#it was in uncertain pencil on lined paper

[mo-ondial]

i think that heaven has no gate,

but the fence is low, and unguarded.

there is no angel to bet on you,

and take away your blame,

only the promise you make

when you step over,

or roll under,

or duck through.

i think heaven has no gate,

but i know i will be damned to circle it,

not in hopeless search,

but hopeful.

[fillinforlater]

New Lyrics

Male Reader x Chu Sojung (Exy)

Length: 2170 words

Tags: angry sex, body writing, mutual pinning to walls and chairs, hard sex, riding, cursing, fishnets, fishnet stockings kink, standing sex, creampie, lyrics on your body, lyrics might hit a bit hard to home, idol!Exy /producer!you

Inspiration: the ideas and pictures/gifs send by @friskyriskywhisky

Credit: @friskyriskywhisky for giving the winning requests!

(A/N: I chose this fic as the winner. Reason? Uhm, I liked it a tad bit more, the flow of words was very easy and fuck, I might have a thing for fishnets/stockings in general. Enjoy Exy!)

“Fuck, we’re out of paper.”

Exy crumbles up the final sheet filled with hollow, unfulfilling words and throws it in the corner of the recording booth. She spits out the cap of the marker, which turns out to be a dumb little mistake. As she goes to pick it up from the dark blue carpet, she doesn’t notice the awkward position of her marker. A dark line forms in one of the openings in her fishnet stockings. 

“Watch out,” you laugh at her when she notices. “It won’t come off easily. Or did you want to play tic-tac-toe with me?”

Exy rolls her eyes and licks the tip of her thumb. She rubs the marked spot while groaning in frustration. This recording session has gone nowhere, hell, it hasn’t even started because her text is still bullshit words in a bullshit structure with bullshit rhymes. That’s how she said it, not you, but you tend to agree, it is not a good text.

“You can just type on your phone, you know?” you say into the silence, the booth drowning out any echo.

“I fucking know, but it’s just,” Exy groans again. The marker is still resisting her attempts at cleaning. “It just feels wrong. The lyrics feel like ass on a phone screen. They look dishonest, powerless, and smell like the rotting body of the CEO.”

“Exy,” you sigh and rub the bridge of your nose. “Get your act together. You’re not a child. If you need more paper to figure this out then go get some. I’m literally just here for the recording.”

“Only the recording? I thought we were gonna do something afterwards?” 

Exy raises an eyebrow. She swipes away the free-swinging microphone in a dismissive gesture and glares at you. Tension rises, but you are uncertain if Exy feels the sexual part of it as strong as you do. Judging from the way she crosses her fishnet-covered legs over one another and adjusts her short pencil skirt, she is either very casual about it or tries to seduce you.

But the way Exy then grabs your wrist, you suddenly doubt that you will get lucky tonight. Maybe this is bothering her more than you thought. Maybe the poor lyrics dictated by her company have finally gotten to her. Maybe she is sick and tired of having to save her parts all the time. After all, it’s still business. 

You expect her to pull you up and throw you out into the hallway, however she is pulling something else up: the sleeve of your hoodie. Your bare, entirely clean arm comes to light, just to be met and stained by the black tip of Exy’s marker. Letters quickly taint your skin, from elbow to wrist.

“Nah, fuck that,” you shout and free yourself from her grip. “I’m not your paper. Wait, what the hell is this? You can’t even use this! It’s like only curse words.”

“Yes.”

“Are you crazy? This won’t come off in—fuck, Exy, stop!”

Exy pins you to the back of your chair and continues to scribble. This time, she uses your forehead and cheeks to spread angry syllables. She is surprisingly strong and continues to keep you down long enough for you to be marked by her marker. She forces your head side to side to read the new lyrics, until you’re finally able to break free.

Grab her hips and hammer into the wall. The entire room shakes at the impact and Exy winces. She drops the maker and you quickly pick it up. It might be a childish thing to do, but you are eager to return the favor and paint her face with black curses as well.

“Fuck, asshole!” Exy shouts and stamps on your foot. “Stop it, now!”

“I don’t even think about it,” you growl and firmly hold her beautiful face steady. “Go on, spout your nonsense lyrics so you can read them in the mirror later.”

“Fuck, I hate you!” Exy punches your sides. “I want this to end / our love is nothing but a mess / We have fun at night, but during the day we fight / With all of my might I try to find you ag—

“Why did you stop?”

“I—I,” you stutter, looking at Exy’s fierce eyes that pierce through your mind. “I was just puzzled—ouch, what the—”

Exy gives you a painful punch right above your hips. The jabs she gave before were nothing compared to this, hell, it might even leave you bruised. Exy gets a hold of the marker and continues her artistic outburst on your other arm.

“Those are the lyrics, you moron. Gosh, you should just shut up and be a piece of paper. I try to find you again / but you’re not the same / you’re lame and all my thoughts are in vain.”

The two of you engage in another struggle. This time the fight is more playful, no rough punches, no throwing into the wall. It’s certainly no coincidence that Exy’s blue jacket slides down her slender shoulders to reveal her white crop top with nice, firm melons beneath it. More importantly, she also shows more of her paper-like skin now.

You easily take the marker from her fingers and place it on her exposed biceps. Exy grabs the hem of your hoodie and pulls you right to her face. Her lips are right there, ready to be parted with your tongue, but she denies you the kiss. Instead she moans the lyrics right into your face.

“I just want you back and all the fun we had / Get me out of the dark, the black in my head and throw me—fuck, just write!”

“There is no more space on your arm!”

“Then go further down!” Exy groans and presses herself onto you. You feel her abs flex the same way they do when you fuck her in your bed. Push her back a little and put the tip of the marker on them to write Exy’s euphoric moans.

“Throw me on the bed / Use your tongue, use your hands / don’t give me a chance, make me cum.

“Fuck me right her, right now, fuck!”

Exy’s shaking hands pull up the hem of her pencil skirt. Between her panties and your face are mere inches—and of course her fucking fishnet stockings. The way this tight-knit net wraps around her full thighs always makes your head spin. Exy knows, hence why she is wearing them quite often around you. 

Today, you won’t wait until she pulls them down at home. Your fingers entwine with the fabric and you tear a large irregular hole right at Exy’s crotch. The young woman is eager to pull aside her panties to show you how dripping wet she is. You are eager to get rid of your pants to show her how rigid she makes you. 

“What are you waiting for?” she says, sultry, spit dripping from her lips.

From one confinement to the other. The inside of cotton boxers is traded for the slick insides of Exy’s pussy. The two of you groan in unison as you inch deeper and deeper. Exy stabilizes herself with arms firmly wrapped around your nape, while you reach for her thighs to find a better position to thrust. She is clearly not amused, her patience thinner than a sheet of paper. 

“Can you fucking start alr—oh my God!”

Exy’s mouth is agape, the remainder of her sentence stuck in the back of her throat as you begin to thrust hard. You stare at her face, the black letters and words spread all over it. The lyrics tell the story of a woman desperate for her lover. She wants to be pleased, she begs for it, although the guy is an egocentric asshole.

Maybe you are the asshole for her. At least you will now.

“Shut up, Exy!” you shout right at her, fingers firmly digging into flesh and fishnets. “You better save your voice for that fucking rap. I don’t want my skin to be wasted for nothing.”

“Ts,” Exy manages to hiss as you move your thrust upwards to make your cockhead reach the hottest depths of her tight cavern. “S-stop complaining, you got your revenge. Just, fuck, look at me!”

Exy flaunts her scrawled arms and shoulder to make her point, but you reject it by latching onto her collarbone with your lips. A strong waft of her cherry scent, mixed with the strong alcoholic smell of the marker makes for a weird sensation as you leave a hickey on her.

“Fuck, people might see it,” Exy whines in between her moans. 

“Good, I hope everyone sees it.”

You reach for her butt and give it a firm smack before picking her up. Spin around and pin her against the next wall to continue your hard fucking—at least that was your plan. However, Exy takes a moment of your brief inattention and pushes you back onto your chair.  

Her pussy lips still wrapped around you, she doesn’t wait another second to pounce on you. You know her riding is always intense, but today she is absolutely merciless. Her fingers dig into your shoulder, her teeth bite your lip, her hips fuck you numb. 

You feel your legs begin to tremble, rubbing against the continuously tearing fishnets. Wet sounds and loud moans come from both sets of Exy’s lips as she is fucking herself senseless as well. She has become a beast, unable to control her lust. She will take you down, but she is bound to fall as well.

“Fuck, fuck, Exy, I can’t—”

“Cum, cum already! You fucking ass—ah!”

Thank God the room is soundproof or else the entire building would know of Exy’s violent orgasm. Wails at first, then waves of girl juice that run down your twitching cock. Warm, wet, tight—Exy’s pussy is as perfect as ever. Thank God again that you can blast your cum into it. Your entire body twitches and accidentally pumps all the white batter up into her. 

“We’re not finished!” Exy groans. She tries to adjust herself in a more comfortable position, maybe with you on the ground, but this time you catch her sleeping. With one arm hooked under her knee, you make her stand upright, far enough away from every wall, one leg high in the air. Exy’s flexibility is taken to her limits, but even though she groans in pain, you won’t relent. The only thing that keeps her stable on her one, swaying leg is you.

“You’re fucking right.”

You groan through the initial pain of using your spent cock to pierce Exy open again. With her, a second round is always worth it, no matter the cost or heart-stopping overstimulation. She deserves the hard thrusts deep into her wet core, while you deserve to feel the entirety of her fishnet covered leg. 

“Shit, fuck, fuck,” Exy whimpers into your face before you press a peck on her cheek, right at one of the many obscene words on her skin. Her hands move to zip open her skirt to give her more leg room for the artistic position. You on the other hand opt for more drastic measures: ripping more holes into the dark web. 

Wet skin continues to hit wet skin, even as you decrease the pace a little to make each thrust harder and more precise. Exy giggles when you miss her g-spot and screams in ecstasy when you hit it perfectly. It’s like a game for her, where she can only win, either by seeing the disappointment in your dirty face or by feeling sparks of pleasure fill her breeding hole. 

You hate this kind of game. You just want her to crumble, to succumb to another orgasm on your dick and milk you completely dry. Each minute you spend inside her and not on recording the rap part could lead to awkward questions by the higher ups. Reality is often disappointing, but you won’t go without a bang.

Drop Exy’s leg and instead get a hold of her long hair.

“Exy, you will fucking cum now!”

“What—oh, fuc—ah!”

All your remaining energy is bundled into a final assault on Exy’s cunt. Your cock is a piston on fire, rapidly leaving and penetrating the soft flesh at the right spot. You know Exy too well, she can’t play this stupid game forever. She grits her teeth, but her eyes already roll to the back of her head.

“Cum.

“Cum, Exy, you horny bitch!”

Once again, wet juices all over your base and thighs. The warmth from inside her is spread all over you, so it’s time to give her a good filling. To your massive first load, you add another impressive surge of cum. You pull yourself out, but before all of the white stuff can stain the carpet floor of the booth, you catch it with your hand.

“Ah, fuck. You got a paper towel or something?” you laugh and Exy’s playfully smacks your cheek.

“Get lost, asshole.”

(A/N2: omo, these have really set me ablaze fr)

[vodika-vibes]

Helloo! Thanks for doing this event!!

I'm going to pick Hunter, and I was wondering how you feel about a Father/Daughter kind of relationship story between Hunter and Omega? So the genre could be fluff, but family fluff, not romantic fluff.

I was thinking White Clover (I promise) and Dark Pink Rose (Gratitude.)

Maybe something along the line of Hunter promising Omega that he won't leave her, will always love her, will always be there for her, that sort of thing. And then the gratitude being on Omega's part, and how thankful she is that Hunter is willing to be a father figure for her.

If you aren't comfortable with that, maybe it could be a F!reader, but Hunter falls in love with her BECAUSE of how she helps take care of Omega, and he's grateful to her for that.

Whatever you're more comfortable with, as long as Hunter being a dad to Omega is worked in there somehow.

And if this is totally out of your comfort zone, just DM me and I can pick something else.

Thanks!

Carol @clonethirstingisreal)

Fathers and Daughters

Summary: It's nearing Parents Day and Omega is at a loss for what to do. Lucky for her, she's got an awesome teacher.

Relationships: TBB Hunter & TBB Omega, also Pre-Hunter x F!Reader

Word Count: 1386

Warnings: Fluff, just fluff

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: So it took me a while to come up with an idea for this, sorry about that. I freely admit that I haven't spoken to my dad since before I got married, and I'm tried of reaching out and trying to get scraps of his attention. But I think I did okay with this one.

You release a content sigh as you look around your classroom. Well, not your classroom, you’re just a teaching assistant, but the actual teacher decided to run off and do something else, leaving you in charge of a large group of pre-teens. 

Still, they’re good kids, so you don’t mind all that much. 

And the fact that you decided to not do the scheduled math lesson in favor of giving a history lesson on how Parent’s day started, and then giving the kids time to make a card or drawing for their respective guardians, means that they are less trouble than they would normally be.

Your gaze sweeps across the room, doing a quick check of the kids, and then you pause when your gaze lands on Omega.

She’s a  new student, having only been enrolled for only a couple of weeks, and so she doesn’t have many friends yet. But she’s also holding some colored pencils and a blank piece of paper, looking deeply uncertain.

If you recall correctly, Omega is being raised by her brothers. You have your suspicions why, suspicions you haven’t put into words due to the state of the galaxy, so long as Omega is happy and healthy it’s very much not your concern.

You stand from your desk, and circle the room until you’re standing next to Omega’s desk, and you crouch next to her. “Everything alright, Omega?”

“Oh!” She starts, and you frown. She must be more troubled than you thought if she didn’t notice you approaching her. You’d personally call Omega hypervigilant, her not noticing you is…weird. “Sorry, Miss, I didn’t see you.”

“It’s alright, Omega. I should have made some more noise, so I’m sorry for sneaking up on you.” You smile at her, “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“...I don’t have parents.” She says quietly, “So I’m not sure…”

“You have your brothers, don’t you?” You offer, “I know I’ve met Hunter, he came for the Parent conference.” He’s super cute, too bad he’s a parent to one of your kids…oh well, maybe next year.

“Yeah, but…he’s a brother, not a parent.” Omega says with a small frown.

“He takes care of you, right?” You reply, “Makes sure that you’re safe and happy and healthy?”

“Well…yes. Of course he does. He’s the best.”

“That sounds like a parent to me.”

Omega blinks at you, “You…” She pauses, “Really?”

“Really?”

Nervously the small girl spins a pencil through her fingers, “Do you think he’d like a card?”

“I think he’d love one.” You reply with a small smile.

Omega looks down at the blank piece of paper for a moment, “Um…miss?”

“Yes?”

“The other day, you said that people used to use flowers to indicate specific emotions-?”

“I did. Would you like me to bring you the book so you know what flower you want to draw?” You ask.

Omega ducks her head, “Yes please, miss. If you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind at all.” You reply, “That’s what I brought it for.” You lightly squeeze her shoulder, and then stand to go and pull your personal book out of your bag. Omega’s a good kid, you know she’ll treat your book well.

And half an hour later, Omega is carefully coloring a bunch of flowers on her paper, and you lift a hand to hide your small smile. It seems that your words had an effect.

Good. You hate it when any of your kids are upset.

Hunter sighs as he steps into the school, moving to the side as a group of smaller kids run past him giggling and screaming. He hates coming to the school.

There’s so many scents and loud noises, and he always gets a headache when he comes here.

But Omega wasn’t outside waiting for him, so here he is, heading to her classroom to look for her.

Luckily, that’s exactly where she is, standing next to the desk of the teacher’s assistant, talking to her about something. Hunter leans against the doorframe and waits.

When there’s a lull in the conversation, he clears his throat, and Omega turns. She smiles at him, “Hunter!”

“Sorry to interrupt,” He replies.

“You’re not interrupting,” The teacher says as she stands and greets him with a smile, and Hunter feels kind of bad for not remembering her first name. Omega clearly likes her, and she’s cute. “Go ahead, Omega.” She says, lightly nudging Omega towards him.

Omega crosses the room to him, takes a deep breath, and then she shoves a piece of paper into his hands. “Here! This is for you! Okaybye!” And she runs past him, her face flaming red.

Hunter blinks at the spot Omega was standing in, and then turns his bewildered gaze to the teacher, “What-?”

She muffles her laughter with a hand, “Omega worked really hard on that, she put a lot of thought into it.”

Hunter unfolds the paper, and he looks down at the drawing. There’s a carefully drawn and colored flower, which looks something like a pink rose, and a small blurb written at the bottom.

There, written in Omega’s messy scrawl, is written, ‘To Hunter - Thank you for always taking care of me, even when you weren’t sure you wanted to. Thank you for protecting me and helping me. Thank you for being my dad. Love, Omega.’

Hunter reads the note three times, and then he looks up at her teacher, “What-?” His voice sounds thick, and he pauses to clear his throat, “What is this about?”

She smiles at him, “Today is Parents day, and Omega was feeling a little left out because she doesn’t have a mom or a dad. So I pointed out that you were something like a parent to her.”

“I…well…” Hunter trails off, not really sure what to say, “Someone had to look after her-”

Her smile widens, “You know, I see a lot of myself in Omega.” Hunter pauses and stares at her, slightly alarmed, “My parents walked out on me and my brother when he was 18, and I was 8. And though my brother could have tossed me to the side, he stepped up and became the parent I needed.”

“Oh, that’s what you meant.” Hunter says with a sigh.

She shakes her head, “Omega’s lucky to have you. A lot of people wouldn’t have agreed to the counseling sessions that the school recommended for her.”

Hunter shrugs, “I promised that I’d protect her. Helping her recover from her trauma goes hand in hand with that.”

She smiles, “Well, Omega was very embarrassed about actually giving that to you, so you should probably do something about that.”

Hunter looks down at the card, and a small smile crosses his face, “Thanks. For looking out for her.”

She shrugs, “It’s what I do.”

He pauses, “You know,” Hunter says slowly, “We, my brothers and I, are having a cookout this weekend. You should come. Omega will be thrilled to see you.”

“I’d hate to interrupt a family cookout.”

“I’d also be thrilled to see you.” Hunter adds.

Her lips part in surprise, and pink rises on her cheeks, “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in dropping in. I’ll bring brownies.”

“It’s a date then,” Hunter says, using the word intentionally to see more pink rise to her cheeks, he scrawls the address on a scrap of paper, and presses it into her hand, flashes one more grin, and then leaves the classroom.

It’s been long enough that Omega shouldn’t be so embarrassed anymore. Hopefully.

Hunter finds her outside the school, near the gate, shifting from one foot to the other. She looks up at him, slightly anxiously.

Hunter just smiles at her and places his hand on her head, gently ruffling her hair, “You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you, Meg. I’m happy to do it.”

Her face heats, and she flings her arms around his waist in a tight hug, “I…I used to wonder why Boba was chosen and I wasn’t. But,” She hesitates, “But now I’m happy I wasn’t chosen, because I have you and you’re better.”

Hunter’s hand slides to the back of her head, “I’m flattered, Omega. And, kid, you’re welcome.”

She tilts her head back to grin up at him.

Hunter grins right back, “Come on, let’s go home.”

[thatonegayship]

This probably feels weird to ask

But I love how you draw dipper in general and your art in particular! Is it possible you could do a little tutorial on how your process goes?

If you don’t want to, I understand completely. I felt really hesitant asking this lol. Anyways, love your art!!!

I'm not the *best* at talking technicality, and certainly not about drawing Dipper; I have three distinct styles when dealing with him, that being Billdip Dipper, Canon Dipper, and AU Dipper, all of whom have entirely different purposes both visually and narratively. This results in some pretty inconsistent representations:

That being said! I'm totally cool with going over my process with you! Layout, technique, brainstorming, all that.

Generally speaking, I like to start my digital work on paper. Nothing crazy, just a basic idea that captures the pose, expression, and clothing (these things are destined to change by the end).

Notice the cloud of dirt kicking up at his feet. Look how I position one arm out while the other pulls farther back, and his hair blows from his face. There's a clear emphasis on motion here, both in body language (feet turned against the force) and added attire (Pinetree cloak flowing back, dust cloud at his feet, etc.)

This design is destined to change, but for action scenes like this, it's good to begin with an expressive foundation, so that once we start chipping away at and remolding our concept, we're building off of a design that encapsulates the *scene* we're wanting to convey. That is, no matter how much we shave off, we still have a strong foundation to reference towards and lean into for inspiration.

The next step is transferring our rough sketch into a digital setting.

This is where I tinker with the lasso tool, maybe take reference photos of the exact pose I had in mind. Here, I'm just breaking down my original sketch on a tablet. I readjusted the feet's position, pulled that other arm in to his chest, and straightened his arm out for a more powerful pose.

The next step focuses on pushing the pose and correcting anatomy errors.

Alright, cool! Now he's not just bracing for action, he's *jumping* into it. The back arm's pulled in like a fist, his shoulder bunched up close to his ear. We see how his body's twisted at the torso, chest out, legs stretched, arm extended.

Notice too how I utilize my shapes to empower the pose. Front arm and leg, extended. Lots of straight lines. It *curves* because of muscle and fat, but outside of that, they're pointed in a distinct direction. Contrastly, his right side curves at the hip and follows subtly up to his chest. This helps emphasize his lean into whatever he's attacking, sort of like a bow.

Now we've added details! You'll notice I've changed a lot of my initial design from my rough-sketch to fit more into the style and personality of Dipper in this setting. Since he's, you know, a "Pinetree," I figured his clothing should reflect it. I'm still working in pencil at this point, blocking out the general shapes of what I want, but not really exploring my options.

The cloak follows a slight gust, his hair flows back, the mushrooms on his shoulder lean out from the action, but these are still only guidelines. Keep it loose! Explore things! Have fun with it!

Next step, Inking. Digital art is *very* forgiving, so I'm a lot less concerned about moving forward without a full idea of my vision. This is usually the step I'm most inspired at because it allows me to go back over my loose sketch and add those minute details that excited me so much. I do not recommend moving forward without full confidence in your initial sketch when using traditional art! YOU WILL CRY!

Clothes: changed. Pose: changed. Details: expanded on.

This is where a bit of knowledge in anatomy is really going to serve you well. Bridging the gap between sketch and ink has always been very difficult for me, and it's due in part to those uncertain, not-quite-right bits I have to build off of from my initial sketch.

It's good to keep your rough draft light and fluid so that they capture the emotion and general pose of your character, but it's also important to keep in mind how you'll have to balance *maintaining* that level of expression while incorporating more realistic aspects of their design.

Take for instance Dipper's left foot that went from being tucked up under his butt, to being in a more braced position- like he's about to land, or skirt to a halt. As a loose sketch, it captures the motion very well. However, incorporating muscle and kneecaps and detailed shoes brings out a lot of the visual flaws. Proportion and angle become a serious issue if you aren't entirely sure how a particular body part would flex/squish/shorten in a particular position. The more realistic you go, the more jarring your mistakes.

This is, of course, not me saying you're forbidden from drawing your characters with a leg under their butt with big, meaty thighs. It's *actually* me letting everyone know that I tried working with the pose, building on it looked weird, and I decided to take a different approach. You are 100% allowed to try something else if your initial plan doesn't work out.

This step is where we adapt and improve. Our digital rough sketch didn't really capture the full power of his motion. His cloak kinda billows out like "Yeah, I'm a cloak, I billow gayly." It's flat, hollow, uninspired. Here, you're looking at photo references of Pinetrees, both real and not-real. You're gonna have to make it look like needles and branches, while *also* being a flowy bit of clothing.

For this, keep in mind how *cloth* moves with a more exaggerated, majestic rough sketch to overlay atop our failure of a branch jacket. Die.

See how despite the spikey pine needles, his cloak follows a distinct pattern? Additionally, this coat works in 3-dimensions. There's an outside and an inside, and it curves like a dome around him. It floats behind him, curves in front of him, lifts up, dips down. Really, it's up to you, but always consider your work on the third plain.

ALSO! Very important: Keep an eye on your line weight! Seriously, this took a long time for me to get a firm grasp of. Not *shading* really, but put a bit more emphasis on those bent spaces with darker lines. See that bold line connecting his thigh to his glutes? And the one behind his knee? DEPTH!! IT ADDS DEPTH!!

And *here* is the final product! This is the shading section, arguably my favorite and least-favorite part about my drawing process. Working in black and white, you don't really have to worry about getting every little shadow on your character. Just shade what needs emphasizing; everything with a shadow gets an added layer of depth as well. This is the part that gives your work an additional POP.

Consider too that shading isn't just solid black, even if you're working in black and white. His arm and under his hood are pretty solid black, but the interior of his cloak is far more textured and light. We see where it's darkest at his sides, but leading out, it lightens into distinct markings that (in my opinion) are visually more appealing. Using this tool is ultimately up to you, though.

Okay, the end!

[hwajin]

#! — 𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐞 | hhj

genre: smut, fluff

pairing: hyunjin x fem!reader

wc: 1.7k

warnings/ content: only dry humping and lots of build up <3

req, req

Breathing in. Breathing out. Chest heaving in soft motion, cautious — every movement, no mind how little, would disturb Hyunjin. He wouldn't tell you, yet you were aware. So, you tried to restrict even breathing, if it meant for him.

Scratching of harsh pen against champagne paper comforted you, rhythmic sound lulling into a state of utter content, soft mattress and silky sheets delicate to touch. Hyunjin's eyes were the one thing seeming to disturb the near fragile aroma — darting through the silence as though wanting to speak themselves, harsh and concentrated on your body, sending you into a spiral of emotions against the comfort you're chasing. It wasn't his fault, simply the effect he had on you.

"Let me draw you."

The words had sounded into the room suddenly, and you had laughed in response — Hyunjin's notebook was filled to the brim with sketches of you — your face, a lip only or a hand, body dressed and undressed — and while it had put you off initially, had insecured you in a way only precious things, precious subjects could you had grown fond of it. Had discovered Hyunjin's adoration hidden behind and within his sketches. By now he surely didn't need permission, nor did he let you know about most of his works while they're in the making at all — only showing you after, catching you in a moment so unknowingly, and your words of praise let Hyunjin's blood shoot across ears and cheeks, every time anew.

"Go ahead, you don't need to ask me baby."

Mindlessly answered while nose deep into assignments, eyeing him when you'd heard shuffling from the bed beside. Questioning Hyunjin's look, as though uncertain fright, shyness laced behind it.

"No, I mean... like actually draw you. Paint, if you want to. With you... posing."

It had been new, his nervous voice nothing but justified. You had agreed happily, had chosen a setting, a pose — had chosen you would be laying in the nude.

"Clothes are harder to draw."

Seemingly agreeable reason, you doubted it had been Hyunjin's only.

He had prepared his tools, glasses of tap water, multiple brushes in various thicknesses, structures. Oil colours, an opened window, plastic gloves. A canvas big enough to rule out the process would be a short one — and then you laid, naked to the bone, Hyunjin's eyes on you and pencil in hand. And though nudeness was never a problem with him, came as natural as anything else because it was him, your blood had starting pumping quicker, your pulse resonating in every fibre of your body. It had been the intensive stare, the situation in it's whole — purely innocent yet corrupted, in a hint of seduction, of a mind of utter sexuality.

And he thought you were breathtaking. Intentive stare merely because unsure where else to stare, and frankly it would have been both contradictary and wholly embarrassing if he converted eyes — he'd been the one to propose the idea after all, shying away was the very last the man was supposed to do, surely. So he kept his gaze upon you entirely, with a force he'd never planned yet couldn't help, for is he laid eyes on you any different it would break him, in half and fully.

Ordering you to change position slightly, moving pencil and brush over already clattered canvas and one might think Hyunjin'd grow used to your bare figure. Yet, his movements stayed stiff, nearly scared — urging to capture beauty of yours accurately, frightened for you not to enjoy the outcome. His eyes traced you whole — dancing across the curve of your shoulders and following the lines of collarbones, only slightly perky in given position. Breathing out in attempt to calm nerves when downing gaze gen breasts, trying to save face when eyes arched around their perkiness, their mounds and seeming spilling out the body. Mouth falling ajar when look met dip of waist and hip, noticing your skin covered in cold shivers, surpressing knowing grin, because he wasn't any better.

"You're... beautiful."

Wished to express different words, bigger words — hypnotic, alluring, mesmerizing — and yet the simplest of them all seemed to be most saying, most meaningful. Didn't promise the dusguise words too pretty did, provided the very plain, the mostest, the deepest of Hyunjin's thoughts when it came to you — promised your undeniable beauty.

A quick smile followed his words and his eyes were back on the canvas, leaving yours to lose themselves in the flusterness his comment provided. It wasn't a comment unknown to you, and yet, in the fragility of your surrounding, in the vulnerabilty of the moment it seemed to mean something different. Something different than it normally did, something deeper, perhaps.

And you weren't able to take it any longer. His words ringing an echo in your head, your eyes following his furrowed brows towards his staring eyes, down to his darting tongue and further to the lines of his arms, strong beneath the plan black shirt. His leg propped up on the lower bar of his stool, body hunched forward to fish for tools and correct mistakes.

And his name left your lips. In a matter soft that it frightened you he couldn't hear, yet his eyes found yours not moments later. Gazes meeting in longing, in desire. Yours pleading. For more, for closeness.

"Come here baby."

A whisper only and you complied. Arose from your place, made your way towards Hyunjin, him sliding the confining latex off his hands. A tad self-conscious of your state — utterly aware of your and his state, him within his clothes' comfort, you without — until you stood inches away, between the subtle spread of his legs.

"Careful, don't touch all that. It's kinda toxic to the skin."

Motioning towards the colors, and you nodded without taking eyes off him. Heart warming strangely at Hyunjin's hand on your hip to pull you away from said toxins — warming, because he cared, strangely, because it was a given, after all. Yet the hand on your hip burned itself into your conscious. The man looked up at you with eyes so big and dark it reminded you of a deer, irises so round behind their glasern doors that you bowed down to peck at his lips. Shortly and gone before he could look, perplexity reflecting in his feautures. A hand on your hip anew, pulling you towards him this time around — towards his body, his warmth. Again you compiled, no reason not to. A subtle tap of his against his thigh and you understood, shifted to settle on his lap — slightly uncomfortable given the lack of support the stool gifted, yet you felt at home, right there, your own legs caging in his. Naked skin against clothed one, though now it didn't seem to bother you.

It wasn't enough to reach you yet Hyunjin stretched his neck upwards, failed attempt to connect lips, though you didn't leave him hot and bothered for long; lowered head only slightly to catch him in a kiss awaited, a kiss mimicing redemption. A kiss that didn't want to end, that continued on until lips were a bitten red and swollen, until breath came scattered. Until hips began moving against hips, rather mindlessly and only taking notice of it when a first gasp left Hyunjin's lips. A first gasp that you inhaled within you, that you ate up with everything you had — and you wanted to hear it again. Lowering head further to nib at his neck, fingers toying at his body, caressing parts you knew better than anyone else, you took pride in knowing better than anyone else. And he left you satisfied — sounds of contentment spilling past his parted mouth, growing in volume with every passing minute. Smiling against his skin and you were sure he took notice of it — he always did.

"Baby.."

Voice breathless, big hand on your chin, leaving you no choice other than the one to look at him, to raise your head from within his glistening neck and find yourself face to face with him. Eyes holding a million words that were left unspoken, would have turned meaningless if made audible into the quiet of the room.

"Please."

Though day started so very innocently, though morning was left with admiring body and painting nudeness, left breathless not because of sexuality but intimacy, vulnerability, rather, you now were unable to keep hands off each other. Groping anywhere possible, mostly to hold yourself against Hyunjin's lap, partly to merely hold him close - you always wanted to hold him close. Hips were sheerly rolling against hips, rhythm so slow it was nearly unbearable and yet everything you'd want. Back and forth, meeting in the middle, at the very core, as though subtle waves of oceans forced you together - back and forth, back and forth, back forth. Again and again.

Your legs grew sore when Hyunjin's head fell back, neck so violently giving in it scared you initially, biting lips moments later when the sight presented itself before you - his bruise bitten skin, red and purple litters across the delicate of his neck, similar to the colors on the canvas behind you. Hyunjin's eyes shut close in satisfaction, in anticipation - he was incredibly close, judging on his steady grip and longing whines; and you were ready to give in. Paying no mind to aching thighs and sweaty skin, senses focusing merely on him before you - the way he locked eyes with you again, hair dischevelled, pupils doubled in size, mouth agape to say something or simply due to the inability to close it. And you moved faster, only a little bit, only enough for his eyes to squeeze close anew and bent towards you, to connect ajar lips with your own, sloppy, wet, utterly careless. And then his hips stuttered, lost their rhythm in ways desperate, drawn out groan slipping past bruised lips, into your own, swallowing up his every sound. Spreading wetness beneath you as you followed suit not moments later, disconnected kiss to rest head in neck, to breathe breathlessly against reddened skin, against sensitive ear. And you sat like that for a while, hand in hand and body against body, canvas daring to dry out yet giving the portrait another shot, another day was nothing you'd deny.

@etherealeeknow @linoskitty @unexceptional-h @rseanne @es-kay-zee @urcracksisx @jeyelleohe @yunkiwii @etheralsung @nyrasneedy @seochhj @spidercomics @chans-starlight @angelwonie @lix-ables @yvniek4ng @ppiri-bahng @sstarryreads @svintsandghosts @bokjaz @llunapastell @sensitiveandhungry @minniesvenus

[ahhvernin]

How many classes have you taken?

What’s your favorite thing to draw?

What’s your least favorite thing to draw?

How often do you use references?

For traditional artists: How do you usually start on a big piece? (Light sketch, colored lead, sketchpaper, etc)

For traditional artists: what medium do you like most? (Pencil, charcoals, etc)

I took your basic grade school classes and one semester of a basic art class in college.

Plants, moths, butterflies, birds, cats, human models, Ryou Bakura. XD

LEGS. Actually the whole waist, hip, buttock, leg, foot unit. Took me a decade to get arms and hands to look "acceptable" in my eyes. It's gonna take another decade. So maybe by the time I'm 50 it'll be acceptable to me.

All the time. References are my everything because I don't have a good memory bank of how things fit or flow together or even how physics work together. Images in my mind are always just sketches.

Big has always been difficult for me. Actually my professor gave me a whole personal lecture to not be afraid of the paper and draw BIG. He once took my hand and charcoal and like a parent teaching their kid to write letters, he planted down the base lines of my self portrait, and said "DRAW BIG. SKETCH BIG. DON'T BE AFRAID OF THE PAPER. I KNOW YOU CAN DRAW WELL. DRAW BIG! NO MORE OF THIS ITTY BITTY FLIP BOOK SHIT! YOU ALSO HAVE A NICE NECK. DRAW. YOUR. NECK. DRAW IT." And all throughout the semester he would make his rounds among us students and would always go "MISS. C! BIGGER!" "MISS. C WHAT IS THAT TINY LITTLE ANT DRAWING?!" "MISS. C! I WILL FAIL YOU IF YOU DONT DRAW BIGGER! AND I DO NOT WANT TO FAIL YOU!" "MISS C! I CAN STILL SEE 70% OF EMPTY SPACE ON THAT PAPER, DON'T WASTE YOUR TUITION MONEY DRAWING TINY THINGS ON BIG PIECE OF PAPER!" So how I start? I just close my eyes and replay all his scoldings in my head. And then I put down my very anxious and uncertain base lines. XD

Pencil/ pen and paper. Acrylic paint is nice, but I don't really know who to use it and have only worked on it sparingly. Oil pastels was fun to use but very messy and I didn't like the feeling it left on my hands. Charcoal was great, but also very messy. Actually truth be told...I never had a professor like him, and I never had anyone who spoke to me like that when it came to my art skills. I wonder why it felt like he was trying so hard with me even though it was just a 101 class. I wonder if he figured out that I didn't need the class and was just there because I wanted to and it was my only chance to take an art class after years of being told I shouldn't waste my time on art. Anyway....the class was just satisfactory or unsatisfactory, but he said he would be at his desk if anyone was interested in the "Pointless letter grades I still scored you on because I felt like it." Everyone was a satisfactory. I was curious so went, I got an A. Probably one of best feeling from a grade ever. He also told me I was crazy for wanting to turn a Van Gogh painting into an ink drawing, and actually did a decent job. He said if I chose another painting for ink he wouldn't have thought of it, but I went for the flowers and asked if I got carpel tunnel for it. I told him yes, my wrist did start hurting.

[damianacottstudio3]

Experiment

just doing random drawings with fine line and oil pastel

i actually didnt mind using the material ( oil pastel)

i found it informing yet fun

trialled this experiment where i draw faces by only holding the pencil from the end and not with a tight grip just loosely

i did find it enjoyable

Im not sure if i would take this further

the oil pastel works were just in the moment pieces

i wanted to create these abstract characters either disjointed or unfamiliar

i feel like i've been particularly focused on faces either directly or indirectly

out of all the pieces here my favourites would be the pencil drawing of the faces and the oil pastel (with yellow teeth)

if im being honest the pencil drawing of the multiple faces kind of reminded me of something out of a movie like the person who made this was overwhelmed by faces, constantly seeing them

it kind of gives this sense of uncertain, not feeling right yet it works

i like that it varies in positioning like in one corner or spot of the piece the character is facing you eyes on but you move your eyes and another glances at you from the side or rather side on

i actually found that when i was making the oil pastel work with yellow teeth i kind of followed Basquiat, like by making these character really abstracted, having overly proportioned characteristics, however i found that the process was more so done in an angry or frustrated tone which is carried out through the pressing/pressure of the material on paper

[penkraft123]

Mandala-A Randomly Creative Blog

Mandala-A Randomly Creative Blog The purpose of this article is to discuss the art of mandala in depth, from its origin to its design.We’ll demonstrate how to make your own mandala and go over the various advantages it provides for both your physical and mental well-being. You’ll be able to access your creative side and let your inner artist go by learning about mandalas. So, let’s begin by knowing the background of this lovely design and then look at how it might help you tap into your creative potential.

What is a mandala?

A mandala is a mystical symbol that’s frequently employed in Eastern art and religion. It has an oval or round shape with radial concentric circles and lines. The mandala’s exact origins are uncertain however it is generally accepted that India is where it first appeared. A lot of times, the universe or the makeup of awareness are represented by mandalas. It also aids in meditation and concentration for users. A mandala can be made in a variety of ways. You can make a mandala using a computer tool or a traditional way

The significance of mandala

Mandala symbology is extensive and intricate. It can be used to achieve a feeling of tranquilly, for meditation, and for prayer. In addition, be employed as a means of artistic expression to convey feelings and thoughts. A mandala is a spiritual pattern that helps people concentrate their minds. It is traditionally drawn on a cleaned and cleansed surface. The mandala is then created by the artist using sand or ink. The universe is represented by the mandala’s form and layout. There are numerous interpretations of the mandala’s colours and symbols. Mandalas come in a variety of shapes and sizes, such as the traditional mandala with eight points, the eight branches of yoga, the 10 fields of vision, and the sixteen points of the compass.

Mandala creation as a creative process

Mandalas have been used by designers and artists as a creative tool for ages. It is a means of putting your ideas and thoughts on a piece of paper or a digital canvas. Describe a mandala. It is a piece of art that is made up of connected circles or other geometric forms. The Sanskrit word manja, which meaning “circle,” is where the name mandala originates.

It helps people connect with the universal, focus their minds, and control their emotions. Mandala creation is frequently a ritualistic activity. You might start with a rough drawing or an idea before adding the details. You are allowed to utilise hues and designs that reflect your personal ideals and principles.

Additional reading

One of the oldest and most revered art forms in the world is the mandala. It is a representation of change and enlightenment and can be present in every culture on earth. With the help of the mandala, you may decompress, organise your thoughts, and get in touch with your inner divinity. It is also a fantastic approach to encourage harmony and peace in your life and the globe.

We sincerely hope you enjoyed reading about the mandala in our blog post. A lovely and adaptable art style, mandalas can be applied in many different contexts. We offer a step-by-step tutorial for making your own mandala in this article. This article is intended to help you better understand the art form and show you how to use it to develop your own creativity.

Penkraft conducts classes, course, online courses, live courses, workshops, teachers’ training & online teachers’ training in Handwriting Improvement, Calligraphy, Abacus Maths, Vedic Maths, Phonics and various Craft & Artforms – Madhubani, Mandala, Warli, Gond, Lippan Art, Kalighat, Kalamkari, Pichwai, Cheriyal, Kerala Mural, Pattachitra, Tanjore Painting, One Stroke Painting, Decoupage, Image Transfer, Resin Art, Fluid Art, Alcohol Ink Art, Pop Art, Knife Painting, Scandinavian Art, Water Colors, Coffee Painting, Pencil Shading, Resin Art Advanced etc. at pan-India locations. With our mission to inspire, educate, empower & uplift people through our endeavours, we have trained & operationally supported (and continue to support) 1500+ home-makers to become Penkraft Certified Teachers? in various disciplines.

[justashadetalkative]

“I… maybe?” Phosa took the supplies with an uncertain air. She didn’t often draw. Still…

It took her a few tries to settle on colors, starting out with a plain black pencil and straight strokes before eventually switching to warmer hues and jagged, wandering lines. Once she’d found something that felt right, she flipped to a fresh page and drew a final version.

Phosa stared at it. It felt… the center was wrong. Gently tearing out the page, she pressed her thumb to the drawing and let her light burn closer to its full spectrum until the paper charred through.

That looked right. But the act itself had been unexpectedly satisfying, and Phosa found that she didn’t want to stop. She pinched out several thin lines, the paper vaporizing into smoke and ash, before making herself set the drawing down. It didn’t quite look right anymore, and what she really wanted to do was to keep going until there was nothing left… which didn’t feel like what Megan had asked for.

(For the first time, she thought she might understand why Linast had such a hard time keeping himself from scratching things.)

Once again, Phosa stared down at the drawing; gestured towards it, a little helplessly, and shook her head. She still couldn’t pull any words to mind.

"I... I can't explain. I don't have the words." (Phosa to Maude or Megan?)

mothtown starters

“Could you draw it, maybe?” Megan hesitated only a moment before she flipped her big sketchbook to a blank page and pushed it across the grass toward the other, followed by a box of colored pencils. “Here. You can use more than one page if you want.”

[andraskiraly]

Uncertain, bruspen, pencil on paper, #kiralyandras #uncertain #draw #black #spot #layer #brushpen #horrorvacui #grid #paper #kunst #art #fineart #contemporaryart #pencil #wonderfull #contemporary #gray #line #artpiece #instaart #thankyou #plain #jazz #newwork https://www.instagram.com/p/Cc2tm4Ooz0C/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[juneknight]

//An Island No More\\

“Never knew we had so much bloody stuff,” Steven mutters. He sits like an island in the sea of junk, a head of haphazard curls bobbing above piles of eclectically sorted items that the two of you have dredged up from various surfaces around the flat. Steven and the others aren’t hoarders, but they do have a habit of refusing to throw anything away lest it belong to another alter. You served as a middleman, the only one present consistently enough to know what is whose and what's worth keeping. “Look at this—a flyer from last year! I don’t even think this restaurant is open anymore. Rubbish.”

He crumples it and takes aim at the rubbish bin, sinking the shot with a practiced flick of his wrist. Littered around the bin on the floor are your own failed attempts.

Picking up a fresh stack of papers and books to comb through, Steven continues: “Real convenient how Marc and Jake are missing in action. They always seem to skive off on cleaning days and leave it all to us, don’t they?”

“We’ll save the bathroom for them,” you suggest, sitting heavily into the chair at Steven’s desk and wondering where to begin making sense of the mess. “Wouldn’t be right for us to have all the fun.”

Steven grins. “It’s the civil thing to do, isn’t it? Look at this—a calendar for three years from now? What’s the bloody use in that? We don’t even own a calendar for this year.”

“I think we do,” you say, plucking highlighters of various colors from beneath papers and inside pencil cups. “Over under Sole’s book about the Rosetta Stone. I think Marc brought home the one you're holding though. Is it empty?”

The pages rustle as he flips through them. “Yeah. Wait—no. Something’s here: Falls. Did you write that?”

You blink, wracking your brain. “Oh. No. That must have been Marc. He told me ages ago when we were chatting about bucket lists, things we’d like to do, places we’d like to visit and such. Mostly, he just listened, but he did say he’d always wanted to see Niagara Falls, so I suggested we go on your next birthday milestone. I said we could look into—what is it? Steven, what is it?”

Steven has grown still. For a moment, you think that he has switched, that Jake or Marc has come to the front. But when he glances up at the sound of you calling his name, you know it’s him. You can always tell your lovers apart by their eyes. Steven’s eyes are soft, open, and currently filled with tears. 

“What is it?” you ask, heart in your throat.A highlighter slips from your fingers and clatters to the wooden floor, rolling somewhere beneath the desk. “What’s wrong, love?”

Steven laughs wetly, rubbing his knuckles against the rims of his eyes to head off any falling tears. “Nothing. I just—well, you don’t understand, do you?”

“Is it the Falls? Does it mean something to you? Marc said he’d never been—“

“We haven’t, no. But Marc…this isn’t like him, you know.”

You don’t know, not yet. But something in Steven’s tone has you dropping the rest of the highlighters and high-stepping your way through all the junk, past the sea and up onto the sand with him til he is alone no more. An island no more. 

Steven leans against you. His thumb brushes over Marc’s neat, cramped script. “I don’t think he’s ever really been the sort to make plans or think too far ahead. Maybe he couldn’t imagine a future for himself. Maybe he didn’t want to. But something’s changed now, hasn’t it? It’s right here, isn’t it? He’s going to Niagara Falls.” 

It’s your turn for your eyes to grow misty. Unable to speak around the knot in your throat, you wrap your arms around Steven and nod into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, squeezing tighter when you feel the desperate way he clings back.

All at once, he reaches to cup your jaw and move you away so that he can cast his anxious eyes—Marc, Marc’s eyes, always so searching and uncertain, with the line between the brows—over your wet cheeks. Now he wipes at your tears. 

“Hey,” Marc soothes. “What is it? Did something happen? Steven slipped away so fast.” 

“Nothing happened,” you promise. “Just—come here. Let me hold you.” 

“Never gonna say no to that,” Marc murmurs, wrapping his arms around you. You rest your head against his shoulder, close enough to feel the distant thrum of his steady pulse. He’s alive. More than that, he wants to live. Steven was right. You hadn’t understood at all. 

[mpxmaxim]

His lips part slightly, still mostly hiding how he bites down on the very tip of his tongue in concentration, while his eyes are fixed on the pencil in his hand. It shifts around from feeling too unsteady to something that looks like a barbarian holding a weapon that is simultaneously too small and too big for his hand, and circles back to a wobbly grip. Only when he feels the sinner’s gaze focus on him does he look up. And would his usual expression not be such a practiced craft, Maxim might’ve flinched right then. That golden flare tugs at something within him, calling him with a silent song and telling him to forget everything he claims to know. He is sure he shouldn’t and yet, he almost does. It’s mesmerizing. 

But just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. 

Maxim blinks, uncertain whether he might’ve just imagined it, and with the flick of the pencil he briefly glares at Invidia before breaking eye contact to look at it. As if it’s second nature, four of his now empty fingers fold up into a fist again, the one in the middle standing up to effectively flip his coworker off. 

“Trust me,”  he mirrors the sinner’s icy glare from before, putting his own wicked spin on it by adding the hint of a remorseful smile, “if I could, I’d get the fuck out of here right now.” As much as he hates to admit it, Maxim knows that his current position renders him pretty useless at either of his jobs. Not being able to hold a pen only solidifies that opinion. 

Invidia scoots closer and Maxim can feel heat rise up his throat, shoot past his cheeks and over to the tips of his ears in what he assumes must be an irrational burst of rage at their proximity. Though he knows the feeling of rage and annoyance well and, it doesn’t feel like anything he’s ever experienced while being angry, he figures it must be a new level of frustration. Only able to be reached by the sinner. 

Finally, he dares to shift his gaze from Invidia’s and down to his hand that is carefully adjusting the pencil between Maxim’s fingers. It would be such a sweet gesture if it weren’t done by the most infuriating nuisance to ever exist. 

When he finally manages to hold on to it, he looks up, eyebrows twitching together before he raises them to wordlessly ask Invidia about the shock on his face. Did he say something he wasn’t supposed to? Is he missing something? Or maybe the sinner is just messing with him just for the hell of it?

He opens his mouth to question his reaction but cuts himself off right when Invidia speaks up again. Still confused, he doesn’t look away, studying the dancer’s features as if to search for a clue within eyes that aren’t meeting his gaze anymore. 

What could possibly be going through this man’s undoubtedly mostly empty mind? 

Maxim looks down at the sketch pad to follow Invidia’s line of sight, while the question burns on his tongue, craving an answer.

The pencil is not nearly as secure in his left hand as it would be in his dominant right one, but with Invidia’s guidance, he can at least apply pressure onto the paper without it slipping away.

He chuckles softly at the sinner’s words, knowing only too well that his statement is full of shit.

“You and I both know that if Malea wanted to kick me out, she’d have way better reasons to do it than me being unable to work due to injuries. And I doubt she’d find another fool wiling to put up with your bullshit.” 

With way more effort than he’s willing to admit, he writes down his name at the top of the blank sheet of paper. It’s crooked, and if somebody would see it without knowing his name, they might assume it’s supposed to read ‘Maxi m’, but to be fair—it’s not that much worse than it usually is. 

“When you first came over,” he pauses for just a fraction of a moment when he funnels his concentration to writing his name again, “I thought you wanted to play nurse or something.” He looks up with a teasing grin on his face, ignoring the pathetic second attempt to write his name. “With that ‘teacher’ act, you’re just being greedy, don’t you think?”

Despite the playful nature of his words, his mind reels with ideas of just what the look on Invidia’s face from before meant. Maxim wouldn’t openly question it—he wouldn’t want to feel the need to explain his every move either—but if it would happen to come up again during their conversation naturally, it wouldn’t hurt to ask, right? 

♮

Invidia only smiles when Maxim says that he is merely infuriating to him. Good then. That is as it should be. Those hazel eyes watch calmly as his security guard struggles with the hold on his pencil. The grip is shaky at best and utterly embarrassing at worst and were Invidia not so determined to have Maxim back to being useful at work for the sake of everyone there, he’d leave him to rot in that bed and very likely impale himself on the drawing tools. 

    His enemy makes the quip about him not needing an excuse to see him really and Invidia levels him with an icy glare. A glimpse of that same magic that had once sizzled up into Maxim’s arms in a heated debate in the library between them is there in his eyes as they flare gold then settle again, the smooth mask of indifference settling over those handsome features again. Once it’s there, the sinner breaks it again with a little grin and he leans just a little toward Max again and flicks the pencil out of his hands wickedly. It falls away from the other’s hold after he claims he hasn’t defaced himself and seems to be an extra insult to the matter.

     “Well, someone has to pay for your foolishness.” Never mind that in his absence from Babylon, there had been a few random incidents with clients thinking that because the shadow of Maxim wasn’t there that the other security would be easy to toy with. This was not so— but the attempts had been bold ones. Invidia wears the mark of one such incident quietly just behind one of his ears. He chooses not to say these things, not to worry the other. “If it is not you then it is most certainly the staff here that surely has to put up with your cumbersome self.”

    The sinner moves then, coming to scoot up further on the bed and reaching to bring the pencil back up and placing it in Maxim’s fingers— the right way. His hands steady the other’s single one then pull away when he is sure the hold is steady.

      ‘Guess I’ll have to find a willing victim next time.’

     Invidia’s eyes lift to look at Maxim then, wide and searching. Someone who would be brave enough to endure the sweep of their own mind being tampered with? Someone bold enough to have those fears exposed to another and have nowhere to run? Invidia looks at Maxim, his mind reeling then going still in thought. Someone who would have to be open and who Maxim would have to see in ways that the regular eye never could. The sinner drops his eyes then.

     “Focus,” he says and taps the sketch pad with a finger. “I didn’t come here to listen to your delusions of depravity. I came here to help you regain your ability to at least keep one of your jobs while Malea considers whether or not she will replace you. Now, write your name.”

[husbandohunter]

Moments of Despair #2 [Genshin Impact/Albedo x Reader]

Synopsis: "The alchemist who relished in his gifts only to fall from grace."

(A series of works where the boys deal with the passing of their beloved).

Diluc’s despair

Warnings: angst, tragedy, major character death and psychological horror (correct me if otherwise)

(A/n): I decided to take a slightly different approach this time. Regardless, it’s still killing my heart TwT.

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

Out of the many wonders of Teyvat, one thing Albedo loved most was how you were so different from him. 

Difference ties to the unknown, one that must be discovered. He was drawn to you the first time he had laid his eyes upon your form standing at the heights of Mondstadt's cathedral. The Sisters scolded you from below, but all you did was reply with a wink amidst their chaos before soaring into the skies and letting the wind carry your glider. Reckless they said. For him, your recklessness was intriguing. 

As the sun's light blinded his vision, everything he saw seemed like a glass barrier. For the ground was where he thrived and chalk was his core, it became the basis of Albedo's very existence. Even the geo Archon granted him a Vision of the same element to affirm his identity. The earth will forever be attached to his feet as he will keep on his stride until every last truth of Teyvat have all been realized. You, on the other hand, hailed from a place where he couldn't quite reach. What lies beyond this glass ceiling? Albedo found himself gradually holding onto a string of curiosities, a string he could touch but was not able to feel. 

'Interesting,' he thought quietly, while the breeze slip between the fingers of his outstretched hand. 

He was a character of logic, possessing sharp eyes that could pierce through the depths of the most complex formulas and a mind to predict their outcomes-  as long as alchemy was still related. All impossibilities thrown in his way only paved a path for him to become the well known genius he was now. Whether it was alchemy or  investigations with the Knights of Favonius, Albedo never failed to deliver the answers. But despite it all, he always found himself endlessly contemplating over things that were considered intangible. He wonders why you smile when there was nothing to laugh about. How could you tell between the complexities of the human heart? Albedo can't seem to put a finger on it. 

'Why? What drives you? What are you thinking?' 

The Chief Alchemist couldn't resist being fascinated by your unpredictability. It reels him in similar to a fish being baited out of the waters. However, unlike those creatures, Albedo only tightened his grip on the strings as if they were a lifeline, determined to find out what they truly felt like to the touch. 

"I can't really say it's much of an answer," you hummed, clasping both hands behind your back before declaring with a grin, "To put it simply, you just gotta follow your heart."

'Follow your heart...' What does it mean to follow your heart? 

"I'm afraid I still don't understand," he replied in a thoughtful manner. The statement never really resonated with him and it certainly weren't the words his Master taught when he was in the early stages of being created, "But it does suit you very much." 

"Really? But still bring your head with you," a playful laugh escapes and you add while pointing a finger, "At least, it's what everyone tells me these days." 

"Hm," Albedo then affirms with a nod, "I can definitely see why they would tell you that." 

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?" 

The days go by and his repetitious march towards the truth remains the same. However, there was never a dull moment when you were at his side. Perhaps that was the reason why Albedo became so attracted to your aura. The way you'd follow around his experiments, eyes so full of enthusiasm at every step of the activity. Sometimes the events can get a little too out of hand in which he needs to step in and save you from getting stuck in slime condensates...constantly. Albedo grew fond of your childlike excitement even when you weren't entirely sure what was going on. He normally distanced himself from socializing as it never sparked his interest. Frankly, he was too much of a genius for mundane conversations. Your presence was rather refreshing in this case. You were an oddball, just like him, and for once the alchemist felt like he didn't need to place that glass barrier between the two worlds. 

"You seem to be in a very good mood today Mister Albedo." 

He was a man of subtle expressions yet anyone could notice the small gleam in his eyes whenever he saw you walking in the hallway. Sucrose often remarked with a giggle after she noticed her teacher holding his documents upside down. But who could blame him? Joy, fun, laughter. He was able to experience those emotions all because of you; his beloved. You were the colour to his canvas and the meaning to his flower. You were a force of nature. Like a warm breeze gracing upon the terrestrial lands, you move him. 

Thump- thump- thump- 

Strings around his world began to weave one whole picture while they also tugged inside his chest. God had finally blown the breath of life into mankind's body, it was only a matter of time before Albedo came to follow his heart too. 

-------- 

"Alright, just one more detail aaaaand done!" 

You gave a small tap using the tip of your pencil and leaned back to examine your artwork. 

Masterpiece! 

On days when Katheryne had no commissions assigned to the guild, Albedo would accompany you to the Whispering Woods and conduct his sketches there instead. He was aware of the discomfort Dragonspine brought as the temperature wasn't ideal for anyone except for him. You eventually learned that your lover was not only intelligently different from the rest but physically too. Albedo, aside from the Cavalry Captain, was mysterious in his own way. He was hard to read yet never came off as intimidating, no one knew of his origins nor they knew how he came to Mondstadt. You wondered why someone like him would have wanted to get involved with your shenanigans. Rosaria often gave warnings regarding the alchemist's 'hidden intentions' in which you'd roll your eyes in response. The Albedo you knew was far from that. He was a big brother to Klee, a man passionate about his work, he was the one golden star among the many silvers in your sky. He was your lover. 

My Albedo. 

Brushing a hand upon the drawing you made of him, you glided down the lines of his cheek before resting your finger on the mark by his neck. You gazed at it with fondness. Truly a masterpiece indeed. 

"You do realize I'm still here?" 

The paper nearly flies out of your grasp and you snatched it back to your chest, "HUH A-ALBEDO, WHEN DID YOU APPEAR???" 

"I was with you the whole time," he states. The corner of his lip tug upward ever so slightly, "You said you wanted to sketch me." 

"A-Ahahaha, so I did," you reply while scratching your head bashfully. 'I thought I was looking at a sculpture!!'  You rushed to cover your face with the sheet. It wasn't that you forgot he was there, rather, you forgot he was still a living and breathing specimen who just witnessed your little serenade. As Lisa had once said, Albedo was easy on the eyes. His graceful features made him seem almost like an oil painting that could only be found in  halls of the most prestigious households. You made sure to capture everything, every detail, every curve just like he had done with your portraits. Only now you noticed the sun already began its descent below the lakeside, dusting the landscape with hints of bright orange as it marked the day's end. If only time could slow down. But duty calls upon your next journey and there was no telling when you'd return. At the very least, a simple portrait would suffice to fill in the temporary gap of his absence. 

"Can I see it?" 

You glanced his direction while keeping the drawing close to your nose, "Are you sure about that? It might not be up to your expectations." 

"I'm sure," Albedo affirms with a straight countenance, "I can already tell you've put a great amount of effort, otherwise you wouldn't have taken this long." 

"Yeeaahh I kinda lost track of time. I guess it's only fair that you get to see the finished product," you say and shoved the drawing in front of him, "Tada! I present to you, my masterpiece!" 

Albedo takes it out of your grasp and you watched the way his eyes expanded upon sight. 

"Well? Whaddya think?" 

Words could not describe the mixture of emotions that erupted within him. Was it distinguishable or abstract? Albedo spent his time pondering between the two answers as he examined the drawing closely. Despite the lines being slightly jagged and the unevenness in the placement of his eyes, he managed to make the shape of the entire image you were trying to convey. Perhaps it was all thanks to his well trained artistic vision which gave him the ability to do so. Or maybe he was simply biased. But there wasn't a shred of doubt that this was indeed your craftsmanship. 

"You even added flowers in the background," he pointed out with amusement. 

"It's the thing you make when using your elemental burst, I couldn't fit your hand in the picture so I decided to put it somewhere empty," you informed, "Out of everything, that one took me the longest." 

"And the rabbits?" 

"They resemble Klee's bombs!" 

He lets out a chuckle, "I see." 

Albedo kept his attention downward until he was mindlessly staring at the paper in hand. This was a memory made to be carried as you moved on to your next journey and it saddens him that he could not accompany you. If only time slowed down. Albedo wanted to hold onto the memory forever, because he knew once he gave it back, he wouldn't be able to see you for an uncertain amount of time. 

"Do you really have to go?" 

His voice was barely above a whisper. Guilt crept into your heart and you gingerly layed your fingers on his gloved ones, bringing down the paper that blocked his face. A pair of teal orbs held a reflection of your image as the sun's rays casted from the side. You returned it with a reassuring grin, hoping to soothe his worries somehow, "I just need to pay a visit to my father since he's been very sick lately. I'll be fine, so don't worry too much okay?" 

Albedo turns over his palm and gave your hand a squeeze, "How long will it take?" 

"I'm not sure but it will be a while. Snezhnaya is pretty far so..." you trailed off, "But my time in Mondstadt, with Klee and with you, I will never forget! I won't even if I tried." 

When you were met with no answer, a breeze came in to fill the melancholic silence. He too will not forget and he would ensure that it was the same for you. Slowly, Albedo brought your hand up, past the center of his heart all the way to cupping his cheek. He allowed himself to indulge in your warmth, tangling the strands of his hair with your fingers while closing his eyes. Sweet flowers. You always carried the smell of sweet flowers. 

"Albedo?" You gawked, "What's the matter?" 

"...There are certain aspects where drawings can't imitate,"  he says, grip tightening ever so slightly, "How I feel against your skin, the shape of my jaw, your warmth radiating with my own. These are the things I want you to remember." 

Breath leaves your slightly parted mouth. It was unfair how straightforward Albedo could be when showing his affection. Doing as he pleases without anyone's approval to the point it would even catch you off guard since he often absorbed himself in the arts of alchemy. But during times when Albedo did choose to express his feelings, you knew they came from a place of pure genuinity. The thought made it hard for you to tear away from him, "Did you ever find out what the strings felt like then?" 

Albedo returns his gaze, long golden lashes hovering them as he smiles softly, "...I have." 

As he began to reveal his stories, the dusk sky continued to flare across the landscape with colours of passion. Red, it was the thread that had led him to you, the same string that weaved him together as a whole. Albedo lays a kiss atop of your pinky, there was a reason why Mondstadtians called him the Chalk Prince. You didn't know the intention behind his sudden affection but he knew. It was a promise, one to ensure that the thread would also have you return safely back into his arms. 

Oh how he hated the colour red. 

"Al...bedo..." 

With speed he never knew he had, Albedo scoops you into his embrace and held you close. How did everything happen so fast? He curses his mind as it proceeds to scan your injuries, drawing a conclusion where he wished to be wrong for once: 

You were beyond help. 

"Ah..haha..." you managed to laugh through bitter tears, "You don't have to say it. I know." 

His breath hitches, trying to make sense of the feeling that was slowly tearing him apart from the inside. It's not real. Of course it wasn't, it couldn't be. What other possible answer was there to explain the numbness stinging his fingers? The reason for his shaking? Everything felt so cold. Your body hardly registered to his to touch, you were losing so much blood. You were losing. He was going to lose you. 

"No," Albedo shakes his head, "We still have time. I'll go find help." 

Please, hold on. 

He forced himself to think. The ruin hunter ran off shortly after it had ambushed you, by now the Knights would eventually noticed and apprehended it on sight. They couldn't be too far. All he needed was to carry you back to safety and everyone can go home. Albedo darted his eyes all over the place, breaths becoming shallower with each passing second. Where? Where to go? Which route was best to not overexert your wounds? Think. Think. Think. Why couldn't he think? 

"A..." You watched him in your helpless state. Every part of you throbbed with pain but it pains you even more to see the renowned genius who stood atop the pedestal of elegance and grace so utterly, undoubtedly lost. This was not the goodbye you wanted, though death already had you tight in their grasps. Not yet. Using the last particle of your strength, you tried to stay alive as long as possible. Just a little bit more time. 

Albedo freezes when a trembling hand extends itself to cup around his cheek. Every single thought he had in mind vanished and was replaced by a loud ring resonating in his ears. Dreadfully, mechanically, he turns his attention to where you lay. 

"Don't cry," you whisper, "I love you, don't cry- okay?" 

Albedo grimaces, shutting his eyes closed as he allows the pent up sadness to flow out of him completely, "I can't," he said in a shaky voice, "Please. Stay." 

"I'm sorry," Your vision blurs and he hugs you even more. Drawing your final breath, you relay your most cherished words through a broken smile, "But no matter w-where I go...I won't for..ge.." 

The moment your hand fell, Albedo finally understood the difference between death and loss. 

It was...suffocating. Having the air trapped in his throat, begging to release yet it hurts to speak. The never ending stabs that pulsed within his veins rushed forth like the scraping  blizzard of Dragonspine until his whole body lost all its senses. The world was shattering. He could no longer feel your weight. He could no longer feel. 

(Y/n). 

Albedo glances at his blood stained fingers where the thread had been severed, wide eyes drowning in sorrow. What a horrible feeling. Was this a warning sent by the gods? For stepping into the boundaries of knowing too much? Ah the curse of knowledge man must bear when eating the temptatious fruit. It was the result of choosing to love you. With life, death is inevitable and with love, it will eventually bring pain. Everything had a price to pay and as an alchemist, Albedo knew that better than anyone. 

"...Meaningless..." 

But he refused to accept it. 

Cradling your corpse, he leans in and places a kiss on your forehead, lips quivering as they lingered for a second too long before gathering the strength to stand back on his feet. Nothing will stop the alchemist from reuniting with you. If the laws wished to take you away from him then he will use everything in his power to fight against those laws. 

"This is not goodbye..." Albedo said to the sleeping girl, "And it will never be." 

When the sun sinks below the plains and the stars lose their light, the sky had been replaced with a palette of darkness. It was time to go home. 

------ 

"Have you all heard about the rumours?" 

A group of knights gather in the corner as they whisper about. Sucrose stops on her tracks and hides behind a wall, clutching the book close to her chest in an attempt to stay hidden. 

"Another criminal disappeared from the dungeons? Crazy..." 

"More like creepy. I was told that place might be haunted by some dead prisoner's ghost. Even the Church is hopping onto this case." 

"Well I hope it doesn't get any worse. So many of us started going on night patrols..." 

Their voices faded out of range as the anemo user backtracks her steps carefully. Several months passed since the news of mysterious kidnappings have been announced to the public. Rumours of their whereabouts swirled around the city and much to her discomfort, Sucrose happened to catch every single one of them. There couldn't possibly be evil spirits lurking in the Favonious Headquarters right? She silently shrieks at the thought, shaking her head furiously to stop her mind from going too deep. No, I have to find him. Without wasting another minute, the anemo user sprinted towards the stairs all the way up to the second floor before stopping directly in front of her teacher's office. Despite the adrenaline that occured at the same time, she made sure to knock. 

No answer. 

"Strange, he told me he would be here today..." Sucrose muttered to herself. But suddenly she heard the sound of objects shifting from the otherside, signaling that there was indeed someone occupying the room. Without realizing, she held her breath out of anticipation. 

"Come in." 

The door creaks as she opens them, giving her enough space to slip between the gap, "Mister Albedo?" 

"You're early today," The Chief Alchemist noted from his desk, "Is there something the matter?" 

"Y-You mean you don't know? There was just another case about a person disappearing from the dungeons," Her tone became more frantic as she rambled to herself, "The kidnapper never leaves a trace and no one knows how they were able to get out. Even when we ask the guards what happened, they can't seem to remember as if...as if someone casted a spell on them!" 

"A spell?" He inquires, "I suppose that could be a possibility." 

"I think so too. I-It's the only explanation that makes sense! I mean...ghosts don't exist after all," Sucrose nervously looks down at her shoes while giving her book a squeeze, "But why? Who could be capable of such advanced techniques? No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to understand their intentions." 

"...Yes. It is a very strange occurrence indeed." 

Noticing her teacher's withdrawn attitude, Sucrose couldn't help but feel flustered at her own behaviour, "Ah my apologies Mister Albedo, I didn't mean to go off track. Have there been any progress on the investigations so far?" 

Albedo briefly glanced at the various documents splayed across his table. His reputation as an incredibly intelligent individual had reached far and wide through Mondstadt. This led to the authorities requesting his assistance regarding the recent matters, despite him specializing in the alchemical field, he was also the Captain of their Investigation Team. Although, Albedo detested partaking in things he deemed irrelevant to his research; 

"I'm afraid I would need more evidence to draw a conclusion." 

"Eh? You still need more?" 

He could not deny that the given authoritative position had provided much benefits to his own accord. 

"My expertise lies in the subject of alchemy," Albedo reasoned and proceeds to intertwine his fingers in front of his mouth, "Humans on the other hand, are very unpredictable in nature. Even the essence of their existence is hard to obtain." 

"Essence of their existence?" Sucrose repeated softly. She wanted to ask what he meant but the blank expression was evident  enough to signal his impatience. At least, that was what she thought, "Nevermind! I have something that might help," taking out a slip from her textbook, she handed it to him, "It's the report Captain Kaeya gave me. He said that the culprit might be a traitor coming from the Knights of Favonius." 

He narrows his eyes. 

"I-I think he might be right! Just think about it, we haven't found anything at all for the past few months but when we do, I sometimes feel like we're just running in circles...oh what if it's becau-" 

"Sucrose." 

"Y-Yes?!" 

Albedo calmly looks at the flustered girl, not realizing how sharp his tone was, "You're overthinking again. Perhaps it's best that you take this day off." 

"But I came here to help," she insisted, "I know it hurts to lose someone you love! Don't you understand that we're all worried about you? And Klee, she..." 

"..." 

"Please Mister Albedo, if there's anything I could do-" 

"No need," he cuts her off once again, "Your stress levels are too high. We can't go any further if you continue to act like this." 

"Oh," her ruby eyes casted to the side, "I understand..." 

"Good. Now, if you would excuse me," Albedo bid her farewell and watched as the door clicked behind her, observing every detail until he was sure that the absolute silence had returned. He picks up Kaeya's document. Such remarkable handwriting. But of course, appearances are only meant to be displayed on the surface for the Captain was a sly man, wearing a mask to shield what lies underneath. Just like his letter, they were full of innuendos and condensed meanings, orchestrated together until the truth spoke loudly to Albedo himself. 

"So, that's what he thinks." 

Perhaps the alchemist should have been a little more discreet. 

-------- 

There was a certain place in Dragonspine that no one dared to enter. But those who have, they never return. 

"Hm, no response. Now as for the next step..." 

And he was the reason why. 

Taking the sword out of the transmutation circle, Albedo turned to the snowy hill nearby and activated his alchemy. A small portion of it dissipates, revealing a trench that went so deep underground that even warmth couldn't outplay the sheer cold. It was the perfect hiding place for the evidence to lay out of sight and an environment where only he could handle. The alchemist tossed the leftover along with the others before exiting quietly, summoning back the ice to bury his victims once again. Another day, another experiment, another stain goes to his title. The path he walked upon was one littered with corpses and the sins he committed. But despite the bones crunching beneath his feet and the weight of the dead hanging on his shoulders, the alchemist was numb to it all. Like an entity floating in space with nothing to hold, he became unable to feel. 

"I'm back," When reaching the center of Starglow Cavern, Albedo puts his hand on the icicle and caressed it's hard cold surface, "Did you sleep well?" 

The girl did not respond. Her eyes were closed and her skin was as young as ever. She was frozen in time. 

"You must have." 

Albedo felt the sword beginning to shake in his grasp as it resonated with his energy. Dust particles emitted from the hilt and slowly made their climb to the side of his arm. Still, Albedo's attention did not waver, "To this day, I've been thinking about what you told me the first time we met." 

"..." 

"Follow your heart. I couldn't understand it at first but after being around your presence, I believe I can finally recognize what that term means." 

He closes his eyes as he envisioned your lively form running across the landscape. Albedo, Albedo! The sound of his name was mixed with your laughter while Klee came into the scene and caught the dandelions with you. A content smile formed on his countenance as he watched from afar, even if it was just a memory, "It's everything. The breakfast we ate together, to the nights spent camping outside, and the silly moments we shared, they bring all these colours that I never knew existed." 

"..." 

Albedo curls his fingers against the ice as he continues to lament, "Perhaps that's why I began noticing the strings around me. The closer I was to answer, the more I felt it was necessary to discover what they are. All this time, you were the answer I was searching for," Moist begins to build up in his eyes but they freeze up once reaching the corners. How cruel. Despite what he went through, he wasn't even granted the liberty to cry, "Because with you, I'm able to feel them." 

He wonders what you would think if you saw him right now. Albedo peers at his reflection casted on the crystalline surface, the frame of his face had been decorated with streaks of purple and red, spreading out like tree branches as they both fought for dominance. The teal coloured orbs you once adored were beginning to transform to a colour that reminded him of his darkest days. This was Albedo's true nature- a monster, a being that wasn't human, the essence in which you never had the chance to see. 

"I know I may not be the same as I was before," he added, "But if that is what it takes to follow your heart, will you let me feel the strings again?" 

Would you still love me the same? 

"..." 

"If so, then please understand my actions," Albedo takes a step back as he held out the sword in front of him. At last, the preparations have finally been completed. He plunges the blade to the ground with full force and the surrounding area begins to shake under the power accumulated through many, intentional sacrifices. To revive the dead was a forbidden art as it came with heavy consequences. If it weren't for Albedo's talent and quick wit, the process would have consumed him long before executing the last stage. He winces, the pain was excruciating. It was hard for him to ignore the sound of his skin cracking below his ears and all the way to his nose as they fall off in the shape of small rock-like chunks. Everything hurt so much that even death sounded like a sweet dream but Albedo couldn't afford to give up. He had already come this far, his hands completely washed with sin and his reputation already broken beyond repair, Albedo had nowhere else to go. This was his last destination. 

"Soon-" he pants between choked breaths. Soon your eyes will open. He could drown in your embrace, one that was warm and not cold. Soon he will be able revive those cherished memories from a frozen past. It was all he could think of right now. Your existence was the reason why a part of him felt whole and your death made him realize how painful it was to tear away those pieces. Albedo refused to let go of those pieces, they had already become a part of him. And if this path ended up tearing him even more, then so be it. 

"I should have stopped you the moment you were born." 

The intruder snapped him awake and he swung around to where they stood. But before Albedo could make out who it was, they lunged past him with incredible speed, kicking the sword off the ground while severing his two arms once and for all. They flew to the side, blood dyed purple trickling from the edges of his joint as he struggled to stay upright. 

"Dains...leif..." 

Dainsleif watched the alchemist fall onto his back as the light around him slowly faded away. He turned his gaze to where the objective was and noticed a girl encased within the ice. The man sighs out of relief when she shows no signs of life, he came just in time, "So this is how it ends." 

Albedo weakly stared at the blonde man. He attempted to say something but the blood caught in his mouth prevented him from that. 

"Save your breath, you won't be having any," Dainsleif remarks in a cold manner and glared at his bloodied form, "The renowned Chief Alchemist of Mondstadt and an important member of Ordo Favonious. Hmph, what an interesting turn of events. Out of everyone, I never thought you were the type to act so foolish." 

Foolish...what a foreign name to be called as. He never heard anyone tell him he was foolish. 

"Truly a pity," With a flick of a wrist, Dainsleif brought his sword to Albedo's neck. It was unbelievable how he had the endurance to go through all that pain while still breathing at this point but what is there to be expected from a monster? "Remember that all actions have consequences." 

The alchemist watched as his life flashed before him, the weight of his sins had finally caught up. He had always seen the world as a platform for his objectives and results were merely a natural cause after attempting many experiments. But death as a consequences was an unbearble realization upon his final moments. He abandoned his title, his pupil and his dearest sister. In the end, he was still unable to fulfill his duty. 

"I just..." Albedo mumbled, his words slurring together, "wanted..." 

As the ashes turn to ashes and dust becomes dust, chalk returns to the earth, forever yearning a place that can never be reached.

[smallblip]

Lol, Jean and Mikasa switch places on drawing each other but Jean's drawing looks like something done by a really uncoordinated first grader. Mikasa unironically loves it.

ANON! I wrote a short lil fic for ya💖💖💖 I hope you enjoy?

It’s called lovers’ interlude

Oh how I love writing Jeankasa💖

lovers’ interlude

Jean is suddenly conscious about his state of undress, a heat creeps up his neck and fills his cheeks. He’s been told it’s a good body. He sees it too, in her eyes when she sees him bare before her. But still, he wants to escape the artist’s scrutiny. But when he tries. The narrowing of her eyes tells him maybe it’s best to keep as still as he can. Except through trial and error, Jean figures he’s still allowed a range of movement. He picks up a paper and pencil off the side tables, put there conveniently by the inn keeper for inspired travellers.

And he begins sketching.

Mikasa knows he’s doing it to get back at her. So she chuckles, like you would at a child in his father’s shoes, stomping around the house with an air of feigned authority. Cute.

He remembers this- he remembers how much time he had spent on this as a child. The scrape of lead against fibre, of the tips of his fingers coming to blend out the rough corners. Strange it should return to him now- to occupy the rare quiet of the mornings. To conceal his nervousness, to suppress his need to fill the silence with meaningless chatter- was it good for you? Did you sleep well? Will you stay? Will you come again tonight?

But she had picked his shirt off the ground and now she has put it on. She’s swimming in it. There are a few buttons loose, and the shirt is framing her collarbones in a way that takes his breath away. This is the interlude. Jean’s favourite part of any piece of music has always been- the interlude.

“Stop moving so much…” he says when she shifts on the couch and she’s laughing. She kicks out her feet in front of her, stretching languidly and then she’s walking towards him. He raises a brow. What are you doing here?

“It’s cold…” she says. And already he’s making space for her. He’s holding the duvet open, gesturing for her to slip in beside him.

She’s leaning against him, where he had propped himself up against the headboard. His arm is draped around her. This is his favourite part. How casual the mornings feel. How familiar her form is against his. Like two peas in a pod, warming in the sun.

Still she’s sketching.

“Do you need me to move where you can see me?“ he asks, still uncertain what to make of the silence between a muse and his artist. Is he supposed to entertain? To make small talk?

She shakes her head. “I have you in my mind.” She replies. Her eyes remain trained on the paper and Jean is glad for this because his face is hot and his heart is racing. “No peeking just yet…” she says. And he chuckles. He feels brave enough to drop a kiss on the top of his head, so he does just that before returning to his own drawing. But with one arm pinned under her, it’s really hard. No matter. This is just the interlude. The quiet before the day picks up again. And Marleyan days are long.

“Here…” she says, and when he looks down at her she’s looking up at him, eyes bright in anticipation. She moves her hands from the paper. And Jean sees himself through her eyes, through the abstract lines that make up the wiring of his muscle, and the ruggedness of his features, hardened in the war, yet softened by the little intimacies early mornings offer. Softened by her gaze.

“What do you think?” She says.

He’s still looking at the rough piece of paper- the one she turned into her canvass and immortalised him at his most vulnerable moment. Partly through sight, partly through memory. She could kill him now, she could. They had learnt this is when a man lets his guard down. During the interlude. His heart clenches.

“You’re really good.” He smiles and she snuggles in closer to him, shoulders relaxing.

It’s quiet for a while, and Jean assumes she’s falling asleep, but she opens her mouth to speak, her breath warm against his skin. She smells like plums. Right. They’re in season in Marley this time of year. She must’ve had one this morning while he was still asleep. Now he finds himself craving one.

“I walked in once on my father painting my mother. He likes to paint.” She says, a little playful, “I’ve never seen her move quite so fast.”

And Jean sees the picture Mikasa is painting of her life back home. Her parents and their beautiful daughter, Mikasa’s mother rushing to pull the sheets over her bare form, and her father making excuses. He laughs. He wonders how much of his future will look like this- children walking in on them, and them blushing and making half-baked excuses from under the sheets. He will promise them the world to never speak of this again.

“Can I see yours?” Mikasa gestures towards the paper pad on the bed stand and he holds it out of her reach.

“It’s bad. You’ll hate it.”

She laughs, “I won’t.” She says, strong and gentle and certain like oak against the wind.

When he shows it to her, she’s hiding her smile behind her hand. And it’s even more glaring to him now, how cartoonish his sketch is. “It’s bad isn’t it?” It looks like a child’s work.

“I like it.” She says, examining it closely one more time before she folds the piece of paper and slips it in the breast pocket of the shirt she’s wearing. “Keep it with you, so you’ll remember me.”

I remember regardless, he wants to say, I have you in my mind. But he doesn’t. Instead he sighs when she returns to the cradle of his arms again, pressing into his side, eyes trained toward the ceiling where the fan is. She remembers being amazed at the ceiling fan when they had first come. And now this miracle rests in the peripheries of her attention.

“It’s not an accurate representation,” he says, gaze following hers, watching the monotonous whirring of the ceiling fan. “I don’t think I did justice to your beauty.” God, he’s so embarrassed when he hears himself. He’ll think about this later when Connie teases him about the night before. When Connie asks “so what happened? Did you tell her how you feel?” And he has to remember this moment.

And when she gets up and takes the warmth with her, Jean thinks this is it, he’s done it this time, embarrassed himself and she has completely lost interest. But she’s rummaging through her satchel and she’s getting in under the duvet again. Oh.

“Here.” She says, and she’s leaning against his chest, averting his gaze. But he notices the pink in her cheeks, pretty like a sunset. He takes the card from her and realises it’s a photograph. They all had their photographs taken when they had arrived in Marley. “Headshots” they had called it. And Jean thinks that’s accurate to how one feels when being seen so plainly. He holds it closer to the sunbeam streaming through the curtains and he sees her, perched on the chair, a little stiff and uncertain, but she’s smiling at the camera. She’s so beautiful. Even now, roughened by war, she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. Softened by his affections, by the glow of the morning.

“It’s yours.” She says. God she’s so embarrassed when she hears herself. She’ll think about this later when Sasha teases her about the night before. When Sasha asks “so what happened? Do you know what you feel about him?” And she has to remember this moment.

Jean feels his heart clench. Tomorrow they may have to fight. If they’re lucky it might be the days that come after. But today the world around them is soft.

This is the interlude. And Jean’s favourite part of the day has always been- the interlude.

[professortennant]

Please write some more ted/rebecca domestic fluff. 😍😍😍

i hope you like ted/rebecca/henry moments

i.

It's Henry's first time visiting when she and Ted are something and it feels like a test of some sort, though Ted would never say that nor put that pressure on her. She loves children, has held Nora in her arms and rubbed the tip of her infant nose with the pad of her finger and promised to protect her, to love her always.

It's the broken promises that haunt her.

She doesn't want to let Henry down, doesn't want to let Ted down.

So she runs to the toy shop at the top of the high street, buys out their selection of dinosaur figurines, a handful of wind-up robots and little techno figures that light up, and a build-your-own robot kit intended to be more educational, she thinks, than functional.

The toys are set up in neat, enticing little lines along her desk and she wonders if it's too late to run up to the store and pick up coloring pencils and art paper, too.

(The previous night Ted had been ecstatic, bouncing around the house and humming softly to himself, stocking their refrigerator with peanut butter and jelly and their cupboards with fruity-flavored cereal. But Rebecca had a brick settling in her stomach, stony-faced and twiddling her thumbs at the table.

Ted squeezed her shoulders, dropped a a quick kiss to the top of her head and nuzzled at her hair a little. "Relax, sweetheart," he drawled, leaning over her shoulder and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "He's going to love you as much as I do."

But not even Ted's belief in her could soothe her anxiety.)

And now, there was the frantic pitter-patter of feet just outside her office, Ted's deep voice of, "Henry, wait--", and then there he was: Henry Lasso, nine-years old and bouncing and brimming with enthusiasm.

"Hi, Rebecca!"

Heart thumping in her chest, thoughts of broken promises and a determination to not repeat the past, she stepped forward and knelt precariously in her heels to meet the little boy's eyes. "Hello, Henry."

Ted followed in behind his son and stood in the doorway, eyes soft and bright, watching the interaction. Rebecca felt his gaze like a weighted blanket upon her.

Henry appeared to wilt a little, his confidence dipping as he looked behind him at his father who gave him an encouraging smile. Ted then turned that encouraging smile to Rebecca who felt a surge of strength.

She gestured behind her to the line of toys. "Your dad told me you're into robots? I--"

But she couldn't get the rest of her words out, Henry's eyes lighting up and his little body darting by her to fall to his knees in front of the table, hands reaching eagerly for the T-Rex and light-up robots.

Ted reached down to help her up, steadying her on her feet. She gave him a wry grin. "All that worry for nothing. I just needed to ply him with toys."

He leaned forward, brushed a kiss to her cheek, forehead resting against her temple for a moment. "You didn't need to do anything, hon. Just be yourself."

Still, Rebecca watched the young boy play with the figurines, listened to him make beeping noises and dinosaur roars, and wondered if it was that simple--just be herself when herself hadn't been good enough.

And then--

"Rebecca?" Henry's shy little voice carried across her office and she looked up to meet the little boy's eyes. He held out the build-your-own robot kit to her and bit his lip, looking uncertain. Ted's hand drifted down to her hip, squeezing softly before drifting to her backside, tapping it lightly in encouragement.

She stepped forward, heart in her throat. "Yes?"

Henry held out the kit to her shyly, eyes flicking to his father for a moment, before lifting the kit higher towards her. "Do you wanna build a robot with me?"

Suddenly, her throat felt thick with unshed tears, her chest tight at the sudden whopping feeling of this little person's trust and acceptable. She nodded, cleared her throat, and took the kit from him.

"I would love to, Henry."

ii.

Henry is ten and comes off the plane and into the arrivals area of the airport dead on his feet, eyes bleary and forehead burning up, skin clammy and looking dreadful.

"Dad," he whimpers, falling into Ted's arms and curling up against his chest as best as his ten-year old body can manage. Ted wraps his arms around his son protectively, cradling the body against him, hiking him up higher on his hip and silently asking Rebecca to grab Henry's bags.

She does so immediately, drags the rolling suitcase behind her and falls in step beside them and keeps her hand on the little boy's back, rubbing soothing circles there.

But one look at Ted's worried, panicked expression, the white-knuckled grip on his son, has her hand drifting from Henry to Ted, her hand resting on the small of his back, hooking over his hip and squeezing gently.

"We'll take care of him," she tells him, voice low to mask her own concern. Ted flicks his eyes to hers before cuddling his son closer and picking up the pace.

At home, Ted helps Henry strip out of his clothes, soaked with sweat from his fever and reeking with the sink of ten hours' worth of airplane, and into the tub. Rebecca busies herself with turning down the little twin bed in the spare office they'd turned into Henry's bedroom, brews a strong cup of mint tea and leaves it on the bedside table, along with a cold compress and a thermometer.

Freshly showered and swimming in an oversized AFC Richmond jersey, Henry snuggles down into his bed with a sleepy sigh and a string of coughs.

Ted sits next to him on the edge of the bed, smooths his hair back, rubs his forehead across his son's forehead. Rebecca is touched by the sight of them; doesn't know how she forgets Ted is a father sometimes when caring is ingrained in every bone of his body.

"Okay, bud, we're gonna let you rest up, alright? And when you wake up, you're gonna feel better and we're gonna get dinner."

"'Kay," Henry sighs out, eyes already fluttering closed, cheeks flushed red from fever and travel and a warm bath. Her hands clench at her side and she fights the urge to mimic Ted's movements, to brush her thumb along his cheek and tell him it will be okay. But she's still not sure where, exactly, she fits in.

"You need anything?" Ted asks, voice low and soft and soothing.

"Will you read 'til I sleep? Just for a bit."

"Yeah, bud, of course. Which--"

"Uncle Roy's book," comes the eager response, Henry sounding a little perkier.

Rebecca hides a smile, squeezes Ted's shoulder to keep him in place, and crosses the room to Henry's small but ever-growing bookcase and plucks A Wrinkle in Time off the shelf, returning to the Lasso boys and giving it to Ted.

But then--

"No," Henry says, voice strong and stern. "Can Rebecca do it?" Then, shyly, "She does the voices better."

Ted leans forward to kiss his son's forehead before standing up and handing the book right back to his girlfriend, kissing her softly. "You've been chosen," he teases.

But the words hit her in the chest and settle there, heavy and solid, like a medal around her neck. She takes Ted's place on the edge of Henry's bed, smooths the blanket, and opens the book and begins reading.

Somewhere after she introduces Mrs. Who, Mrs. Whatsit, and Mrs. Which, she feels Henry's hand settle along side hers and his breathing evens out, eyes closed and form asleep.

Gently tucking the bookmark into place, she leans forward and kisses his forehead, still warm with fever, and murmurs, "Sleep well, darling."

Out in the living room, Ted slides his arm along the back of the couch, opening a place for her by his side which she takes gratefully, curling against him and tucking her feet beneath her. His lips find her hairline, his hands find her shoulders, and she lets herself sink into him, exhausted from worry.

"Thank you," she whispers into the silence, her hand sliding across his belly, scratching slightly.

"For what?"

The words are hard to get out but she needs him to know she loves him and his little boy and the opportunity that being with him presents. She clears her throat, turns her head into his shoulder and kisses his shirt-covered chest. "For letting me be a mum," she confesses. "Just for a little while."

Ted exhales harshly before moving quickly, hand lifting her face to his and his mouth finding hers, kissing her deeply, lingering at her lips to kiss her again and again, holding her close.

When he breaks away, he leans his forehead against hers, nuzzles their noses together. "There ain't no one--no one--else I'd rather co-parent with."

Their hands entwine, their fingers tangle, and they settle into the couch and wait for their boy--their boy--to need them, both of them.

iii.

All she can hear from the bathroom is Ted's soothing tone, his 'coach' voice as she's come to think of it--a little performative, a little deeper, a little sterner--and Henry's giggles along with the sound of splashing water. She pushes the bathroom door open and watches her boys--because she knows this now, they are hers--lean over the bathroom sink, safety razors in hand, Ted's voice walking his son through the motions of how to shave. Henry is twelve now and has just enough peach fuzz on his lip and sideburns that Ted had agreed to teach him how to shave.

But she doesn't want to miss out on the fun, doesn't want to miss this moment.

Henry laughs when Rebecca comes in and starts putting shaving cream on her own face, hands rubbing together and lathering the foam over her cheeks and across her lip. “Don’t leave me out, boys.”

“Rebecca, you look like Santa,” Henry laughs, his own face covered in patchy shaving foam.

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment then. Ho ho ho.” She uses her pointer finger as a faux-razor and wipes the cream from her face in long, clean drags, before leaning in to kiss Ted. It's these casual demonstrations of affection that she cherishes the most, the gestures she thought she'd never get.

“Oh, one sec—“ Ted cups her cheek and wipes a bit of cream off her chin before leaning in to kiss her properly, kiss lingering. “Be done in a bit,” he murmurs against her mouth, kissing her softly again.

Henry pretends to gag into the sink and Rebecca rolls her eyes, drops a kiss to the top of the boy’s head, ruffles his hair affectionately and just barely resists rubbing shaving cream into his hair. “Dinner’s in five,” she calls out over her shoulder, leaving her boys behind in the bathroom.

She turns, watches them a moment longer—her family.

iv.

She never forgets for a moment that Henry is part-Ted. She sees it as he grows older, that boundless energy never quite settling, endless curiosity as he insists on all three of them exploring every nook and cranny of London, wants to know each bit of history that has tread over the cobblestones or sweated into the brickwork.

(She'd spun a bit of a tale, told Henry that London was built on magic, enchantments woven into each alleyway. He'd given her an awestruck look and when Rebecca looked up to give Ted a wink, she'd found his face just as awed, just as enraptured in her tale. Like father, like son.)

They go to museums where he and Ted both press their faces eagerly to display cases and drag her into display halls and beg her to give the suits of armor a voice. It only takes one look at their identical Lasso puppy dog eyes to get her to crack, snap to attention beside a gleaming suit of armor, and put on a rough Cockney accent, saluting her boys, "At your service, sirs!"

It sends them both into a fit of giggles and Henry leans against her side and looks up at her. "You're silly, Rebecca."

She taps his nose and ruffles his hair. "And don't you forget it."

She catches Ted's eyes over the boy's head and the sight of his expression--warm, hungry, and so nakedly, openly affectionate--punches her in the chest, sends her staggering back. She tries to steady herself on Henry's shoulder but he's already gone, the attention span of his father, and bouncing to the next exhibit.

"Don't get too far away from us," she calls after him, sighing when he throws her a thumbs up and scampers away into a pirate and nautical themed room.

And then Ted is there, his arms around her and pulling her in against him, mouth finding hers, kissing her desperately, fiercely. It's more public affection than she's used to from him--usually keeping it to holding hands or an arm slung over her shoulders--and it catches her off guard as she remembers that expression she'd seen earlier.

"What was that for?" she asks breathlessly, steadying herself against him with her hand on his chest, swaying back towards him on instinct wanting more.

"Because you're you," he says simply, tucks a curl of hair behind her ear. "Because you love my son. Because you love me."

Tears spring to her eyes and she reaches up to cup his cheeks in her hands, feels his stubble scrape along her fingertips. "You both are easy to love," she says, voice wavering. She grins and adds, "Annoyingly so, might I add. You melted me."

"Naw, you were already a squishy melty marshmallow," he teases, kissing her softly and slipping his hand into hers and following Henry into the next room.

"I was not," she protests half-heartedly. "They were calling me the ice queen in the bloody papers! I was, y'know, tough."

Ted kisses her temple. "Absolute marshmallow."

v.

Four years ago, her office was relatively barren--filled with stale, lifeless paintings worth too much money, overpriced decorative statues on her surfaces, and a clean, blank glass desk. Nothing too personal, nothing to show who she was.

Now, though. Now.

Now, there are collages of photographs hanging on the wall. Pictures of her at galas and events with Ted on her arm; front pages illustrating AFC Richmond's Cinderella story, Ted surrounded by the team drenched in water holding a shiny trophy aloft; articles featuring her new approach to handling of club ownership and empowering those around her.

Now, along the windowsill facing the pitch there are pictures of her and the team: Sam and Dani on either side of her in some club with shots of tequila in hand, another with Keeley on her back, heels in hand, Rebecca giving her a piggy-back ride, both of them grinning broadly into the camera.

Now, there's a Jurassic Park-themed blanket folded over the back of her office couch where a rapidly growing little boy collapses onto it after running around with the players at training as best as he can and a duffel bag with spare clothes for Ted in her closet next to her coats. Little places in her life carved out for them.

Now, on her desk, is a framed picture of her and Ted, their arms wrapped around each other, kissing softly at the Higgins' vow renewal ceremony, the frame hand-made by Ted out of painted popsicle sticks, little hearts and marshmallows and footballs painted into one corner and Always yours, Ted scribbled in the other corner.

Now, the only other picture on her desk is a hand-drawn picture from Henry of four figures--a mustachioed man, a petite woman with long hair, a young boy, and a tall, blonde woman, all holding hands. The labels are what's important: Dad, Me, Mom, and Mum.

And beneath it all, in blazing, declarative glory: My family.

[my-darling-boy]

I think a really interesting part of how life improves as you heal your mental health is the way your creativity shifts.

When I was suffering, I made my story characters suffer. A part of me wanted to see them miserable, dealing with hardship, even dying, because it made me feel a sense of control, that I could set a person like me loose in a little world and mirror the same pain I did in real life, killing characters off left and right, never giving happy endings, because it was all a direct reflection of what I thought I was worth and what I deserved. Lovers never lasted, families broke apart. And in the end, I could never finish any of those stories. My main character would be left with nothing but a pile of rubble, just like me in my waking life. Those stories never had endings because just like me in my waking life, I didn’t know how to write a character out of rubble. So I gave up on them and never finished them. As intent as I was on publishing these stories, I’m glad I never did. Only now as an adult do I realise my writing used to be, in a sense, a form of self harm I didn’t even pick up on.

When I drew, my lines were very light and whispy. There are some drawings in my sketchbook where the graphite touched down so light, it’s almost been completely rubbed off on the back of the previous page. And even the faint lines I put down I wasn’t happy with. There are sketchbooks I’ve found with pages torn out, pages unfinished, drawings I remember seething over. I never felt happy with my art, I always used to hate it. You would see me jump around from one style to the next, one drawing to the next. Everything I drew I thought was horrible, because I thought I was horrible. Therefore anything by my pencil, from these hands, was nothing but a translation of that hatred. And it showed in every one of my pieces. Being in a school art class was so difficult for me, because to me it didn’t involve art so much as it did comparing myself to other people and concentrating on ways in which I might be inadequate. Meaning, I got very little done because I was too busy feeling pointless once seeing everyone else.

I’m glad to say I’m past that part of my life, 5 years and counting. Even though I still have a bit of trouble with self worth and other mental health issues, they are nowhere near how bad they used to be, which I’m thankful for. And one thing I find really quite fascinating is how you would not be able to tell the person who wrote those painful stories or drew those drawings so unsure of themselves is me today.

When I write, I don’t want characters to die and if they do, it’s always very thought over. I don’t want characters to end suffering. If they have pain and hardship, it is well founded within their character and a resolution is always achieved. I write more about gentle romance, of adventures that aim to help characters and not hurt them. I’m writing stories where people feel with my characters, through their happiness and sadness, and have endings where there is light and a new beginning. I don’t want readers to finish my stories feeling empty or cheated, because I don’t want to feel empty or cheated anymore. My writing is no longer centered on my anguish, but on how I can create immersive tales of love and friendship and of good and hope in the world when all things might appear dark because that’s how my life turned out. I’m writing about how even though you might feel at a dead end, how everything is uncertain and frightening, that there is always some hope and love to be had. My stories now are the rebellion against my former ideology. My writing used to be for me alone. But now, it’s something I truly want to share with others and let them experience. My stories have endings that aren’t death cliff hangers. I don’t write my characters into nothing anymore just for my own pleasure.

And my art? Sometimes my lines are so dark and confident, they engrave themselves on the page below! My drawings have structure, movement, feeling, motive; no longer are they confused and hesitant. I’m happier with my work because I’m happier with myself. The art I create with these hands is worthier because I view the hands as being worthy of praise and compliments. My frantic search for a style when I was younger was a direct reflection of me trying to find myself, and now that I’ve found it, my style has taken its true shape and looks like no one else’s, when before it used to look like a copy of so many others. Before I used to scratch the surface of what I was going through by trying to draw only a shell of that pain, but now, I explore it, I work through it in my art. I can admire other’s work without feeling envious and I can stand back from a piece of my work and be happy with it for once. I can always tell how I’m feeling by what I draw. Other artists never used to inspire me because I never let them inspire me because I was jealous of them. But now, Beatrix Potter, E.H. Shepard, Leyendecker, Singer Sargent, Rockwell, Howard Pyle, and more, because I’ve let their art inspire me, my work feels more at home with me, more mine, gentler, more meaningful, more sure of itself.

We write what we know, we draw how we feel. And no words or lines can mask us, we’re all right there on our papers and we don’t even know it sometimes. Learning to recover from everything that’s happened to me has taught me that. If I don’t know what’s wrong, I look to these translations of my soul, because chances are, I’ve already said it in a character of mine or drawn a picture of it without my knowing. I might not always know me, but my creations always will.