thought disgusts me and causes insane anxiety to overtake my entire body, and idk if there’s a clearer way for my mind to tell me that no, you don’t want any of that, trust me.

That’s another thing. Maybe I’m just scared. I have debilitating anxiety, I’m terrified of literally everything, of course that, added to my body image issues and complete inexperience in all manners romantic or sexual, would result in these types of feelings. Maybe I just haven’t met the right person yet who will awaken my attraction to real people and cause me to want a partner and romance and sex and whatever else. Maybe I’ve convinced myself that I’m too much of a mess for anyone to love me so it’s better to label myself as aroace before I get my heart broken. I don’t know. But writing it off on all that doesn’t feel right, and while I’m not exactly the best judge of my own feelings, my gut is telling me that I’m wrong. It’s not anxiety and inexperience, it’s my very real borderline aromantic and asexual feelings finally being acknowledged.

I think back on my life. I thought I had serious crushes before, I even had a girlfriend for a few months, but that was all initiated by someone else. The other person showed interest first and I thought “Okay, they’re pretty enough, maybe I can do this, maybe I just need to get into it and the feelings will come later”. Nothing ever went anywhere beyond hand holding or brief hugs, and I was okay with that. I enjoyed spending time with them and lit up whenever they showed up and thought that’s what loving someone felt like. But now that I have real friends that I’m 100% sure I’m not attracted to, I realised I feel the exact same way towards them. I just like being with people who want to spend time with me and who I share common interests with, and I like being paid attention to. Nothing romantic to it. When it comes to my good friends I always had a position of “Well I don’t find them particularly attractive but if they were romantically interested in me then I’d go for it” and thought that was a crush. It’s no wonder anything vaguely romantic in my life ended before it could properly start. Really hard to be in love with or build a relationship with someone who clearly doesn’t feel romantically interested in you, even if they’re trying very hard to be.

And that’s the center of the whole issue. There’s nothing wrong with being aroace, nor with being wrong about the label you chose when you were 12. What makes be sob for hours is this feeling as if a knife was driven through my heart. All these years I’ve been subconsciously lying to myself and I didn’t even know. I can’t blame myself for that, I’m aware, I had no way of realising I was wrong because I never had any experience. But the pain and confusion and sense of being lost are still there, beyond all rationalisation. And all those times I said I wanted to be railed by a pretty girl and other similar things to that? Also not true. I said those things because it felt like what a horny queer girl should say. It wasn’t a conscious lie, I really believed it when I said it, it never even registered as false until now. Until I dug deep inside myself and realised I don’t want to be railed by anyone in any way ever. For the longest time I genuinely thought I wanted what’s normal for queer allosexual women to want. It’s hard coming to terms with that I really, really don’t. I’ll definitely need some time to process everything properly,

Honestly, this revelation isn’t too surprising, all things considered. I once had a conversation with someone who talked about those younger years of every queer girl, staring at other girls in the changing rooms, wanting to date them, wanting to be a boy so it’d be possible before they knew gay people existed and becoming sneakier with their glances after they found out. And I really couldn’t relate to that. I’ve never felt attracted enough to someone to experience any of that. Back then I thought I couldn’t relate bc I never had a sexuality crisis nor did I hide my sexuality from the other girls in my class, almost all of whom were queer too. Turns out I just genuinely don’t experience attraction like that. Or at least I think I don’t. I don’t know. Now that I’ve got most of my thoughts regarding all this on ‘paper’, hopefully I’ll have a clearer mind and can come to a more concrete conclusion. And for now… let’s just put me very firmly in the ‘questioning’ box.

[vkelleyart]

Story Time: Get a load of what happened to me at Starbucks today.

There’s a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating “I Am Non-Threatening. Come Talk To Me.” Because if there’s a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, I’m typically the person it happens to.

Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. (It’s not Coronavirus, don’t worry.) Since the work in my queue for my day job is comprised entirely of audio narration right now, and I currently sound like a waterlogged Demi Moore, I haven’t been able to work these last couple of days. As a result, I’ve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manu’s redesign as possible. Today, to ensure I didn’t spend the day languishing in sinus misery, I medicated the crap out of myself and took Manu to the Starbucks down the block from my son’s day care.

I hit the bathroom, then picked an empty table, but as soon as I sat down with my venti Comfort Tea and started tweaking the inks on my iPad, I felt the eyes of the man next to me looking over my shoulder.

When I looked up, he had his phone out. “I’m sorry,” he said (in a thick accent I couldn’t place geographically), “I don’t want to disturb. I notice you art. You are artist!”

I tried to smile. “Yes, I’m... Well, I’m trying to be,” I croaked.

He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret.

“I am artist, too.”

He stuck out his hand.

I gently took it, grateful for the bathroom trip I just took in which I washed the scourge off of my fingers.

“Can I?” he asked, holding his phone up.

“Take a picture? Uh... sure,” I said. It’s not like he would be able to steal Manu out from under me or anything, I figured. The panel I was tweaking was magnified out to Guam.

“I am artist. Architect and Designer,” he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad. “I am Ilker. What is your name?”

“I’m Venessa” I said, trying to be polite. This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. I’m too damn nice.

“You know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey...”

I put down my stylus. This was going to be a while.

“I like Turkey,” he explained. “I like the country and I like the people. But I am artist. I am not... religious man.”

I nodded.

“I told my wife I was going to go to America and she said, “what are you going to do? You don’t have job! You don’t have money! No Visa!” And I said, “I am artist and architect. I will paint and sell my paintings.

“So I come to America alone. To New York City. I sit outside, and I paint. And people, they liked my paintings. They bought them. This one for $30, that one for $50.

“One day, a man comes over to me and he say, “I like your painting. I see you are also architect.” And he gives me his number and asks me to go to meeting at his office. Because he wants to offer me a job. He starts to talk about a building contract.

“I tell him I don’t know anything about contracts. I have no Visa. I am not American citizen. But he says, “That’s okay. I will take care of everything. You will have nothing to worry about.” And this man, he gave me a job. $173,000 a year. And my wife, he gave her a job too. She was project assistant. I bring her and my two daughters over from Turkey.”

“Wow,” I said, not fully believing the veracity of what sounded like a full-on immigration fairy tale.

“Here,” said Ilker, unlocking his phone and opening up his Facebook app. “I show you my work.” He paused and looked up at me. “I am interrupting. You don’t mind?”

At this point, I was invested. I had to see. Because whatever he was about to show me would either prove or disprove this yarn he was spinning. “Please,” I said, gesturing for him to go ahead.

He opened his photos and my jaw dropped. His work... was UNREAL.

“This is building I designed on Madison Ave.... And this one in Chelsea...”

Holy crap. I had just been to Chelsea with my sister last month on a trip to see a broadway show. I had crossed the intersection of the building he was, at this moment, telling me he designed.

He flipped through more buildings. These, he’d designed in Washington, DC. In Bethesda. In Arlington. All beautiful, streamlined, modern structures I had visited and parked my car in front of. He told me he did much of his concept work freehand. That he worked exclusively in natural media. His preferred media was pen, ink, watercolors, and chalks.

Between photos of his wife and daughters, he went on to show me photos from the RUSSIAN EXHIBITION OF HIS ARCHITECTURE ARTWORK.

Y’all, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe the talent I was sitting next to. Scattered among these gloriously rendered images of some of the most beautiful building concepts I’d ever seen were paintings of scenes in Central Park, the National Mall, and nudes from a life-drawing session he attends from time to time.

When he was done flipping through his phone, he looked at me and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind that I interrupt you. I show you all this because what you are doing is very good. And you should be encouraged. To draw is to make beauty.”

I nodded, a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I managed. “Your work is astonishing. I don’t even know what to say. What is your name again?”

He held out his hand once more. “Ilker Kocahan,” he said. “I am getting more coffee. Can I get you one?”

I looked at my still-full venti cup. “No thank you. But here, please take my card.”

He held my dinky business card like I’d handed him a treasure and thanked me.

Then Ilker got his coffee, and left the coffee shop.

At some point in his ramblings he talked about America as a place of dreams. How he credits this country with helping him rise to the top of his field where he is now able to sell his paintings for $800-$1000 a piece now that he’s retired. My heart ached to hear him talk about that, knowing how our leadership’s positions on immigrants have taken such a dark and horrifying turn.

Imagine the buildings and museums and public places that would never have been if a business man in the park hadn’t lifted up a Turkish painter who spoke little English.

And now that painter was paying it forward on me.

I still feel pretty darn sick. I’ve still got body aches and a nose that has taken the rest of my face hostage.

But today was a really good day. And I just wanted to share it with you in case you are looking for reasons to keep drawing/painting/dancing/writing. It all counts and it is all good.

If you would like to see Ilker Kocohan’s work, please click here.

[shelbysdevil]

Of course Tommy was used to people trying to stand in his favor. That they sugarcoat everything around him and paint him these perfect pictures of things he knew didn’t exist, but when Sasha opened her mouth to speak in this alluring manner, it awkwardly didn’t feel like it was only cause of her job. She had an effect on him he couldn’t explain yet but made it clear that she might be able to make him forget about some things torturing him during the day. At least he hoped so.

He couldn’t help but grin about her turning on her heel and making him follow her like a dog, his head lowered to hide that smirk she provoked while following her, only a last look over his shoulder back to Cookson simply to make sure he would watch what he did. Another nod was sent to him to rub it in his face that whatever Tommy Shelby wanted he would get, especially in this establishment. Anyone else in Birmingham claiming they were a boss of anything, were simply fools.

His head remained lowered when he entered her room, but his eyes wandered around maybe to catch little details that would bring him closer to her spirit. Tommy liked to know his enemies. To keep them closer as anyone he loved, but even if Sasha was hopefully no enemy like he knew them, it was better to know what he brought himself into than finding himself in a cage he couldn’t escape from. “What anyone would do for me in here I suppose.” he mumbled before turning around to find her with her back standing at the door she just closed and god those eyes she stared with at him seemed for a moment like a mirror to his devious soul. “Distraction.”

While Sasha stepped closer, it was Tommy who watched her like a prey. Every move, every look, every wrinkle that formed on her face when she spoke. All of it needed to be sucked in so it would only bring him as far away from his own thoughts as possible and left him with the needed control. It was indeed distraction he searched, it was just a matter of how much she could manage that but for now she at least achieved to get his attention when she dragged her finger along his waist which was a good start.

“I’m going to fuck you, cause no one is allowed to fuck me. Not even your pretty face is able to do that and you would do good in accepting that from the start. You’d be a fool to try. And you are no fool, aye?” No one would fuck him over, that’s what he meant to say and on top of that he couldn’t afford to cross a line that would lead him anywhere else than simple distraction. Caring for someone was simply not on the table, was it? And he needed to draw this line right from the start. “Just distraction.” he hushed now in his own alluring manner with his hand slowly reaching for her face, her chin caught between his thumb and index finger to brush along her porcelain skin. “Is that something you can do for me? Or would you prefer I just keep staring at you in silence and we later tell Mr Cookson a sweet made up story about me fucking your cunt sore when it actually never happened? Both is fine with me, love.”

Plotted starter for @cemeterysgirl

It wasn’t the first night his path had led him here neither would it be the last, but in fact it had been some time since Tommy last entered the establishment after being on a business trip to London for quite some time. It could have been expected that he would spend his first night home in the comfort of his own bed and the arms of his wife, but for him there had never been any form of comfort he found at that haunted place especially when Lizzy was around bugging him with endless questions and expecting justifications for the things he did. He was sick of it. The endless talking. The endless ways of evading her nearness or creating new lies to please her just to get an easy night to come down from the terrors he had to bring over other people.

Maybe it was weird to find a place to rest in a brothel, but where else should a man like Tommy Shelby go when everyone knew his name and would bother him with their bullshit? No, this place was just the thing he needed and somehow it felt like a step into a kingdom that luckily wasn’t his own this time. Where he could only be a guest with all the pleasure that came with it.

“Mr. Shelby. Haven’t seen you for a while, welcome back.” Of course even here Tommy was greeted with respect by Mr. Cookson but in this case he would accept it. Small talk, a short warm greeting and then he would find his way to a separate room anyways.

“Business. Mr. Cookson.” With a formal nod of his head he sat down at the counter of the bar to light himself a cigarette. Mr Cooksons offered hand was ignored as it always was, Tommy wasn’t here to make business with him in particular after all and preferred not to touch anyone unless it was for sexual intimacy.

“How’s business mister Shelby?” Cookson asked and hurried the bartender to bring his favorite client a whisky on the house.

“I’m alive. So pretty good I would say. Or bad I assume depending on who you ask.” Tommy just murmured and took a drag from his cigarette without looking at the man. This venue had much more interesting things to offer anyways and so his eyes wandered along the room to see who was working tonight.

“Of course.” The whisky was placed in front of Tommy’s seat and without another glare back he just blindly reached for it to take the first sip. “May I offer you a special treat for tonight? Christine who is well known and already was in your favor last time is working tonight. If I would have known you’re coming I would have reserved her, but if you wish I can cancel…”

“I’m not interested in something known tonight Mr. Cookson. You might call her experienced, but for me it just translates to old. What about someone new?” And it seemed that his eyes had just spotted what he was talking about when his eyes stopped on a woman he hadn’t seen before. Pouty face. Sassy grin. Black hair like a fucking Angel of death. “What about her?” Tommy asked with a light gesture with his glass into her direction before his lips took another sip.

“Sasha? Oh no, Mister Shelby. You are worth of much more than that. She’s one of the new ones. Hard to handle. A little bitch that one. Barks like a dog and bites like a cat.”

“Good.” Tommy’s glass was placed back on the table emptied before he rested his cigarette burning on the ashtray and started reaching for his wallet in his inside pocket. “How much?”

“Mr Shelby.” Now Cookson was obviously getting nervous and leaned in, too close for Tommy’s taste and whispered “I think she’s really not your taste. Inexperienced. Recalcitrant. Not a woman with class or the decency you deserve. I could give you a huge discount on...”

For the first time their eyes met and while Tommy slowly folded his hands with a raised brow on the table, he leaned in as well, this time with a threatening glare without a flinch in his expression. “I said how much. Or do you want me to question the decency of the owner of this establishment?” Respect was an expensive good for the Shelby’s and no one ever dared to deny it from them. Cookson had no other choice than swallowing whatever he wanted to say but Tommy noticed the way he tensed before he finally leaned back and tried to shrug it off.

“Alright. Suit yourself. But her service is nonreturnable.”

“I won’t need to return anything unless you want to force my hand.” Their discussion was ended and finally Tommy could raise and approach the girl in the obvious battered black dress, hands slipped into his pockets while just staring at her with an unimpressed glare watching her without a word until she looked at him. “Sasha. Since Mr Cookson made it crystal clear of how much he doesn’t approve of this constellation, I thought I do us both a favor and provoke him a little. Would you show me your room? I request your service.”