#kids canvas painting ideas

[harryzroze]

S3 screenshot redraw >:3

lineart and screenshot reference under cut

[s7ieben]

Spacemaker

acrylic on canvas – painting – 27 x 41 cm

Exupéry’s Little Prince is playing... read on here:

S7IEBEN.art RedBubble

[bogappreciation]

"kids are unburdened by expectation and are thus free to make beautiful abstract works of art" maybe YOU were. i was painting landscapes age 2 at fingerpainting practice. i had a meltdown because the teacher put brown paint on my sky we're not the same

[naildesigns24]

95 Pumpkin Painting Ideas: Creative Designs for Adults, Kids, & Beginners

Autumn’s chill has set in, leaves are crunching underfoot, And every store seems to be overflowing with pumpkins of all shapes And sizes. It’s that magical time of year again when The spirit of Halloween takes hold, And while traditional pumpkin carving has its charm, let’s be honest—guts And goo aren’t everyone’s cup of cider. If The thought of wielding A knife And scooping out slimy seeds makes…

[cryptfile]

⋆౨ৎ˚ ࣪ over the moon [ benedict bridgerton x wife!reader ]

summary — based on a request but went slightly off with it aka when your husband starts to stay up painting till late you start plotting a good plan to make him go to bed with you and actually rest instead.

warnings — pure fluff, since the rumors of sophie being latina sparked, personally went crazy with the information so it’s implied that reader is latina also, mentions of sex (nothing explicit,,, implied as part of a establish relationship).

side notes — English is not my first language, so if you find any mistakes i’m sorry in advance. this is for my latin girlies out here reading in tumblr, working extra hard to translate your works to bring new content to the page, tkm <3 reblogs, comments and likes are much appreciated,,,as brittany broski once said: i'm a benedict bridgerton believer, i'm a benedict bridgerton ally.

You really didn’t know what you were getting into when you accepted Benedict’s marriage proposal.

Nobody told you that loving an artist is a tricky thing, cause while you’re always giving Ben’s new ideas, you hate him at the same time when he’s at the art studio until late, painting as if the absence of light it’s not enough to separate him from the canvas.

God, it just drives you crazy. He lacks of a schedule so he’s able to keep on painting till the rays of light start to appear again in the window he leaves opened all night long, and you’re afraid he’s going to catch a cold if he continues with his bad habits.

It suddenly hits him, that inspiration he ends up being the victim of, kissing you quickly as he escapes so fast you aren’t able to say anything when he disappears leaving you alone, you tolerate it at first, but the second? The third? He's just testing your patience at this point.

Your marriage has never been a troubled one, your husband does not make you mad most of the time and you enjoy being in love, those little things that made your heart skip a beat. You enjoy talking to him at night, spend your day in his art room as he encourages you to keep on writing that mystery book you're so into lately, bickering about how unfair life is for women your age — Hell, woman of all ages.

You love the sound of his laugh when he's careless about everything else, when he admits he doesn't want to go that night's party cause he just wants to stay home and fuck you senseless, his way of seeing art and explain it to you as something totally opposite as what you really think it is.

Thing is, you choose to marry Benedict Bridgerton cause you're indeed, head over heels with him. You've fall for the charming smile and sassy attitude that made you finally settle after years of being called a spinster. He finds the way to intrude the walls of the maze that was your heart and managed to plant a flag in the middle of it when you're confident enough to talk to him, let alone be seen in public after all the rumors you've heard that he was looking for a wife that season.

Even when you try to avoid him, he makes you fall in no time, following you around like a lost puppy, going to your house to spend time with your family, convincing everyone he's desperate to try the food your nana makes, cause you've talked about how good it taste all the time.

It's almost like he tricked you into make you love him, to have you between the brushes dipped in a funny smell water. He has you hooked by the first months and soon after? God, he has no education when he makes you love him, how he obliges you to stain yourself with all the things he was his daily life mixed with yours functioning so well.

It's a thorn nailed in the palm of your hand, those moments of privacy when the moon evolves you and your lover completely that are now being taken away. It's selfish, surely it's something childish so you don't want to say anything to your friends, or even Daphne Basset when she visits you to have an afternoon of tea free from her kids, asking you about how everything's going days before you came up with this great idea.

You can take the matter by your hands, that's why the next time Benedict's painting at midnight your mind works like a machine.

After all the time together you happen to know him more than you know yourself, the things he enjoys what he dislikes the most — So it's not very hard to plot against your husband.

Benedict doesn't seem to hear you when you silently glide through the half-open door, unaware as the light of the candle lights is not enough to illuminate the whole room, the fire he kept close to the canvas he was currently working on. He looks handsome all concentrated. His brows furrowed as he takes the pigments with his bare hands and mix them in his wood palette to get that exact color he was looking for. A shade of pink for a piece he hasn't shown you officially yet.

"What are you doing up so late?" you ask coyly when you are close to him, hearing how his breath hitched for a second before noticing it's you, your hands coming from behind just to intrude in his space close to the easel. He's taller than you, but it doesn't stop you from standing in your tiptoes, pressing your cheek against the crook of his neck as you hugged him.

You cannot hide that you're tired. You lost the track of time when you got out of bed, so when you have your husband close and finally smell that nice and subtle aroma he carries with him, you relax in his back, the sound of his heartbeat loud against your ear.

"You scared me for a second," he says with a grin, muscles relaxing under your touch. "Didn't hear you coming in."

He has dry paint on his neck, so while you're cleaning his skin with one hand, he leans into you, back pressed against your chest seeking for your warmth, that contact he always seems to enjoy, your attention in all the ways he can get it.

“Bed’s cold without you” you say, fingers on his recently trimmed hair. "Done waiting for'you."

He has the nerve to laugh at your words, slowly at first, the sound of it making your skin shiver. He's going to defend his choices, you know it, and you hate how much you enjoy it, the way he always seems to find an excuse making you totally offended as you retort something equally ridiculous.

"Just thirty more minutes I promise," he says pressing a kiss in the palm of your hand he so gently grabs. "If you stay with me like this, can do the work in twenty."

"You can fool anyone else with that Ben, not buying it" to be honest, you're just trying to contradict everything he says, far from what you thought doing first when you plotted against him. "You said the same last week, amor. Not falling for any more lies."

"Not falling huh?" he asks, lowering the wood palette to look at you, his eyes meeting yours when you're so comfortable pressing your chin on his shoulder, looking at the painting he was doing — "You've learned the lesson then?"

"Twenty more minutes mean an hour in Benedict's language," he's the one that's now offended when his mouth opens in disbelief "Turns out I know my husband, and we both know that’s way more than twenty minutes.”

He loves it. It’s almost a secret, but he loves how you demand his company, the way you don’t fold against anything and you stand for what you believe. He loves how you claim to know him, your lavender smell filling every single space available in the room as he smiles happily in response. He was so unsure of marrying you at first, but now he doesn’t know what his life would look like without you in the picture.

“Ah, I’m guilty as charge” he says, his own hand going to his chest like it saddens him to hear you talk like that. “Thought you wanted me to paint more.”

You've been encouraging him to show his art to more people, a small gallery that displayed his talent, but that’s using your words for his advantage.

“You little bastard, that’s unfair coming from you.”

“Woah woah, you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Kiss you even” you stick your tongue out, and he’s suddenly turning you around to place a kiss in your forehead, making you move in front of him instead — “You wouldn’t even imagine.”

Benedict’s a romantic. A poet at heart, so he doesn’t let any opportunity slip to show his affection, his infinite devotion to you. His heart flutters in his chest and suddenly he’s kissing you, staining your white nightgown with the fresh paint of his hands and not caring about it at the slightest. Kisses you like he missed you, like he didn’t see you the whole day when in reality you’ve spent all day in the same house, baking cookies cause you’ve suffered from a burst of love to the kitchen.

“You’re not convincing me” you say between kisses, hands pressing you closer to him. “I’m not leaving this room without you.”

He chuckles at your words — “Not even ten minutes?”

He’s devastatingly handsome in a way that makes you stare at him, wonder what you did to make him so interested in you, so attracted to the point he has to marry you.

"No Bridgerton. Ni diez minutos." To be honest, the accent just makes him go weak at the spot. It's pathetic, but he cannot help it, his brain melts at the sound of your voice, even if he doesn't understand much of what you're saying. "Let's go to bed."

You know it's a weapon, your lips are on his face, and he forgets about everything else: How he's supposed to continue on working when your lips are kissing every inch of his face? Seems like an impossible task now that his hands are on your waist and all he can notice are your pink lips, how you're looking at him through half-lidded eyes cause you're sleepy, an smile that eclipses the rest.

Benedict's no longer worried of his painting. Hell, he cannot seem to remember what shade of pink he was so invested in finding before, but he don't care at all when he's the one now leaning in, kissing you with fervent love as he traces the outline of your lips, almost asking for permission to invade you before deepening the contact, tangling his fingers in the strands of your hair cause he simply cannot get enough from you.

"Take me to bed then, my beautiful wife."

He does not protest next. He loves every second of it, the slight force, your gentle touch when your guiding him through the cottage you two share in Wiltshire, the goosebumps in his own skin when you managed to get what you want.

You win. It's a war that Benedict never intended to win, a disaster he knew it would end up with the result of him leaving his work half done cause he cannot resist to the idea of being tangled with you in such an intimate way. He sleeps so well with you on his arms, burying his head on your hair as he relaxes beneath the sheets, the contact of your skin enough to make him have the best night sleep.

Can he resist it? He's neck deep. Talked about it with his brothers before, drinking too much as the words slurred together and he admits how you got him wrapped around your finger, so in love he would do anything to please you, let alone have your full attention — They surely made fun of him, but is it his fault? Being so in love with his wife?

"Can't say no to you," he says defeated "You know it."

In the privacy of the room you two share, you're washing his hands with a wet cloth, preventing him from getting the sheets dirty before pulling his linen shirt to the floor. It's so quickly, he don't seem to realize what you're doing until he's already in bed, covered with the thick duvet as he searches for you.

He realizes now he should have listened to you before, cause his back is surely happy now that he's able to rest, the weariness of being standing so many hours now falling over him as his eyes began to close by themselves.

"When are you going to stop working so late?" You ask, pressing your cheek against his chest as you hugged him, getting closer to him even when you stole more than half of the bed in the process. The second son of the Bridgerton family does not say anything about it, but instead, enjoys how needy you are of his touch, how you want him around.

"Inspiration always come late, angel" he tries to defend himself as you rolled your eyes. “Maybe it’s a curse.”

"Then i’m afraid i’ll have to drag you to bed every night," you protest. "Cause i'm not letting you stay all night in that studio, crazy man."

"Miss me too much in bed?"

"Hm, what if I do?"

"Cannot blame you," Benedict admits later, using the only traces of force he has left to caress your hair, fingertips against your scalp in a gentle massage. "I'm always missing you when you're not around."

Your heart skips a beat: How could you not be head over heels with this man? He always find the right words, what to say exactly.

Gently, your face come up to press a soft kiss against his lips, a quick one that’s not enough for Benedict when he makes you stay in the same position as he steals a much longer one.

Life is simple with him by your side, you know it cause you might as well be over the moon when you’re alone with Benedict Bridgerton.

Every. single. day.

my masterlist.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

FOOLISH SPRING WINDS, BLOW MY WAY ; SATORU GOJO

summary; a snippet of the spring you share with a certain satoru gojo — who seems intent on making your high school life as difficult as possible.

word count; 5.4k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, enemies to friends (..but the ’enemy’ part is kinda one-sided), fluffy n sweet overall, satoru doesn’t know how to make friends + thinks lighthearted bullying constitutes as a bonding activity, he’s a little shit but he means well, switching povs, lots of gojo slander (but reader sees the light eventually), big shoujo vibes, they’re both tsunderes <33

a/n; i ended up scrapping the series i wrote this fic for originally, so i thought i’d rewrite it and repost it on its own!! teentoru is such a grumpy little kitten i need to squish his paws

satoru gojo is annoying.

it might seem blunt, but after many weeks of careful thinking, you’ve decided no description could possibly fit him better. 

when you first met him, on that first day of school, you had no idea what to think. no real expressions or tonal shifts to clue you in on who he was, how he felt — nothing but the slightest peek of a terrifying blue to set your nerves on edge. 

in hindsight, you’re almost certain it was intentional. he wanted to appear unreadable. purposefully hiding his personality and mannerisms, to gain the upper hand — observing you, dissecting you inside his mind, while revealing nothing about himself apart from his surname. 

it’s a kind of power; a safety measure.

… but evidently, holding back isn’t exactly gojo’s forte. the very next morning, he was already beginning to loosen up, after getting more accustomed to the new environment and classmates. showing you his true colours; just a little hint of cerulean, a single dip of paint on the blank canvas of his soul.

and with the revelation of his genuine personality — your unease around him festered even more.

where could you even begin to describe him? for one, he’s childish. and cocky. and loud. arrogant, selfish and flamboyant — just generally an asshole? you could go on and on. none of the traits are particularly flattering, and you know he couldn’t care less.

gojo is annoying, plain and simple. almost constantly up to something, eager to push someone’s buttons, to get attention. like a bratty toddler. uninterested in manners, or even common courtesy; he says what he feels, regardless of how other people take it. 

to put it simply, he has no regard for the people around him. his self-interest is limitless. 

as if that wasn’t annoying enough — you have no choice but to admit that he does have a certain presence to him. a kind of charisma, or what you think could become charisma, if he’d just get off that high horse already. he won’t, though. you know he won’t. he revels in it, in looking down on everything and everyone, annoyingly boisterous and irritatingly tall. freaky, long limbs. like a noodle and an alien had a baby.

but, more than anything — above all else — what frustrates you most is the fact that his unbridled confidence isn’t exactly unwarranted.

as much as it pains you to say it… gojo is maybe just a little bit incredible. a natural-born genius. he’s intelligent, and observant, and awfully pretty, with those baby blues eyes and those snowy locks of hair. and he has no issue getting what he wants. 

absolutely zero. 

there’s something admirable about it, in a twisted way. like he doesn’t even need to try. he’s good at anything, if he just gives it a single chance. you can only assume he’s never given much thought to the prospect of being a decent guy, because that’s the only thing he sucks at.

effortlessly perfect, in the most imperfect of ways. that’s probably how you’d describe him.

… annoying is still the most fitting word, though. or maybe obnoxious. he’s got this spoiled rich kid vibe that irks you, gets under your skin. you doubt he’s ever had to empathize with anyone, in his entire life. 

and, yes — maybe you’re being a little harsh to him. but why should you bother being jovial when he won’t return the favour?

gojo is annoying; and when you say that, you mean annoying to basically everyone. as a basis for existing. always teasing and taunting, looking down from that high horse of his. you’re no exception to this rule, of course. but you’re almost certain that he has it out for you specifically.

you know he looks down on you, from behind those tacky sunglasses. you’re sure of it.

compared to geto or shoko, you aren’t very self-assured — and you think he must have sensed it the moment he laid eyes on you. sensed that you’re a little meek, a bit of a doormat, easy to push around and get a rise out of. maybe he also noticed your apprehension towards him, your apparent unease. 

you’re easy prey, to put it simply.

evidently, he’s developed a fondness for getting under your skin. it started as soon as introductions were over, and it still hasn’t gotten better. he loves catching you off guard, throwing you an unneeded comment or two, just to see what reaction you’ll give him next. almost like he’s solving an equation — said equation being you, the limit of your patience. and you keep giving him what he wants; a scoff, a roll of your eyes, an earnest fuck right off. you can never seem to successfully ignore him. he’s just far, far too good at being insufferable.

… and, more than anything, he’s far too out of reach. even when you try to get along with him, it backfires. you don’t have a single thing in common. you don’t understand him at all. 

(and that suits you just fine.)

a heavy sigh slips from your parted lips, as you examine your blurry reflection in the surface of the mirror. fatigue clings to your skin like a layer of sweat, your mind muddled, stuffed with anxious thoughts and discomforting feelings.

you’re exhausted. completely and utterly spent, even though the day’s barely begun — running on three pitiful hours of sleep, all broken up and jumbled by nightmares that wouldn’t stop spooking you. not a single wink of proper rest. 

and it’s painfully obvious. in your face, your posture, the dark crescents beneath your eyes; in the way you can’t help but drag your legs as you walk, your hair disheveled, little sighs and grumbles slipping from your lips for every step you take. all you can do is sluggishly blink the exhaustion away.

you just feel so tired.

it could be worse, though. you don’t have any classes today, no real reason to get out of your comfy bed, leave the safety of your cozy little dorm room. but you need breakfast, right now, or else you’ll literally explode — so you still get up on shaky legs and try to mimic the appearance of someone… even moderately well-rested.

it doesn’t work, but that’s besides the point. 

so you make your way to the dormitory’s shared kitchen. walking idly — clumsily — enjoying the sight of fleeting, fluttering cherry blossoms through the windows you pass. little pink butterflies.

once you’ve crossed the threshold, you’re relieved to find the open space entirely devoid of people. no shoko, no geto, not even a mischievous gojo. running into the first two wouldn’t be the end of the world — but it still wouldn’t be ideal. you don’t want anyone seeing you like this, tired and meek, a little vulnerable.

(least of all gojo. you shiver at the bare thought.)

with laboured, groggy movements, you waltz around the kitchen, getting cups and plates and turning on the coffee machine. enjoying the soothing melody of the pan sizzling, singing along to the purring of espresso being made. it’s nice and pleasant to your sensitive ears, as you blink under the rays of sunlight shining in, throwing together a lazy breakfast. 

you waste no time in taking a seat by one of the tables once you’re finished. eager to soak in the peace and quiet, wolf down a sandwich and copious amounts of caffeine.

but, as always — the world seems to have it out for you specifically.

”oh? well, look who it is. and here i thought you had left too.”

you stiffen. ever so slightly, barely noticeable, but still enough that you physically feel the dread envelop every single cell of your body. the voice that echoes out across the open air is a chipper one, a familiar one. a voice you were desperately hoping not to hear today. 

all you can do is continue to sip from your cup of coffee, inwardly wincing, silently going through all five stages of grief simultaneously — before accepting your unfortunate predicament. 

(that’s just your luck, isn’t it?)

finally, you raise your weary head, knowing exactly what sight you’ll be met with once you do. 

and, lo and behold — there he is.

gojo looks the same as always. grinning brightly, a little woflish, wearing those ugly sunglasses and making his way across the room like he owns it. a trait you can’t help but admire, envy, hate and worship at the same time. he plops down next to you like it’s nothing, a little too close for comfort, unconcerned about your concept of personal space.

”whatcha up to?” he chirps, in that sugar sweet tone, layered over with a boyish kind of excitement. there’s a teasing tilt to it, too — the one that always accompanies his voice when he’s speaking to you.

under normal circumstances, you’d flip him off. maybe even just glare at him, silently, or raise a brow in challenge.

but you’re far, far too tired to. too anxious. too in need of sleep, in need of a peaceful breakfast that he oh so cruelly ripped from you. all you can muster is the energy to glance his way.

for just a second, your eyes meet. not like you can actually see them, from behind his glasses — but you know they’re there. menacing and uncanny, bright and excited. too much to handle, right now.

”… morning.”

as soon as the mutter has left your lips, you take a tentative bite of your sandwich. gaze trailing sluggishly back to your plate.

gojo blinks.

he immediately notes that your voice sounds meek. even more so than usual. he expected you to give him a scoff, or even just a timid huff — but no such luck. 

you’re just sitting there, quiet, curling into yourself.

after a moment’s consideration, gojo opts to look at you. to really look at you, study your face, the way those twitchy fingers move to curl around the ceramic handle of the cup you’re drinking out of. the way your eyes shift from place to place, unfocused, your eyelids flicking shut every couple seconds. slow.

he’s always been observant — but it doesn’t take a genius to see that you’re tired. 

gojo is silent, for no more than a mere moment; contemplating his next course of action. he’s never seen you like this, before. did something happen?

…

(— well, it doesn’t matter. not his problem.)

”you look like a zombie,” he grins, a little teasing, showing off the white of his teeth. even though you look out of it, he can’t help himself — despite his own intuition telling him to let you be. 

you’re just too fun to tease. suguru and shoko only ever raise their eyebrows at him, or stare him down like a misbehaving dog, but you always have a good reaction to give. something to entertain him when he’s bored, distract him when his mind is too full of noise. 

so he can’t help but tease you, a little. hoping it’ll soothe the restlessness inside his chest.

but for once, what gojo expects isn’t what he gets. 

what he expects is for you to glare at him. tell him to leave you alone, or even just sigh in exasperation — either one would be fine. it’s just mindless enjoyment, to him, a little fun to lighten up his day. 

especially now, when suguru is away on some day trip he wasn’t privy to. that traitor. shoko is nowhere to be seen, either, probably off smoking in some random alleyway. or hanging out with one of the kyoto losers.

… the whole dorm is so eerily quiet.

(gojo would never admit it, not in a thousand years… but maybe he’d feel just a little bit lonely without any of you around.)

for a while after waking up, he assumed he’d have to spend the whole day alone. no one to talk to, no one to look at. he was practically dying of boredom. but then he entered the kitchen — and saw his saving grace. his dear little irritable classmate. 

he was so relieved. content in the knowledge that he’d get to push your buttons to his heart’s desire, bask in your playful banter and cold, joking little looks until suguru finally comes home.

only this time — you don’t react at all. 

you don’t give him what he expects, don’t indulge his little antics, in the way he’s grown so accustomed to. you just keep eating your breakfast, and drinking your coffee, in total silence. 

gojo waits, just a couple moments more. hoping for a delayed reaction, a witty counter, a snarky comment. anything. 

but it never comes.

finally, he starts to sulk. slumping against the leather seat behind him, quieting down with a low huff. furrowing his brows, as his glossy, cherry-tasting lips curl down into a little pout.

honestly, he’s kind of annoyed. just what is your problem? what is with you, today? 

… it’s no fun if you’re not playing along. 

gojo can’t help but grumble, a little, under his breath. you’re usually so responsive, so easy to rile up. so what’s wrong? why are you just sitting there?

…

whatever. so what if you’re not talking to him? so what if you won’t even spare him a glance? gojo has better things to do, bigger fish to fry. he wasn’t even that excited, when he saw you. the thought of bantering with you didn’t lift his spirits, even in the slightest. 

not even a little bit.

…

but, really — would it take so much effort for you to just say something? to just respond to his friendly little quip? you can’t possibly be that tired. 

or, what — did you get insecure, or something? because he called you a zombie? no way. you’re not that sensitive… are you? or is that it? 

what a hassle.

you know he’s just messing with you. he knows you know. so why are you acting so…. 

(sad, gojo wants to think, but he buries the thought before it can reach his frontal cortex. he doesn’t want to empathize with you, not right now — doesn’t want to feel that discomforting pang in his chest.)

a strange sensation bubbles up in his chest. something frustrated, a little unnerved; at your lack of a reaction, the weak glint in your eyes. he just doesn’t understand why — and that frustrates him even more. 

why can’t you just bite back, like always?

(… it’s fun when you do.)

the silence lingers on, stretches out across the room, festers and grows as you gulp down your breakfast. all while gojo keeps on sulking, still sitting beside you, waiting for something to happen. he briefly considers getting up and leaving, or saying something annoying to hopefully spur you on —

but you stand up before he can convince himself to go through with either option.

having finished your breakfast, your legs carry you to the sink. finally, you can head back to your room. gojo’s being weirdly quiet, but you pay no mind to it; methodically washing your dishes in silence. 

you don’t bother saying goodbye to him, either. still sitting there, seemingly deep in thought, grumbling something under his breath. 

he watches as you leave, gaze trailing after you, until you’re completely out of sight. 

then he lays down, flat on his back, with a frustrated huff. trying desperately to brush away the memory of your dim eyes, the slight frown on your lips. the dark circles under your eyes, that he tried so hard not to notice because they made him feel so weirdly uncomfortable. the meek, meek look you gave him.

gojo sighs.

(he feels just a tiny, tiny bit bad.)

when you wake up from your slumber, you immediately note that your body feels lighter.

this time, no nightmares came to haunt you. having practically collapsed once your head hit the pillow, your body finally decided to give you some peace of mind, some well needed rest. thankfully.

with a groan, you lazily stretch out your limbs — enjoying the feeling of your veins waking up, gaze falling on the clock on your wall. you’ve only been asleep for about two hours, or so, but it’s more than enough to give you the little jolt of energy that you need.

what to do, what to do. you still have the whole day ahead of you. another nap wouldn’t hurt, but you don’t want to waste your precious free time just rotting in bed — maybe you could take a walk around the schoolyard instead? the cherry blossoms have started to unfurl, and the grounds of the school are just littered with them.

even just the mental image is enough to have you changing into some light and comfortable clothes, reaching a hand out to push your door open. excitement stirring in your veins.

as you do so, something is knocked over.

all you hear is a soft little thud, accompanied by the sensation of something colliding with the door. a low curiosity overtakes you — eagerly peeking around for a look at the mysterious something.

your gaze falls on something pink.

it’s tiny, awfully out of place, just laying unassumingly on the dusty floorboards. as you crouch down to get a better look, you recognize it instantly; a small carton of strawberry milk. a plastic straw plastered on its side, and an evil looking cow mascot staring at you from the front. one of the items sold in the schoolyard’s vending machines — your personal favorite. you drink it every time you need a tiny pick-me-up, the sweet taste always managing to soothe your spirits.

and it was sitting right outside your door.

you stare at it, silently, in deep contemplation. holding it in your hand as the gears turn inside your head. could someone have dropped it? no, that’s dumb — who’d drop it right outside your door and then not pick it up?

… did someone leave it for you, then? because they know you like it? that could be it, maybe, but who would —

…

your mind stills. 

(no way.)

when you think about it — that’s the only explanation that makes sense. shoko and geto aren’t there, and you barely know any of your senior students. yaga-sensei would never give you strawberry milk without a lecture on the dangers of cavities, either.

that just leaves one possible culprit.

but you can’t wrap your head around it. why would he do something like that? he doesn’t like you — you know that much. so it couldn’t possibly be him.

… then again, you have seen him drink it. both of you like it, contrary to your other classmates; shoko doesn’t like sweet things in general, and geto wouldn’t go for strawberry milk if he could choose something else. it might as well be the only thing you and gojo have in common — the one thing that binds you two together. 

a single carton of strawberry milk. 

it’s almost comical.

(if it’s really true — if he really did do it… then you wonder why. maybe he noticed that you were feeling under the weather, and figured it’d make you happy. 

you wonder if it’d be foolish of you, to believe that it’s true — if only because you kinda like the idea.)

your feet move on their own, before your mind has a chance to question the decision. 

where could he be? in the kitchen, still? in his dorm?

just as you begin to wonder, a flash of white dances in the corners of your vision. when you glance out the window, you see it; white, soft hair, like a fluffy cloud, in the midst of all the pink petals fluttering about. 

you stop.

then you start walking again. with more decision, this time. hurrying to the exit.

gojo is sitting right outside the dormitory, on a wooden bench, legs swinging idly as he gazes at the sky. his hair sways slightly with the breeze, soft strands moving and caressing his skin. pink petals dance all around him, gracefully descending down to the ground, together with a trail of bubbles. gojo is blowing them, haphazardly, following their movement with his keen eyes. they glimmer in the sunlight, reflecting all shades of the rainbow.

the sight is just a little bit breathtaking. 

the ground crunches beneath your feet, when you take a step forward — and gojo turns towards you. you stiffen like a deer in headlights, instantly regretting your decision. blinking nervously. you walked here almost entirely on impulse, but now that you’re face to face…

(it’s a little scary.)

… still, it’s far too late to back out now. you can’t do much except join him, so that’s exactly what you do — albeit a little hesitantly.

trying to ignore his continuous stare, burning into the side of your head, you plop down beside him. feeling the steady bench beneath you, breathing in the scent of sweet-smelling cherries and soap.

an uncomfortable silence lingers in the air around you both, as he waits for you to say something. 

it’s a little tough. mustering up the courage to say anything, even just to face him. the decisiveness you felt just a moment ago has faded, now only the ghost of a sensation — you’re too nervous to verbalize anything.

but eventually, after a deep breath or two, you force yourself to speak. hoping you won’t come to regret it.

”… hey, gojo?” 

it’s almost a whisper. soft and fragile, mumbled beneath your breath as you stare at the cherry trees in front of you. you know his eyes are on you, though. you can feel them, almost feel their weight in the palm of your hand. like marbles.

weakly, you raise up the carton of strawberry milk. glancing over at him, not quite managing a smile, but trying your best to look somewhat appreciative. 

”thanks.”

a confused blink. gojo looks down the strawberry milk, and then back up at you. eyelashes fluttering.

a moment passes. 

then he turns his head away, swiftly, his hair tousled by the movement — a couple pink petals stuck between the soft strands. you can’t see his face anymore.

”i have no idea what you’re talking about,” he huffs, with a voice you’ve never heard him speak through.

when you look a little closer — you think the tips of his ears may be just slightly red. it makes your lips curl up into a small smile, but you barely feel it.

(like this, he’s actually kind of cute.)

cherry blossoms flutter in the wind, dancing joyously, without a care in the world. a spring breeze ruffles gojo’s hair, as he sits beside you, having begun to blow his bubbles again. not saying a word, and looking straight ahead. but you can’t help but stare, as sneakily as you can muster.

you find yourself thinking that he looks right at home, among the petals. fleeting, hard to get a grasp on, so pretty, and so out of reach — despite being so close. 

if you wanted to, you could reach over and touch him. you could reach for his sunglasses, lift them off his face, and finally see those eyes he’s so intent on hiding. you could see him, see straight into his soul — and find out who he really is.

you won’t, though. some boundaries aren’t meant to be so callously crossed.

instead, you puncture the pink carton in your hand with the plastic straw, and take a tentative sip. the sweet taste soothes you, straight away, blooming on your tongue. you can’t help but sigh, softly, relaxing even further — it’s absolutely perfect, for this kind of weather. the sight before you, cherry petals and shining bubbles, a boy you don’t like, but definitely don’t hate. 

you both look up, following the bubbles with your eyes, as they float up into the sky; as they get smaller and smaller, farther and farther out of reach. neither of you say a word, but the silence is comforting. light. 

gojo is the first one to break it — in a voice so small you barely hear it.

”… you don’t look like a zombie.”

a second passes. you’re left blinking in confusion, trying to decipher the sudden statement. you can’t get a good read on his expression, with those eyes of his conveniently hidden; he must have regained his composure, then.

it takes a couple seconds for his words to sink in — but once they do, all pieces seem to fall into place. 

and you burst into laughter.

gojo blinks at you, caught off guard, his eyelashes flapping like a little dove scrambling to get off the ground — staring at you like you just grew a second head. that makes you laugh harder, a bout of giggles spilling past your lips — you just can’t help it. 

”did —” you wheeze, softly, thoroughly amused. trying and failing to bite back the laughter. ”did you think i was bothered by that, or something?”

gojo looks at you. a little stunned, for a moment. the sight only makes your smile bloom further, eyes crinkled as you meet his gaze. from the angle you’re viewing him through, leaning back against the bench, you catch a glimmer of his eyes. they’re awfully pretty — blue and bright, full of life. when you look closer, you can see tiny, tiny splotches of white. 

they look like the blue sky. 

you called them menacing, before, but now you aren’t so sure. they seem soft, in the sunlight, especially when seen like this — right after catching him off guard. it’s a rare moment, terribly precious. something to savour.

gojo doesn’t let it linger, though. 

after a moment of two, he scoffs — turning away yet again. a soft, soft pout on his lips.

”obviously not,” he huffs, sounding nothing but irritated, resting his jaw on the heel of his palm. ”but with how sensitive you are, i wouldn’t be surprised.”

usually, a comment like that would irk you. now it just makes you giggle, lightheartedly — the tips of his ears turning redder at the sound. 

(he really isn’t so bad, after all.)

for a while, you don’t say anything else. afraid of ruining the tender atmosphere. you feel closer to gojo than ever before — and you wonder if maybe this is the gojo that geto sees. childish, but well meaning. arrogant and cocky, but oddly innocent. selfish — but not really. you’re starting to think that you may have been slightly off, with that one.

the strawberry milk on your tongue tastes sweet. a little sweeter than usual, though you choose not to dwell on it.

”hey,” you break the silence, surprising even yourself. the words fall from your lips like soft little breaths, rolling off your tongue like marbles pouring out of a glass bottle. ”i don’t dislike you, you know?”

it’s an impulsive admission. saying it out loud doesn’t feel wrong, though. maybe a little humiliating, sure, but not wrong. not dishonest.

you suspect that gojo may be looking at you, out of the corner of his eye, but you aren’t sure. after all, you’re vehemently avoiding his gaze — a little embarrassed by your own sincerity. 

he doesn’t know how to respond. you’re being strangely unpredictable, today, and it makes him feel unsure of himself. your tone is soft, almost friendly. he only ever hears it when you’re talking to shoko or geto.

not learning his lesson, gojo opts to tease you again. as always. afraid to let the silence linger for too long. it’s a halfhearted attempt, though, more of a vaguely amused huff than anything. 

”what, got a crush on me or somethin’?”

this time, you don’t scoff, or roll your eyes, or give him an earnest fuck right off. you only chuckle, in a way that almost borders on fond. you’re not one to tease, contrary to the boy on your left, but your words are teasing even still. ”i have better taste than that.” 

gojo should be irked, should grumble and bite back, but you don’t give him the chance to. 

”i just… you know,” you taste the words on your tongue. ”i still think you’re annoying. and childish.” gojo huffs, and your lips curl up. ”but i really don’t dislike you.”

you take a sip of the strawberry milk, before continuing, hoping it’ll make the words easier to say. ”… and it’s not like i know you, anyway. so i’m sorry for making a bunch of assumptions.” 

a pause. for a split second, you quiet down, a little flustered. gnawing on your bottom lip.

”… that’s all i wanted to say,” you exhale, gaze glued to your lap. feeling a heat on your nape.

as always, you can’t tell what gojo’s thinking. out of the corner of your eye, you try to catch a glimpse of his face, but you have a nagging suspicion that it wouldn’t tell you anything anyway. his eyes are hidden by those sunglasses, after all, acting as a wall between him and the rest of the world. so you don’t know if the words reach him, if they mean anything at all. 

but you hope they do. even as you brush cherry petals and non-existent dust off your lap, and get up to leave.

gojo just sits there, for a second, deep in contemplation. 

he tries to bury a certain thought, before it has a chance to reach his frontal cortex — before he has to accept that it exists. only this time, he doesn’t succeed. the words die before they reach his tongue, but he hears them, in his head. he hears them loud and clear.

and he flushes under the light of the sun.

(i don’t really dislike you, either.) 

what actually ends up leaving his throat is merely a scoff, so faint he doubts you even hear it. 

”whatever,” he mutters, hoping it’ll come across as cool and unbothered. it doesn’t.

one last smile reaches your face, before you head back inside. gojo stays behind, on the bench, lost in thought.

tossing the now-empty carton into a trash can, you try to calm yourself down. feeling oddly excited, as if you’ve reached something, the start of an eventual conclusion. something worth cherishing.

you still don’t understand satoru gojo. but you get the impression that you just grew a little bit closer to him. there are layers to him, more than what meets the eye, hidden behind those sunglasses of his. you can only imagine what the world might look like, from his perspective. what you look like, reflected in his eyes, a blur of colours and facial features, sparks and dots.

you wonder if the whole world looks like a painting, to him. 

you feel a little ashamed, for thinking you had him all figured out. a spoiled, self-centered rich kid, with no functional empathic abilities. it might be partially true, but you’ll have to reevaluate the statement. to see how well it holds up. you still don’t think his emotional intelligence is anything to gawk at, but you may have been underestimating it. it’s there, despite everything — in those eyes, in that single carton of strawberry milk.

you think there’s a certain maturity, there, in spite of his childishness. or perhaps the latter is no more than a product of the former, a way for damaged children to dress their wounds. the way he carries himself and the way he speaks both seem a bit forced. like he’s used to performing, used to moving in a way that demands attention. all eyes on him, at all times. 

you think that sounds just a little exhausting. 

even as you return to the safety of your dorm room, you still can’t help but wonder. there’s still so much you don’t know. despite the moment you shared, and the connection you think may be growing between you, he’s still so out of reach. almost lonely, in a way. you wonder what he looks like, when he’s alone, when there’s no one around to perform for. 

(what is an actor without their audience?)

and, despite everything, after all is said and done — you really, really don’t understand satoru gojo. not at all, not in the slightest. not one bit.

but you think you’d maybe like to.

[alexanderwales]

Me: I don't really like modern art. Kat: Did you see that Jacob Geller video? Me: I did. I didn't meant that I don't like modern art in a facscist way, just like ... I don't like it. I look at the paintings, at Rothko, and I just don't get it. Kat: A lot of it you have to see in person, I think. The pictures don't really do it justice, especially Rothko, some of those are huge, and you just stand in front of it and it's like ... as close as I've had to a religious experience. Me: I mean, I went to the Museum of Modern Art in Washington, D.C. And I went to the Tate Modern. And whatever the one in Seoul was called, and another in San Francisco, the de Young Museum. I've seen, in person, stuff from Rothko and Pollock and a bunch of the other Abstract Expressionists. Kat: That ... is a lot of modern art museums for someone who doesn't like modern art. Me: I want to like it. I hear the way people talk about it, how a Rothko evokes these emotions in them, and it's like all I can see is paint on canvas. I don't know. Like I'm blind. Kat: You're the opposite of a tortured artist. An art viewer who tortures himself. Me: It's not that. I mean, some of the stuff I really do get something from. It's not all Rothko. I don't walk into every art museum and just groan in agony. But there are this class where ... people like this stuff, and in my head I'm like "people like this stuff?" Kat: They do. I do. Me: Right, and I do believe that. But there's this part of me that's struggling against the human instinct to go "no, they're all lying for some reason, it's a game of peer pressure, or clout chasing". I think that way lies madness. I think that's a trap that people fall into all the time, because they do the typical mind thing, and they say "well if I don't like modern art, no one else must like modern art". Kat: And you're trying to correct for that by ... looking at a bunch of modern art you don't enjoy. Me: Kind of, yeah. I saw Barnett Newman's Stations of the Cross and I thought the idea of it was interesting, the journey of Christ as laid out in only a handful of brushstrokes. But the actual paintings, I just had never felt further from my fellow man than looking at them and trying to understand them. I sat and tried to meditate, to clear my mind, to let some thought come to me, but it was still just paint on canvas. Kat: And you're what, just going to keep going to modern art museums? Me: If I'm in a city with one, sure. Because sometimes there's something that speaks to me, it's just never the Abstract Expressionist stuff. Kat: I cannot imagine doing that, repeatedly viewing something in a genre you don't like. Is it because it's high status? Because you're clout chasing? Me: I don't think so. I think it's just alien to me, no matter how many reviews I've read extolling the works, how many people have explained these individual pieces. And you know, when we went to the one in D.C., we had our son with us, and he was looking at all this stuff too, and when we went out I asked him which was his favorite. He said it was one of the Pollocks, Lavender Mist. Kat: Cute. See, the kid gets it. Me: I asked him what he liked about it, and he said to me, "you can see the drips". Kat: Sometimes that's all there is to it.

[coriphallus]

DA: The Veilguard Spoiler review pt2 - The Grime

this is a hard one to tackle without strawmaning anyone because itll be a direct response to alot of defense ive seen for the games morality system so ill just start by saying, iykyk

never a genre has been better equipped to discuss ethics than the interactive medium of games and yes, bioware games have been doing it since baldurs gate and no, theyve not always been 'centrist' and 'conservative'. im not even gonna entertain that idea. do you remember the cultural landscape DA:O released to? the landscape it was developed in? dont give me that just because zevran doesnt write in his little notes -that you can conveniently read- 'gay good. not me but me bisexual'

Thedas is a flawed world and its a world thats just as desperate to hang on to its status quo as our own. every time you play an elf thats thriving, or a human thats queer, or a mage thats not institutionalised you exist in a world that doesnt want you, it is an act of defiance that you do.

im sure we can all see why these games were so popular with the audience they can only weakly try to pander to today.

derailing time again; so one of my favourite paintings of all time is saturn devouring his son. it makes me feel so uncomfortable that it gave me nightmares as a child, and i still cant look at it without feeling this knot in my throat. i hate it. i hate how it makes me feel, how that man looks at me in terror like its begging me for help while cannibalising another. weird story but i was bewitched by that painting as a little kid.

it is not a well drawn painting, the proportions are all over the place, brush strokes crude and inelegant. it doesnt even have a deeper story nor was it intended for an audience. i will never know what goya thought of when drawing it.

i thought alot about that painting later in my life when i was struggling with mental health problems, i thought about goya alot too as an adult and after learning about his life. i stared at his paintings and remembered when i told my dad that i hated [saturns] big eyes and hed jokingly said "it would be scarier if he didnt have eyes"

i know what the drawing looks like now, nearly everyone with a little access to the internet does. if somebody removed saturn from it, we'd still be left with a brutalised headless carcass of a man in a canvas too big for itself. if we removed that too all we'd be left with would be void.

i dont want to live in a world where all i know of goya is his rococo work, i dont want to stare at the painting of a void knowing what filled it before. i hated every second of germinale but i never wanted it to be anything other than itself, the story it tells could never hold credence otherwise.

DAV has done its best to paint over it, but its still on the old canvas and i cant look away from the negative space its left, i know whats under it and it unsettles me, infuriates me. it hands me a palette with baby blues and pinks and tells me to paint over it to make a prettier painting. didnt i hate the eyes? wasnt it gross before?

i am not going to write why we need some grime in art, but its absence is disheartening. and to those who say hanged people in the streets or blighted villagers is dark and mature ill say no. its a kids idea of maturity, its the aesthetic of it with no substance. it means nothing to me if rook can just drench themselves in gallons of blight as they crawl through it. the horror of blight has never been the black goo and slimy tentacles, or the monster woman with way too many tits. it is watching people you love slowly fade away, it is a woman who was forced to cannibalise the contaminated flesh of her friends because the woman she loved betrayed her, it was the sheer scale and inevitability of it.

one area we go to is overrun by it and the game begs me to feel hopeful that flowers are growing again when it never let me lose hope. people have already prevailed, they have roofs over their heads and a steady supply of food on their tables. their spirit is unwavering.

its bad, everybody says. the sky is grey and soil is blackened, as my rook turns some statues to access a haunted house whos inhabitants are long gone and the only story they could ever tell is gone with them.

if the question is do i want to see famine? plague? misery? abuse? assault? the answer is yes. yes. i want to see it all of the filth. i rather face the fucking monster head on with its big bulging eyes and misshapen limbs than stare at the abyss its absence leaves on the canvas.

and if nothing else, this bastardization is disrespectful to the people who gave the IP its fame.

Why choose to be good?

back in the bsn days ive wondered why, even in a fictional universe where your choices have no real-life repercussions what-so-ever, players had more 'good' playthroughts than 'bad'?

what happens when you start killing NPCs, when youre needlessly mean to them? the game actively closes off its own content. you get less out of the game. just as, completely incidentally, you'd get less out of your life if you just started killing everyone around you. The world would be emptier, youd be alone.

in that quote i stole from good place chidi doesnt ask "why be good?" the wording is painfully deliberate. doing good is always a choice, and often not the easy one. what makes the act matter is that you chose to do it, even when given 6 other options not to. did i stop in the middle of an important quest to help a man retrieve an heirloom from a darkspawn infested hut? did i hear what that heirloom meant to him?

i cant stop thinking about that speech ever since playing this game after knowing its predecessors.

So, why do it then? Why choose to be good, every day, if there is no guaranteed reward we can count on, now or in the afterlife? I argue that we choose to be good because of our bonds with other people and our innate desire to treat them with dignity. Simply put, we are not in this alone.

i cant stop looking at this game that spits on its own legacy and think how could they have missed what fundamentally makes us human so bad, what makes us relate and empathise with eachother. what makes us pick the option to interact with an npc who openly hates what hawke is, and allow us to see the traumatised man underneath.

these characters of fiction are written by real people. i have absolutely nothing in common with a guy from canada yet for a brief moment in time i feel a sense of camaraderie as ive felt with goya that i couldnt articulate as a kid.

Nothing too terrible

DAV says it over and over again -as its wont to do with every piece of its flimsy morality- that people can change, people can be redeemed yet it shines as the game with most static characters in its franchise. it simply says things, and since it has nothing to show for it it makes sure to say it repeatedly, in case you missed it.

so when i first played DAO i was in high school, i started with a human noble because fresh out of dark side edgy kotor fame i wanted to be a posh brat. also because, ya kno, we were poor my entire life up until that point and i wanted to have power.

i committed to it, even as the game stripped cousland of everything he had, because i thought a man like him would. i picked the racist options, the sexist options, the options a man in couslands place would. halfway point of the game as i exhausted the initial dialogues something happened; this man who got paid to kill people, who showed no remorse nor care for his victims, begged my cousland to stil his blade.

and i did. i thought maybe he would be as confused as i was, maybe he had a moment of clarity but from thereon bit by bit he was less of an asshole. the characters grew around me, and my character grew around them. i chose to be good because -textually- we were in this together, at the end of all things.

rook is not a character, theyre a mascot. and quite frankly i think they may be a very evangelical mascot because they remind me of evangelical preachings of jesus more than the man from the bible (and i say this as someone whos only exposure to christianity has been through foreign media and the bible ive read that one time). they are the epitome of do no evil and their existence hinges on the frail concept of moral purity. theyre not a person trying to do good, who wants to be good, they are 'good'

-and lemme tell you its a wild choice to have someone like that locked in a prison of 'regret'-

rook can be mean to only one person in the game, and thats someone they dont even have a personal beef with for the most part. but even then they would be shouting at a wall because the game doesnt only undermine them with its narrative, but also every npc in the game suddenly gets possessed by the ghost of wattpad rejects past for a moment to tell them everyone can be redeemed. and i believe it because i played the other games, i believe it because i know zevran and sten and morrigan, isabela and thom and iron bull and dorian. i know it because i can see the vague shapes behind the new coat of paint but i am not rook.

so no, the game fails to get people-can-change points by its own merit, and it cannot gain points from its prequels because it destroyed them. none of those characters i watched grow exist in this universe. zevran cant exist with DAV crows, fenris` story cant exist in an imperium with invisible slaves only glimpsed through empty cages and broken chains left scattered on the ground. i dont know which morrigan this NPC is, is it the woman who grew to learn kindness, who begged to sleep with her friend just to save them despite knowing it would play into the plans of a destiny she so desperately tried to break free from? or is she the clever puppet her mother groomed her to be who wanted to harness the power of a god? i dont know her, i dont know this dorian or this isabela beyond their names ipso facto this is not a sequel.

bellara asks an assassin why he is trying to save the world and his answer is "ive done some things in the past im not too proud of. nothing too terrible, but some of it was bad." and i can hear the games desperation for me to not engage with its material in that 'nothing too terrible'

lucanis never killed anyone innocent, taash never harmed an animal they could shoo of or reason with, emmrich venerates the dead and is friends with every wisp he pulls to use in menial labour, davrin joined the wardens willingly because he wanted to do good...

rook tells harding that her anger is justified when shes not even allowed anger of her own.

nothing too terrible.

aside from creating boring and nonsensical and static characters it creates a dreadful echochamber that we're forced to sustain. No taash is not valid, their gender is but their behaviour is not and for the character to grow and mature it needs to be addressed. lucanis doesnt need to be pampered in shock blankets he needs to see how repressing his problems and jeopardising his health puts people around him in danger etc etc. they are adults and they need to learn more complex ways of healing. and if rooks flaw is that theyre an enabler, then that needs to be acknowledged by the narrative in some way too, and not mindlessly endorsed because they say some buzzwords.

none of these interpersonal relationships feels real because none of these people feel real beyond some draft of themes and tropes. some interactions literally remind me of two bots in facebook comments

i look at this dialogue wheel with familiar symbols and all im reminded of is hawke telling carver he carries every death with him, of him telling his uncle that he wasnt fast enough, of him begging the person he loves to tell him that his mothers death wasnt his fault.

and they dont. they just sit there with him.

[purplephloxpress]

Another year, another Fanfiction Writers Appreciation Day!!!! If you are a writer of fanfic, please know just how appreciated you are!! Fandom would be such a different space without your creativity and labors of love. 💜

Holidays are all about making traditions, and the bookbinding friends with @renegadeguild once again came together to bind copies of fics for their authors as a show of our appreciation. This year I had the absolute joy of binding Emergency Help Wanted by the wonderful @piyo-13 and even got to collaborate with her on some of the design elements! It's a Modern AU Jiang Cheng/Lan Xichen fic that starts with a "help wanted" ad.

EMERGENCY HELP WANTED

I lied when I got my job. I told them I had a kid so I could leave early from work to pick him up from daycare, take him to doctor's appointments, and occasionally miss a day when he's sick. Long story short, I'm in too deep. I didn't think it through. Looking to rent a kid for bring your child to work day. Must be a boy ages four to six, longish dark hair, likes soccer. Must also be artistic as the macaroni noodle paintings I made seem a little advanced for his age. Also, I will pay extra for someone willing to play the role of husband when dropping him off. He's a prosecuting attorney who often brings his work home. Message me for further details. Serious inquiries only.

Ok. So. I may have gone a little feral with this one. Online "help wanted" ad spiraled into loading wheel scene dividers, spiraled into fake Google search result headers, spiraled into FULLY committing to those authentic looking text messages. In full color. (There are so many. I typeset in MS Word. It was SO worth it, but god what a struggle at some points.) And don't forget the "recent searches" title page! Or the computer cutout on the cover! (It's bluescreening, just like Lan Xichen through this entire fic!) Also that cover/title page image that I just kept adding details to. (It's supposed to be Lan Xichen's desk, so it simply didn't feel right until it had sticky notes on the computer, #1 dad on the mug, scissors and measuring tape, scribbles on the sticky notes) Did I have a ton of fun designing this one? Perhaps. Couldn't say. Maybe just a tad. (This is a lie I had an ABSOLUTE BLAST!)

Historically, I've waited until I finish at least the typeset before reaching out to the author, but not so with this one! I got the idea for the fake google search results from Piyo's authors notes, teasing the contents of the next chapter. But! Those didn't start until about chapter 4! So I reached out and asked if we could collaborate and I'm forever glad I did! Not only does this have teasers for each chapter, I also got to bounce design ideas off of her, including what shade of blue and purple for the text messages. Because my friends, that is a serious matter and changed SEVERAL times throughout the process.

Also shoutout to all my Renegade friends who gave input and encouragement over the past year while I worked on this (what endpages to use? how to make this shade of green perfectly Nie Huaisang? how do we feel about this text message design? or how about this one?) - I love you all dearly and appreciate you so much for putting up with my nonsense at all times.

Binding details below the cut!

Fandom: The Untamed/Mo Dao Zu Shi

Pairing: Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin / Lan Huan | Lan Xichen

Bookcloth: Aqua/Purple Dubletta from Colophon Book Arts

Endpapers: Craft Consortium Ink Drops - Ocean pack

Textblock paper: short grain cream from Church Paper

Titling: We R Memory Keepers foil quill

Endbands: leather cording core, DMC embroidery floss for the bands

Body Font: EB Garamond

Title Font: Berlin Sans FB

Text Messages: Roboto

Additional fonts: Times New Roman, Kunstler Script, Magis Authentic

Title page image from Rawpixel and designed in Canva

Various computer graphics from The Noun Project

Tumblr insists on eating and doubling text in this section at its own whim, so if there's something missing that you're curious about, feel free to DM me an ask!

[d4yl1ghts]

Heyo, hope ur having a lovely day! I saw ur requests were open and was wondering if u could write smthn for Benedict with a partner who doesn’t want kids? I just think they’re kinda overwhelming (also pregnancy scary)

If u don’t feel comfortable writing this then just general fluff is also good, I’ve just noticed that a lot of Bridgerton fanfic has pregnancy/childbirth and it’s basically impossible to find stuff for a reader who doesn’t want kids so. Yeah

Thanks in advance :))

happy with just the two of us

benedict bridgerton x wife, fem!reader

summary: benedict knows of your attitudes towards society yet he doesn’t see your guilt caused by it

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, guilt

A/N- sorry that this is so short

-

You and Benedict had been married for six months and you were yet to properly took about the idea of children. After Benedict had proposed to you, you had mentioned that you disliked the idea of having children but you doubted he would remember. You found yourself getting eaten away by guilt every time you saw him smile as children ran around the park whilst you were promenading.

After weeks of dreading the conversation, you decided that it was finally time for it to occur. You couldn’t deal with the guilt any longer. Slowly, you made your way along the intricately designed corridors that lead to Benedict’s art studio. Upon seeing the entrance, you noticed your husband delicately painting a new piece of artwork.

You admired the way his back muscles clenched as he glided the paint brush across the canvas. You admired his ruffled hair: he must have run his hand through it a few too many times in indecisiveness. You shook yourself out of your trance and cautiously walked up behind him. Carefully, you placed your hand on his shoulder, signalling to him that you were there.

He instinctively jumped slightly which caused you to let out quiet giggles to which he followed with his sweet chuckles. He glanced up at you with his angelic eyes. “Was there anything you wanted, my love?”, he allowed his eyes to rake over your features. You nervously played with the hem of your dress as you avoided his eyes. “Yes, actually.”

A short silence followed as he awaited on your upcoming words. You found yourself unable to form your thoughts as words. He patiently watched as you worked to say what you wanted to say. “Well…”, you began as you waded into dangerous waters. “I have something that is incredibly important to tell you.”, you admitted rather shamefully. “What is it, Y/N?”, he reached out to gently touch your hand. “I, personally, do not see a life with children for myself in the future.”, you confessed as you dropped your head down.

“My love, look at me.”, he coaxed as he moved his hand to underneath your chin to lift your gaze up to him. “I do believe that you told me before we were to wed.”, he recalled. You let out a long breath in relief. He had remembered. And he still remained with you. “And you were still willing to marry me?”, you asked shyly. “Of course. I do not require a life with children. What I do require is a life with you. I could not live without you, my love.”, he assured you.

“So… you do not care of what society will think when we’re old with no children?”, you questioned for confirmation. He nodded. “If you had not noticed yet, my love, I do not typically abide to the rules of society.”, he chuckled as he thought of himself. You laughed along with him in appreciation for his certain words. You silently moved so you were seated on his lap before you placed your lips against his. He moved his hands to the side of your hips as he passionately kissed you back.

[lynk-zee]

Awkward Sex Moments…

Rafayel had this idea to capture human desire in a painting by fucking on a canvas. The abstract painting didn’t look half bad— until you saw your butt cheek print in the corner of the painting. Mortified, you told Rafayel to paint over it to which he refused because it would lose the art’s “authenticity”. He hangs it proudly in his bedroom, and you refuse to have sex in there because of it.

You and Zayne wanted to indulge in some sexy doctor/patient role play…Until he took it too seriously. First he asked for your insurance to make sure this “checkup” was completely covered. Then he proceeded to measure your height and weight.

Zayne: Is this not normal procedure for a full body checkup?

Him commenting that you gained two pounds since your last visit didn’t help either…

Xavier…FELL ASLEEP MID FUCK.

He initiated it too! Got you all nice and riled up on the couch. Whispered the right things, caressed the right places, did everything right so you were hot and bothered and practically begging him to take you. All for him to conk the fuck out while you were riding him.

MC: Xavier? Baby…?

MC: …Are you fucking kidding me—

[daisiesinvienna]

Hi! I live for your writing and i just saw that you write for daryl dixon too??

Could you write a oneshot where daryl and reader were separated after the prison, and when joe and his gang get revenge on rick she’s there instead of michonne?

Reckoning and Restitution

Title: Reckoning and Restitution

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: After you and Daryl were separated during the fall of the prison, Daryl finds himself in a gang he doesn’t want to be in while looking for you. But when Joe and his gang seek revenge on Rick for strangling one of their friends in a bathroom, you get caught in the crossfire.

Warnings: Typical TWD violence, gore, swearing, sexual assault.

Era: Post-Prison, Pre-Terminus

Author’s Note: I had something planned for Billy but I saw this request and couldn’t resist. This is a little dark, but if you watched the scene in the show you should be alright reading this. Also I saw this big ass spider run across my floor while I was writing this and now I can’t find it so i’m gonna go sleep on the couch

The sun had begun to disappear into the horizon, casting long shadows across the cement. 

You allow yourself to admire how the sky briefly turns into a vast, endless, ever-changing canvas of color, then starts to fade. Sunsets like these always make you feel hopeful, reminding you that even though the world had ended, you still have a chance at a happy ending. The sun would always rise and set, always paint the sky those brilliant colors, despite the horrors occurring down on earth. At least for another few billion years. 

The sun slowly sinks down into the horizon, taking with it the last few golden rays of light. Now, as the three of you trudge down the desolate and winding road, the sky slowly fades to black. 

You glance over at Rick, who has his eyes fixated on something up ahead. You follow his gaze, making out the silhouette of an abandoned vehicle not too far down the road, under the branches of a particularly large tree. 

“We’ll camp here for the night,” Rick says as the three of you reach the car. He pries open the car door to inspect the interior for anything of use as you check the perimeter for walkers.

It had certainly been a long day. You and Rick had decided to take your chances and head towards Terminus, thinking you could at least see if anyone from your group had gotten the same idea. But it was far away, and a difficult trip with a kid in tow. Especially when the kid was going through the difficult pre-teen phase.

It was lucky that you had found Rick and Carl after the prison fell. Or they found you, more like. Rick had quite literally drug you from the carnage, because you were so intent on finding Daryl. It took some convincing before you finally followed Rick and Carl away from the prison. You knew that with Daryl’s inhuman tracking skills, he would have no issue finding you. But it had been at least a few weeks, and there was no sign of him. It was an understatement to say you were worried. 

You plop down on the side of the road with a sigh, calculating in your head the days until you would reach Terminus. You had been keeping relaxed and calm by telling yourself firmly that Daryl would be waiting at the gates with that pissed-off look he always seemed to have no matter his mood.

Rick sits down beside you, having set up Carl in the backseat of the old car. He rummages around his pack before pulling out the last two granola bars, holding one out to you. You wave him off, knowing it would be wasted on you and should be saved for Carl.

He doesn’t falter, giving you his signature stern look.

“Take it,” He tells you, and you slowly accept the granola bar. “You’ve barely eaten today.”

You gratefully rip open the plastic packaging and take a bite, knowing he was right. 

“Thanks,” You mumble through a mouthful of food. Rick nods, opening one for himself as he glances towards the car where Carl slept. You know all too well the look of concern etched on his face, though he tries to mask it.

“He’ll be alright,” You state, taking another bite of your granola bar. Rick sighs, averting his gaze from the broken-down car. “He’s a tough kid.”

“I just wish he didn’t have to be,” Rick mutters, staring off into the woods. You nod slowly in agreement, opening your mouth to speak when you hear a stick break under someone’s boot behind the two of you.

Your hand immediately flies to your hip, hungry for the knife you knew was tucked into your belt. But just as you had wrapped your fingers around the hilt, the cool barrel of a gun was pressed against your temple. 

About ten rough-looking men emerge from the woods, all carrying guns and looking eager, like they were excited to see what Santa had brought them for Christmas. They slowly but strategically space themselves out, surrounding you and Rick so you had no escape route. You glance at Rick, to see that he has a gun to his head too, held by a man that had a sick grin on his face.

“Oh dearie me. You fucked up, assholes,” He announces, his voice sending chills down your spine. Your knife is yanked from your belt and flung onto the concrete, and you slowly raise both of your hands into the air, knowing there was no way out. 

“You hear me? You fucked up,” The man holding a gun to Rick’s head says, laughing. He was the clear leader of the gang. “Today’s the day of reckoning, sir. Restitution! A balancing of the whole damn universe! Shit, and I was thinking of turning in for the night on New Year’s Eve. Now who’s gonna count down the ball dropper with me, huh?” 

You knew that even if you and Rick retaliate at the same time, it would be pointless. Every man in the surrounding area was pointing a gun at the two of you. This wasn’t going to be good.

“10 Mississippi!”

What would happen when he finished counting, you didn’t know. You lock eyes with Rick, and he gave you a look that makes it plain you weren’t to try anything. Not yet, at least.

“9 Mississippi!”

You glance at the car parked a few yards away. One of the men was looking in the window at Carl, waving and grinning maliciously. Carl had woken up, and he looked from the man outside his window to his Dad, who was on his knees with a gun to his head.

“8 Mississippi!”

“Joe!” You hear someone shout. From behind the car, a man cautiously walks out. It was dark, so you can’t quite make out their face, but you could never forget that southern drawl. Your heart skips a beat.

“Hol’ up,” Daryl murmurs, stepping into a patch of moonlight. You stare at him in disbelief. Your eyes meet, and he gives you a look that makes it clear he doesn’t want any of this. His eyes dart from you to the guy behind you, who was still pressing a gun to your temple. You feel a surge of hopefulness. Daryl wouldn’t let this happen.

“You’re stopping me on eight, Daryl,” Joe retorts, raising an annoyed eyebrow at him.

“Just hold up,” Daryl mutters again, clearly looking for a way to stop this without pissing Joe off.

“This is the guy that killed Lou, so we got nothing to talk about!” Shouts a gruff looking man with a shotgun.

“The thing about nowadays is we got nothing but time. Say your piece, Daryl,” Joe says, gesturing at him with the air of giving him the spotlight.

“These people, you’re gonna let ‘em go. These are good people,” Daryl says softly to Joe, almost pleading. There was a hint of panic in his voice, though his facial expression was determinedly calm. You had never heard him speak this way before.

“Now, I think Lou would disagree with you on that. I’ll of course have to speak for him and all because your friend here, strangled him in a bathroom!” Joe yells.

“You want blood. I get it. Take it from me, man,” Daryl says, throwing his crossbow aside and raising his hands in surrender.

“No!” You shout immediately, scrambling to your feet. “Daryl, No!”

The man behind you roughly yanks you back to the ground. You try to pull yourself from his grasp, but you stop struggling against him when you hear the click of the safety on his gun. The man covers your mouth with his hand.

“Hush up now, bitch. I don’t want to have to shoot you yet,” He says, pressing the barrel to your temple. You instantly feel sick to your stomach.

“You keep your hands off her!” Daryl says firmly, taking a furious step towards the two of you with murder in his eyes, before two guys grab onto his arms and yank him back. 

“This man killed our friend!” Joe laughs, smiling broadly. “You say he’s good people. See, that right there… is a lie.”

“It’s a lie!” Joe repeats triumphantly. This seems to be some sort of code, because to your horror, a good number of the men surrounding you advance on Daryl. 

Daryl swings at the one who reaches him first, knocking him to the ground with one powerful blow. Before he can even turn around, the other men are on him. 

“No!” You shout desperately, watching Daryl try and fend off at least six guys. Daryl was strong, but he was significantly overpowered. “He didn’t do anything! Leave him alone!”

Daryl manages to land a few blows on his attackers, but they soon manage to get him on the ground. 

“Teach ‘em fellas, teach ‘em all the way!” Joe laughs. He then gave the other men a nod, which you soon realize was the ‘go ahead.’

The man holding onto you shove you forward onto the ground, and you hit your head painfully on the concrete. Before you realize what was happening, you are roughly flipped onto your back and the man had crawled on top of you. You hear the sound of the car door opening, and Carl’s yelp as someone drug him out of the car and flung him on the ground.

“You leave him be!” Rick shouts angrily. You could hear the sounds of grunts and fists colliding with flesh somewhere behind you, and knew that Daryl was putting up a hell of a fight.

The man on top of you pins your hands above your head with one of his, and you thrash and shout as you struggle to escape his grip. 

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s so much more fun when you fight it,” The man purrs, smirking down at you as he roughly tore your shirt off, buttons scattering onto the road.

“No! No, stop it! Get- off- me!” You shout, starting to panic as he roughly grabs at your chest.

“Don’tcha fuckin’ touch her!” Daryl yells furiously from behind you, but his shouts are silenced as the men continue to land blow after blow.

“Listen it was me, it was just me!” Rick shouts desperately as Carl’s yelps become louder from next to the car. Tears are streaming down your face as you struggle against the man above you. What did they want with Carl?

“See now that’s right! That’s not some damn lie. We can settle this, we’re reasonable men,” Joe says, sounding genuinely entertained by the sight before him, as if he was watching the ending of a suspenseful movie.

“First we’re gonna beat Daryl to death,” Joe says. It sounds like Daryl’s resisting was starting to slow, but the impact of fists didn’t falter. If anything, they sped up.

“Daryl!” You yell as a last resort, the man starting to fiddle with the button on your cargo pants. You desperately try to free yourself, knowing what was going to happen to you if you didn’t escape. “Daryl!”

The man grabs you roughly by your hair, lifts your head, and hits it hard against the concrete below you. You groan, impossible pain flooding your head. You were too dizzy to struggle, and as your vision faded in an out you fought with all your might to stay conscious. Going unconscious in this situation would be deadly.

“Then we’ll all have the girl,” Joe says as quiet sobs escape you. You hear the sound of a belt buckle being undone.

“Then the boy,” Joe laughs. You could faintly hear the sound of Carl’s cries for help, and someone laughing loudly.

“Then I’m gonna shoot you, and then we’ll be square!” Joe laughs manically, foolishly bending down behind Rick. But his laughter was silenced by the slight inconvenience of Rick breaking his nose with the back of his head. Rick lunged for his gun, and the two started scuffling. The man on top of you didn’t care too much.

“What’s the matter, girl? No more fight left in ya?” He laughs, starting to attempt to pull your cargo pants down, ignoring your quiet begging.

Everyone suddenly turns around in shock to look at Rick and Joe when a horrible scream pierces the air. Then, somebody spat.

You seize the opportunity, and in the moment of silence, you use your remaining strength to knee your distracted attacker in the balls as hard as you possibly could. He shouts in pain, bringing his hand down to hit you across the face, making you see stars. The gunshots ringing through the air drowns out whatever vulgar word he calls you. Rick had gotten his hands on a gun, and you hear multiple bodies drop behind you. Before you know what’s happening, Daryl lunges out of nowhere and tackles your attacker, knocking him off of you.

Daryl got on top of the man, landing blow after blow on his face. He had a look of pure rage his eyes that you’d never seen before. Rick was violently stabbing the man who grabbed Carl. You scramble to your feet, ignoring the dizziness, looking around frantically. Bodies littered the ground. All of the men were dead, except for Joe, who was still choking on his own blood on the pavement.

Daryl finally stops hitting the man, before pulling his knife from his hip and stabbing him through the heart. Rick had long but killed Carl’s attacker, and you hear the body drop. Then there was almost complete silence, only broken by Joe gurgling and spluttering blood onto the pavement and the ringing in your ears.

Daryl turns to look at you, scanning you for injuries. His face is horribly bruised and bloody. When he stands up, Daryl stumbles up to you and immediately pulls you into his arms. You sink into them gratefully, before the tears started.

He holds you close, apologizing over and over again for hundreds of different things as you cry into his chest.

You’ll never admit it, but you were losing hope that you’d ever see him again. He very well could’ve died at the prison and you never would have known. But now as you clung to him, you realize that that was a stupid thing to think. Nothing could kill Daryl Dixon, except Daryl Dixon.

“I never stopped lookin’ for ya,” Daryl murmurs, his voice cracking. You look up at him to see tears streaming down his face. You’d never seen him cry before. “‘M sorry. ‘M so sorry.”

[famwhy]

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited..."

"...for this moment?"

Diary of a Wimpy Kid

Yandere! Rodrick Heffley X F!Reader

Synopsis: Rodrick Heffley couldn't believe his own luck; you noticed him—you noticed him. This must've been fate, right? You must've loved him, there was no way you didn't. And if you loved him, then what he was doing was okay, right?—there was nothing wrong with it? Of course not, after all, you two were going to get married in the future, he was sure of it! All of this would just turn out to be a silly story you would tell your future kids about how you two first met. Yeah, that's all this was—one big, silly story.

Warnings: Mean!Reader, Depictions of toxic relationships, Stalking

"Dude, you're staring again."

Rodrick knew; he knew that he was staring again. But, how could he not? How could he not stare when the most drop-dead gorgeous girl in school was within just 10 feet of him?—when you were right there, before his very own eyes?

So close, and yet, so far.

"Dude!"

You stood by your locker—lips painted in that really pretty shade of cherry red to match with your striking eyeliner—basically demanding everyone's undivided attention; attention which you undoubtedly got.

Though, even if you—by some chance in this fucked up world—didn't receive that attention, Rodrick wouldn't hesitate to give it to you; Rodrick would give all of that attention times ten to you. Hell, if you so much as asked him for it, Rodrick would give you the world.

"Hey!"

He was melting—he knew he was—turning into putty at your very arms, even if they weren't anywhere near him. Regardless, his bones morphed into mush and his face went as red as the lipstick you adorned on that pretty mouth of yours he longed to get a taste of. 

He could gaze at you for days and never get enough.

What he couldn't gaze at for days, however, was what occurred next.

A pair of strong arms sprung out of nowhere, wrapping around your torso and lifting you into the air in a way that had molten lava coursing through the Heffley's veins, heating up his insides and igniting a fire within; a fire that ached to burn the male adorning a bright, varsity jacket beside you.

His eyes narrowed, teeth grinding over one another and skin losing all hints of previous colour, going as blank as an empty canvas sat aboard an abandoned easel at the sight before him.

That man—Lenwood Heath—oh how Rodrick loathed him; despised the very air he breathed; cursed the very home he inhabited. If the ground you strutted over was worshipped by the aspiring musician, then the ground that Lenwood trudged over was spat on by him.

Oh, how he could just picture it now, wrapping his hands around the neck of that pathetic, little—

"Heffley!"

Rodrick blinked, suddenly able to register the hand waving before his very eyes. "Huh?"

The blurry form in front of him quickly grew clear with a couple more blinks, revealing one of his best friends with a brow raised, lips pulled taut, and a pointed look on his face. "You fazed out staring at her again."

A longing sigh left the lips of the drummer. "Can you blame me, Chris? She's just so... so..."

"Hot?"

"Ethereal," Rodrick smiled, tunnel vision drowning out the dumb teen next to you in favour of only seeing you. "She'll love me one day, I know it."

"Dude—" Chris deadpanned, "—she doesn't even know you exist."

"Uh, yeah she does," responded the other musician, "Of course she knows I exist."

Chris' lips pulled up after that, and—even through his peripheral—Rodrick could see the smugness radiating off his friend's smirk. "Oh yeah? Prove it. Walk over there right now and say hi."

"What do you think this is? Some high school drama? I'm not doing that."

"Alright dude," came the voice of his friend again, taking on a bit of a defeated tone this time, "just tryna help you build up your confidence, that's all."

Rodrick's face scrunched up, now turning to fully face his friend and fellow band member. "My confidence is—"

A light 'ahem' cut through the air.

The Heffley whipped his head to the side—brows furrowing and lips parting in preparation for a sassy speech—when he saw just who exactly was clearing their throat at him.

His breath audibly hitched in his throat, wind getting stuck in his pipe—hindering his ability to respire as his vision flooded with that familiar pink he knew all too well. 

"Do you mind?" The question came out your pretty lips with an air of both boredom and your own bit of sass—both fists placed upon your hips as you stared at him pointedly.

Oh, you stared at him—you were staring at him.

Holy shit.

He didn't know what to do; what to say; what to think. His mind was a muddled-up mess with you sat in the middle of it all—in the eye of the storm, occupying your throne within his thoughts while the rest of his head went to shit.

But, the real you, the one stood before him right now, was quickly growing impatient. He could tell from the way you started tapping your foot against the ground in a quick rhythm—one of your cuter habits, he noticed; not that they weren't all cute.

A huff—escaping your lips; exasperated and very much fed-up. He was losing you. 

No, no, no, no, no.

His eyes widened, pupils shaking as his breath grew quicker and shorter and sharper. A tightness grew about his chest, contracting his lungs—folding them in on themselves—and tensing his muscles to the point they turned into multiple ropes that unfairly seized him by the throat.

He was panicking, and so—as any panicking person would do—said the first thing that popped into his head—

"Y/N."

—it was your name, of course. That was always at the forefront of his mind.

You scrunched up your nose in that super cute way that you do before speaking again—tone sounding a little... judgemental—"Do I know you?"

A harsh jab to his side and a pair of smug eyes burning a hole through his head followed after that sentence. Annoying.

With a quick glare directed straight at Chris, Rodrick rose his right arm to rub the left—as if to get rid of the lingering buzz of pain left in his friend's wake—before devoting his full attention back to you. "It's uh, Heffley—Rodrick Heffley?"

You narrowed your eyes, staring at him a little incredulously now—but he didn't mind, so long as you were staring at him and not past him, he didn't mind at all. Rodrick was on cloud nine anytime you gave him just an inch of attention, be it good or bad.

Everything about you was just so—

"Wait..." Rodrick blinked—today must've been his lucky day because you were gracious enough to greet him with lit up eyes once you broke through his thoughts. So pretty. "Heffley as in the same Heffley who destroyed Heather Hills' Sweet Sixteen?"

He grimaced a little at the memory, but nodded nonetheless. 

Your lips quirked up—by God, please place them on his—

"Y'know, I've been meaning to thank you for that..."

"Thank, uh—thank me?" Dear lord, he could feel his own heartbeat drumming against his ears.

"Yeah, thanks to you, I was able to take Hills' throne." A glint reflected off your beautiful eyes after you said that but Rodrick was too busy admiring your everything to decipher what it was. Was that a new pair of shoes? They suited you.

His eyes snapped back up to your face when a sudden warmth coated both of his shoulders, a familiar hand making its way into his peripheral. "Yup, that's my buddy." 

Your eyes briefly left the dark-haired male's form to flit over to his companion, and he found himself grinding his teeth against one another just as he had done before; the pink in his gaze quickly being replaced by a heated crimson.

But, as quick as the overwhelming urge to slam his own friend against the wall came—to rip his very skin off and watch as blood flowed straight out of him—it was gone—just in time for your eyes to return to the Heffley and send another explosion of those pretty, little insects to attack his insides and fill him with so much warmth, he found himself wishing to share it with you—

—God, please let him share it with you.

"Can you move now? I need to get to class." 

"Oh, uh, right." He damn-near stumbled over himself in order to make way for you, harshly shoving Chris to the side too—and if he could, he would've rolled out a red carpet for you as well. Your precious feet deserved more than the filthy school floor.

"Ack! Dude!"

Rodrick paid no mind to his friend's scowling form beside him—choosing, instead, to train his gaze onto your figure as it slowly grew smaller the further you walked away.

For a moment, as you brushed passed him, an overwhelming cherry scent flooded his nose, coursing through his innards to roll his eyes towards the back of his head and whisk him up into the air so that he could sit upon a cloud as high as the earth would allow; as high as you would allow.

But, of course, not higher than you—never higher than you. 

"She loves me—" Rodrick smiled; dopey and wide, "—I just know it."

"Whatever you say, dude."

'Whatever he says'? No, this was written in the stars. This was the epitome of fate; of destiny woven upon the finest of silks and stored in the most beautiful of halls—indestructible and unalterable.

This was love—true love.

And you knew it too—you must've. Why else would you have approached him the way you had? 

And it's because of your reciprocated feelings, that Rodrick felt perfectly fine with leaning forward in his seat next period—right up to the back of your neck—and taking another huge whiff that knocked him straight out of commission.

"The hell are you doing, Heffley?!" 

A voice snapped him out of his appreciation time—cruelly ripping him away from his blissful state of basking in your glory and forcing him to look over to his side.

Lenwood.

Rodrick rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat to kick his shoes atop his desk and rest his hands behind his head as he said, "Nothing."

The jock narrowed his eyes, brows furrowing as he parted his lips—gearing up for a threat, no doubt—when another voice cut through the air.

"Something the matter, Mr Heath?"

The jock quickly muttered out a denial before turning to face forward again.

Rodrick smirked.

"Mr Heffley, feet off the table please."

He rose his brows but said nothing, choosing to obey quietly—if only to have the opportunity to stay in the same room as you for just a little while longer.

Speaking of you, the commotion seemed to have caught your attention, because you spun around in your seat, eyes landing solely on his figure for the second time that day.

His breath hitched. It was definitely meant to be.

It stayed like that for a few moments, the two of you just staring at one another as the world dissipated into irrelevance around you. Your beautiful, E/C pools were enough for him to get lost in for hours—just as beguiling as the rest of you was. 

Alas, the moment couldn't last forever, and you shattered it with the tug of your lips downwards alongside the cute scrunch of your nose before spinning back around with the elegance of a ballroom dancer.

Ah, he could stare at you all day and never get enough.

He said that already, didn't he? Oh well, it deserved to be reiterated if the subject it was referring to was you.

Today had been a good day—one that he was sure would only end up getting better with the upcoming pep rally in a few periods time. An excuse to devote his entire attention to you without getting weird or judgemental looks? Yes please.

Though, to be entirely honest, he didn't care for those looks. He was too busy hoping, wishing, praying to be the one you woke up next to in the morning; the one whose embrace you cuddled into and found comfort within; the one who'd get to spend the rest of his life with you—

—God, please let him spend the rest of his life with you.

He couldn't help it—staring at you with the intensity he had during your cheer session once the pep rally did come around. 

Your lashes fluttered prettily as you peered up at the stands, hands covered by the balls you adorned and lips jutting out in that perfect pout that he just wanted to completely devour—

Ah, his throat was feeling a little dry. Just another effect you had on him.

Unfortunately, he had to part from the stands for a few moments to go grab himself a drink but, for you—his darling pretty girl—he made sure to rush back as soon as he possibly could.

Unfortunately, this speed of his meant that he wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings, and not paying much attention to his surroundings could only lead to one thing: an incident.

The can in his hands slid straight out of his grasp, falling to the ground with a loud 'crash!' as liquid scattered the area, still bubbling and fizzing up even out of its container. A pair of white shoes seeped into brown at the end, and Rodrick found himself trailing the legs adorning them upwards, eyes falling upon a white skirt stained in the same brown that was slathered over the floor.

His gaze kept going upwards, only stopping when they met with an infuriated pair of dazzling eyes narrowed back at him; a familiar, infuriated pair of dazzling eyes.

"Ugh! What the fuck did you do, you freak?! You ruined my outfit! No wonder why Heather fucking hates you!"

No, no, no, no.

He was sorry, he was so sorry. Just don't hate him, please forgive him. God, he didn't know what he'd do with himself if you didn't forgive him.

He wanted to beg for your forgiveness—grovel on his knees and hold onto you like his fucking lifeline—but you were ushered into the toilet by those... friends of yours before he even had the chance, and he was left there, eyes wide as his whole body trembled.

Make it up to you. He had to make it up to you

But how could he when you were constantly surrounded by people who got in his way?—when you both were?

First Lenwood, then his own friend, and now, your friends.

Where could he get you completely and utterly alone?—when it could just be the two of you?

That was when it struck him, and his feet started moving before the cogs in his head even could.

He arrived before you—bathroom trips always took awhile when it came to you and your posse, so he didn't have to worry about you being faster than him.

Setting up wasn't too hard either, he knew where everything was and also learned enough from his dad about women to know how to woo one back into loving you.

All he had to do... was wait for you.

And wait he did. It felt like years had passed as he stood shrouded in darkness, each second as agonising and torturous as the last—if not, more so. But it was worth the wait—you were worth the wait—and soon, the sound of the door opening was accompanied by a loud yell.

"Mom! I'm home!"

Silence.

"Mom?!"

Again. Nothing.

"Fucking—of course."

His lips tugged down, heart practically being pulled on by the words that spilled from your mouth.

Yeah, sure it was convenient that your mom was never home, but he couldn't help the way he cursed the woman who gave birth to such an amazing being but didn't have the heart to properly stick around and bring her up.

But nevermind that, he could hear thuds growing closer to him.

A click. Then a flip. Then—

"What the actual fuck?!" 

Rodrick grinned, arms opening wide as his heart picked up in both pace and volume, drumming against his ears like he often would his set in band practice. "Welcome home, sweetheart!"

"Heffley?! What are you doing in my house?!"

Your eyes were wide, pupils shaking as your muscles lost their strength and your bag went tumbling down. Aw, you must've been happy to see him.

"I wanted to apologise," said he, "for earlier."

You blinked, still staring at him with that cute expression sewn onto your face.

For a few moments, nothing was said, and Rodrick found himself lowering his hands to awkwardly clear his throat.

Then, you spoke again, "Heffley, get... get out of my house."

"No."

"No..?"

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this moment?" As he spoke, he started slowly approaching you, and you started slowly backing away.

"Heffley..."

"No need for that anymore, babe." His smile grew wider and his cheeks grew hotter as the wall blocked you from moving any further—allowing the distance between the two of you to grow... shorter. "Just call me Rodrick, or honey, if you'd prefer."

"You're crazy..."

He could feel your breath now, right up against his skin. It was perfect, and only proved to send shivers down his spine. "It's okay, babe, no one's here now. It's just you and me. You can speak your mind without worrying about anyone else. Go on, tell me you love me."

Your features scrunched up at that, teeth grinding against one another as you spat, "I don't love you, psycho."

"Uh, yeah you do." He dismissed your words with a wave. "It's okay to admit you're in love."

"I'm not, you psycho. I barely know you."

Ah, you could be so cruel sometimes.

"Sure you do. You know me just like I know you—" another whiff, "—and how I know this is your favourite scent."

You were shaking much more violently now, body leaning up against the wall for support in a way that made him envy it—all this effort to get to where he was and your wall got more attention than he did? Absolutely not.

He looped an arm around the curve of your waist, basking in the way they fit together as perfectly as puzzle pieces, before pulling you into his chest and taking another deep inhale.

And just like that, you went limp in his arms.

Oh well, at least now he got to carry out his fantasy of being the one that got to wake up next to you.

Omg guys, I acc feel so bad for turning Rodrick into a creep in this, he's such a cutie in the movies.

[lynaferns]

Second page!

I wanted my pages to use fun themes like in actual coloring books for kids and add some variety, so I though a parade theme page would be a fun idea.

Again, I didn't know what to do for the background and painted clouds... again...

Looking back at my pages I'm thinking that I could have made the characters take more space on the canvas. They look small and hard to paint details on a paper.

Some more doods

There was another idea for a second page but I didn't like how it looked so I'm not showing that one, sorry.

[alottiegoingon]

art fair

jackie taylor x fem!reader

summary: jackie taylor is the elementary school's art teacher.

warnings: too much fluff, jackie and reader being adorable, not proofread

you weren't expecting to stay for any longer than five days this time. that was the initial plan and the words you had said to your parents on the phone before you arrived to wiskayok, new jersey.

the second high school was over, you took the first bus to new york and never looked back. okay, never was a strong word. despite the strong feeling you had to free yourself from the place where you had an awful time in high school, sometimes you would come back to visit your family and your sister, in special.

not wanting to miss her growing up, you had to work extra shifts on the bookstore to pay for a decent looking car, capable of going back and forth from new jersey to new york twice in a month.

now, it was an special occasion. for her 8th birthday, you promised her that you would spend the week in your family home and spend time doing fun things. and by fun things, she meant fun things for her.

the first thing you were asked as soon as you put your feet inside was "what did you get me?"

after wishing your sister a happy birthday and watching her open her present, you sink into the couch with drowsy eyes after some good two hours driving, feeling exhausted. you were so tired that you weren't even paying attention to what the small human full of energy was chattering around you.

"what do you think we should do first? we can go roller skating!"

"bug, i hate roller skating. you know that." god, you remember the last time you fell on your face. you wore a purple eyes for weeks.

"...or we could go get me new books! mom promised me you would go out with me." she keeps talking, not paying attention to you. that was going to be a very long week.

the very next day, you could barely open your eyes when your sister forced you to wake up early and drive her to school, affirming that it was part of the birthday package you promised her even though you didn't actually recall that

[🎨]

you had the brilliant idea to go straight home after dropping the kid at school and sleep for the rest of the day. or until she got home with quick loud steps and a vibrant high-pitched voice.

your great idea fell apart when you were effectively blackmailed by a tiny human dragging you to her classroom, excited to show you everything. you weren’t even sure if you were allowed in there but you followed her anyway.

"that's cool, bug! you did that?" you encouraged her regardless of the many screams of the other kids hurting your ears, right after seeing the paint strokes in a small canvas forming the figure of a person. for a eight year old, the kid had some actual talent. it was better than what you could do.

she nods, extremely proud of herself. "ms. taylor is teaching us how to paint for next week's art fair. you’re coming, right?"

five days. five days was all you could do. it was a pain in the ass to convince your boss to let you skip work for a week and you only managed to do it cause she was a friend of the family. more than that and you would turn into a jobless woman.

“i’ll see what i can do, alright?” you get on your knees to match her height. “now i’m gonna go home and later we can watch…” your voice trails off when your attention is stolen by a woman entering the classroom.

wearing baggy and colorful clothes with glasses that made her look even more attractive, she had a few books threatening to fall from her hands and loose paper sheets. nothing like the old women you used to have for a teacher when you were young.

“good morning, party people! sorry i’m late today.” she doesn’t seem to notice you, too busy and overwhelmed while organizing her desk. she was probably used to be surrounded by loud gremlins all the time, you thought.

she was about to say something but her lips closed after not even a second, knitted brows and an uncertain but polite grin painted on her face. “oh, and i think we have a visitor today.”

and your world fully stops when she looks at you. flushed cheeks as you were practically drooling.

“that’s my sister, she's visiting for my birthday!” the little one fills the awkward silence, not looking like she cares about your unexpected loss of words.

“aw, this is so sweet.” she frowns for a second and all of sudden, her eyes are on you “and are you having a good time down there?” she chuckles, causing your heart to skip a beat, and only then you notice your knees hurting. you were still on the floor, looking like a full time idiot. you hear the other kids the room laughing as well.

“yeah, i was just… tying her shoes.” you stand on your feet as quickly as possible, nearly losing balance.

“no, you weren’t. my shoes don’t have-.” your hand flies over your sister direction to cover her mouth.

your legs were feeling like thin sticks as you walked towards the light haired woman, extending your hand to her. “hi, sorry.” you said falteringly.

“it’s all good. i like to stay on the floor sometimes too.” she offers you an empathetic smile. “i’m jackie.” she finally shakes your hand.

“jackie.” you echo her, subtly shaking your head. it felt like you were absorbing her name into your soul. even her name sounded like something that could be in a movie. “hi. i’m-“

“i know. your sister talks a lot about you. but i guess i wasn’t expecting you to be like this.” you freeze again.

“like what?" your voice trembles as you ask.

she didn’t say anything but you feel her eyes wandering around you while she smiles.

jackie gave you an excuse, apologizing for interrupting the conversation but emphasizing how she desperately needed to start the class. she was already late and you felt bad for taking so much of her time.

“it was nice to finally meet you.” is all she says and you made sure to say it back. before walking through the door, you quickly wave at your sister, not wanting to disrupt them anymore.

you immediately gave up on the idea of sleeping for the entire day. how could you when you had just met jackie taylor?

overthinking everything was like a piece of cake for you, as easy as blinking. but it wasn't hard to overthink things when jackie's first impression of you was probably a terrible one, knees on the floor and making a fool of yourself.

you were happy to welcome your sister back home from school, disregarding the fact that she told your parents that you were drooling over her art teacher on your damn knees. how can kids remember so much?

wanting to know more about her very interesting teacher, with ice cream for dinner, you succeeded in finding out that jackie taylor wasn't a married woman.

"why do you wanna know that?" you struggle to understand the few mumbles thanks to her stuffing her mouth with ice cream.

"okay, i think you had enough." you whisper, slowly moving the bowl away and ignoring her question.

[🎨]

for the next two days, between a bookstore visit or going out for ice cream, you would give jackie taylor a thought. not because you cared or was interested, of course, you were just curious. and you wanted to fix the impression you made on her.

"are you driving me today?" was the question you were asked every morning.

too tired, too sleepy, too early, bad headache, terrible cramps. were all the excuses you gave her so you could have a few more hours of sleep. until the third day.

"school is starting soon!"

"hmm, i don't know if i'm taking you... i'm feeling so-"

"ms. taylor's class is the first one today." you notice her playful tone. she knew you too well.

"good. i'm actually feeling so good today." fast as the wind, you shoot out of the bed.

"you don't have to walk me there anymore. i'm not a baby." the eight year old complains as she notices you following her inside.

"sure, i know. i just wanna make sure you're safe." that wasn't a full lie. yes, you were looking forward to talk to jackie again, but you still cared about your sister.

[🎨]

you were fifteen minutes earlier that the actual class time and by the time you walk into the room, jackie was already there. with your sister going straight to talk to her friends, that was your chance.

"good morning." you timidly knock on the halfway open door, not wanting to scare her.

"hello there!" jackie closes the book that was laying on her big desk in front of her, fixing her gaze on you. lips curving upward. "not tying any shoes this morning?" standing up, she adjusts her slightly crooked glasses as she watches you get closer.

"not today, no. too hard to find any customers." you join her tease, feeling like you have been blessed as she laughs.

"you should try the art exhibition next week. lots of shoes to tie in there." you caught yourself thinking that she may be flirting with you but maybe you were just going crazy for drinking so much coffee lately.

"i would love to tie some stranger's shoes on a school event." playing along, all you could think was that you urgently had to stay for more than just five days. time to beg your boss twice.

"nice! i'll see you there, then." about to end the conversation, jackie's smile widens and the simple act almost makes you fall on your knees again.

"actually..." you fight to not stumble over your words as you create the fastest excuse ever to see her again. "my sister and i are going out for roller skating tomorrow. you should join us."

jackie's gaze lifts back at you, eyebrows raising in curiosity.

"why should i?" she had the casual smirk adorning her face, probably enjoying this entire situation much more than you.

"because... we're going to a park nearby and there's a few tables in there. what's greater to an art teacher than a pretty view to paint?" you were quite proud of how quick your mind worked.

jackie seems to take a brief moment to think about your words, even though she had already made her mind minutes ago.

"it's a deal."

"what? you hate skating. remember when you had a purple eye? that was funny." you turn around to find your sister standing by the door, giggling at the memory of your swollen face. jesus, for how long she was in there?

[🎨]

you met jackie at the park after spending the entire day double-checking your helmet and all of your safety equipment. you couldn't afford to fall again. not this time.

with a huge bag and many art supplies, jackie carefully placed everything on the picnic table while being squeezed in a hug by your sister. the first thing you noticed was how jackie dressed the exact same way out of school. free of any boring clothes and with no glasses this once.

"you actually came." you shyly mirror her grin.

"of course i did. i need to paint something for the fair and i thought that the good old blue sky and pretty trees would do the job."

"so an empty canvas is what made you come?" nervously, your eyes dart back and forth at the brushes on the pine table and her eyes.

"not just that. i think the companny is pretty rad too."

after feeding the ducks with your sibling, you joined jackie by sitting in front of her. she appeared to be so relaxed even when being so gentle and cautious with the paint. you couldn't help but feeling at ease as well.

"found something worthy of being painted by you?"

jackie looks at you over the canvas with rosy cheeks and a contented smirk, affirming with her head. "i think i did."

"it's nice of you to stay longer." her narrowed focused eyes are back on her work, sometimes meeting yours.

you didn't remember telling jackie that it wasn't on your initial plan to stay that long and as if she was capable of reading minds, she snorts before explaining herself.

"she told me you wouldn't be here for the art exhibition." her head points at your sister, skating around the small lake.

"she really does talk a lot about me." you joke, referring to what jackie said when you first met her.

"why did you?" eyes locked on the piece of work, jackie tries to sound unbothered.

"stay longer?" she agrees silently.

"i figured that i really like art. and i couldn't miss such an important event for her."

"so your love for art was what made you stay?" jackie questioned and, once or twice, you would catch her more concerned glance at you.

"not just that. i think the art teacher is pretty rad too."

in the middle of longing stares and jackie blushing for the first time, you hear a childish voice calling you.

"aren't you coming? you're so boring!"

snapping out of the jackie taylor effect, you realized that you still haven't fulfilled your promise to skating with your sister.

jackie, not worried about the painting anymore, quickly put on her rollers with a huge beaming expression. without a single effort to stay still on those things, you became aware of how experienced she was.

"come on, i'll help you out." standing in front of you, she offers you a hand and you don't wait much to accept it.

[🎨]

you were a nervous wreck when the big day came and it wasn't even your works that were going to be exposed to people. in honor of jackie, you tried to wear something formal like a nice looking suit and elegant shoes. a bit too much for a simple school event but it was much more than that to you.

at school, you were surrounded by an impressive quantity of paintings already framed on walls. some of them were adorable, made by younger students.

being pulled by your sleeves, you spend a few minutes in the area where your sibling's works were hanging in and seeing her so happy made you pleased to your decision to stay.

with a single poppy in hands, you find jackie talking to someone, probably a parent. at the exact moment your eyes met, she quickly excuse herself from the conversation to walk towards you with energetic steps.

"all of this looks amazing. you look amazing." is all you can say, not caring about the ear to ear grin on your lips.

"hi! you look great too. i like the suit. so fancy." her hand tenderly brushes over your shoulder, feeling the soft fabric of your clothes.

"it's a special occasion, right? and, here, i got you something."

jackie's face radiates happiness at the second she sees her favorite flower being handled to her, eyes sparkling at you.

"thank you! how did you know i like them?" she tucks the flower into her hair, prettier than ever.

"you know, she talks a lot." you two share a laugh. "aren't you gonna show me your work?"

as her silky hands covered your eyes from behind you, she guides you to the wall with all of her artworks.

"you ready?" your nod in response and she let go of your eyes.

as soon as you open them, one specific framed canvas catches your attention. it was jackie's first view from when she was sitting at the picnic table the other day. you and your sister feeding the ducks on the lake, with the exact same clothes you were wearing. there was no doubt.

"jackie..." you gasp, stunned, jaw almost hitting the floor.

"you like it? i thought it would be something worthy to paint." she's nervous. you can hear her shaky voice as she speaks.

instead of saying something, you spin around to face jackie behind you. with trembling hands, you trace her jawline before pulling her in for a kiss.

you were a big fan of art now.

[luvzshy]

Hey! I love your work! I have an idea for you: reader and billie decorating for their babys nursery ✨

Home

The nursery was a blank canvas, waiting to be filled with colors, textures, and memories. As you stood in the middle of the room, you felt a rush of anticipation. The walls were freshly painted a soft, muted green, but it still felt empty, like a puzzle missing its most important pieces.

Billie burst into the room, a roll of whimsical wallpaper tucked under one arm and a mischievous grin on her face. “I think I found the perfect design!” she announced, unfurling the wallpaper to reveal a playful pattern of animals frolicking in a garden.

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on your lips. “Are we sure we want to go that bold?”

“Absolutely! Our kid deserves a fun space,” she replied, her excitement infectious. “Besides, I can’t wait to tell them about the giraffes!”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Alright, let’s see what it looks like.”

As you worked together, you could feel the connection deepening. Billie took the lead, expertly aligning the paper on the wall while you assisted, passing her the paste and smoothing down the edges. “You know,” she said between giggles, “I always imagined decorating the nursery with you would be a wild adventure.”

“Wild? More like controlled chaos,” you teased, recalling the minor mishaps—the paint splatters on your clothes and the brief battle with the tape measure.

“Hey, chaos is my specialty,” she replied, shooting you a playful wink.

After several hours of laughter, teamwork, and a few snacks scattered across the floor, the wallpaper was finally up. Billie stepped back to admire your work, her eyes wide with joy. “Look at that! It’s perfect!”

You couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride as you both admired the room. It was filled with personality and warmth, a reflection of the love you both shared. Billie’s hand found yours, squeezing gently. “I can’t wait to see our little one in here,” she said softly, her gaze dreamy.

“Me neither,” you replied, your heart swelling at the thought. “We’re going to make so many memories in this room.”

As you began to arrange the furniture, the sound of laughter and joy filled the space. Each piece you placed held meaning—a rocking chair for late-night feedings, a soft rug for tummy time, and shelves that would soon be filled with books and toys.

“Should we hang the mobile now?” Billie asked, pointing to a cute cloud and star mobile you’d picked out together.

“Definitely. It’ll be the finishing touch,” you said, feeling the happiness radiating between you.

With the mobile in place and the last touches added, you both stood back, taking in the nursery one final time. It was more than just a room; it was a testament to your love, a promise of the family you were building together.

Billie wrapped her arms around you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder. “I love this. I love us,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

You turned your head slightly, catching her eye. “I love us too,” you replied, feeling the warmth of her embrace envelop you. In that moment, everything felt right.