#it feels very strange to not be a fast painter

[schuuu-art]

Just curious because it’s on the mind—for those of you who also paint ‘slowly’ or usually have long work times per piece, how do you find your place without fundamentally changing everything about yourself and your work flow?

[yanyandam]

(I just started following you and LOVE your work so far and… AHHH ITS AMAZING *chefs kiss*)

I was wondering if i could make a request JUST PURE FLUFF of a fic with Sanzu but the happy ending Sanzu u know how in the happy ending he becomes a pro YouTube with his sister?? Well do u think you could do Sanzu x painter reader with a big artistic mind??? Like where shes pregnant with his kid and having all these emotions making her artistic mind explode and sanzu is just posting lives/videos/pics reading out loud all the positive comments his fans are saying about her art though her 9 months pregnancy. Then going to a Timeskip where there 5-10 years old son/daughter (your pick) finds the old paintings there mom did while pregnant with them and asks sanzu about it to which he shows all the lives/videos/pics of reader painting and when pregnant and when reader comes backs from whatever she was doing she’s gets surprised to see their kid and sanzu painting together on a livestream

(AHHH sorry that’s its long and probably confusing you don’t have to do it if u don’t want to but it would be nice to see what you do with this NO PRESSURE PLEASE DONT FEEL LIKE YOU HAVE TO DO IT again LOVE your work <3)

YOOO omg this was so detailed I had to recheck stuff just to be sure I didn't misunderstand anything. HERE. It isn't very long but I hope you like it looove. LOVE YAA thanks for the support

SANZU X PAINTER!FEM!READER

Sanzu met her at school.

He barely showed up to class, maybe once a month, tops, just enough to keep the school off his back and say he “tried.” Just enough so the year wouldn’t be a total loss. Even he knew you had to fake it a little to keep the system from kicking you out too fast. Unlucky for him, they sat him next to the weird girl. The one who looked like she was in love with her pencils. Just her damn pencils. She was hunched over the desk like it was her altar, scribbling away while the math teacher's droning voice echoed through the room like static.

Haruchiyo stared at her sideways. She didn’t look up once. The table beneath her arms was covered in marks, doodles, notes written in tiny, loopy handwriting. All of it cluttered the desk like graffiti. It made his skin crawl. He hated mess. He really hated it when people treated trash like art. Faking interest in the lesson for a second, he clicked his tongue, leaned in a bit, and growled, “The fuck are you doing? Stop drawing on the table. That shit’s disgusting.”

She didn’t even flinch. Just kept sketching calmly, like his voice was background noise. And then, without looking at him: “Is it ugly?”

He blinked. “What?” She glanced at him for the first time. Her eyes were strange. Soft, but unreadable. Like foggy glass. “If it’s beautiful, it decorates. If it’s ugly, it dirties. So?” she asked, voice steady. “Which is it?”

Sanzu frowned, confused and irritated. “What the hell kind of logic is that?” She gave a little shrug, barely a movement. Like she didn’t care about his answer. He reached out and snatched the pencil from her hand with a swift motion, sharp like a slap. “Stop,” he snapped, voice low and venom-laced. “I fucking hate filthy shit.”

She didn’t fight back. Her hand just hovered mid-air for a second before resting flat on the desk again. She didn’t even look mad. No glare. No offense taken. “You’re not gonna grab it back?” he muttered, annoyed by her indifference.

“You’re not gonna give it back,” she replied. And finally, she looked at him, really looked. Not with fear. Not with challenge. Just this weird, distant calm like she was watching him from somewhere far away, even though they were just inches apart. “You don’t like dirty things,” she said quietly.

“No shit.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” she answered simply. “Just wondering what name I’ll write when I draw”

“You don’t need to know it,” he muttered.

She nodded.

—

“What the fuck is that?” he muttered, barely glancing at it. Sanzu sat on the cracked cement bench like it had insulted him. That’s when she walked up to him, again. He clocked her in his periphery, sketchbook clutched in her hand like it was sacred scripture. Without a word, she stood in front of him and held out a folded sheet.

“You,” she answered, plain as day.

His brows pinched together as he snatched the paper from her hand, unfolding it with the delicacy of a guy who never touched anything carefully. The drawing stared back at him: himself, sitting right where he was now, on that same busted bench. It was raw, a little messy, but there was something alive in the lines. Almost too alive. He blinked. “Yeah, I noticed it’s me. It’s also... not bad. But still, what the fuck.”

She tilted her head slightly. “I hope to revive some form of color in the depths of your dull eyes.”

He stared at her. “Stop speaking gibberish.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she plopped herself down beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. For a second, neither of them spoke. Just the quiet hum of distant chatter and the occasional bird screaming like it wanted to join a gang. Then she looked at him, chin resting lightly in her hand. “Don’t you ever want to trade your gloomy life for something a little less... serious?”

His eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You always look mad. Even when you’re with your weird friend who looks like a vampire.”

“Wait—Baji? Are you spying on me?”

“A little,” she said, deadpan. “But it was unintentional. A coincidence.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Maybe. But so are you.”

Sanzu paused, gave her a sideways glance, then snorted. It wasn’t a laugh, but it was close enough to make her smile. “You’re fucking strange,” he muttered.

“Takes one to know one.”

Another beat passed. He looked down at the drawing again. It really was him, except maybe not the version he saw in the mirror. There was a softness in the sketch, tucked behind the sharp angles and tense posture. It made him uncomfortable. Like she saw something he didn’t want her to. “You seriously draw people all the time?”

“Not always. Just when something about them gets stuck in my head.”

Sanzu raised a brow. “So I’m stuck in your head now?”

She turned her eyes toward the sky. “A little. But it was unintentional. A coincidence.”

He huffed. But he didn’t hand the drawing back. He folded it neatly instead, stuffing it into the inside pocket of his jacket. A few kids walked by in the distance, laughing way too loud. The bell rang faintly from the building behind them. Sanzu didn’t move. Neither did she. “You should stop watching me,” he said finally, voice quieter.

“I probably won’t.” He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back against the bench like the world was too much to carry today. She pulled a small pencil from behind her ear and scribbled something tiny in her sketchbook. He didn’t ask what. He didn’t want to know. He just let her stay there, quietly, drawing lines around the edges of a kid with cracked knuckles and a thousand things he couldn’t name sitting in his chest.

“Here. My number.” She had actually cribbled her number with flowers around it.

Sanzu smiled.

Ever since that bench moment, something shifted. They didn’t plan to see each other again, but somehow it kept happening. Her sketchbook open while he laid back on the grass, eyes closed but fully listening. Sometimes they didn’t even talk, just existed near each other, comfortable in the quiet. Sanzu wasn’t the type to let people in, not even halfway, but she slipped through the cracks like sunlight through blinds. He didn't really hate it. But kind of.

He hated the way her presence made the silence less heavy. How she called out his bullshit without flinching. How she once sketched Mikey like it was nothing and handed it to him saying, “He looks like he bites people for fun,” and Sanzu laughed, genuinely did. How she remembered his favorite brand of cheesecakes and once stole a pack for him like it was an art form.

He caught feelings.

It crept up on him like a bad habit. One second he was making fun of the way she tied her shoelaces, the next he was staring at her lips mid-sentence, wondering what they’d taste like. Sanzu didn’t know how to confess. He’d never done that shit before. He didn’t even know if she liked anyone at all. But his dumbass heart wouldn’t shut up, so he did the only thing that came to mind.

He drew her.

Terribly.

He used a blue pen he found in his jacket pocket and one of those lined notebook pages that were already kinda crumpled. The result looked like a cross between a haunted doll and a criminal sketch, but he was proud of it. Sort of. So he waited after class one day, slipping the paper onto her desk like it was evidence of a crime. She raised an eyebrow when she saw it. “What’s this?”

He shrugged, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “You draw me all the time. Fair’s fair.”

She unfolded the paper slowly, curiosity in her eyes… and then she burst out laughing. Like, really laughing. Ugly, loud, head-thrown-back kind of laughter. “What the hell is this?! You made me look like I survived a house fire!”

Sanzu scowled, yanking the paper back. “It’s abstract, alright?! It’s art.”

She was still laughing, eyes glistening, tears threatening to fall. “This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s beautiful.”

He looked at her for a second, how happy she looked, how effortlessly she took the moment and turned it into something soft, and it stung in a weird, addictive way. “I like you,” he mumbled.

She blinked, catching her breath. “Because I laughed at your drawing?”

“No,” he said, shoving the paper back toward her. “Because you make me feel like I can breathe.” That shut her up. But the smile stayed.

—

Years later, no one could’ve guessed that the boy who used to barely talk, always looking like he had his two feet in apathy, would become a YouTuber. And not just any YouTuber. Sanzu & Senju, the chaotic sibling duo that somehow managed to rack up millions of views. Their content was just so entertaining and people loved them (not me though I clicked on the dislike button every time). Senju was the energetic heart of it. Sanzu was the wild card, sarcastic and oddly charming, with a stoic façade that always looked a little dangerous. And Takeomi was their not-so-known manager!

Their fans didn’t know much about his personal life. That was the way he liked it. Especially when it came to her.

She had become something of a legend in her own right: a professional painter, a digital artist, a graphist with a cult following in the design world. She never posted her face. Only her work. Abstract colors, twisted realism, raw emotion on digital canvases. She was the kind of artist that made people feel things.

And yeah, they were together.

Had been for a while, actually. Since those high school days when she mocked his terrible drawing and then cried laughing when he confessed with it. But she was never in the videos. Not once. No background glimpse, no tagged hand on Instagram, no anonymous voice off-camera.

Not because he was ashamed. Far from it. Sanzu just didn’t want to share her with the world.

She was his peace. His color. His most private form of joy in a life that had been built too publicly. Letting the internet chew on her identity felt like betrayal. Still, that didn’t stop her from helping him every step of the way. When the “Draw My Life” trend exploded in 2015, Senju begged him to do one. Sanzu wasn’t the type to get sentimental, but she insisted. And when he agreed, it was her who stayed up with him all night in their cramped apartment, sketching frames on the whiteboard, guiding his story out of him with soft encouragements and sharp jokes.

“Damn,” he muttered, watching her hand glide across the board, “it’s weird seeing my life come out in your lines.”

She paused, looked up. “Is that your poetic way of saying you’re traumatized?”

“Probably.”

That video went viral.

Fans loved the dark humor, the raw honesty. The illustrations, though: those were what stuck. “Who did the art?” people commented. “Those sketches hit hard.” Sanzu never answered. He just pinned a cryptic heart emoji and let it be. Over time, she became the silent architect of his aesthetic. His thumbnails, his merch, his channel banner, all her. And when he hit 1 million subscribers, she was the one holding the camera as he popped cheap champagne on their rooftop, laughing like a man who never thought he’d get here.

Only Senju knew the full picture. How much she meant to him. How Sanzu, the one who could barely say “I love you” without cursing in the middle of it, would sometimes sit in silence just watching her paint like it was his favorite show.

Sometimes she joked, “You’re just with me ‘cause I have better linework than you.”

And he’d reply, “I’m with you ‘cause you turned my life into art.”

It was fun, how the quietest guy on the planet had the quietest love story. But that’s the way Haru liked it. Because some things, the best things, didn’t belong to the internet. They belonged to late nights, shared playlists, ink-stained fingers, and stolen kisses between video takes.

They belonged to her.

She told him on a Tuesday. Nothing special about it, just one of those quiet, overcast mornings when the city felt a little too still. He was in the kitchen, arguing with the toaster. "Stupid piece of—" he was mid-slam when she walked in, barefoot, hair messy, holding a tiny white stick like it was a weapon of divine justice.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, blunt as ever.

He turned slowly. “…Sorry?”

She showed him the test, eyes wide but unreadable. “Two of them. Positive.”

Sanzu stared. He blinked once. Twice. Then placed the burnt toast on the counter with slow, almost religious precision. “…You sure it’s not one of those scam sticks?”

“I did two. And I feel like vomiting every five seconds.”

He stared a little longer, jaw tightening like his brain was buffering. “Wait, like… actually pregnant?”

“Yeah…?”

“Fuck.” Yeah that’s lowkey what you two did I guess? And then he sat down. Like, collapsed. Legs gave up, heart hammering in his chest. “I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not,” she said, walking over, calm and weirdly serene.

“I can’t be a dad. I don’t even water the houseplants.”

“We don’t have houseplants.”

“Exactly!”

But somehow, between the panic and the jokes and the sudden rush of weirdly tender silence, Haruchiyo didn’t run. He placed a hand on her stomach, even though there was nothing to see yet. Just warmth. Just the beginning of something terrifyingly huge.

“Shit,” he whispered. “I’m a dad.”

By month two, her hormones had turned her into a full-blown creative hurricane.

She painted like she was possessed: morning, noon, and three a.m. With charcoal-stained cheeks and wild eyes, she'd wake up from a dream and immediately sketch it out. Canvases piled up in the living room. The dining table was lost to acrylics and turpentine. Their walls looked like a gallery curated by Van Gogh on drugs.

He supported it the only way he knew how: chaotically, loudly, and publicly. At the end of every new video, right after Senju’s screaming outro, Sanzu added his own personal “ad segment.” “Before you click off—yo, check this out,” he’d hold up one of her pieces like a proud toddler with a macaroni sculpture. “This one’s called…uh…something. It’s wild. It made me cry. No cap.” People loved it.

What started as chaotic plugs turned into lowkey poetry.

“This one? Bro. She painted this after a nightmare. Said she dreamed the baby had wings. Look at the lines, man. That’s not normal talent.” His eyes would soften. Just a second too long. Just enough for people to start noticing.

@DJBigdaddyRin: “Wait, does Sanzu know this artist?”

@BajiKingTkyo76: “Why’s he always so emotional when he talks about her work?”

And finally, after three months of hinting and hiding and teasing. He cracked. It was in the middle of a video. A Q&A with Senju. Someone had asked, “What’s your favorite artist?”

Sanzu smirked. “Easy.”

Senju raised a brow. “Please don’t say Banksy just to piss people off.”

“Nah,” he said, leaning into the camera. “My favorite artist is the one who’s been painting her soul out in our living room. Who doesn’t sleep, eats pickles with whipped cream now, and…oh yeah, she’s pregnant with my kid.”

Senju’s jaw dropped. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” He pulled out a painting. “This one’s called ‘Heartbeat.’ It’s our baby’s first portrait.” The internet exploded. Fan pages lost it. The comment section turned into a war zone of congratulations, shock, and genuine awe. Haru felt light.

Because finally, the world saw her the way he did: brilliant, strange, burning with color. Not just the mystery artist. But his artist. And soon, the mother of his child.

For the full nine months, her paintings became the internet’s favorite miracle. No drama. No chaos. No exposés or scandals, just soft, surreal colors and honest brushstrokes that somehow resonated with everyone. People said her work felt like dreams they forgot they had, like lullabies whispered from the belly of the universe.

Every week, Sanzu would post a new one.

“This one’s called ‘Womb’s Eclipse.’ Sounds metal, right? It’s actually… emotional as shit. I almost cried again…”

Sometimes the pieces would sell before he even hit ‘post.’ Other times, he didn’t want to sell them at all. “This one’s for the baby’s room,” he’d mutter, already picking out a frame. Their walls were lined with that pregnancy, swirls of love, fear, craving.. And after their daughter was born, the momentum slowed—but the reverence didn’t. Her paintings stayed online, immortalized. People still messaged about them, tagged her in recreations, tattooed fragments on their skin.

They had made a small, strange legend out of that season of their lives.

—

Years passed.

Their daughter turned seven in the middle of spring, cherry blossoms half-dying on the sidewalks, breeze still sharp enough to cut. She had her mother’s eyes, Sanzu’s temper, and an obsession with painting that only made sense once you knew who her parents were. That afternoon, she tugged on his sleeve while he was editing a video.

“Papa.”

“What?”

“I wanna paint.”

He blinked. “What, like right now?”

She nodded. “Right now right now.”

He grinned, already shutting the laptop. “Say less.”

They dusted off the old supplies. Everything still smelled like turpentine and nostalgia. Sanzu laid out a drop cloth, filled jars with cloudy water, and pulled out a couple of the preserved canvases from The Pregnancy Era. “These,” he told her, tapping the edges, “were painted when you were in mama’s belly.” She looked up at him, blinking. “Inside?”

“Like, swimming around. Kicking her kidneys.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yeah. And beautiful. And painful. You were art even back then.” He wasn’t expecting the wave of warmth that hit him, seeing her crouch over the paints like her mom did, tilting her head, chewing on her tongue in thought. It hit him so hard, he opened his stream setup and pressed “Go Live.” No filter. No warning.

Just a raw shot of Sanzu and his daughter surrounded by paint and sun, laughing, talking over each other, blending colors without rules. Viewers flooded in immediately.

@IzanaTenjikuFund: “Shit I misclicked”

@HotRacerMikey: “She looks like both of them!”

@ManaMtsyaQueen: “THE LEGACY IS REAL”

They painted whatever came to mind. A castle. A tiger. A portrait of Baji with hearts around his head (“He’s funny,” she said. “He’s scary,” Sanzu corrected). For an hour, it was just father and daughter building color into the quiet. And then, click.

The front door opened.

She walked in, keys jingling in her hand, grocery bag slung on her wrist.

“I’m ho—” she paused in the doorway.

Paint. Everywhere. Her husband and daughter covered in streaks of blue and pink. Two canvases in progress. A livestream active. A thousand people watching.

“…You went live?”

Sanzu looked up at her like a guilty kid. “Uhhh. Yeah. Kind of?”

Their daughter waved a brush. “Mama, look! We’re painting me.”

She dropped the bag on the counter and walked over, eyes scanning the chaos. The familiar smells, the messy brushes, the wall of sunlight across the table, it all came back. Like those nine months never ended. Sanzu handed her a brush.

“C’mon,” he said. “We’re missing your color.”

And just like that, she joined them. One family, three artists, painting a new memory together, on canvas, on camera, on the walls of every person who ever watched them become more than just creators.

They became home.

[asce-of-hearts]

Could I please ask for a yandere Bloody Painter and judge Angel and Tiki Toby where are their darling has the personality of yui komori from diabolik lovers even after they kidnap their darling the darling is still sweet and kind to them

Sweet

contents: Headcanons of Yandere!Bloody Painter, Yandere!Judge Angels and Yandere!Ticci Toby x gn!reader who remains sweet with them even after they've kidnapped them.

more content of Bloody Painter and Judge Angels here

more content of Ticci Toby here

WARNINGS: YANDERE, BLOOD.

Helen Otis - Bloody Painter

He doesn't know how to feel about your attitude. He's self conscious, perhaps too self conscious to believe you could love him even despite the fact he was cruel enough to kidnap you. It messes with his head, makes him nauseous and irritable to think about you lying so outwardly about something that makes him hurt so much.

He becomes colder, more distant. The only times he talks more than a few words to you is when telling you to sit pretty and shut up while he paints you.

Sometimes he draws blood out of you, relishing on how you try not to squirm or pull away from the blade's edge as it runs through your wrist or thighs, paper thin cuts that sting and he licks clean to ensure they won't swell and infect. He signs his paintings with that blood.

As time passes he becomes more used to the idea of you actually loving him, he isn't as irritable and cold, he can speak to you without wanting to vomit. His feelings are a complicated mess, he doesn't know why or how he feels so much repulsion towards you when he loves you more than he loves himself. He craves you like a drug. He can hug you while he sleeps, he can eat what you cook, he can be with you.

Dina Angela - Judge Angels

She just likes to look at you. She's a strange woman, almost childish in the way she behaves. But she's sweet, perhaps too much for you to think her attitude isn't hiding something morbid.

Her smile is too wide for her mouth.

At times you can't even sleep, knowing she's behind you, lurking, watching. You can hear her breathe, the way her cold fingertips run over your naked skin, the way her eyes look inside your soul. Wanting to know you, every inch, every fiber, every muscle of your being.

Her touch is cold, contrary to her, who seems to be entirely too warm. But her body is always cold, like she's not human. She certainly doesn't seem like one. She always looks off. Like she's in an entirely different planet, forever blissful and free.

She never lays a hand on you. She looks sad, heartbroken whenever you flinch at her touch. And she becomes enraged whenever she finds a scar on your skin. Needing to know every detail of how you got it.

"Who did this to you. Who did this to you?!" Is something she demands to know a lot of the time. And in that moment, there's an entirely different kind of darkness in her endless eyes.

Tobias Rogers - Ticci Toby

Toby is over the moon. This is all he has ever wanted.

Toby doesn't want a victim, he wants a lover. He wants somebody to hold during the night, to cry on their shoulder. He needs someone to love and love him back.

He's passionate, he's overbearing, his very fingertips feel on fire every time he touches you, shaking uncontrollably every time he has you in his arms. Like his body functions on batteries, like he's about to burst into a million tiny pieces.

Toby cries a lot. He tends to just explode. He doesn't yell, he doesn't curse. He curls into a ball and rests his head on your lap, sobbing as he clings to your clothes. And when he calms down he's quiet, his eyes have that melancholic glimmer. And he kisses you, peppers kisses all over your face, trembling, his heart pounding so fast and hard inside his chest it feels like it'll leave his rib cage at any moment.

He's very affectionate, tends to bite and grope and cling to, leaving marks everywhere he touches. And he doesn't see a reason to stop when you don't complain. But if you do, he'll try to control himself.

He keeps you trapped inside a cabin, deep in the woods where he can ensure you won't leave. Most importantly, that you won't ever be harmed. That's all he wants, your safety, your comfort. To provide you with a safe haven, which he can return to every time he feels like he's loosing himself to the voices in his head.

hope you enjoyed this :)

have a great day/night

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[loveundrwrld]

Yan artists x artist.. reader

(One is a painter the other is a singer make up your mind)

hi anon! i hope that this lined up to what you were thinking of re: your request- you didn't specify a gender for the yans, so i made it a female painter yan, and a male vocalist yan. i also have the reader as someone who both is an artist as well a singer. i hope that that's alright with you!

poly yans- female artist yan x hobbyist gn reader x male vocalist yan

(cw: implied stalking, implied sabotage, dubiously consensual kissing, gaslighting (kinda?))

- eva goes to your college, and she’s an art major. she’s a painter, and quite a good one.

- she’s a very serious, cold type of person. a straight-A student who acts better than others.

- in her eyes… it’s justified that she acts like she’s above all the rest. she knows her paintings will be shown in galleries, after all.

- her future is all planned out for her, with thanks to her parents. a wonderful childhood friend who’s become her wonderful boyfriend will become the perfect husband. the perfect internship she got will become the perfect first job.

- even though she’s assured a great future, she’s still very careful. she doesn’t want to risk her perfect plan, after all! so she's going to make sure that she does well in college too, so everything lines up well.

- she had seen you a few times around campus. you were bouncing around, talking to friends, not seeming to be taking anything seriously. you were in so many different clubs, with none of them having anything to do with your major. they were clearly just an excuse to spend more time around your friends, she thought.

- she didn't think you were the type of person that she would get along with. the opposite, in fact. you seemed too silly, too carefree. she couldn't imagine spending so much time out of classes just hanging out and not studying- it was like you weren't being careful about your future.

- then, she saw you in one of her classes- drawing 101. by chance, you were also taking it as one of your electives.

- she first internally scoffed at you for taking it as a non-art major. she pegged you in her head as someone she didn’t need to remember- someone who just thinks of art as a fun little side project, not as something worth consideration.

- in your class together she watched you draw from time to time, looking over to your sketch pad. you seemed to be struggling a bit with some things like perspective, but to her surprise, you showed clear potential. your artwork was really good for a non-art major. and you were improving fast.

- when the teacher said that the class was doing portraits for the next class assignment, eva picked you. it was out of curiousity, at the time. she wanted to see what you were like, and this was a good opportunity.

- you were to draw her, and she was to draw you. you both were to spend all of class staring at each other, basically. it was the best scenario for one to get to know each other better.

- and she did indeed get to know you better. she saw that, staring at you while you were looking at her to study her features. you were studying her intensely, and kept erasing what you drew to redraw it, perfecting your details- you really cared about improving your work.

- it changed her opinion of you completely. you put your all into learning things, she realized, and didn’t see art as some little casual thing on the side. rather, you were earnest in your efforts to improve yourself.

- and of course… she also realized at the same time, that you were rather attractive. every minute she spent looking at you to memorize the details of your face, she realized how lovely each little part of your face really was.

- she felt a strange feeling, deep in her stomach... something she had only ever felt for her boyfriend. and yet, now, she was feeling it for you...

- without thinking, she presses too hard on her sketch pad with her pencil.

- after you two are done with the portrait assignment, eva feels like she still can't let you go. even though she knows it's wrong to enable herself in doing this when she has a boyfriend... she feels too strongly about you.

- she wants to know everything about you. she's scoured all of your social media accounts that she can find but... it just isn't enough. she needs more.

- instead of using her time between classes to study like she used to, she instead uses it to go around campus, looking for you...

- when she ends up finding you frequently "by coincidence" you just figure that she's lonely, and you don't think much of it.

- even if the accuracy to which she's predicting your locations and moods is becoming... a little worrisome. it seems like she knows when you’ve skipped lunch, when you’ve spent an all-nighter, when you have a big test you’re preparing for in one of your classes…

- she'll often spend a lot of time waiting for you. too often for someone who already has a partner, you think.

- you think you maybe should tell her boyfriend, but you think better of it. you feel bad for claude- you know that he really loves his girlfriend.

- claude, her boyfriend, was the shining star of the music department. he was a former child prodigy at the piano, and still plays it beautifully. but what he's really known for is his angelic, soothing voice.

- he’s a very handsome, polite man, someone who is able to charm both teachers and students alike.

- and yet, although he could get with anyone he wanted, he was steadfast in his devotion to eva. constantly keeping an arm on her while at social events and always doing favors for her to make her happy.

- but right now, little did you know... claude himself wasn’t feeling too loved.

- he had been noticing that his girlfriend had been spending even less time with him, and was evasive when she was asked who she was with.

- she already didn’t spend much time together with him, as she was studying and painting for most of her time out of her classes. now, it was like he barely saw her at all. and when she did, she seemed different, distracted even.

- she was smiling and blushing to herself while she was thinking. far moreso than she normally would than she was around him. it made his heart hurt, seeing his normally stoic girlfriend act like this about someone else.

- clearly, she was starting to have feelings for someone else. but he didn’t feel that he had the right to say anything about it right now. after all, he too was falling for someone else.

- he’d met someone in one of his basic singing classes. they’d been taking it so they could get better at singing, since they liked doing so as a hobby.

- he’d fallen in love with their voice, thinking it was beautiful. an amateur sound, sure, but it sounded so lovely alongside his own.

- he’d try to convince them to let him tutor them. after all, it would be a waste for them to not perfect this talent of theirs, no?

- even though he had a girlfriend, he insisted on spending more time with them. he felt like he needed to spend as much time with them as he could, savoring the lovely sound of their voice.

- he had thoughts about them that he had only had for eva, before. his head swarmed with an obsessive need to just have them, keep them to himself. even though, he already had a love of his own already…

- he felt guilty, thinking he was betraying one love for another by holding both in his heart. he has started to follow eva, wanting to remind himself that she was his love, and not them.

- to his surprise, though, the mystery person that eva was meeting behind his back turned out to be you. you, the person that he fell for as well.

- and then, the gears started turning in his head.

- maybe it wasn't a problem that his girlfriend had a crush after all... after all, it's good to share in a relationship, isn't it?

- once the two of them decide to work together to gain your affection, your life becomes very different. though you don’t know why, both seem to be acting more open and friendly with you in public. they’re both very touchy with you, gently putting their hands on you often.

- when you’re singing or drawing with them in private, you don't feel creeped out or surprised when they put their hands on your arm or back to correct your posture... though, you do feel like they are touching for longer than they should. aren't you already in the right position by now?

- the two of them end up being very supportive of your interests, urging you to do duets with claude, draw eva while she's posing for you, and show the two of them your sketchbook.

- they give you a lot of special things, too- including making you special tea for your voice, expensive art supplies, sheet music, etc.

- you end up being signed on as the understudy for a role in a musical a lot, and the two of them say that they'll watch you perform. you shake your head saying that you probably won't get on stage. but oddly enough, accidents happen frequently enough that you often do.

- you feel a bit overwhelmed by their attention, and all the odd occurrences happening around them are starting to creep you out... but, both of them are in the clubs and classes that you want to join, so you also feel that you can't avoid them.

---

claude put his fingers gently on your throat. you weren't sure that this was really necessary, but his cool fingers felt good on you. you gulped a bit as he pressed his fingers up near your jaw, and uneasily you looked towards eva sitting on the other side of the room.

she was looking at the two of you with an unreadable expression. you flitted your eyes away, worrying that she was (understandably) jealous about the close contact you were having with her boyfriend.

she seemed mad earlier too, when you had said that you were auditioning in the role of one of the leads in the next musical the theater department was holding. you didn't understand why she was upset with you for that, but you had hoped that she wouldn't be mad at you for long- she was a little frightening when she was upset, and you would really like to get on her good graces.

you had just come over since claude had offered to tutor you a bit in the song you chose for your audition. you had no idea that eva would even be here, let alone that claude's lesson would be so... hands on. you blushed slightly, unused to the strange situation.

"mm, your tonsils are a bit swollen. that's not good for someone who's supposed to sing on stage, you know," he said to you softly, giving you a sympathetic smile.

"really? you think i got sick?" you say, surprised. “i feel just fine, though. are you sure?”

claude nodded.

"mhm, trust me, i've been singing for a long time- i know tonsillitis when i see it."

you look at eva to see if she'll say anything, but she nods in agreement.

"well, you shouldn't audition if there's any chance of you being sick, right? after all, doesn't this play have a kissing scene? you wouldn't want to pass on your germs to them during rehearsal."

"eva's right, you shouldn't do it."

you frown a bit. you really feel fine... doesn't tonsilitis feel much worse than this? your throat doesn't even feel sore.

"well... okay," you say, grumbling slightly. "i guess you do know better."

he seems to preen a bit at this, standing up straighter. he smiles at you widely.

"just stay here, you'll be fine soon. you can just get some medicine here and rest up. we'll take care of you," claude says, patting the top of your head gently. to your surprise, he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. you make a sound of surprise, and look at eva and then back at him. your eyes are wide with shock, but they're both acting like this was just a handshake.

"wait, hang on, what was that about-" you start saying, but he's already off to another room. you turn to eva, frowning slightly in confusion.

"eva, i'm sorry, i don't know why he would-"

before you finish your sentence though, she's already walked up to you and placed a kiss on you as well.

"don't worry about it.”

[hlficlibrary]

heyy!

do you have any larry fics with very sentimental, clingy, soft, fluffy smut? 🥹

preferably bottom louis, but i don't mind top louis too.

thank you sooo much<3

Hi, anon! You're very welcome! Here are some fics that I think have what you're looking for!

Absolutely Smitten by MyEnglishRose / @lwtisloved

Adopting Clifford was a way for Louis to finally cope with his loneliness, as a lively dog would spice up his life and his boring daily routine. Now, he surely didn’t expect Clifford to lead him to meet one strange man obsessed with his cat that he walks and cooks with.

Somehow, Louis falls in love pretty fast along the way.

Or. Louis is walking his dog. Harry is walking his cat. Leashes get tangled, and feelings too.

No One Like You by myownspark / @myownsparknow

Dear Niall,

I was glad to have the chance to talk with you again at the AHA conference. Your idea that the Musee D’Orsay Tomlinson painting is in fact not a self-portrait is an intriguing one, and I may have discovered something that will have a bearing on that theory.

Some background: as you may remember, I’ve been researching for a book I’m writing about Harry Styles. I’ve been in communication with Styles’ last living descendant, who is in possession of a trunk that her family believed to have belonged to Styles himself. It held some personal items she presumes to be his, including two unmounted paintings and a small collection of letters.

Upon spending the last few days in Provins studying these items, I believe there to be a connection between Tomlinson and Styles, and I would very much like your opinion.

Are you up for a trip to France?

Sincerely, Liam Payne

Where Liam and Niall are art historians discovering the truth about two nineteenth century painters on opposite sides of an artistic divide.

Tuca Tuca (ILikeYouILikeYouILikeYou) by @persephoneflouwers

The San Francisco getaway AU, where Harry is needy and Louis has a flight to LA in a few hours.

Homegrown by @casuallyhl

“It wasn’t an easy decision, if I’m honest,” Harry admits, shoulders sagging in on himself. “Moving is really difficult. My whole life was in Manchester. But Manchester didn’t want me. Leeds did.”

“Well, Leeds is happy to have you,” Louis says, giving Harry a kind smile.

Harry brightens a bit at that, undeniably pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies, expression soft and lips curved.

Or, a gardening AU where Harry is new to town and the newest volunteer at the local gardening club, Louis is the attractive grandson of one of the members, and the nosy volunteers hatch a plan to get them together.

[tryingtimi]

Books of 2024 (2023 or close to it)

Thank you for the tag @barbex it sounds like a fun one hehe. 9 books should be listed that were read in the last 12 months (or alternatively liked when you read it) if I'm right. And when I read the rules I had the same reaction: mind went blank on if I ever read a single book lol. Luckily I keep track of my reading because I like watching them back.

No pressure tagging: @aninkwellofnectar, @bloodlessheirbyjacques, @the-void-writes, @circa-specturgia, @aalinaaaaaa, @dyrewrites, @italiangothicwriteblr, @cherrybombfangirlwrites, @blind-the-winds and anyone who wants to join.

All of the listed were read last year and which I liked especially.

When The Stars Alight by Camilla Andrew (@aninkwellofnectar). Bi MC, gaslamp fantasy, gothic, court intrigue, delicious spice

You've already seen this many times on my page, because I really enjoyed this book and it was a window to many things I didn't know I'd enjoy in a story. So many beautiful description, beautifully emotional and sexy sex, rarely seen complex character dynamics and so much mouth watering food.

Éjféli Iskolák (Midnight Schools) by Attila Veres. lovecraftian horror set in Budapest

It's a horror short story collection by a hungarian author who I got recommended by a collegue. Attila Veres has a talent to capture that melancholic, sometimes surrelistic feeling living in Budapest which makes his work so authentic. But also very Big Ew for all the horroristic shit he created (in the best way.) My favourite one was the 'Porn After Midnight'.

Yumi and The Nightmare Painter by Brandon Sanders. M/F romance focus, sci-fi/fantasy, anime-esque

You all know I'm a Sanderson trash. And the fact I, the slowest reader on the earth, read this book in two days, proved that very much lol. It felt like watching an anime, I swear to god. There's magic, time travel kinda thing, pretty innocent humour, loads of painting in it.

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickenes. christmas nostalgia, historical fiction?

We all know this, but I'm very behind on classics book-wise so I began to catch up last year. Espceially because I love the animated movie so much. It was a lovely and educative read.

Y/N by Esther Yi. litfic, kpop fandom and industry satire basically, comteporary

It was one of my favourites from last year tbh, because I couldn't put down the damn e-reader. A very strange little read, 100% unhinged, but made me realise I might enjoy litfic, so I'll read more this year. Also, the story is not "summarizable" but the fact that this is the first two review on GoodReads tells a lot I think: reading this feels like that one night when i accidentally smoked weed for the first time I sort of feel like I just hallucinated this entire thing Yeah.

Even Though I Knew The End by C. L. Polk. F/F romance, fantasy, novella

Lesbian magical detective. Done, sold. I wanted to read this a while now, and it did not disappoint. It gave exactly what it promised. Fast paced little adventure with some humour and a lovely couple. Not a life-chaning read but as I mentioned, it gave what it promised. I enjoyed it anyway.

Interview With The Vampire by Anne Rice. M/M romance kinda, supernatural, philosophical

Finally started to read the books my all time favourite movies are made of. Loved every bits of this, though sometimes it got way too wordy or I don't even know what. Overall though, it got me. Full of contemplation about human nature, God (though I could do a bit less without that) and death, plus the iconic vampire husbands and their arguments. It's just a real long broody monologue of Louis tbh. I'm fine with that it seems, though.

Legend & Lattes by Travis Baldree. F/F romance (not focus), cosy fantasy

Read pretty fast too. It's very much what it promises also. Cosy, and relaxing, and endearing. Love the concept of how a stoic warrior woman can settle finally and do something other than fighting. It was cute.

Tress of The Emerald Sea by Brandon Sanderson. M/F romance (not that important i think), cosy fantasy, Princess Bride-vibes

Yes, I got all the secret project, because of course I would. This one was also something like Legends & Lattes imo. In Sanderson style tho. I'm also loving when the narrator is a third person telling the story. Those are always fun. Oh and the story had many cuteness, humour and Our Flag Means Death kinda pirates.

[lesewut]

Impressions of the last weeks

Wishes and imagination becoming reality is one of the gifts, life is giving us a present. Everyday is so full and fruitful since I am studying. It was my big dream since childhood to study law (and become a bellydancer, but this is a different story haha) and after all those difficult roads, I am finally on this path. Investing in the head again, is thankfully appreciated as I had very hard times in my old profession as a painter & vanisher. It is expectable to work hard and sweat, but in this decade of fast living, the work conditions are under my work requirements. The painting handcraft has so many wonderful techniques, but the reality is that the most costumers, just want “fast and white”. The most handicraft businesses are following this low claim, as they mostly just want orders for any price. So, the poor handicraft workers are pushed to construction sites, that are doomed to take longer as planned, because no maintenance group was able to finish their task in the giving time and it is just one catastrophe after the other… Also a painter is forced to work at the very end, as they are the bridge between construction side and the finished object, which is often the home of somebody (when I worked in the fine “haute couture” handicraft business, the new-rich costumers are picky and stingy, the very rich ones have their housekeeper(s), who are caring for drinks and snacks, this was very nice, but in those households, you have to invest many many hours a week in cleaning.. Also it is normal to make every work step for weeks, as this working includes adequate and detailed focus on clean, correct and exact procedure. Weeks for preparing lidding material and masking, is obligatory for a professional finish! There are so many steps that take much patience and calmness… I will never forget how I had to polish historical windows for weeks with the grinding machine, eight hours a day, my hands constantly vibrated, I was continuously like a mush of potatoes after work…) When I was working in “Prenzlauer Berg” in a staircase of an apartment building of owners, since the third day on my knees, cleaning the steps with brine in self-bought gloves (…) a thought came up again: This can not be my life, this can not be my future. It will be not possible to present all those events and scenes, that made me push to accept this period of my life and all those circumstances that forced me to stay in this unfulfilling work, but I completed the necessary three years for the Gesellenbrief (journeyman’s certificate) and I also worked in this job after my Abitur, but I was not able to motivate myself enough to not become mentally battered again: Again those long hours of committing between home and work (sometimes five hours a day), again working in the cold (shells without sanitary facilities, vanishing in the snow-fall !!! sign of no respect for proper work structure, as the applicated vanish was like gum due to the freezing temperature…), again low grade communication with the most colleagues, again just white and fast and faster… But working in cellars with asbestos like in the last workplace with no protection, no warning, just nothing but fast fast fast! Was all in one a symphony of demon tune, composed to expand the personal horror.

After this experience I could not imagine and believe, that in a foreseeable future, the gates of university will finally open for me. It is a strange feeling to sit in the lecture sometimes, thinking about all the struggles…

After some impression of my “career”, I turn back to my new won situation. As I always had the feeling to do everything wrong, in early years I tried to figure out which behaviour would be “right” and what the significant difference is between right and wrong. (In the next days I will upload my notes to Hans Kelsen's essay "What Is Rightous?" + the definition of Platon and Aristotle) Feeling supressed and misunderstood often, I had this ardent dream to defend what is righteous and to make the life of people in general better, than to sprinkle more evil into this world I considered as horrible, because of my experience. But my idealism strengthened my heart and my motivation, I could not give up this imagination… (sounds very childish and naive, I know, but this is my way hihi) So some people, who cannot combine poetry and philosophy and the feeling for right (behaviour) tried to warn me by saying that this study will be dusty uninspiring, but deep in my heart I knew, that they do not know how exciting all those topics are that lead into theories of justice and if people were never kissed by philosophy and deep thoughts it is not surprising, if they consider those as boring. It is also a helpful talent to find fun and be motivated in several aspects. As reading and books have always been my alma mater, staying curious the essence of my motor. I finally have the feeling that what I do makes sense, that is has a future for me, that it was necessary for my gratitude to undergo all those hard paths (…) Okay, now it is enough with those melo-dramatic super personal in-look, I kind of feel glassy and in the same time fragmented, as shared experiences lack inner-personal perspectives and environmental dynamics, which are inevitable, when wanting to share just some aspects to emphasize the own inducement and I also accept more and more, that self-identity "is something" like an illusion (ontological question: What "is" really?) So those points are representative, but not “all”, as we are not able to consider all and everything.

Some minikin-thoughts about my study:

As we are looking at laws, we also are defining and seizing words and sentences. Some laws are very precise, and legislators provide definitions (legal definitions), others are interpretable and influenced by the Zeitgeist and therefore by the measures of value. In the course Philosophy of Rights, we started with the Ancient Greeks. (It is very sad, that the Professor, who is also a Prof. for old philology, can not interlink the former work of Egypt, India and Sumeria into Greek culture. It is a narrative in Europe, that the Greeks have “invented” all on their own. Of course, they have systemized and written down the knowledge, but nevertheless the roots of those thoughts ended in Anatolia and in this region all the traces of the Oriental and North African metaphysics have flouted in… So many Greek philosopher travelled around the Mediterranean Coast and far beyond, they looked up so many architectural, cultural, medicinal ideas!)

What is also very interesting, is how the positive law emerged through out the time by agreements of treatise, contracts and bills. In the commented version of Platon’s “Politeia” by my Prof. for philosophy, I’ve had read the original in parts, I was surprised, that the Prof. was writing that the society and the state were not separated. I asked him about the “guardians” and if this would not be a sign of separation, as they are morally controlled and therefore role-models for the society, isn’t this kind of a separation, I asked? The Prof. laughed and said, that he never saw it that way (what is awkward, as he himself is writing about this system.. and the hierarchy of responsibility), and that he will have to correct it in the next edition :’) Informative and exciting is also the course of Criminal Law. It is also kind of philosophical and philological to define the real meaning of the law, how the principle of debt works and how debt is classified. By looking at the reasons for debt, we are also looking at the action of the individual, was it consciously or unconsciously, can we consider action under the aspect of the free will? Does the free will exist at all? We have here some psychological and nervous system physiological proximity. By looking at former theories, there are also some names I never heard of like Cesare Beccaria (1738-1794), he was one of the first, who set up the theory of proportionality of punishment, he was against death penalty (never thought of Kant, Hegel and Fichte, who were supporters). As well I learned, that Bentham, we know by his rich works and thoughts in several areas (when it comes to the greatest-happiness-principle, the thought of animal rights, the codification of rights..) designed the panopticon. Since I’ve read Dostoevsky all those topics around life, morals, meanings, crimes and criminals and how to deal with their law breaks… It was possible to accept all those fragments of my interest under one aspect: This is a part of my self, whatever this self is, I am aware of it and I will train my conscience, as I want to become better. The thought of death is accompanying me, since I can think, but what really got me, I sadly do not know in which book this was written, but it is a part of Dostoevsky own experiences after getting pardoned, I saved it in my head like: Living, just living! And if the small spot of heaven above my head is cloudy and I am standing on the edge of a cliff! Just living for five minutes or just a few seconds! Just living! Living! So I am frequently between this euphoric live affirmation and the shame of thinking of dying… Very sorry, that I am digressing all the time. But coming back to death penalty, there is no sign that the crime is reduced in countries, where this inhuman procedure is allowed, it is indeed the opposite and than the realization by a very wise sentence of the Prof. for Criminal Law entered my soaking brain: The USA sets an example for taking human life, so how should civilians not also kill? And if we look at the criminalization in the States, it is a disastro, that this unproportionally punishments are increasing more violence, more pauperism, more existences near to edge of despair, more children with no fruitful future… In nuce: Harder punishments lead to more crime!

[itsyaboilexus]

The six words - a short introduction to the setting of my story; "The tales of two gods"

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

Tenebris, 9th March, year 241

It was a lovely village. It was quiet but loud at the same time. All the markets that were put up each Saturday were filled with music, laughter and alcohol. Of course, we can't forget the wine festivals every month. If there aren't fresh grapes, just wine is enough for Tenebrians. Or the everlong galleries filled with the art pieces of not very famous, but nonetheless talented painters that formed the village hundreds of years ago.

Oh how Ali loved her village.

She was a little lady, she loved to stroll down the street with her best friend, Ira. Oh she loved him. He was beautiful, handsome.. and so smart! It was as if he held all the wisdom of all his ancestors.

Currently, Ali and Ira were running through the woods, Ali doing her best not to get her pretty rosy dress muddy, but it was futile.. Ira was not far ahead, laughing and pointing off to something, looking over his shoulder to make sure his best friend wasn't lost.

"Come on, Ali! Hurry up, your dress is already all dirty, its fine!"

The white haired boy called out with a wide grin filled with warmth.

"Iradeus.. Wait for me! im not as fast, maman had me wear the heels!"

The brown haired girl retorted back, making Iradeus laugh quietly to himself and stop, wait in his spot. Once Ali caught up to him, he lifted her skirt ever so slightly, glancing at her feet, noticing little black thin-heeled shoes he never saw before, especially not on Ali.

"Why? They look so.. weird..-"

The boy said with a smirk, to which the girl rolled her eyes and snatched her skirt back down with a grumble in french.

The two kids strolled further into the forest, played all day, talked about everything and nothing, and when it was getting a little dark, they were laying on the grass together, on their backs, watching the sky darken slowly.

It was the best thing they both experienced in the 10 years of their lives. The freedom, the security, the words that Iradeus spoke quietly.. wait, what were the words..?

They were quiet, barely audible, but Ali caught them clearly.

".. i wish you were like me."

Like.. him?

In what sense?

A boy? As confident as him? What did Ira mean?

"Huh?"

She hummed the question, looking at Iradeus' side profile, his face glancing at the sky with a sad look. Ali felt a feeling close to pity, but said feeling was quickly overshadowed by the confusion. The dark haired girl was about to ask her friend for a clarification, but he spoke again.

"My mor said I'm.. special. Strange. And.. she told me I'm a boy sent from the stars. I asked her if you're a girl sent from the stars, and she said no. That you're not like me.."

Iradeus spoke quietly, his sharp accent making his words sound a bit more gentle but hard at the same time.

A boy sent from the stars..? What does that mean?

(just a few notes here, this is the introduction, I'm going to post more info about both kids later on :D for now, stick with the fact that this is an absolutely fictional world, the year is absolutely unimportant, and that the only things which are non-fictional in the story will be the foreign languages that the characters will speak, as you can see here where Ali spoke french when saying 'mom' or when Ira said 'mor' instead of 'mom' aswell, which is in danish. im not Tolkien, im really not going to make up a whole ass language for a story lmao)

[conceptsformyowner]

Wearing a sign around my neck while getting walked around, gagged and chained

PTJ #24

This week, I was a mummification model at a bondage workshop, we went to a queer kinky event, my Owner added a rule, and we progressed on my pain training. Enjoy!

Sunday 🤕⛓️😷🪧

On Sunday, we went to a bondage workshop given by @musingsformyowner and Mr H, which would be followed by a (the first?) local queer kinky event!

The workshop was great; at a show of hands we were revealed to be pretty much the only D/s couple present in the…audience? yes whatever, audience. Things were explained about wide cuffs, thin cuffs, use of scarfs and handkerchiefs; a lot was said about BDSM and SSC, RACK, CCCC. At one point when discussing padlocks they gestured at us when not remembering what the spanish word for keyed alike padlocks was(candados hermanados).

It was fun to notice just how many examples seemed sometimes strangely specific to things we do ourselves hasha

Then came the mummification part, for which my Owner was kind enough to lend them their toy. After asking me a bit about which parts of my body to touch or not, I served as the model for the mummification portion of the workshop. The teachers demonstrated on my body how to wrap the torso with wide plastic wrap, and then they went to my head, where they used package wrap and painters tape to seal my head in a couple layers of plastic.

It was amazing.

I knew my Owner felt nervous about lending me out so I tried to keep eye contact with them, but it didn’t take long for them to be more interested in the actual explanation and (I think) forget about it a bit.

The torso wrap was a lot more interesting than I thought. It felt amazingly tight and surprisingly unforgiving as bondage. I found out the heat build-up I’d read so much about was not an exaggeration, it didn’t take more than 5 minutes for me to start to feel my body getting hot. To be fair, I was wearing a thick-ish t-shirt and it was already a very hot day.

And the head wrap? Ugh. We’ve done head wraps a lot with my Owner, going as long as spending 5 hours with bondage tape encasing my face, but it did not compare to this. The most surprising thing was that it was fast. The tutor had my mouth, ears, and eyes completely covered within seconds. Given, he is a specialist, but still, we’ll definitely be spending some money on the material he used. The hardest part was cutting it off, but with caution, communication, a slow pace, and safety scissors, we should be fine.

The only concern we have, which is the same we had before, is waste. Not bodily waste, but the incredible waste of material such an activity generates. We’re talking about a minimum of tens of square meters of plastic wrap for just a single-layer full-body mummification. It’s a lot of plastic waste. We’ll try to use the package wrap material and see if its unwrap-able without cutting it. In any case we’ll still want to do it every now and then as a little luxury.

The workshop ended in a bit of a rush, and we got the extra tip of using a pet training clicker as a safeword sign for an extremely-bound sub. Its pretty good! They’re supposedly very annoyingly loud and fit in the palm of the hand so it should be perfect.

Once it was over and the space started transforming from ‘bondage workshop’ into ‘queer kinky event’ we helped out a bit, got some food, and then got me all set up for the rest of the night. My Owner tightened my muzzle gag around my head, grabbed the chain and threaded it through my right wristcuff, then my right anklecuff, left anklecuff, left wristcuff, and then finally attached it back to the right wristcuff with a carabiner that looked like the end of a leash. Having all my limbs caught in this loop allowed me stand by keeping my hands and feet together, and to walk by crouching a bit. It greatly limited my motion if I attempted to do any regular person action while still letting me walk around with my Owner grabbing the leash and keeping me tightly at their side.

Based on the Party Protocol concept, my Owner instructed that my protocol would be:

I would be kept gagged at all times.

I would not interact with other people, even if for some reason I was ungagged. I would not even attempt to communicate with other people but instead generally try to keep my gaze down.

If for some reason I was ungagged, I would only speak in toy-mode phrases.

I would only move around if led by my Owner. Otherwise, I would stay in place and not initiate any motion by myself or by following the action of any unauthorized person.

A sign would be kept around my neck, reading:

And that’s what happened. They walked me around the event with me chained, gagged, and with that sign on my chest, hanging from my neck.

Owned toy

Do not use nor release

We saw several sessions happening around the place. Partial mummifications, impact play, pet play, a little space, sensation play, shibari. The event was targeted at beginners, so there were various people acting as service tops and bottoms to introduce people to the whichever practices they would like to try. It was an amazing display.

Throughout the night, I was left in place a few times by my Owner simply letting go of the leash and leaving me there. Sometimes telling someone to watch over, sometimes just leaving me there, alone, waiting.

We also met up with several friends. Some of them ignored me, as my Owner wanted, others asked for permission to interact with me and were allowed to give me pats on the head and talk to me but knowing that I wasn’t allowed to respond. Others, when being made to watch over me for a bit, mocked me by talking excessively to me as a tease for me not being able to say anything back.

It was really fun.

cw talk about misgendering: one paragraph, skippable {

Sadly, there was also a lot of misgendering happening. This happens to me a lot, even on queer spaces, since ‘gender-neutral pronouns’ aren’t a previously existing part of our language but are instead something that has only recently, within the last 6 years or so, emerged from the queer and feminist communities towards the public. This was a queer place, so everyone knew about spanish language ‘neutral’ pronouns, but: first, not everyone’s used to using them; second, some people might not know that they’re the ones I use. Sadly the second case wasn’t really happening, everyone that misgendered me knew my pronouns and my Owner even added them to the big sign on my chest, so it was mostly the first one: people were simply making mistakes. And it’s ok, I understand; it’s just exhausting, and it can get me feeling pretty bad after a while if repeated. When that last repetition came, the one that finally tipped over the misgendering glass, I asked my Owner permission to sit down.

} cw talk about misgendering

They took off my gag and then gave me some aftercare, giving me some tasty drinks and allowing me to move a bit. Before leaving, several people reacted while seeing me pass by with “oh, you’re free!” which I think is beautiful.

Before the aftercare, when my gag was still on, a friend had also looked at me and said hi enthusiastically. “What does that say?” I got closer so they could see. “Owned toy…do not use..nor release. Oh good, very good, I think that’s very good. You look really pretty.”

It was so nice.

Finally we went back home. All in all I had a really fun time, I really liked being publicly my Owner’s property, and the event in general was amazing. We even met up with friends that had never seen us like this, which was really nice.

💢 Pain Training

While we’re waiting to have our beautiful wooden paddle my Owner ordered, we’re upping the pain training both in intensity and in duration. My Owner is now sometimes doing 30 spanks, 40, or 60, also depending on if we had to skip it the day before.

One day, I don’t remember which one, they linked my wrists to the front of my collar, then had me press my face against the mattress and spanked me 60 times in a row. We’ve built the trust and confidence to be able to do that. It was amazing. I’m enjoying the spanking sessions a lot. I think I’ve mentioned it before but I’m getting those thoughts of harder, I can take harder. I love it. Makes me feel like I’m a really good toy. 😊

My Owner is now also pulling down my underwear (the only clothes I wear) before spankings. It gets a little surprised aa from me every time, the sudden vulnerability and deeper intimacy makes it feel a lot more intense. Not as in more painful but as in that it makes me feel a lot more submissive. I love it.

The same thing happens when they do the spankings with their hand instead of their paddle. It’s suddenly a lot more intimate and sort of...focused? It feels more personal, like their hand feels a specific way, like their hand knows me more. I don’t know if it makes sense.

🤝 Handholding Rule

My Owner has invented a rule for me when I’m outside with them: Handholding

The idea is that I should only be able to walk if they’re leading me by holding my hand or grabbing my arm, waist, simply by physically guiding me. Otherwise, I can only stand in place and am forbidden from moving from the spot where they left me.

After trying it out a couple times, they added specifications on when I’m allowed to walk without them holding me. This should preferably happen with me holding on to their shirt, but even that may sometimes be allowed not to happen.

The allowed circumstances are, basically, when the environment prevents us to easily navigate like that. This means getting in and out of busses, getting on and off escalators, and generally moving through crowded spaces.

At first I got a bit anxious about being unintentionally left behind. Strangely it didn’t activate the abandonment and degrading part of my brain. I think partially it has to do with it making me feel little, so if I feel little and I’m accidentally let go of, I might start feeling bad. Luckily this didn’t last long, since the exceptions to the rule that my Owner then settled on mean that now my Owner pretty exclusively only lets go of me either when we’re mid-walk and I’m to follow closely and hold their hand again as soon as possible, or when we’re standing somewhere and then they leave without the intent of having me follow them. This has made the anxiety disappear completely. Why? I don’t fully understand it, but now whenever they purposefully leave me standing somewhere while they leave I feel really nice and helpless. Just a toy. I love it.

🌃 Final thoughts

This week was very very busy, so there’s not much to tell. Sometimes when this happens I feel a bit sad, and I think so does my Owner, but we shouldn’t! This is a log of all the particular things that happen, but our everyday lives are so incredible. I’m almost naked 24/7, as well as chained, I only take cold showers, only eat with my face, am deprived of food, left scraps, am in chastity, have my comings and goings controlled, train my throat, butcheeks, and face for usage, and am not allowed on human furniture! That’s our normal!! That’s when there’s nothing to write here!!

Sorry for the shouting, I’m shouting at myself just out of disbelief of how amazingly lucky I am to have found my Owner, to have this dynamic with them and be able to communicate so clearly.

A year ago I would have never believed this would be my life now, I thought my imaginings of being a 24/7 toy were far-off dreams, not something that would start happening a few months later.

I’m incredibly grateful for my luck. And I’m very credibly proud of our work, this isn’t an easy thing to maintain both logistically and emotionally. But it’s so, so worth it for the sheer joy it brings us both.

I’ll see you next week, and even if there’s nothing to say, it will be an amazing week for our kink selves.

[rhetoricandlogic]

January 5, 2023 REVIEW: Illuminations by T. Kingfisher

Rosa Mandolini knows in her heart that her family are the greatest painters of magical illuminations in the city. But the eccentric Studio Mandolini has fallen on hard times and the future is no longer certain. While trying to help her family, Rosa discovers a strange magical box protected by a painted crow. But when she finds a way to open the box, she accidentally releases the Scarling, a vicious monster determined to destroy the Mandolini family at any cost. With the aid of her former best friend and a painted crow named Payne, it’s up to Rosa to stop the Scarling before it unmakes the magical paintings that keep the city running, and hopefully save her family in the process!

Dear Ms. Kingfisher,

This is truly a book aimed straight at middle grade age readers. As such it falls into the same group I’ve put “Minor Mage” and “A Wizards Guide to Defensive Baking” – fine but not in the same league as the Saint of Steel Paladin books or “Nettle and Bone.” But it’s also not as dark as the adult level books. The stakes are lower, actually, and I think the lessons to be learned about envy, jealousy, friendship, and working together are the main things to take away from it.

There is a heap of backstory in the first 20% of the book. It’s important, I could tell it would be important to the story and I’ve read worse info-dumps in my time but it is a whole lot of going nowhere fast to wade through before the actual action kicks off and things get interesting.

Even after the action starts though, the book shows its intended audience. As I said, “Illuminations” is absolutely a middle grade story. The heroine is eleven (almost twelve) and has thought processes and “talking herself into believing that things aren’t as bad as she actually knows they are” that I feel most of us adults will remember. She’s let something awful loose and hopes that she can fix it or – at times – that it will just go away and everything will be fine.

Rosa believes Payne, the crow, when he tells her not to spill the beans to her family about what she’s done. They can clear this up and letting others in on the secret will only make things worse. Insert lesson about trusting family and the emotional weight of lies. To his credit, Payne has seen what happens when this type of magic is free to wreak havoc so what he’s told her isn’t exactly bad advice. But Rosa still learns some lessons about believing everything someone tells you.

The magic is actually pretty cool and I enjoyed seeing it in action. One complaint I have is that just when Rosa and her family are backed into another corner, “something” is learned or Payne fesses up about another thing he didn’t mention earlier that gives them some breathing space. I think these action scenes will play well for people used to watching fantasy onscreen as they’re very well described though not too over described. They did tend to go on a bit with even more of the same yet bigger but the final message delivered is that working and pulling together helps make you better. I do have to say, thumbs up for the chirping fanged radishes.

[kayssweetdreams]

Maestro Hiccups 2 Nightmares Unleashed Part 28

Cal and Lucy separated as they went searched for Attilio. The former chess champion was having Trouble navigating through the strange new terrain, but he followed what looked to be Attilio's hair. He stopped to catch his breath "How (pant) on earth is (pant) he that fast?!" He yelled, starting on the trail again.

Cal ran through the brightly colored forest, when he started to see that the flora around his was starting to become less...colorful. The bright pinks and greens were starting to become more and more light, or dark... on both sides of Cal. The Checkered King gazed at the plants with an uneasy look. "I don't like where this is going..." He said.

And as it turns out...Cal's hunch was right.

When he continued forward, the sprawling flora was gone, and the sky turned jet black. Instead, what lied ahead was a never ending chess board, as far as the eye can see. On each side there were chess pieces, all the size of sky scrapers. Cal went pale "Oh no...Not again..." He pleaded, backing away.

A heavy hand rested down on his shoulder "Well Well. Look who's returned..." His own voice said from behind. Cal slowly turned around, and to his horror, the arrogant version of him had returned. "Why it's the FORMER chess champion." He taunted, a terrifyingly large smile on his face. Cal's face went hard. "What do you want?" He asked, pulling his shoulder away from the double.

"Why, I'm simply asking for a one on one match. If you win, I'll simply leave you Alone. However...if I win...let's just say you're gonna be here for a while." The double said cryptically. Cal looked uncertain, but he reluctantly agreed. "Fine. One game." He said.

The double gave a suspicious smile as he snapped his fingers, and the two of them ended up at a table with a chess board on it. Although, Cal had a simple stool, while the double had a large Diamond encrusted throne. He narrowed his eyes at the double "Show-off." He muttered, taking his seat.

The two of them began to play, however, almost instantly, the double got the upper hand. And soon, it got to the point that it was borderline cheating, from Cal's stool breaking, to the double flat out eating the Chess pieces. Soon, Cal only had one piece left, and he was about to lose.

"Well. That was almost TOO easy." The double jeered, picking up his own king piece, and moving it towards Cal's "I guess this can only mean one thing..." The dubious duplicate said to Cal, as he didn't notice that a giant king piece was above his head...

"Checkmate."

And the piece crashed down onto Cal.

Lucy however, was having a rough time as well. While she followed what seemed to be a glimpse of Attilio, the road that she tread upon began to feel less and less solid, as the foilage around her had become more...sticky. the colors above had swirled together, making the sky look like a tye dye banner, while the ground and trees had become solid paint.

"Even I can't stand this...and I'm a painter." She said, grimacing at the paint that found its way into her shoes. Lucy found herself moving faster to find at least some SOLID ground, so that she could get her bearings. After a few moments, Lucy did manage to find some solid ground. A familiar marble checkerboard flooring that reminded her of her gallery.

Lucy squinted her eyes un confusion, and turned around, only find herself face to face with a pitch black canvas, splattered in various shades of black and grey. Lucy's eyes widened as she turned away from it, but her vision caught more of those dark canvases, each one splattered with more and more paint.

The poor painter found it too overwhelming, and turned away from them all, she had bumped into a very large, and dark canvas...with a horrible self portrait of her. Lucy backed away, as tears leaked from her eyes, as bad memories of artist block came back to her...all the while she didn't notice that the canvas was falling towards her.

Back in the 'Nightopia...'

'Attilio' walked around the forest, looking for his friends with dulled out eyes and a far off expression in his eyes. He looked through a bush, and found 'Cal' and 'Lucy' canoodling each other. "There you two are! Having fun in La La Land?" 'Attilio' asked.

"Better than we ever have." 'Cal' said as the two of them rubbed their noses against each other "Indeed my Checkered King." 'Lucy' said giving 'Cal' a passionate kiss on his cheek. 'Attilio' gave a Hearty laugh "Well then, what say that we get out of here and find the others?" He asked. 'Cal' snuggled 'Lucy' close to him "Sure! In a minute." He said giving the painter another kiss...

All the while, Two icy blue eyes watched them from the shadows...

[therenlover]

The Boy With The Easel (A Young Artist!Helmut Zemo x Reader Oneshot)

(Hey! If you end up enjoying this fic, it’s the first chronological part of a new fun expanded AU I’ve created with @creme-bruhlee​! Their fic Bliss is part of the same timeline and takes place about a year after this one, so you should check it out!!!)

Synopsis: About a month into your first semester at Novi Grad’s top university, you finally meet the strange young man that you’ve taken to calling “easel boy” in the back of a bookshop. From a distance, he always seemed cold and aloof. As you get to know him, though, you realize things aren’t always what they seem.

Tags: Meet Cute, College AU, First Meetings, Coffee Date, Artist!Zemo, Embarrassment, Awkward College Kids Falling In Love

Rating: T

Warnings: Very Vague Mention of Sexual Content, Swearing, Zemo Says The Word Daddy In Reference To His Father and The Reader Thinks It’s Kinda Hot

Word Count: 7000~

This fic has been crossposted to my AO3!

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                                    The University of Novi Grad

                                                 Fall 1996

Mornings in Novi Grad could be beautiful if you knew what to look for.

Sokovia was… different from America in many ways. From the language to the scenery, you often found yourself adrift in the strangeness of it all. There had been nothing quite as old as the buildings in the historical district of Novi Grad back home, no towering grey behemoths serving as a reminder of a bygone fight against Soviet invasion in the memories of your childhood. Still, though, there was beauty in the strangeness nonetheless.

From your tiny room in the Helena Lyudmila International Scholar’s dorm, for instance, you had a perfect view of a large campus courtyard hosting a statue of the donor by the same name. She was some royal who had invested in education a few hundred years ago, and by the looks of her metal likeness, she had been quite pretty. The sight of her shining in the early morning sun was one of the things that made uprooting your whole life seem worth it in the end, no matter how silly that seemed.

There were other small comforts that you had found beauty in during your first month attending your prestigious university, too.

You found beauty in the way the sunlight streamed over the rooftops like the opening to an Oscar-winning film. In the sound of traffic below and the overcast skies above. Sandwiches from corner stores, wildflowers growing in the median of the road, cups of the worlds best black coffee served steaming by scowling attendants at the cafe; Everywhere there was something small and kind and just familiar enough to relish in, more than able to distract you from the stress of living hand-to-mouth in a country where you didn’t even know the language. It made it all worth it.

That being said there was something else too…

Someone else to be specific.

The campus tended to run like clockwork. The same groups of students would walk past your window to their classes, the same professors would get their coffee and lunch at the little cafe across the square, and every weekday morning at 8 am on the dot, easel boy would set up his palette and canvas and paint the same bustling street.

He was talented, that you couldn’t deny. Even from the 6th floor, which was a considerable distance away, it was possible to admire the detailing and consistency with which he painted. His talent wasn’t when kept you captive at your window in the morning, though. Though you were sure his art was beautiful, he himself was a thousand times more stunning.

All dark eyes and dark hair and dark clothes, he parted crowds with his piercing gaze alone. He was always dressed like the protagonist of some awful artsy film. Massive argyle sweaters, untucked button-ups, corduroy jackets, and flare bottomed pants that must have survived his father’s wardrobe from the ’70s… his style was as close you could get to atrocious while still being impeccable as possible, and that wasn’t even getting started on the smudged black liner always present under his persistent gaze. You had never had the pleasure (or embarrassment for that matter) of meeting him in person, but you were sure that you would have had the same awed and slightly frightened reaction if you ever did. He could have been plucked entirely from the pages of some awful romance novel.

You were well and truly smitten with the idea of him.

If you looked at your morning routine through the eyes of a stranger, you’d consider yourself odd for your strange obsession with him, but you didn’t look at it like that. It wasn’t an obsession. You never overstepped your bounds. He was simply pleasing to look at and so you did. That didn’t constitute as obsessive, right?

Even if it did, you weren’t causing any harm.

Easel boy, as you had come to refer to him, was simply a tool you used to ground yourself in your new and frightening environment. Nothing more. If you ever met him, you would surely hate him from the short interactions you’d seen him have with strangers. They never ended well. He would remain an unattainable, attractive ideal in your mind until he eventually faded away into a funny memory you’d share with your kids one day.

Until then, though, you would watch him from your window before your morning classes and refused to feel guilty about it. So, that was that, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

On the morning in question, you had woken up a little late and in a foul mood. In preparation for a test in your foundations of algebra course you had spent the better part of the night pouring over formulas while your upstairs neighbor’s bed slammed repeatedly into the wall and floor. Though you were sure they were having an excellent time, you were most definitely not. It all culminated in you missing your original alarms and despite the fact that your first class started at 10, you were exhausted, furious, and not looking forward to missing breakfast to finish the assigned reading you had put off the night before. The only thing keeping you from throwing in the towel and just giving up was the promise of seeing the painter.

So, when he arrived for the day at 8 am sharp, you were positioned at the ledge by your window, textbook in hand with a mug of instant coffee at your right. It was like a breath of fresh air.

As usual, he retrieved a small pack of cigarettes from the back of his eternally paint-stained jeans only to bring one to his lips and light it quickly. He always smoked before he worked, and just like always, he took an extra cigarette from the pack to tuck behind his ear for later. Then, he got to work setting up his easel and the small stool where he set his palette.

Pulling tubes of acrylic, brushes, and pencils from his well-worn messenger bag, easel boy flipped out the kickstand without any problem and set his thick, pre-primed canvas on the worn metal. You watched in fascination. Art had always seemed so unattainable to you. Instead, you were drawn to the more academic. The man before you, though, created beauty with an ease that had evaded you all your life, and it had you both jealous and entirely intrigued. Slowly, you reached down to take a sip of your coffee as you let your eyes drift back to your reading.

Learning about ancient Babylon was far less interesting than watching him, though.  

When you next looked out the window and away from your work the handsome artist had created his base sketch already. How did he do it so fast? You assumed it was practice. He had been drawing the same 3 buildings every weekday morning for at least a month, so after a while, it must have been second nature to measure out the lines and put things into perspective. You smiled. He tended to have that effect on you.

The process was repeated until a little before 9:30. You would read a few paragraphs then look up to watch the painting progress from a sketch to a full-fledged work of art. It was good today from what you could see. The colors were a bit more muted than usual, but that was only on account of the awful, dreary overcast sky that threatened to dump rain on the city at any time. Overall, you would have considered it a masterpiece. Easel boy didn’t seem to think the same.

He regarded the painting with a sort of begrudging satisfaction that bordered on disappointment before he pulled the second cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, and began the process of packing up his materials. You finished the last of your coffee watching him do so. Smoking, well, smoking tobacco at least, had always been a vice you had avoided and yet you often wondered what it would feel like to take a drag of one of his cigarettes after it had been between his lips. Then, the magic lifted.

He folded up the flimsy easel, tucked it away with his materials back into his messenger bag, hoisted the stool under one arm and the painting under the other before taking off at a brisk clip down the street away from your window. You watched him until he was out of sight.

You were snapped from your concentration by a knock at your door.

“Y/N,” a heavily accented voice called, sending you scrambling for your bag, “If you are not outside in the next 15 seconds I will break down your door,”

Shit.

“Coming, Sasha!” You wailed. It took about 10 of those seconds to grab your backpack and shove your textbook inside, an extra 2 to check your appearance in the mirror- you looked slightly disheveled, but it was the best you were gonna do after the night you’d had. Besides, it wasn’t like you were doing anything important. You didn’t need to be dressed for a date -and you were opening the door for a quick save at the 14th second. Your door was safe for another day.

Out in the hall waited Sasha Balandin, arms crossed and grey eyes piercing in the flickering light of the terrible overhead fluorescents. As a fellow international student, you had become fast friends with Sasha. He was a little rough around the edges, and definitely didn’t take your bullshit, but he was a rare friend. “I have been waiting for 10 minutes,” he griped. You tried your best to look apologetic. “Don’t do that,”

“Do what?” You asked, closing and locking your door behind you as you began walking down the hallway.

Sasha huffed. “Do not pretend you were not too busy ogling that painter in the courtyard to hear me knocking on your door,” His Russian bluntness was on full display now as you shook your head in mock disbelief.

“I can’t believe you’d accuse me of something like that!”

“It is not an accusation if it is true,”

“There’s no way you know for a fact that I was watching him again,”

“But you were. This happens every week,”

You sighed, pausing at the top of the stairs. “I was,”

Taking the stairs in twos, Sasha sighed. “You are too soft, Y/N. Besides, you have said so often that he seems like an asshole. Why do you continue to get all mushy at him out the window if this is the case?”

“Because… well, because…” for a moment, you floundered in search of an answer that wouldn’t make you sound like a complete freak, but you found that there really wasn’t one. It came down the one small factor. “He’s just really hot, okay?”

The look Sasha gave you could have killed. He kept his mouth shut, though, choosing to let his silence shame you more than anything else did. It worked. For the entire trip down the stairs and the mile-long walk to your lecture hall, you felt the weight of shame heavy on your shoulders. Or maybe it was just your backpack. You didn’t know which you’d prefer. He did start speaking again eventually, going on about some party you had missed in favor of studying, but the feeling never left. Even as you sat down for your lecture it was still at the forefront of your mind. In fact, you were so busy thinking about your crush on easel boy and the problems with it that you barely paid attention to the professor’s rehashing of the Epic of Gilgamesh.

Your error only hit when the professor flipped the PowerPoint to the final slide.

“Before you go, I want to remind you that you have a paper on the importance of Enkidu in the Epic is due at the beginning of class this Friday. The details and requirements should be listed in your syllabus. Class dismissed,”

Fuck.

Friday was only two days away.

You were so screwed.

The problem was, you didn’t have a spare copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh just lying around your dorm room. Usually that wouldn’t have been an issue, the professor for your current history course used English for her slide because her particular history course was specifically for first-year international students. Unfortunately for you, though, you hadn’t been taking notes. Instead, you had been daydreaming about how it would feel to have easel boy blow his cigarette smoke in your face and then subsequently scolding yourself for having thoughts like that about a total stranger. In a terrible twist of fate, the professor only held office hours after her last classes on Mondays and Fridays, so even getting the information from her then was off the table. Dread began to pool in your stomach.

Any other student would have been able to cut their losses, rent a copy from the library, slog through it in a night, and write the damn essay even without the help of the classroom slides for context. The only problem was all the books in the library were in Sokovian, and you still barely knew how to order a coffee correctly. Reading the language in a full Cyrillic alphabet would just be impossible, especially for a book as stupidly old as the Epic of Gilgamesh.

In short, unless you could get your hands on a copy in the next day or so, you were absolutely, well-and-truly fucked.

Sasha was quick to find you as the hall cleared out, waiting near your seat as you packed away your notes. “That was all bullshit, no?” He asked, but the second he took in your slightly panicked expression he stopped short, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply. You knew what he was going to say before he ever said it.

“Something is wrong. You were not paying attention. Were you thinking-”

“Yes. Okay? Yes, I was thinking about him,”

He shook his head slightly. “I am concerned for you,”

“Who isn’t?”

Despite his usually stoic demeanor, that made Sasha huff out a soft laugh. “You got yourself into this mess, Y/N, you will get yourself out somehow,”

Your jaw dropped as you slung your bag over your shoulder and started making your way towards the door. “You’re not gonna help me?”

“Though I would love to be helpful, you forget that my English is poor. It will do me better to read the book in Sokovian myself than to use the information from class,”

Oh, yeah. You winced. “Sorry, Sash’”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he shrugged as you walked out onto the lawn, chilled to the bone by the wind that whipped in every direction.

A storm was brewing. It might not fully take hold of the city for a few hours yet, but it would make the walk to your evening class absolute hell if the rain fell as hard as it had several weeks prior. You could only hope that it wouldn’t start until after you had walked home. Your odds were looking slim, though, based on the way you could already hear thunder clapping in the distance. After a moment you hit the edge of the sidewalk where your paths would diverge.

“Good luck with the paper,” you offered weakly.

Sasha replied with a sharp, “Good luck with your crush,” and then he was off in the opposite direction without another word. Sasha was blunt like that, never overstaying his welcome or lingering when he didn’t need to. There was something enviable about it. What you wouldn’t give to be able to simply say things as they were without an unnecessary sugar coating to save face and spare feelings. It lingered on your mind for the whole half-mile walk to the campus bookstore. Speaking of which...

There was only one place where you might possibly find an English copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh. It wasn’t the big student bookstore, most of the textbooks there had been in Sokovian, Russian, or German and you hadn’t even tried to set foot in their actual book section. No, your only hope was the tiny hole-in-the-wall bookstore you had stumbled upon during move-in. It was only about half a mile away from your dorm from any of your lecture halls, so you often found yourself wandering inside when you had time to kill. They were one of the only stores you’d come across that sold anything in English, magazines included, so despite the fact that the young cashiers rarely spoke your language you often found that the back shelves of that tiny shop kept you from going mad.

Now, they might also be keeping you from ruining your GPA.

You could only hope. If anybody could save you, it was them.

Ducking in through the small doorway, you were greeted by the soft ring of the bell above your head. The attendant at the register simply regarded you with a polite nod. You had seen her there before and she knew you barely spoke a lick of Sokovian, so she didn’t attempt a pleasantry. Instead, she simply let you wander through the entrance and into the towering bookshelves, passing a few other faceless shoppers on your way towards the back. You were grateful for her nonchalance.

If there was anything worse than feeling foolish for not knowing Sokovian, it was being talked down to in perfect English by a Sokovian citizen. Most interactions left you wishing you’d actually taken anything away from your high school French class other than emotional trauma from your teacher and a caffeine addiction. Damn America and its terrible public-school language programs…

The path to the English classics section was one you’d walked many times since discovering the book store. It was right in the very back corner of the shop, tucked away where the city natives wouldn’t have to address or see it. You had snagged a copy of Pride and Prejudice a few weeks back, so you knew exactly where to search. The only problem was slogging through every single book on the shelf in search of the one you were looking for.

Your eyes scanned the wall.  

Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh…

Gilgamesh!

On the 6th shelf up sat one small copy. Score! You were saved! As you reached up to grab it, though, you were met with yet another roadblock. The shelf it was on was juuuust a little too high for you to reach. Oh, come on…

You hopped a little, extending your hand up as far as it could go, but your fingers just barely brushed the spine. Somewhere behind you, you could hear footsteps. Then someone coughed to suppress laughter. The shame was plain on your face. As your flannel rode up and you stretched up in one last desperate attempt to grab the book when suddenly someone, you assumed the same person who had been laughing at your misfortune, spoke.

“They have stools, you know,” he said, accented voice thick with amusement. The English surprised you, but you assumed they used it for your benefit. You were in front of the English language books after all. Besides, the shame of it all kept your mind from questioning it too much. “For reaching the top shelf,”

Of course they had stools.

If your face hadn’t already been burning with embarrassment it definitely was now.

In a split-second decision, you decided playing dumb was the only way you could walk out of the situation with any dignity left at all, so you plastered on a confused smile and spun around to greet the stranger. “Really? I had no cl-”

You stopped short.

Oh.

Oh no.

You’d know those paint-stained jeans anywhere.

There, with his hands in his pockets and the most self-important, thin-lipped smirk you had ever seen, was easel boy in all of his cocky, intimidating, hot glory. Had you really noticed how hot he truly was before? It didn’t feel like it. Not now that you’d really seen him close up and reveled in the way his dark eyes hypnotized you with their smudged liner that felt borderline obscene. You could smell him too, all charcoal and turpentine and cigarette smoke. If you had it bad before when he was just a blurry ideal out your window, you were completely and utterly smitten now.

He regarded you with a sort of practiced annoyance, and yet there was a strange softness to it that you hadn’t found in many native Sokovians, especially ones that saw you as the stupid, bumbling American wandering blindly around their country.

“Would you like my help?”

“Huh?” You were so lost in his eyes that you couldn’t even focus on his question.

“To reach your book. Would you like my help?”

“Oh!” With a brisk nod, you stepped away from the shelf to make room for easel boy, “yeah, I’m just trying to grab that one there. The, uh, Epic of Gilgamesh,”

In one swift movement, he was stepping right beside you to easily reach up and grab the offending piece of literature. The closeness of it all nearly sent you into a tailspin. That wasn’t even mentioning the way your heart thudded just a little faster when he finally handed the book to you, his calloused fingers brushing against your own. You barely find a grip on your brain strong enough to thank him through the fog of embarrassment and attraction. Eventually, though, you managed to choke out a placation as your eyes explored the cover of the book.

“Thanks for that,”

“It was no problem,” he shrugged. He didn’t move though, still standing just inches away from you. When you looked up from the book you found his eyes were still on you, watching intently as if he expected something from you. The answer to what he actually expected was a mystery but you could tell he wanted something. When you didn’t speak, he spoke for you. “So, The Epic of Gilgamesh? That’s definitely a bold choice,”

You looked up at him sheepishly through heavily lidded eyes. “It’s not a choice at all, actually. I’m only buying it so I can write an essay,”

“Ah,” Something about his tone was almost disappointed as the conversation stalled.

You quickly changed the subject to the first thing you could think of.

“Your hair is really nice!”

“My hair?”

“Yeah… your hair,”

Smooth move, dumbass.

Easel boy’s expression seemed to soften once more as his signature grin crept back onto his face. “Thank you, I grew it myself,” Between his accent and the way he was looking at you like he was going to eat you alive, you weren’t exactly sure how you hadn’t had a heart attack yet. Still, the attention was nice, even if it was bourne out of you repeatedly embarrassing yourself in a never-ending cycle of fuckups. He ran a hand through his loose brown hair. “I like your shirt. Very American,”

Silently, you cursed yourself for not taking a few extra seconds to pick out a better outfit when you woke up. Standing next to him, even while he was dressed in his paint-stained jeans and undone button-up, you looked like a wreck in comparison. He didn’t seem to be speaking from a place of judgment, though.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was being nice, but that couldn’t be the case… could it?

“Maybe it’s just that I haven’t met very many Sokovians that are fond of America, but I’m not sure if that was meant to be a compliment or an insult,” You joked. It was a bit sarcastic, the lilt of your voice masking your deep insecurity, and to your surprise easel boy laughed. He really laughed. From your place beside him, you could almost feel the warmth radiating off of him as he shook his head.

“It was definitely a compliment,”

Oh.

Your heart skipped a beat.

That was a new revelation.

You steeled yourself with a deep breath. Fuck it. It was now or never.

“I, uh… I’m Y/N, and you are?”

He regarded you once again with that strange expression of expectation. “What?”

“I asked for your name,” you repeated, and yet he still stood, slightly dumbfounded, staring down at you with that same expectant expression from earlier. For a moment, you almost thought he expected you to know it already. That fact was quickly glossed over when he moved to rub the back of his neck with his hand, eyes drifting down to the floor.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, “I’m not very good with people. My father thought college might help me finally connect with my peers, but I don’t think he expected that I was the problem, nor do I think he expected me to pick a degree in the arts,” Suddenly, he paused and stuck out his hand to you. “I’m Hel. It’s very nice to meet you Y/N,”

With only a moment of hesitation- because wow, your name had never sounded more right on someone’s lips -you took his large calloused hand in your own and shook it gently. His palm was warm, his fingers lingering on your own for just a moment even as he pulled away. It wasn’t much, just a soft brush against your flesh, but it sent a flash of heat and liquid confidence through your chest.

“Is that short for something?” Your eyes met his in the soft yellow glow of the overhead lamps. Seeing him like this, so up close and personal, he looked a lot more human than he had from your window. Sure, he was imposing. Underneath the initial harsh facade, though, was something softer and almost poetic. You weren’t an artist by any means but if you had been, you had no doubt that he’d be your muse.

“It’s short for Helmut, but only my father calls me that, and only when he’s cross, which, unfortunately, is most of the time,” he chuckled, “Besides, it’s an old man’s name. It doesn’t suit me,”

The words left your mouth before you knew what you were saying.

“Well, it’s better than calling you easel boy,”

Shit.

Today really just wasn’t your day, huh?

In the split second where you were mourning your chances with the most stupidly handsome guy who had ever shown any interest in you, you almost missed the way Helmut’s eyes lit up at the admission.

“Easel boy?” His voice was teasing, but not demeaning. That didn’t do much to ease your mortification, though.

“Is there any chance that I can get you to forget I said anything?”

“If you already have a nickname for me when we’ve barely met, I think you already know the answer to that question,”

His knowing smirk was enough to get you pleading. “You can’t just let me off the hook this once?” you begged, scrubbing a hand across your forehead in a desperate attempt to get away from his piercing gaze. The things those brown eyes did to you could be classified as obscene… “I will genuinely do anything if you don’t make me explain myself right now Hel,”

Hel quirked up an eyebrow. “Anything?” The way your stomach turned at just one word from him was both terrifying and extremely exciting. It felt like a promise. Without hesitation, you nodded. That made him smile. “In that case, get coffee with me today?”

Once again, you were rendered speechless.

“My treat,” he added, “unless you’re not interested…”

“No!” Your answer left your lips embarrassingly fast, “Or- yes? No, no, I think I meant no. No; I am very interested. Yes; I would like to get coffee with you,” There was a hint of shame in your words, but only a hint. After the day you’d had already, there wasn’t very much there to be ashamed of. Still, that same pit of dread began to open up in your stomach as you mulled over your choices.

Thankfully, Helmut continued to take it all in stride. “Wonderful! Is there anything else you’d like to do here before we go? It’s best we leave soon if we want to beat the rain,” He offered up his arm as he spoke like some sort of Disney prince. It was, by far, the cutest gesture you had ever been lucky enough to receive.

You linked your arm with his without hesitation. “As soon as I pay we can get going,” He was warm. It radiated off him in waves just like the warm hints of tobacco and wintermint that seemed to seep from his skin and clothes. With that, you made your way to the front desk as Hel shot you a sly smile.

“Who said anything about letting you pay?”

True to his word, he didn’t let you pay for a single thing for the rest of the afternoon.

The two of you made your way up to the cashier together, and Helmut only separated from your side to grab his wallet before you could grab yours. He then spoke in rapid-fire Sokovian to the lady at the register and pulled what could only be described as a wad of Sokovian koronas while you set the book on the counter, and from the looks of it, she seemed more than pleased with the two of you. Who wouldn’t be, especially when Hel seemed to insist that she keep the excess? In the end, after the book had been wrapped nicely in a paper bag and deposited in your backpack, Helmut held the door open for you like some sort of gentleman and followed you out into the grey afternoon.

Then, you were off down the street on Hel’s arm, pushing through the wind and the biting chill that had settled in the air.

“So, you don’t sound like a big fan of your dad,” you asked, half laughing as you attempted to broach conversation once again.

Helmut groaned beside you. “My father is a menace who is unable to understand that some people want more in life than to sit behind a desk all day making phone calls. In fact, most of my family is the same way. The only reason I haven’t completely cut them off and changed my name is the money,”

“I assume you get a lot of it if it’s worth sticking around someone you hate so much,”

“Never ask a man about his net worth,” he chuckled, gently elbowing you in the ribs, “but yes, I’m very comfortable. I have my own apartment just far enough away to be considered off-campus with my own car and as much money as it takes to keep me happy and getting good grades; Daddy makes sure of that,” The word daddy was a deep sneer, barely there in the wind, but something about it sent butterflies through your stomach. Well, that was never something you thought you were into… “Little does he know, I’m not here to make money. I’m here to find inspiration worth my time while out from under his thumb,”  

You snorted softly. “Artistic and rich? You’re just ticking all the boxes, Hel,”

“Good for me. Would offering help on that essay of yours endear you to me further?”

“Absolutely,”

The next 5 minutes you spend discussing the Epic of Gilgamesh. Surprisingly, in one of the first stokes of good luck you’d had all day, Helmut seemed to be one of the only people on earth who knew plenty about Enkidu off the top of his head. When he was the one lecturing you in his smooth, heavily accented timbre it was so much easier to pay attention to something so very tedious than when you heard it from your aging and often monotone professor. In fact, you were so enthralled by his retelling of the tale that you barely noticed you’d made it all the way to the cafe that sat across from the international dorm.

If you didn’t consider Hel to be smart as a whip and twice as clever as he was smart, you would have thought it was a coincidence. It couldn’t be though. No, there was no way anything was a coincidence with Helmut around. You shot him a smile when he opened the door for you and ushered you inside.

“You know Hel,” you muttered, “I’m starting to think you might know more about me than you initially let on,”

He shrugged. “You’re American, so it’s unlikely you live anywhere else and I wanted to make the walk home easy. It’s supposed to rain, you know? Besides, despite the… interesting waitstaff, they make the best pastries in town right here in this cafe,”

“Did you mean it when you said you were paying?”

“Absolutely,”

“Then I can’t wait to try one,”

The two of you were seated quickly (you assumed it had to do with the waitress finding Hel as hot as you did, because you caught her looking at him from behind the counter and whispering excitedly in Sokovian to her coworker at least twice over the course of the meal) and the conversation flowed easily as you waited on your coffees and the deserts Helmut insisted on splitting to let you try. Millefeuille, pear tart tatin, chocolate devil’s food cake, and a towering plate of apricot kołaczki awaited you, and they kept you sitting and talking and snacking for over an hour as you really got to know each other. The more you learned, the more you fell in love with the man across from you.

Over the course of the afternoon, you learned that Helmut was majoring in studio art while minoring in psychology just because it interested him, he hated the Beatles almost as much as he hated Freud’s theories on women, his favorite color was purple, and he spent most of his free time reading or getting high off his ass in his massive studio apartment in what you now knew was one of the most expensive areas in the city. He, in return, sat at rapt attention across the table as you gushed about your life in America, your reasons for going to university in Sokovia, your favorite books, and the ridiculousness that was trying to pass college-level classes in a country that seemed to avoid English at all costs.

Eventually, though, you did touch upon his nickname.

“I just thought it was really interesting that you did the same thing every single day, no matter what,” you explained, grabbing one of the last kołaczki from the plate and ignoring the powdered sugar that stuck to your fingers, “and by watching you… I don’t know, I guess it kind of felt like I had another friend who’d share breakfast with me in the morning if that makes sense,”

Hel nodded, swallowing his last bite of chocolate cake. “I understand completely. It can be lonely, coming to a new place without any friends or connections, but you were brave enough to take the leap. I admire that,” He brought his napkin to his lips before crumpling it and setting it one of the now empty plates before him, “But I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed that you didn’t watch me because I’m attractive,”

You nearly choked on your pastry. “Well, I wouldn’t say your pretty face didn’t help…”

The grin that spread across his face was heartstopping. He grabbed a napkin from the little holder next to the two of you and grabbed a pen from one of his pockets as he spoke. “In that case, you should join me tomorrow morning. Bring coffee if you can, I never have enough hands to bring a cup for myself, but even if you can’t bring some, if you want to come and watch me work I’d be more than happy to have a companion for the morning,” he paused for a moment, flustered, “or every morning, for that matter,”

“That sounds like a deal,” Your cheeks were hot, but not from embarrassment this time. No, it was anything but, because here you were across the table from a kind, attractive, intelligent Sokovian boy with money to spend and time to spare for you. You couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud too. He wanted you back, after all. You could see it in the way his eyes lingered on you just a little longer than he should, and even more plainly in the way he wrote his phone number in bold blue ink on the napkin and signed it with a doodle of a heart before passing it across the table to you.

“I’m going to go pay,” he said quietly while standing, “but I’ll be back in a second to walk you out. Alright?”

“Alright,”

There was something strangely similar to sorrow sitting in your chest when you watched him walk away. The sight of his ass as he went made up for it, though. Once he was obstructed by other patrons, you turned your attention to the napkin in your hands. Hel’s handwriting was neat as far as artists’ handwriting goes, but it still held a sort of looseness in its curves, a freedom in the way the numbers had flowed effortlessly from his pen. You popped the last kołaczki in your mouth as you admired the blue ink before devouring the final bites of pear tart and millefeuille. How had you gotten so lucky to have someone like him giving you his number and buying you pastries? You pondered the bizarre nature of it all until Helmut returned.

You stood quickly, folding the napkin and putting it away in your pocket. “Ready to go?”

“If you are,” he replied. In an instant, you were standing beside him again as he opened the door for you. The wind was even stronger now, strong enough that his loose hair whipped wildly around his forehead from the force of it. You couldn’t help but giggle at his appearance.

He caught you off guard as he walked you across the street. “You have such a pretty laugh,”

It was like you were seeing him again for the first time. You fiddled with the strap of your backpack as you got closer and closer to the door to your dorm. “Thanks. I’m pretty fond of your laugh too,”

Then, you were there, just two college kids standing awkwardly before your first departure.

“So,” you said before you could stop yourself, “when I tell my one friend all about this afternoon after my math class tonight, should I say it was a date?”

Hel’s cheeks flushed pink. “You can call it that, if that’s what you would like it to have been,”

“I think I would,”

“Good, good,” he let out a little chuckle, “I’m glad. Would you… would you consider going on another? I promise I have much more to offer than just small talk and tips on where to buy the best pastries,”

Looking into his brown eyes, so full of uncertainty and hope, you knew you couldn’t have denied him even if you wanted to. Still, you weren’t going to give in to his advances without a little bit of taunting. It made it fun, a game to be played where, hopefully, you both would win big in the end.

“That depends,” you teased, letting your lower lip catch between your teeth, “what do you have in mind?”

Helmut shoved his hands into his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels, pensive. “If you want to, we could go to my place and I could actually show you all of the paintings I’ve been working on while you watched me. The view from the rooftop is lovely too. We could have dinner up there while looking out over Novi Grad. I have to warn you, though, it’ll probably be takeout. I’m an atrocious chef,”

Slowly, a brilliant smile spread across your face. “Does Friday work?”

The smile Helmut shot back was as bright as every star in the night sky and even more enthralling. “Friday is perfect. Can I pick you up at 7?”

“As long as you come in that fancy car you were talking about,”

“Then it’s a deal,”

“Well,” you turned away, walking up the steps towards the door before turning back to him, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Hel, and I’ll bring coffee. Have a good night,”

“You too, Y/N. Parting is such sweet sorrow and all that,”

With that, he gave one last short wave before turning on his heel and pulling out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. You watched him walk away until he turned the corner and disappeared from view. Only then did you enter the punch code and race up the stairs to your room.

Your back was pressed to the door of your dorm room the second you had shut it, your hands clutching at your chest in a desperate attempt to keep your heart from beating right out of your ribs. The second you were in the privacy of your own place, your cool facade had melted away to reveal just how much of a wreck you really were.

He had invited you over to his apartment.

He liked you.

Easel boy really, honestly liked you.

No, not easel boy. Helmut. Hel.

Hel liked you, and he invited you over to his apartment, and you had plans to meet him with coffee as he painted the next morning.

You smiled softly under the fluorescent lights and pulled the book that had brought you together from your backpack. It seemed so unassuming now, just a fresh paperback with an unbroken spine, but in reality, it was so much more than that.

Hel.

It was such a nice name. You liked it a lot.

Now you couldn’t wait to see what else you liked about him too.

------

a/n: I have been so excited to start sharing this AU with you guys, and it’s finally here!!! If you liked this fic, I once again will direct you to Bliss by @creme-bruhlee​ because that’s technically next in chronological order for this AU. I hope you enjoyed!!!

TAGLIST: @tatestripedsweater , @elaineygrace, @multiyfandomgirl40 ,  @lovelymischief , @rami-malek-trash , @avgravy , @wh0re-4-techno , @forcebros , @sugarsweetkiss , @grandmuffinsharkbailiff , @killsandthrills , @novasstudy , @thnksfr-ptrkstmp , @inmate-marmalade, @alanathedeer , @your-pixels-are-showing , @shit-post-things , @bbarton​ , @sux-ubus , @halefirewarrior , @janelongxox , @rax-writes , @mossybank​ , @simsiddy​ , @xxspqcebunsxx​ , @be-cautious-around-bri​ , @metaphorical-love-for-a-car​ , @frothonthedaydreams​ 

[mrsmaybank]

My Little Sun - Spencer Reid x Reader

“Can you imagine it?” I started, “A little girl who looks just like you? I’d be in so much trouble.”                  

She giggled, “Absolutely whipped.”                       

PART ONE HERE

A/N: It came out fast!!! I had lowk already started it, so that’s why this update came so quickly. Please don’t expect them all to come this fast LMAO. I usually write slow as fuck. Anyway, I really hope you guys like this part so I can maybe just maybe turn this into a mini series. Please lmk if you guys like :) 

CONTENT WARNINGS: KIDNAPPING, PREGNANCY, LANGUAGE, MENTIONS OF SEX (lmk if i missed any please) 

I paced the bullpen as the team spoke to Penelope. The shock of her pregnancy was starting to wear off, and now I could think more clearly. How could she? What was she thinking? 

Recently, I’d found myself thinking about it more, a baby her and a mini-me. A family of my own, with the love of my life. It was exciting and like a lovesick fool it made my stomach fuzzy. But she wasn’t ready and I couldn’t do that to her. So how could she do it to herself? She hadn’t finished school, hadn’t started her career. She could barely take care of herself! I wasn’t mad, absolutely not. Just disappointed at her self-sabotage and the fact she’d made the decision completely without me. I couldn’t think about it for long though, because I was swiftly reminded by my surroundings that right now, there was a chance I’d lose her, our child and any children we wanted to have in the future. That was the priority. 

“Garcia, check her credit card records, we need to see where she last was.” Hotch said. 

“Uhm, okay,” Penelope took a deep breath while clicking away, “Let’s see. Her last purchase was last night, 6:49 at a CVS Pharmacy, oh--” 

“What Garcia?” Hotch asked. 

“She was um, picking up her monthly case of birth control.” 

JJ broke the silence, “Spence…” she started towards me. 

I breathed a sigh of relief, “Thank god.” 

“Thank god?” Morgan questioned. 

“She’s 23.” I wiped my face, “Whole life ahead of her.” The team understood what I was trying to say. Rossi’s hand fell on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. 

“So why would she tell Brook she was?” Garcia asked. 

“I uh, I..I don’t know.” I spat out. I really had no idea.  

“Think Reid.” Rossi told me. “You guys ever talk about kids or pregnancy?”

“She might be trying to send us a message,” Emily added. 

I thought back to the last time we discussed starting a family. 

--FLASHBACK-- 

We were surrounded by timeless pieces of art and history, and yet the true masterpiece was still her. She was always beautiful to me, a perfect being, truly. But today, something about the way she looked today specifically, made her look like the kind of beauty you see in a painting. Had she been a painting, her creator must have been skilled. Each stroke of his brush creating every divine curve of her face and body to produce a work of magnificent art, one that I so proudly hung on the walls of my heart. 

I remember exactly what she wore, and how it felt to take it all off. The painter had an eye for color. Her denim skirt, the length or lack thereof making me embarrassingly wary, was blue like the Mediterranean Sea, complementing the pigment of the skin of her legs. A white button down made of silk, not worn properly, of course. Too many buttons were left open at the top, as to draw attention to the gold adorned on her chest, but in the spell of temptation she procured to cast upon me, my eyes wandered to admire territories of her body they shouldn’t have. Not in public, at least. The buttons at the bottom were left untouched as well, revealing the soft skin of her stomach. She looked like an angel, but of course, went out of her way to instead be my temptress.

My affinity for her beauty aside, the wide eyes in delight at the museum artifacts and careful attention to my commentary were what made our excursion wonderful. The feeling of her smaller hand in mine, and the giggles and the teasing “You’re way too nerdy to be so stupid hot Dr. Reid.” made it absolutely perfect. 

In exchange for her listening so attentively to my historical facts and stories, I took her for ice cream. She insisted we ate it on the greens of Lincoln Park. Who was I to deny her that? What came next--I expected. She’d devoured it. Made a mess of strawberry ice cream on her white shirt. 

“It was the wind!” She insisted as the first of many drips of ice cream fell down her chin. 

“No it was not!” I argued back while wiping it, “You just never learned how to eat ice cream properly.” I gently removed the cone from her hands and into mine, taking an overzealous bite. “This, lovey, is how you eat ice cream.” 

“Give it back, you...you dickass!” She snorted. We laughed like two lovesick teenagers. 

“Dickass?” I asked, eyes watery from laughter. 

“Yeah dickass, give me back my damn ice cream.” I took another bite, “Stop! You’re eating it all!” She pouted. Pouts were unfortunately my weakness and I handed it back to her. However, in her rush, the pink scoop had fallen directly on her blouse. 

“Way to prove my point,” I started to take off my cardigan, “You want dickass’s sweater?” 

She wanted to be mad but couldn’t contain the wince of a smile. “Please.” 

We carefully removed her shirt from under while simultaneously putting the cardigan in its place. 

“Spence don’t let me flash! There’s kids and judgmental old ladies here!” 

I laughed and shushed her, “I know, I know.” I moved all the fabrics quickly and it was done. Her sticky pink shirt was replaced with my soft sweater. “There.” 

“My hero,” She kissed me, “Truly.”

She leaned back on our picnic blanket on her shoulders as we observed our fellow park goers. “So many kids.”  

I nodded my head in agreement. “Yeah…” 

“We should bring our kids here one day.” she said, instantly breaking my haze from the crowd so I could only see her. 

I smiled again at the thought, “Yeah, and tell them how their mom is the world's clumsiest ice cream eater.”

She looked at me with disdain before shoving her shoulder into mine. “Shut up.” 

“Can you imagine it?” I started, “A little girl who looks just like you? I’d be in so much trouble.” 

She giggled, “Absolutely whipped.” 

I toppled her so we were laying down, facing each other. She kissed me hard, and my hands went to the sides of her face, only pulling back to say “I can’t wait for it, you know. My two little girls.” 

She smiled, “But I’ll always be your favorite right?” she asked sarcastically. 

I laughed, “Oh of course. Always.” 

“I’ll have a big ol’ belly, you know.” I nodded, “You’d still be perfect.” 

“We’d have to go to the mall, buy me a shitload of new clothes. Do ya know how dirty malls are Spence?” I winced at the thought of thousands of strangers bacteria on every surface and she laughed, “Got ya.” I shook my head, “Nope! I uh, I’ll just bring hand sanitizers and uh, to the Maternity section we’ll go.” 

“Non-stop Panda express eating.” I nodded again, “I’ll be non-stop Panda Express buying, then.” She smiled so hard her nose scrunched. 

“I love you Spencer.” 

“I love you too. I am so in love with you.” 

--FLASHBACK ENDS--

“Yeah but it was trivial.” I said. 

“Maybe not,” Hotch argued, “Was anything mentioned specifically?” 

“A name she liked?” Prentiss added, “Maybe a craving she thought she might have? Anything at all?” 

I nodded, “Not a food, but a fast food place. Panda Express.” I doubted that would be helpful. 

“It’s a stretch but, Garcia, check for any dilapidated buildings within 10 miles of a Panda Express.” 

“Yes sir,” She typed away and then said, “No, guys. I’m sorry. All of our Panda Express’s are in pristine malls or new developments.” 

“Mall!” I shouted, “She said we’d have to go to the mall! She knows I hate the mall.” 

Morgan pointed at us, “The tiles in that room look like they could be from some 80’s Bloomingdales.” 

“Garcia-” I said. 

“Already on it.” 

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

The pregnancy ruse was either going to get me killed, or save my life. It was a moment of panic and I just wanted to throw her off. I know it did, but in what direction? 

She was still crying, her demeanor with me was still laced with bitter animosity, but she was calmer now. 

“How long have you known?” Brook asked, the contents of her flask now empty and her words slurred. 

“I found out yesterday.” I lied through my teeth. 

She shrugged her shoulders, “Had you guys talked about it?” 

“Vaguely.” I admitted. 

“What’d Spencer want? Boy or girl?” I debated on whether or not to say, and she caught on. “Don’t fucking lie.” She stated harshly. 

“Girl.” I breathed out. “He wants a girl.” 

“What do you want?” she asked. 

“I don’t care.” I said. That was true. 

“How come?” 

“I just want to start a family with him. Don’t really care about the gender…” That was true as well. 

“Oh.” she nodded her head, “Why’d he want a girl?” It was strange, her  genuine curiosity. It freaked me out, but my alternative was being stabbed. I chose to just answer her questions, regardless of how much I really did not want to.  

“He liked the idea of a little girl who looked like me.” 

She winced, eyes tearing up further. “Right.” I was beginning to realize her feelings were very real. 

“You really like him, don’t you?” I asked. I knew I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help it. My head was still looking for an answer as to how she could be driven to do something like this. 

She clasped her hands together, her anger returning.  “Don’t fucking start. You know nothing of what I feel for Spencer.” She came up closer and tugged at my hair, “Fucking nothing.” 

“Okay,” I grimaced at the pain from the force at which she pulled my hair, “I-I’m sorry.” 

She let go, “You should be. You really, really fucking should be.” She sat back down, pensive for a while. I wish I knew what she was thinking about. 

My heart had not stopped it’s fast pace ridden with anxiety since I gained full awareness of my situation, but now, it felt like it was going to burst through my chest. Was she planning on just killing me now? 

My anticipation ceased when she got up and brought back the camera with her again. “Hello BAU. There has been a change in plans. Your beloved,” The words reeked of sarcasm, “Y/N here, will be returned eventually. . She’s gonna be fine. However, it is now in everybody best interest if this video feed was cut out. Sorry.” She said before mouthing, “No I’m not.” She shut the camera off. 

She turned to me, “I hate you. Fucking despise you.” Figures. 

“But I would never hurt Spencer. Or his child. Even if it is being carried by a whore like you.” 

She began to pace once more, “You’re obviously a mistake on his part. You clearly tricked him with sex and...no just sex I think. You're not really smart enough to be capable of anything else. Regardless, he’s probably already thinking about abortions or adoption. There’s no way in hell a man like him could ever want to start a family with a girl like you.” She shook her head, “Absolutely not.” 

I could only nod my head at her delusions. This woman was so far up her ass. 

She pinched my cheeks together with her cold hands, “You tried to trap him. How’d that go for you?” 

I was silent.

“I asked you a fucking question!” She held my face impossibly tighter. 

“Poorly.” I got out, “Poorly.” 

“In 9 months, I’ll help you deliver your baby. And then, you can go.” Brook backed away and let go of her tight grip on my face. “I’m keeping the kid. Raising it.” She smiled, “I’ll be the mother Spencer’s child will deserve. And then-” A giggle creepily reminiscent of a schoolgirl’s left her throat, “He’ll love me!” 

Brooks intention had twisted from wanting to murder and torture me as revenge for “taking” Spencer, to a now twisted maternal desire for his (hypothetical) child. But if Spencer and his team couldn’t find me before the time I was supposed to be showing, I was fucked. Utterly fucked. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Taglist: @britishspidey

(Let me know to be added)

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Diary found in K---D--- : Part 2

So, here's the next little part of this :D

Imagine by @lathalea is indented!

Enjoy <3

Taglist: @shrimpsthings, @mulasawala (so you see where I'm going with this lol)

(Yes, there will be MORE artwork coming, stay posted...)

Fandom: Hobbit

Characters: Ori x OC

Rating & Warning: Fluff and silliness

His name was Ori and he was a scribe in Erebor. It turned out he visited the forest often to sketch the animals and plants. You spent the rest of the day together. In the evening, you exchanged campfire stories, sharing a meal. At one point, he shyly asked about where you came from. Blushing, he admitted, almost whispering, he never saw a person with such beautiful hair before.

You told him that you came from another world, from a region called East Asia, where many people looked similarly to you. He was very curious about your homeland, your culture and your world. You spent hours telling him everything about it and he listened to you in awe.

“Ori.” He replied, his lips quirking a tiny bit as if he was not used to speaking his own name. “I’m a scribe. In Erebor. The Mountain.” He pointed to a tree beyond the clearing.

Thankfully, I was familiar with the Lonely Mountain and did not think that he didn’t know the difference between a living organism and a pile of minerals.

“I have never seen you, neither here nor in that Mountain.” I replied, for I went into the halls sometimes to translate for travellers, but for the most part, I let the king be his grumpy, glorious self.

“I come here often, to sketch, but I seem to have lost my way.” He admitted with a tiny frown. Ah, a real dwarf. They only knew up and down seemingly and if there was no way into a hill, they’d stubbornly trek up until they tumbled off the other side again.

As if to prove to me that he was not lying – dear reader, he had a face that was utterly devoid of malice or dissimulation – he showed me rather good sketches of the fauna and flora of the dense forest surrounding us. “That is really good, Ori, the scribe, from under the Mountain.” I commented which made him blush with a fierce and, apparently, unexpected pleasure.

In an expression of indescribable cuteness, he literally wiped his face with his sleeve as if he could clean away the rosy hue like a stubborn ink stain from under his skin.

“What are you here for?” He then asked, pushing out his chest heroically. As a reminder, he was the one who had lost his way, but apparently, he wanted to defend either the forest from me or the other way around.

“I am here to think…in silence.” I replied; he retreated a few steps. “Oh? I’ll leave you to it then, I guess. It was great to make your acquaintance…”

I gave him my name, after all, he had given me his, and he chewed on it for a few moments before his face split into a smile that was like the sunlight breaking through the cloudy afternoon sky: tentative, warm, and strikingly beautiful.

“Stay. I like your face.” I heard myself saying. Maybe, it was my teasing, mischievous streak acting up, but I had liked his embarrassment so much that I couldn’t help wanting to coax more of these blushes out of him.

“My…face?” In that weird dance he had been engaged in for the last few minutes, Ori stepped closer again, shuffling his feet in the heavy boots dwarrows insisted on wearing.

No, your ass, I thought, but bit my tongue; Ori the dwarf looked like someone who would die on the spot if I said anything even remotely inappropriate…as I was wont to do when nervous.

My sarcastic thought spurred my own interest though and I examined him a little closer: he was indeed swaddled like a babe, beads of sweat pearling down his temples on account of the steep climb and the stubborn blush powdering his nose and cheeks with pink blotches.

“Sit down, you’ll get a heat stroke.” I invited him and pointed to a patch of moss beside me while rummaging in my pack for the flask of ale I had brought.

“Thank you ever so much.” He plopped down in a cascade of earthen-coloured wool and awkward limbs. He did smell warm, I noticed, a blend of cinnamon and comfort.

Also, he had one of those faces that only became better when seen up-close, I admit freely; there were golden stars dancing in the depth of his dark eyes and he had the most adorable freckles as if some outlandish fairy had sprinkled gold dust over that heart-wrenchingly handsome face.

“Are you thirsty, Mistress?” He asked, nodding at the flask in my hand.

Handing it to him rather abruptly, I realised that I had spent the last moments intently staring at his face as if I had never seen a male dwarf before in my life.

“I have work to do.” I snapped, feeling immediately guilty for taking my own embarrassment out on him, but he merely nodded and pulled his sketching supplies into his lap.

Strangely enough, Ori did not disturb me. If anything, the silence felt fuller, richer, deeper with him by my side. As I translated a letter, as a spinster I had to support my family and my insufferable sisters as best as I could, I felt like the chirping of the birds and the vibrancy of the colours around me were even more enjoyable now that I shared them with someone else.

…

The sun crept along its never-changing arc slowly and yet, much too fast.

As I looked up, I wished I was a better painter myself, for this dwarrow was made for sunsets.

The way the last golden hurrah of a perfect day exploded in a halo of warmth around his figure, the way all the greys and the blues seemed to bleed out of the world to leave nothing but warm tones behind, and the way his smile was the perfect expression of this mellow, unhurried mood…it struck me deeper and more violently than a thunderstorm in all its booming rage would have.

“Will you join me for dinner, Ori?” I asked gently, “I shall escort you back down.”

“It would be my honour.” He nodded, tearing out a page of his notebook and handing it over.

“It was an invitation; I do not demand payment.” I said seriously, for the sketch of the doe was so good, it might have been worth actual money. “Oh…” His nose crinkled at little at that.

“I wanted you to…have something beautiful. I have seen you work very hard.”

Of course, he was a scribe as well, he would consider the scribbling work, I thought and gave him a thankful smile. “You’re beauty enough for one day.” I shrugged.

He gasped, bringing his notebook up to his face as if to shield himself from my words.

“You’re having me on, aren’t you? Dori has warned me that girls do that sometimes.” He sounded utterly dejected. “I am not having you on. Has nobody ever told you that you’re handsome?” It was my turn to be wide-eyed with shock.

“And who is Dori?” I followed-up when he didn’t really reply to my question even though I thought I had seen his braids move like strings of pearls in a draft. The minutest of shakes of the head, a quiet admission of inadequacy that sunk ugly, ragged claws into my soft heart.

“He’s my brother. I have two of them. Dori…and Nori. They’re…” – “Older than you.” I completed. “Protective.” He supplied.

He was still holding his drawing out to me, and, after a moment, I took it gingerly and put it between the pages of my own writing supplies. I would hang it in my room and look at it daily.

Nowadays, there were but very few gifts for me; all the money went to my two younger sisters who were still nubile and would, if Mahal willed it so, be able to make a good match.

Busying my hands with making a fire, I asked him to tell me about his brothers.

“Oh, Nori is…agile. He’s…funny and brave and resourceful.” Ori started, his voice warm with affection and admiration. He sounded like a proper rogue to me, and as it turned out, he was, but he also deserved every single ounce of the deep-felt care Ori held for him.

“Dori is…fussy. He’s polite, he’s very caring, and he’s exceedingly proper.” Ori went on as I waved a hand for him not to stop. I enjoyed hearing about the life of other families than my own.

“So, is he the one who raised you to be this…warmly clad and gentle?” I asked, turning to place the foodstuffs I had brought up and stored in the cool lake water on spits to roast over the fire.

“Warm? Oh yes…I was a sickly pebble and he’s been worried ever since. I hope I have behaved in a way that would not make him disappointed in me.” Again, he worried his lip.

“Let’s see, you’ve startled a bird and an unsuspecting dwarrowdam.” I listed with a wicked gleam in my eyes; his face fell, and he looked properly guilty.

“Then, you’ve kept me company, and the best company I’ve ever had, it has been, on my grandmother’s grave, I swear.” I went on and that treacherous blush was back with a vengeance.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He then said in a low voice. “Great beauty is always startling.”

“I am hardly Thorin Oakenshield.” He laughed. Readers, you cannot imagine that sound just by reading my words. If flowers blossoming had melody, if the sun setting on the eternal sea had a song, if autumn leaves dancing on a gale had a tune, they would have sounded like nails on scree, like cats having their tails trampled, and like kettles going unheeded compared to Ori’s laughter.

“There’s beauty in the doe as much as in the wolf.” I replied gently.

“May I…can I ask where you’re from? I don’t seek to be rude, but I’ve never seen anyone quite like you; your hair looks like those fabrics the Elves weave. It…seems so soft, so liquid, so smooth.” He blushed a darker shade yet.

This might well have been the first time that someone had asked me about my origins without making it sound like an accusation; there was honest fascination in his demeanour.

“My family and I have come from the Far East. I have travelled a lot, Ori, I have seen landscapes entirely made up of rock and sand, I have walked forests so stiflingly hot and moist it felt like being underwater, and now, I am here in the land of tall trees and taller mountains.”

I said, surprised by my own frankness.

“That sounds amazing.” He took the food I offered readily enough, and I told him about the people I’ve left behind to be stranded at the other end of the world.

“This is good, is that a recipe of your homeland?” He asked, looking down on the piece of meat I had seasoned with herbs I had grown myself in our small backyard.

“It actually is. I’m glad you like it. I had not planned to have company, otherwise I’d have brought something more palatable to the local tongue.” I apologised quickly.

“No, I like it. You should definitely trade some recipes with Dori…and Bombur…oh, and if any of your delicious herbs are medicinal, Óin.” He laughed again when he saw my dumbfounded expression.

“I make a good honeycake, if I can interest you in that? Maybe…” He fell back into silence.

…

A look at the sky told me that it was too late to go down in the inky darkness.

“We’ll have to stay here for the night.” I mumbled, slightly uncomfortable at the idea of spending the night with a dwarrow who had not lost a single word about a wife.

“Are you married, Mistress? Will that endanger your wedlock?” He asked shyly.

“No, I am not and I have no name to lose…It’s a long story.” I didn’t feel like blurting out my disgrace, lest it give him strange ideas after all, especially as he would easily have been able to overpower me if he so chose.

“Neither am I. I don’t know about my name…Doesn’t look like I’m going to be married either. There’s not enough dwarrowdams as it is, and I think the royal line has a prerogative there.” There was no resentment in his tone; he seemed to accept this as a fact.

How could someone that sweet not be married, I wondered. He was courteous, he was cute, and he would have made the fortune and happiness of someone.

“Well, in that case, I think we can risk our reputation rather than our necks.” I grinned, rolling out a blanket I kept tied to my pack for emergencies and stretched out next to the fire on the moss.

“Erm, yes…Good night…” He mumbled, fidgeting around with his different layers of clothing. Apparently, he was deciding which one he needed least on his body to use it as a bedroll or blanket.

I eyed the proceedings with interest and a good deal of amusement.

“I can offer you my cloak to lie upon…the ground will grow very cold and wet soon.” He said in a low voice, not sure if I had already fallen asleep or not.

“Alright, I can offer you a spot under the blanket then?” I extended my own graciousness.

“With you?” No, with the red bird, I thought, rolling my eyes internally.

“Yes, Ori the scribe, with me. I will not eat you, as you have witnessed, I have had dinner.” Not that he did not look good enough to devour, standing there with his cloak in his hands and his face all crunched up in embarrassment.

“Hmmm…I guess.” He muttered doubtfully, spreading out the cloak and sitting down on it carefully. Impatiently, I scooted over and spread my lousy blanket over the both of us with a flourish.

“Sleep!” I commanded as I turned around only to find him staring wide-eyed at the spot where the back of my head had been only a second ago. Now that he was presented with my face, only inches away from his, his eyes grew even rounder and bigger in wordless distress.

“Friend…Have you never lain with a woman? And I literally mean, lying next to one?” I laughed for there had been friends and cousins aplenty in my own life and the feeling of having another body so close to mine was not a new experience for me.

“Well, I fell down on the battlefield once, next to a foe…I’m pretty sure that was a Lady-Orc. She was dead. There was a…” He gestured, indicating a spear or a lance sticking out of his chest and brushing against my own with the back of his hand. Dear reader, he flinched back as if I was a tiny Durin’s bane wreathed in flames.

“A Lady-Orc, indeed…” I mused; no doubt, he could hear the smile I hid in my voice for his face crunched up in embarrassment.

“I am sorry.” He sighed, rolling his eyes, and thinking – there was not a shadow of a doubt about that much – of his brothers who would have mocked him mercilessly for his stammering.

“There’s no need to be sorry” I tried to reassure him, but I admit now that there were things that I did not tell him right away then. We had only just met, and he was blessedly unaware of my shameful past.

How could I have made him understand – without hurting his feelings – how much I enjoyed that air of purity about him that I had squandered myself on an undeserving fiend? As a daughter amongst others, I had been used to dwarrows coming to court or to seduce, their eyes ablaze with greed and their hands wandering.

He would not have comprehended how much the absence of that voracious hunger that had plagued my youth and had ended up destroying my promising future meant to me.

“Sleep.” I repeated, unable to put into words how miraculous and precious the things he seemed to be most ashamed of were to me.

“Good night, Mistress.” He breathed with a soft smile that was nowhere near the wolfish baring of fangs I was used to and so, it was easy to return it.

You who may or may not have stumbled upon this ludicrous account of the most important story in an otherwise unimportant life, you shall hear another confession I did not make at the time.

I was fiercely aware that – had I but leant forward a little – I might have pressed my lips upon his; I was young still at that time and, despite what had happened, parts of me, that should have withered and died in the aftermath of my botched engagement, were much alive.

He smelled like our dinner and warmth, and the gentle reticence of the curve of his smile was more inviting than any flashing grin I had ever seen before.

Yes, in that very moment, on this very first evening, I had already been conscious of the shrewd attraction this self-effacing dwarrow held for me…and it scared me half to death.

…

Part 3

[redgillan]

Under Pastel Skies - 1

Sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Modern!AU Bucky doesn’t need anyone, especially not a sugar baby. He isn’t that desperate… but she smiles so sweetly and she’s endearingly awkward, and he’s so lonely. She’s an artist, a painter, the type of person who always puts others before herself. Throwing caution to the wind Bucky offers her a place to live, a place where she can finally paint whatever her heart desires. He doesn’t need much in return; a friend, a muse.

Word Count: 2,183

Warnings: none

A/N: This is brand new and probably one of the softest series I’ve ever written. I hope you enjoy it, these two are going to fall in love so hard!

“I don’t feel good.”

You started rocking back and forth, your breathing coming too fast and too shallow. A drop of sweat rolled down from your armpit, making you hyperaware of the fact that you were looking like a mess. You pressed the back of your hand to your forehead and groaned; your hairline was wet.

Looking at your dress, you felt bile rise up in your throat.

You should have worn the blue dress. Blue was a nice colour, everyone loved blue. Blue made people calm and at ease. No, instead, you had taken Natasha’s advice and put on the tight orange-red dress that clung to your body and made your breasts look incredible.

But now the dress stuck uncomfortably to your body, the space between your breasts was wet and glistening. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t think. Red was the colour of passion, of anger and danger, and you just had to deal with your poor life decision.

Although deep down, you knew it wasn’t about the dress, or its colour.

“Relax,” Natasha said, sipping her lemonade. “I’m here, it’s going to be fine.”

“I am not fucking relaxed, Nat,” you repeated with a scoff. “I’m at a bar, about to meet a potential sugar daddy; that’s not what normal people do on a Friday night.”

“You’d be surprised,” she sassed. You gave her an unimpressed look. “Look, you can live with me for as long as you like, and you can work odd shifts at the hotel for the rest of your life if that’s what you want. But I know you, you’re an artist, and artists need freedom and benefactors. Sam is the reason I finished paying my tuition. You can call him my sugar daddy, but I prefer the word scholarship.”

Yeah, it was only a matter of perspective –and vocabulary. Some may call this whole thing brilliant, others stupid. You weren’t quite sure what to think yet.

“And this guy’s legit?” you asked for the nth time.

“Yes, Sam says he’s a great guy; sweet, handsome, thoughtful. He’s the whole package.”

“Mmmh.”

You eyed the pair of napkins the waiter had placed on the table along with your drinks, and wondered if it would be appropriate to stick them under your armpits to sop up the sweat trickling down your sides.

“Oh, fuck it,” you grumbled, reaching for the napkins.

You patted your armpits dry while you anxiously scanned the growing crowd. It was a high end bar, definitely not your usual hang out spot. The patrons were dressed in designer clothes and wore jewellery that cost more than your three years of art classes at the School of Visual Arts.

“Do we really have to stay sober?”

Natasha cocked a brow at you. “You don’t drink.”

You only groaned in response.

“I know how you’re feeling, I’ve been there, too,” she replied. “It’ll be like a normal first date. You’ll get to know each other, see if you guys hit it off, and if everything goes well you’ll talk about the arrangement. You can’t give consent if you’re under the influence of alcohol, so drink your lemonade and stop fussing, yeah?”

Like an obedient child, you brought the bent straw to your lips and took a quick sip of the icy refreshment. You toyed with the straw and watched the ice cubes slowly shrink. It was strangely soothing.

“They’re here.”

And just like that, your panic returned full force. You snapped your head up and tried to smile when you saw Sam approaching your table. You set your drink down on the coffee table and wiped your clammy hands on your dress.

Natasha stood up and gave Sam a kiss. While she wiped off a smudge of lipstick she had left on his upper lip, you glanced at the man behind Sam.

He was tall, muscular, and had a mysterious air about him. He was dressed casually, in black jeans and white t-shirt with a maroon bomber jacket that suited his pale complexion. The left sleeve of his jacket was tucked inside, empty.

Even without being an expert in behaviour analysis, you could tell he felt uncomfortable. He bowed his head to hide his face and kept looking around as if someone was going to attack him or as if he wanted to know where the nearest exit was.

Sam whispered something in the man’s ear and clapped him on the back before he turned to you.

“Okay, we’ll let you guys get to know each other.” Natasha looped her arm through Sam’s, and gave you an encouraging smile. You heard Sam whispering to his friend again. “Buck, seriously, you look like someone shoved a broomstick up your ass. Relax, man.”

“We’ll be over at the bar if you need anything.”

She gave you a thumbs-up as Sam led her across the crowd, toward the bar. With an authoritative look, Sam pointed to the seat across from yours and mouthed ‘sit’ at his friend who rolled his eyes and ground his teeth in response.

“Hi,” you started, trying to sound cheerful but the slight tremble in your voice gave you away.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he cut you off, “you seem like a nice girl but I’m not looking for anyone, least of all a sugar baby. I told Sam it was a stupid idea, but he never listens. This has nothing to do with you, I’m sure you’re great. I’m really sorry, I hope you’re not disappointed.”

He had barely made eye contact with you during his long-winded speech but you did notice that they were blue. Now that you knew this wasn’t going anywhere, your shoulders lowered and you felt yourself smiling.

“Of course, I understand. I wasn’t particularly thrilled, too. No offense.”

He bent his head and ran a hand through his hair, his lips curved up in a soft smile. “Is your friend as meddling as mine?”

You let out a loud laugh, your eyes widening. “More! If meddling were an Olympic sport, Nat would have more medals than Michael Phelps.”

His shoulders shook in a soundless chuckle but he still wasn’t looking at you. “So why’d you agree?”

You took your glass of lemonade and played with the straw while you searched for an answer that wouldn’t sound too desperate or dramatic. You majestically failed.

“I guess I felt like I had nothing to lose.” You shrugged. “It’s like when you’re standing on the edge of a cliff and you only have two options; jumping off the cliff or getting eaten by a pack of wolves,” you said, checking them off on your fingers as you enumerated them. “You have to choose the lesser of two evils.”

He frowned, a curious glint in his eyes and a hint of a smile curved his lips. Your eyes widened when you realized you might have offended him.

“Not that I think you’re evil,” you rushed to add. “What I meant to say is that sometimes you don’t really have a choice. And when you have no other option but to jump, well... your chances are infinite. Anything can happen.”

He slowly raised his eyes to meet yours, a form of understanding in the depth of his icy blue eyes. He was truly handsome; a little older than the men you usually went out with, but he had kind eyes and very, very nice lips. You looked away, feeling a little foolish.

“Wow, I’m fun at parties, uh? Guess you dodged a bullet,” you laughed, cringing a little as you said it.

He returned a tight smile, loaded with something sad. He looked at you a moment longer and you held your breath, suddenly hoping he would stay and chat. A solemn expression crossed his face and he seemed to go through some kind of inner struggle before he reached a decision.

“It was nice meeting you,” he said, shaking your hand before wishing you goodnight. You watched him leave the bar, his shoulders hunched forward, looking as tense as he did when he entered.

That tiny flicker of hope left with him.

“Hey!” Sam called out, a deep frown on his face as he approached you. “Where is he going?”

“It didn’t work out,” you answered with a shrug.

Sam deflated. “I bet he didn’t even try.”

“Does it really matter?” you replied, shrugging into your coat, something way too thin for the changing weather. “He’s not ready, and honestly, you can’t blame him. This sugar daddy-baby thing isn’t for everyone.”

“I know that,” Sam argued, blowing out a frustrated breath. He turned to Natasha, silently pleading with her to understand, but she was as clueless as you were.

There were lots of reasons Sam wanted Bucky to meet you, and none of them included sex. It was difficult to explain his motivations without betraying his friend’s trust; without telling you too much about Bucky.

“I’m not trying to find him a girlfriend,” Sam continued. “He needs more friends, and he has connections to help you in the art world. I thought you two could help each other out.”

You wrapped your scarf around your neck and grabbed the backpack you had shoved under your seat. It contained your work uniform, clean underwear, toiletries, a bottle of water, your wallet, and a couple of granola bars. Your whole life was in that backpack.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” you said, adjusting the trap of your bag. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.” You turned to Nat. “I’m going to stay at the hotel tonight, my shift starts at 6 so you’ll have the apartment to yourself.”

Without waiting for an answer, you disappeared into the crowd and headed for the door. Outside the wind was blowing, the cold air biting at your face and bare legs. You took a deep breath, watching as the cold air turned your breath into white smoke.

People were milling about, taking pictures of the skyscrapers, walking hand-in-hand and marvelling at pretty much anything. New York was full of contradictions; kind and hard, smooth and rough, poor and rich. It was exciting to live here, it was exciting to see how people lived together despite their differences. For an artist such as yourself, it was a gold mine of infinite inspiration.

In front of you, a taxi drove closer to the curb, then slowed as a man stepped onto the street and opened the door. He looked over his shoulder and saw you standing there. Sam’s friend smiled at you.

He noticed your light coat, your backpack and your scuffed ankle boots. It was hard to believe that under your coat, you were wearing a sexy little number. He imagined that this was more your style, and he liked it. It was fresh, laidback, casual. He could even see a few drops of paint on the toe of your boots, a smattering of orange and blue.

“Hi, again,” he said. “Wanna share a cab?”

You nodded eagerly, your face half buried in your scarf. You were positively freezing, you didn’t even think twice about following him. He let you climb in first and jumped in after you, angling his body to hide his missing arm.

You gave the driver the address of a Holiday Inn in the Flatiron District and sank into the seat. It dawned on you that you didn’t even know his name. Sam had called him Buck, but you were pretty sure it was one of those nicknames only long-time friends are allowed to use.

“Bucky,” he said with a genuine smile after you told him your name. “I’m sorry I ruined your evening. How long are you going to stay in town?”

“No worries, you didn’t ruin anything. And I live in New York. I live with Natasha.”

“Aren’t we going to a hotel?” Bucky asked, looking out the window with a frown.

“Yup, I work there. Breakfast attendant. I figured Sam and Nat would like some privacy and sometimes my co-worker at the front desk let me borrow a room for the night.”

The car pulled to a stop at the curb and you reached into the front pocket of your backpack to retrieve your wallet. Bucky stopped you.

“Please, let me pay,” he said. “As a sorry for dragging you to a bar and leaving without even telling you my name.”

“Ouch, yes, when you put it like that it wasn’t a great night,” you said with a crooked smile. He responded with an exaggerated cringe. It made you laugh. “Hey, it wasn’t you who dragged me to a bar, it was Sam. You can always tell him to pay you back.”

His eyes brightened. “I definitely will.”

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you giggled, closing the door behind you. You walked up to the big automatic doors and waved goodbye one last time.

“’Night, angel.”

Bucky asked the driver to wait until you were safe inside before driving away. As he watched you, he thought back to what you had said earlier.

Your chances are infinite. Anything can happen.

This time, it made him smile.

part 2

[shini--chan]

1p (yandere) allies or axis The (country)reader gives them love and affection, because she knows they in love with her. They have a relationship, for few months. One day they come home and in the private office are really important documents missing. And they see the reader in the next meetings not (for years?). One day they see her again, what would they do?

Yandere Allies

America

He grinned menacingly at the sight of you. Anger was already slithering through your veins, the harsh snap of it causing his mind to fall into a familiar calculating state. He had fantasied about this moment for a long time, yearned for your touch for a long time, desire to crush you for your transgressions for a long time.

Maybe he was a moonstruck fool that simply couldn’t let go for feeling his heart palpitate upon the sight of you. Or he was just plain sadistic by the blissful way his blood rushed upon seeing you pale with fear.

Running away wouldn’t work at this point, since Alfred would be dead set on obtaining you and making you repent for your sins. He wouldn’t take espionage lightly, especially since you represented a honey-trap. All the memories he would have about you would be pleasant ones, and he would reflect back on those times where you were so perfect fondly. America would aim to recapture those moments and mould your persona to his liking.

He may or may not meet you again by chance, or he would have been actively hunting you down. If there is anything that can enrage America, it would be being bested – something you would have somehow accomplished with frightening ease. And something you would have to pay for. In Alfred’s eyes, it would just be fair play.

Canada

One moment you were calmly going through the aisles of the store, the next you were staring into indigo eyes. There was a smile on Matthew’s face – the soft, considerate kind that didn’t reach his eyes. There, an icy glint lingered, dangerous and subtle like frostbite in the bleak mid-winter.

Internally, you knew that was far more deadly than the usual temper tantrums, that people throw once they are betrayed. By the likes of it, you had made a fatal error in your calculations.

If you thought you’d be facing a flimsy little wallflower that has no backbone, then think again. Matthew’s anger is ice, and therefore he isn’t as blinded by emotions as others would be. Sure, deep down he would still love you (or rather be obsessed with you), yet that doesn’t mean that you would be off the hook.

No way in the whole world would he let you get away with what you did. However, with his kind words and sugary tone you wouldn’t be aware of the full extent of his rage. Unluckily for you, Canada is a hunter and he would know exactly how to pin you down and ensure you wouldn’t be able to escape until he would have his justice.

 China

“It has been a very long time, hasn’t it, my little rabbit?”, a silky-smooth voice inquired behind you. Startled, you whipped around, nearly spilled the champagne that you were delicately holding, and stared him in the eye.

The amber was cat-like, just like the tight smile on his lips. Feline as he was, no doubt he had all intentions to play with his prey. The music being drawn from the piano would be the requiem of your pride, and the other guests to the gala the audience to applaud the abrupt turn of your fate.

“When you went away, you broke my heart. I was struck by betrayal and I couldn’t keep my thoughts off you.

“Often, I would fantasize about you – what I would say, what would you say. But in the end, that is all irreverent. I’m simply a victim of the circumstances, here to set matters straight and you have gone ahead and set the stage. I am most touched”, he drawled, genuine hurt in his light tone.

The other people had started to look and whisper, the impending fall from grace too delicious to pass up. Such negative attention made you clutch the fragile stem of the flute even tighter.

Glass shards could never evoke as much pain as Yao’s sharp tongue.  

China would be smouldering with rage underneath the artfully crafted theatre mask. First of all, he would angry at himself. Due all the experience he has under his belt, he should know better than to fall for the tricks of some young fledgling. Still he did and the implications infuriate him. Nonetheless, the whole affair would be analysed and carefully catalogued in his mind to prevent you from ever having the upper hand again.

Secondly, he would be upset with you. Did all those kind words really mean nothing to you? All those tender moments, all those affections – a magnificent lie? He’d hope that deep down you had sincerely fallen in love with him. Through he wouldn’t be so foolish to act on that assumption. As old as he may be, he isn’t senile.

Try as you might to wriggle out of it, he wouldn’t let you. In an indirect way, you would have brought disgrace to his name by making him look like a fool. That means he wouldn’t hesitate to thoroughly humiliate you in public. Then he’d ensure that you would wind up in his gracious custody – with no means of ever leaving him. Having then isolate you, he would use that precious time with you to re-educate you. Whoever did it before he entered your life evidently did a measly job.  

England

When you switched on the light to your living room, you nearly tripped over your own feet in shock. Malice danced like fae fire in the pair of eyes that scrutinized your every move and drank in your terrified expression like it was whisky.

Eventually overcoming the initial shock, you seethed: “What are you doing here. Decent people knock on the door and don’t simply invite themselves in!”

“Strange for you to say that. Even hypocritic, if I may remark”, Arthur lightly said, words slow as if he was weighing every word against gold. No doubt he was barely holding all the insults back.

He gestured to the armchair opposite him. “Have a seat. There all a lot of things we need to talk about, and loose end to tie up.”

Out of all the nations, England would be the most volatile. When your relationship would have started, he would have been cautious, even suspicious to a degree. His paranoia would have been well-founded, especially with how many times he’d been backstabbed in the past. That he had invested his trust in you only for you to abuse it would reaffirm his belief that it would be best to keep his hackles raised. Never tiring, he would hunt you down, constantly torn between the desire for revenge and how he would yearn for your love. That mixture would be potentially lethal.

Arthur might kill you with the justification of “if I can’t have you, no-one can” or also “a fitting punishment for your crime. However, that option would just be further down his list. If you act polite, then he would largely reciprocate the favour. If you lash out or even just insult him then he would rain fire and brimstone down on you.

The conversation would be like an interrogation, with only a thin veil of civility leaving room for something else. Should you beg for his forgiveness, then he would be pleased and even a bit lenient. That doesn’t mean that you’d evade the punishments he’d have instore for you.

France

You saw Francis before he saw you, a lucky thing on your part. Your former lover looked lost. Not that it was the initial impression that a random pass byer would glean from him, but you knew him better.

For a brief moment your thoughts darted to the documents you had leaked to your government – damaging, condemning information if it were to land in enemy hands, which was exactly what happened. If you didn’t know better, then you would pity poor France for the travesty that happened.

You prowled forward to him. Such a sappy fool, you could probably convince him that you still loved him. Maybe you could glean some more information from him.

Your hubris would really be the end of you. Naturally, France would be overjoyed to see you and immediately welcome you back with open arms and a giddy smile. Just remember that love, or rather obsession in his case, isn’t harmless. The limerence he would have with you would entail that he would squirrel you away and hoard you.

In the beginning, you wouldn’t even fully notice where the whole matter would be heading, either blinded by your own false pride or by Francis’ suave manner. Either way, if you wouldn’t wake up to his counter machinations fast, then you’d have all the information you could wish from him but no means to reporting it to your superiors. Your foolishness would land you in a gilded cage.  

Russia

Once he reached the top of the hill you noticed him. Ivan was strolling down the same path that cut through meadows and forests, just a few metres ahead of you. Of all times to meet him, you had least expected it to be during your evening stroll.

You halted in your tracks, contemplating if it would be better to wait until the danger was far away or to immediately turn around and head back home. Russia ended up making the choice for you, and it was neither of the options you had in mind.

He must have somehow sensed your presence, for he glanced over your shoulder. Recognition flashed over his defined visage and it evoked a sense of dread in you. Especially when he pivoted around and approached you.

With some difficulty, you swallowed your fear, because you knew that Ivan was like a wolf that would mangle you if he whiffed weakness. Meticulously, you adored your lips with a picture-perfect smile, a painter adding the finishing touches to their masterpiece in your own right.

“It is a wonderful evening, eh?”, he asked you, in that soft voice you were so well acquainted with.

Russia would first play on pleasantries. However, don’t be fooled. He can hold a grudge and once in his grasp, he would shy away from making his displeasure known. You’d have to be very lucky to escape him and more to permanently evade him. The chance would be slim, yet it would be there. And don’t think that he would be stupid enough to point it out to you.

Your betrayal would have been a smarting blow to him, even if he would have half-expected him. And to him, petty little information thieves are surprisingly worse than cold-blooded murderers. The threat you would represent wouldn’t be obvious, yet that wouldn’t stop with from curbing all those bad habits. He’d miss the person you had displayed yourself as when you had been wooing him and he would do his best to build you to be that person in reality.