#man its so odd sketching this way

[artbyzephra]

Was honestly just curious if I could

[meowmeowriley]

Ghost had been on his phone since Soap had entered the rec room. Not unusual, he tended to read emails or news articles in his spare time. No, what was unusual was that he had his phone sideways. Occasionally tapping at the screen with a thumb. Gaming then.

The 141's resident emo was full of surprises, one being that Ghost loved video games. The man had an old Playstation 3 that might as well have been his first born, the way he adored it. If the PS3 were his first child, then his Xbox One was rebellious problem child, the way he cursed it constantly, threatening to dismantle it and use its husk as a doorstop. Something about changing constantly, and adds on startup had been his most recent rant. He swore he loved it too, but the favoritism was obvious.

Ghost would be found in his room on one of the two consoles nearly every evening. With how often Soap found him gaming, this behavior shouldn't have struck him as odd, and yet it was the first time he'd ever seen the man play anything on his phone.

"Ya winnin', Lt.?" The glare he earned for that comment had him cackling as he fixed himself a midday coffee.

Soap sat down on the sofa with Ghost and turned on the TV. Ghost continued with whatever he was doing.

Beneath his mask the man's brow was pinched, he chewed his bottom lip, and each tap of his thumb was marginally more firm than the last. Ghost was seething, then.

Soap abandoned his show and instead watched something much more entertaining; Ghost's apparent descent into madness. He huffed on occasion, shifted in his seat, hunched his shoulders, and glared daggers down at his phone, a look that could make any of the rookies on base cry and wet themselves.

Soap was delighted. After he finished his coffee he jogged back to his room and snatched his journal so he could draw Ghost having his fit, he wanted to commit it to memory.

Soap was nearly done with his sketch, though it was a bit more than a simple sketch, nearing realism with how much detail he'd poured into Ghost's stormy eyes, when Ghost spoke quietly and for the first time in nearly an hour of them sharing space. "This game is for godless heathens." 

Soap nearly lost it, just barely managing to smother the laugh that bubbled forth. He coughed to hide what little escaped him, and used his hand to hide his face, scrubbing down to erase the smile that tried to give him away. "What, ah, what're you even playin', Ghost?"

"Tile Towers, on Webkinz."

Soap did lose it then. He'd seen the now ancient stuffy in Ghost's quarters, a scraggly looking leopard, but couldn't wrap his head around the man actually playing the game, let alone getting this angry over a mini game for children. He laughed so hard it hurt, tears streamed down his face, and Ghost booted him off the couch without even looking away from his phone.

***

Written by someone who recently found out that webkinz classic has a mobile app, and rediscovered their utter hatred for Tile Towers. Why do I keep playing it? It's awful, fucking stupid! And yet I keep. Going. Back. I'm also miffed that my original account has been deactivated. I've only been absent for like 13 years! Come on! 🤬

[6saints]

Aemond Targaryen x Artist! Reader

Part one? Maybe a smutty part two

Synopsis: Aemond is embarrassed by Aegon. His brother laughing at him for continuing his intimacies with Sylvi. He finds comfort in a little corner of the brothel, where a girl and her drawings seem to capture his affections.

Warnings/tags: Not much to say ngl, sexual themes, suggestive, dude is naked the whole time, it's a brothel yall, Aemond is kind of a jerk at first, soft Aemond at the end tho hehehe, reader is a cutie patootie, cursing and mature language

___

Paper, much less sketchbooks, were difficult to come by through the smallfolk of Westeros. A luxury; coveted by skillful artisans and noble families emptying their pockets for masterful art to be made of their loved ones. You were unfortunately deprived of those luxuries, being born a common girl with no household to claim. Therefore you learned to steal and barter; a skill that has served you faithfully into your adulthood.

It was not an honorable hobby of yours, you could admit, stealing low quality paper from struggling vendors. But when you would return home (and by home you really meant a small room in the back of a brothel. Paid for by your labor in cleaning, cooking, and fetching for the women and mistress) and look at the beige, tawny sheets on your walls, you were proud.

The city was overpopulated, and the people that spent their time out and about at night tended to be delinquents or drunkards. Occasionally, you could swear some of the sleeping drunks were dead. Though you would never check. Lest you wanted an angry fellow to attack you for your coin and body. The moon at its fullest always seemed to cast an odd glow on the faces of these men. You had often wished to recreate it in a drawing if only you could kneel next to them and do so.

It was always easy to slip through the walls, the darkness cloaking you from the wandering eyes of people and into the shacks that held the art materials. And once you would return to the brothel you would have an abundance of not only new supplies, but new muses to illustrate.

Brothels were a goldmine for artists who, like you, enjoy drawing the human body. The anatomy of a man and woman, the way their bodies contort and the plushness of their skin, the markings and scars that often littered their body, disheveled hair and drunken smiles; it was all so beautifully human to you. You had been invited on a number of occasions to join, perhaps earn a little more than just a small space that could barely fit yourself. But you would refuse.

You had kept your maidenhood, if not for anything else but the romanticism that artists always seem to cling faithfully to.

You wanted a lover, not a visitor.

So, you would sit hidden in the corner of the brothel, watching and sketching beneath your cloak merrily. A contentment that only a poor girl in a brothel could enjoy.

"My prince," Sylvi greeted, a smile dancing across her lips as she took the young prince's hand.

Following behind the brothel owner was Aemond Targaryen, a man who by all rights demanded power and authority. Zealous in his endeavors to usurp the throne from his brother Aegon. You knew of the gossip, the smallfolk regurgitating rumors heard through the grapevine and around some.

You had always, always, wanted to draw him properly.

But Sylvi accommodated the prince's needs impartially. Reserving a grander room covered in silks and fabrics befitting the district was her way of comforting him, you had noticed. He only ever came to see the older woman, clad in darkened clothes and hidden away from the other whores, as patrons liked to call them.

Once had you caught a view of his face, proper and thorough. It was just long enough to engrave his features in your memory; though like wood, chips away as time passes. Two attempts were made to sketch him from memory, both looking rather peculiar, different and not at all how your brain wished to remember him so. You hung the sketches up as a way of keeping his face in your memory. He was beautiful, that was all you could remember properly.

You flinched at the sound of bellowing laughs erupting from the pretty room of silk, a small group of men encircling the entrance. A tuft of messy white hair was all you saw before the men obscured your vision momentarily. He seemed to cradle himself, arms crossed overtop his knees as he looked away from his elder brother, shame rising within himself.

WOOF WOOF WOOF

Was one of them... barking?

You could not hear with the sounds of men and women moaning, skin slapping and idle chatter. But suddenly the young prince revealed himself, no cloak to hide his features nor his nude body. Despite the open wound on his face, his body was barren of any imperfection. Milky skin adorning broad shoulders and a lean figure. Aemond carried himself as a ruler, his strides confident and unwilling to cower despite the situation.

"...There are plenty of other whores," was all that escaped the man's lips audibly before he turned the corner towards your little nook in the hall.

Panicked, you backed into your small room, tripping over the sheets on the floor (which was your bed if you were to be specific). Only a few candles lit your room, an easy to miss area that if you continued walking straight would almost look like a compact storage space. It was a generous space for the work you offered, and often times you found yourself rather grateful. Most smallfolk without a bloodline to care for them slept on the streets, or in the beds of men and their sexual whims. This nook of old wood and even older fabrics was entirely yours.

Unfortunately for you, however, it seems the prince might have found comfort in the small space, deciding to turn towards it; only to be met with a girl on the floor, a sketchbook in hand and jostled (h/c) hair covering her, clothed he noted, body.

You were pretty, he pondered for only a moment. Your (s/c) skin was glowing against the wax candles’ light, the flames and brown of the wood around you seeming to cast a glow atop your cheeks and shoulders. You were certainly a stark difference to the white haired and unenchantingly pale family members of the Red Keep. Your clothes were hidden beneath a tattered cloak, small as the fabric seemed to dwindle against your head from what is likely to be many years of use.

And that was when he took notice of the walls, shrouded in ornate and tawny scraps of paper. Charcoals and ink covered them beautifully. The curves and figures replicated on the pages as though he were staring at real people, if not for the lack of color confirming otherwise. His eyes scrutinized every single piece before falling upon the two stuck to the wall beside you, low enough that he could not see the intricacies.

They were of him, he was certain. The familiar scar on full display; and you had decided to depict such in your work as though it were not a foul thing. As if he were not crippled and unworthy of being made into art.

Immediately you moved onto your knees, arms stretching to cover the drawings of him. "My prince, please don't look!" You whisper-shouted, rather embarrassed.

He's gonna behead me for drawing him! He's gonna be so offended, they're such horrible depictions of him! This is the end-

Your thoughts were cut off by his movement towards you, almost saccharine despite the threatening layer he carried in his being. He plucked the pages off your wall easily, the dried sap you had used to place it leaving a residue behind. He was knelt beside you now as his breathing was ragged and heavy, yet his eye softer. It was clear he was still angry so you stayed immobile, opting to quietly allow the prince the respite of looking at your, as you believed to be, shitty drawings.

"How did a lowborn whore get access to all this?" Aemond questioned, almost accusatory though not quite as menacing.

"I'm not a whore, my prince," you corrected rather brashly, "And I bought it."

"You bought it?" He repeated, turning to you.

Gods, that face of his was truly a work of art. You had never seen something sculpted so faire and enchanting. "Yes, I work here. As a cleaner and cook. Among other things." You muttered the last bit. Perhaps being titled ‘thief’ would not sit well with the prince, or any noble for that matter.

"Do you think me stupid? The most fucked whores here could not nearly afford this much paper." He eyed you up and down, causing insecurity to slowly creep up your spine. "Yet the cook can?"

You gulped, fingers shaking as you set the sketchbook down and began kneeling entirely, head pointed downward. "Please, my prince," you begged, "It is something I enjoy."

For some strange, insignificant reason, Aemond found himself enjoying this power he held over you. He could take away this passion of yours, take his frustrations of what had occurred only moments ago out on you; the helpless little brothel servant. He and Sylvi had a certain dynamic that bordered on motherly in its own twisted way. She had taken his virginity at the age of 13, she being well and along into her adult years and well past the taking of her own maidenhood.

And his brother, politically speaking, was mightier and thus rendered Aemond helpless against him. He could saunter into the brothel and laugh at him as he pleased. Even his own mother did not truly care for him as she did his siblings, and his father's weak resolutions were only fitted towards his bastard carrying half-sister. And yet you looked up at him from your knelt position, eyes big and (e/c) and watery. Your dress was ragged but not entirely ugly, or perhaps it was your face; flushed and puffed out that compensated. There was fear present, but not entirely of Aemond himself.

Certainly not of his eye, the disgusting scar that was on full display due to his elder brother's and cousin’s cruelty had not made you avert your gaze entirely. You did not even seem to notice it, staring impartially at the prince as though the ugly thing were not present.

All you cared about was some low quality paper.

"Why did you choose me? To illustrate, I mean." This time his voice exuded authority, the white strands falling against his face as he stared idly at your sketch. "Speak now."

You had been given the opportunity to admire his features more carefully, focusing on the prominence of his nose and thinness of his lips, his working eye soft and welcoming whilst the other was pointed and jeweled. The scar that aligned his cheek, across the sapphire and ending above his eyebrow was healed enough, a wound forever carved into his features.

"You're beautiful," you mindlessly said, soft enough that Aemond almost had not heard it. You caught yourself almost immediately, straightening your back and creating a distance between you two. "I-I'm so sorry! That was rude of me!"

You weren't sure if drooling over a prince could be considered treason or criminal, and you honestly had no desire to find out.

"You find the cripple beautiful?" He laughed out.

Self deprecation was something he had never truly let anybody see, opting for an authoritative approach. All the people of Westeros saw when looking at him was a crippled boy, one unfit to rule a kingdom despite the training and studying he endured, well beyond the abilities of his brother, who did not even seem to enjoy the thought of ruling. If he pretended to be confident for long enough then surely others would believe it too. Power is power, a loss of an eye nor sleeping with a whore could take that away from him. Aemond was chosen by Vhagar, one of the largest dragons who had only recently lost its companion. He was chosen. A privilege not so easily befitted to others.

And yet here he knelt; naked, angry, and oddly frustrated with the girl in front of him.

"Do you take me for some kind of joke?" He was a looming presence, like a gargoyle. A beautiful statue bearing intricacies and underlying dread.

"I only draw things I find beautiful," your trembling hands reached for your notebook to show him, ripped papers sliding between your fingers as you turned the pages deliberately. "Mostly people, mostly those in the brothel." You admitted.

"And I?"

Aemond sounded almost defeated, like the world was weighing on him and the compliment from a pretty little brothel worker was the final push.

"Yes, and you, my prince."

A silence enveloped you both. The lewd sounds outside of your little nook in the corner of the brothel seemed to wane within your ears, the both of you rather present and yet distant at the same time. You pondered if he needed comfort, the abrupt entrance of his brother weighing heavily within you both. You would have preferred to see him again from a distance and not entangle yourself with the affairs of a highborn who could, by all accounts, harm you. You wondered what led the prince to grow up so ashamed of himself. Aemond who felt frustrated and embarrassed, weak even, and you who felt pity and shyness. A need to comfort the insecure prince overwhelming you.

"If you'd like..." You began unsurely, "I will not lay with you, um, intimately. But if I may offer you comfort?"

The sketchbook in your lap held one of the drawings of Aemond atop the pages. It sat gingerly, the ornate paper crinkled slightly from the prince's touch. You were about to remove it to allow the prince to rest his head atop your lap before he stopped you abruptly, his hand overtop yours and stilled. His thumb brushed over yours for a moment, a ghost of a feeling that you were unsure it had occurred at all.

"Leave it." He commanded.

And so you did.

You lifted your hands while Aemond shifted his body weight, laying on the sheets that were scattered against the floor with his head gingerly placed atop the sketchbook as your hands delicately traced along his hair, neck, and shoulder. His legs found themselves beneath the sheets, his arms curled forward to hold onto your thighs. The feeling of your skin against his hand only served to soothe him, fingers rubbing circles harsh enough that it almost hurt, the fat and muscle in your legs massaged into a redness.

Your fingers were soft to the touch, a chill reverberating against himself as he inhaled the mix of your scent and the paper; wood, sap, and the slight fragrance of the rose oils you bathed with. It was different to the stench of the common areas within the brothel, and the intense perfumes that the castle halls were brimming with. Your maidenhood was intact, you had not lied. His hands trailed upward, speculating your morals as he found himself reaching within your cloak and holding onto the side of your waist.

Although you made no move to stop him, the stiffness in your body and the way your breath hitched in your throat gave him an idea of your discomfort. When his hand returned to its original position atop your thighs your body relaxed and you continued kneading at his skin. He thought of you almost like a kitten; only allowing the touch that you wished to receive whilst being tucked away from the peering eyes of others.

"I will return," he spoke matter of factly, "And you will accept me."

"Yes, my prince."

"Aemond," he corrected. "When we are here, you will address me as Aemond."

"Yes, Aemond."

This was a little nook in the corner of the world, untouched by sex and politics.

Just a pretty little girl and her drawings, taking care of the insecure prince who reveled in her touch, art and soft manner of speech.

[zigrethsnotebook]

hey I wasn't sure if u were taking requests so I'm sorry of this is annoying. Do u think u could write a ford x witch reader who like lives in the woods and has a bunch of odd pets (snakes, frogs, small cryptids, etc) I js think it's a really cool idea lol

Have a nice night

Drink water, eat food, and feel loved ❤️

-led

I absolutely am taking requests! ^^ Thank you, and I hope you enjoy💞

In the woods somewhere

Ford x Witch!Reader

words: 1,515

tags: sfw, fluff

Now that Ford was back in Gravity Falls and everything had finally settled, he went out to explore the forests again. Stan had just chuckled and told him to better stay in one piece and be back for dinner.

Ford made sure to walk a straight line pointing away from his house. If he followed it for long enough he would eventually reach a part of the forest he had never before seen. So he did.

It took him about five and a half hours to reach that point. Out here, the forest looked... greener. He wanted to say lighter but that's not true. The sun shone the same way it did anywhere else. But the colors of the trees and plants looked more vibrant somehow.

As he walked he made sure to note down anything he hadn't seen before. While Ford was examining a plant he didn’t know a butterfly landed on it. Ford smiled and pulled out his journal, trying to get a quick sketch of the little guy in his notes.

The insect had other plans though and soon flew onward. Ford followed it with his eyes for a second before his legs decided to follow the creature until it settled again. It had such a pretty pattern on its wings, he really wanted to draw it.

His plans worked out and he got a nice drawing of the butterfly. As Ford stood and looked around for the path he'd been on, he noticed that he had strayed off of it quite a bit. Making the best of a bad situation he decided to just explore this part of the forest instead.

After a few minutes roaming aimlessly, he came upon a clearing. In the middle of that stood a little wooden house, tinier than his own, in parts overgrown with moss and vines. It wasn't abandoned though. There was smoke coming out of the chimney.

His curious nature getting the better of him, Ford decided to approach the house. As he got closer he saw some creatures scurrying around the house and away from him. They seemed very fluffy, it must have been beard cubs, he decided.

Ford carefully walked around the house, trying to see where the animals had run off to. Behind the house he found a little garden where someone had planted vegetables, as well as a little pond that buzzed with dragonflies, bees and all kinds of other insects. The sounds were rounded off with some croaks from frogs he couldn't quite locate.

It was truly idyllic. But it was also a long way from all other people. As far as Ford could tell, he was their closest neighbour. He turned back towards the house and walked back around to its front door.

Ford knocked on the door. It took a few seconds and then the door swung open, revealing a way younger-looking person than he had anticipated. For some reason Ford had assumed that he’d be greeted by some sort of witch that was way older than he was.

The person who had opened the door looked truly surprised. They hadn't been expecting any visitors today.

After a few moments of stunned silence on both ends, you realized who this man in front of you must be. "Oh, goodness! You must be the new neighbour! I am so sorry I never got around to welcoming you properly."

This caused Ford even more confusion. You smiled at him and tapped your forehead as you realized why he was irritated. "Oh, I see. Sorry about that. Why don't you come inside for a cup of tea and I will explain what's going on here?"

Ford just nodded and let you lead him inside. As Ford looked around you introduced yourself and he did the same. He found the house even more charming on the inside. It was decorated with lots of plants and a surprising amount of candles. The rooms were way better lit than he would have assumed from the outside.

It was comfortably warm and a faint smell of lavender hung in the air. While Ford was sitting down at your kitchen table you prepared some tea for the both of you. "So tell me, Ford, how did you find me?"

"I was out in the woods, exploring a part of it that I had never been to. I lost the path I was on because I was... sort of... blindly following a butterfly." He rubbed his neck sheepishly. While he spoke, he looked around your house, really taking in all the little decorations you had scattered around every surface.

You chuckled at his words. "Yes. It happens to the best of us." A few moments later you had finished the tea and brought it over to the table, sitting down in front of Ford, who looked at you with pure curiosity sparkling in his eyes. It was adorable.

"So who are you? Why did you call me your new neighbour? And what did you mean by welcome me? Aren't you a little young to remember me moving to Gravity Falls?" You smiled at him and hummed. His questions were more than justified.

"Yes. Well, actually I assume I am around the same age as you are. I inherited this little cottage from my mother about two years before the reclusive scientist moved into the forest."

You watched Ford's eyes widen as he came to understand that you were telling the truth. "I really wanted to visit you and welcome you into the neighbourhood, but I didn’t get around to it for a couple of weeks. Then, the gnomes started telling me about some mean man capturing creatures."

Ford furrowed his brows, a hint of shame bubbling up inside him. "As you can imagine, I wasn't particularly thrilled to hear that. I went out to confront you about it, but the creatures stopped me, they were worried you'd capture me as well. So instead, I just helped them from here however I could."

Ford shook his head. "I never meant to harm any of them! I only came here to study." You sighed and nodded. "Yes. I know and I believe you." He looked back up at you with an apologetic look. Then it changed into an inquisitive one. "Why would I have tried to capture you?"

You chuckled at the question. "Because I am a witch, silly!" Ford's mouth fell open. How could he not have realized this? "Did you really think I would still look this good if there wasn't at least little magic involved?" You winked at him and he blushed slightly.

You took a sip of your tea as Ford tried to sort his thoughts. Before he could get a new one out a frog jumped into his cup splashing him with liquid. You huffed. "George! You know you're not supposed to do that!" The frog just croaked at you and you countered with a stern look.

You stood and took the cup with the frog back to the sink. "I'm so sorry about him. I'll get you a new cup." Ford thanked you as he tried to wipe at the wet stains on his turtleneck. When you turned back around to him and set the new cup down, you frowned at his clothes.

"So sorry about that as well. Here, let me help you." You chanted a short spell and soon enough Ford's clothes were dry again, no stains left behind. You smiled. "Perfect. Like it never happened."

Ford was speechless as he sat back down. Nearly speechless. "So does he do that often?" You chuckled a little embarrassed. "More often than he should, definitely." Ford joined you with a chuckle.

"So does... George... live with you in this house?" You hummed in thought as you looked over at the frog relaxing in the now almost empty cup. "I always say that my doors are open to any woodland creature that wants to be here. There's only two that really take me up on that though. George over there," you pointed at the frog, "and Theresa."

Before Ford could ask who that was you moved your arm in an apparently very specific way. Ford watched as a little rose-colored snake slithered out of your sleeve and onto the table. He smiled. It was an adorable snake.

You two continued chatting for a while and when you had finished the pot of tea that stood between you, Ford remembered that Stanley had told him to be back by dinner. "You could take my bicycle. As long as you promise to bring it back."

With a smirk from you Ford blushed again. Yes, you'd be happy to see him again.

Ford took your offer and promised to bring it back tomorrow. You were in no rush to get anywhere but you didn’t tell him that. You just smiled at him as he left your house.

He was back the next day. And the day after that as well. You two quickly became closer and even the forest creatures learned to resent him less.

[eldritchscribblings]

Ever At Odds

Thranduil X Reader

Part 2

Reader is an artist who has taken up a temporary residence in Mirkwood, but keeps bumping into an irritatingly handsome elf king. What happens when a late night encounter forces them together?

Word Count: 2876

Warnings:

swearing

part two will have smut

Notes: I'm sorryyyyyy I didn't want there to be a part two but it took me so long to write this part and I wanted to get it out asap for y'all <3 Pt 2 will be out soon, I'm moving across the country, so writing is slow rn.

A cold autumn wind blew through the halls of Mirkwood, biting into the very bones of those who dared set foot in the ancient woodland realm. In the ages past that bitter wind would have only howled, but its teeth had grown sharper in recent times. Not only did the wind sink its teeth into those unprepared for the woods, but it had turned its teeth upon its own people; the elves, as well. The time of elves on Middle Earth was drawing to an end.

You, of course, were well aware of that from your perch in Imladris, watching as elves dwindled and men rose to power. You were a long way off from leaving for the Undying Lands yourself, but you had already begun to feel that tug in your soul to move from your idle nest and wander towards the sea. And so you’d decided to bide your time by traveling middle earth and sketching all that was old and new among the elves; making a record of what you’d leave behind. It had been a comforting work to put your brush and pencils to paper and convey the millennia of love and sorrow that each individual stone and sapling possessed, and it had satiated you to know that once your work was completed you could leave Middle Earth with a contented heart. But as every tree must survive a storm at some point, your storm came in the form of an elven man with thick furrowed brows and a disposition that would make soot taste sweet; King Thranduil Oropherion of the Woodland Realm.

You’d arrived in Mirkwood nearly two years prior after being rescued from a giant spider by the guards and losing your favorite quill (poor Flutterflick) among the leaf strewn ground. After a quick interrogation, you were released into Mirkwood to do your duty, and yet everywhere you went for peace and tranquility you seemed to run into the Elven King. The first time it happened you hadn’t realized who he was until he threatened to have you locked in the dungeon for disagreeing with him on the best elven wine and whether charcoal was best used compressed or as a powder. You’d tried to avoid him after that, and yet this maze of a realm kept twisting you back towards him whenever you tried to get away. Which was how you found yourself sitting in an archway sketching your view of the vaulted ceiling within this particular area of the hall in the middle of the night, using a candlestick as a light.

It was the wee hours of the morning; a time you were certain the tall blond of your nightmares would be having one of his own, far away from where you’d secluded yourself. The only noises were the hush of a breeze blowing through an open window and the soft scratching of your pencil against the parchment you’d clipped to the thin drawing board in your lap. Your eyes darted seamlessly from the page to the section of empty hall you were drawing, your steady hand moving quickly to gesture in the wider picture so that detail could blossom with ease when you pulled out your softer charcoal. With the silent night enveloping you, it had been easy to fall into a trance of placing your pencil to paper and letting the world fall away into lines and values. You should’ve known the peace wouldn’t last.

“It’s a bit late for sketching fine architecture.” Thranduil’s voice echoed from behind you, and you sighed and pressed your lips together in irritation.

“My aim was to be uninterrupted, My King,” you spoke slowly and surely, presenting each word as nothing more than it claimed to be in hopes he would leave you alone. “It’s a bit late for anyone to roam the halls alone, don’t you think?”

“I am not alone, and neither are you now.” Realizing you had no intent to face him, he walked around and knelt in front of you with a disappointedly curious expression. “How fortunate it is that we can keep each other company on such lonesome nights.”

“Oh, please.” You met his steely blue gaze with a challenging one of your own, attempting to prove yourself unafraid and ward him off. “You and I both know that the two of us together always leads to disaster.”

“Only because you bring disaster with you everywhere.” Thranduil laughed softly and licked the pad of his forefinger before pinching out the flame of your candle between his forefinger and thumb. You were grateful for the darkness to hide a traitorous blush growing on your cheeks, undercutting your disturbed expression. “Finish your sketch in the daylight. You’ll make fewer proportional errors.”

“Is poisoning your kindness with insults meant to be amusing or alluring? Because it is neither.” The only reason you were so confident with your words was because the worst Thranduil could do is send you where you already planned to go ahead of schedule. Of course that was only in theory. In truth, a part of you enjoyed the little games you played together; the spiteful spitting of venom brought energy to your day, negative or positive. You couldn’t deny he was a handsome King, but you could deny giving him the satisfaction of knowing you held him in any regard.

“Have I misled myself on the quality of your mettle? Forgive me if I have caused any true harm.” The first sentence was a sharp retort, the same wit you had begun to expect from him. The second was genuine in a way that surprised you.

“Don’t delude yourself. The only way you could bring any harm to me is with a blade. And I doubt you’d want to stain this lovely hallway.” You responded with a similar genuineness that you hid within your humor, although by the look of his expression he seemed relieved enough to surmise he’d picked up your intent.

What the fuck was your intent? Half flirting with a widowed king? He was an elf who could toss you out a window or carry you down to the dungeons as easily as he’d carry a sack of grain. You inhaled and sharply shoved your charcoal pencil back into your pouch, looking away from Thranduil to shove the image of him carrying sacks of wheat like a handsome miller’s son out of your mind. Truth is you’d daydreamed about kissing Thranduil to shut him up as much as you’d daydreamed about killing him for the same outcome. It was strange to think of how a two letter difference changed the entire context of your fantasies.

“I am no mortal man so easily prone to violence. I take offense that you would think I am capable of such a thing.” Thranduil’s voice changed tone, causing you to look at him again. He was dead serious with a furrowed brow as he knelt before you, reaching forward to take your hand in his. “My guards brought you here and promised you safety. I will not make liars of them.”

“A noble, if impersonal, thought.” You responded with an equal amount of seriousness, gathering your supplies in one hand and placing the other in his as he helped you to a standing position. His intent mystified you, making you unsure of if you’d been wrong about him or if this was a lure to finally catch you when you least expected it. Either way, as you began to walk down the hall back to your rooms he walked beside you with the smallest hint of a smile on his otherwise serious face.

“Do you really think of me as cruel and unkind?” Thranduil asked softly after you had traversed a fair amount of the hall.

“Yes and no.” You replied after taking a moment to chew through your words. It was strange of him to ask the question, stranger still for you to answer honestly. You were friends, but it was a friendship that danced a fine line between confidants and the king and his favorite jester. “I think you capable of cruelty. I think your role requires unkindness. Your presentation fits the role you fulfill. I would no more expect a thatched roof on a palace than a wisened king to be tender hearted.”

“I don’t like the word wisened; it makes me feel old.” Thranduil interjected despite you being done speaking. “But I understand. And I appreciate your point of view. You’re insightful. It’s fitting for your role as an observer. I am curious, I always see you drawing and sketching instead of talking to your fellows. I’m curious as to what you draw when you’re not intending on showing it off to people.”

“Truth be told, it’s mostly animals and people. I carry around smaller sketchbooks for those and it’s idle work to do while I watch and listen to those around me.” You felt the words leave your mouth before you could stop them. Not even death would stop you from blabbing about your art when prodded. “Of course, for those sketches I prefer drawing with metals. You can use a stylus made of silver to make marks upon parchment as well as any charcoal. It’s quite beautiful in the light.”

“Then I must see them.” Thranduil stopped abruptly, causing you to have to turn around after several paces and realize he was at the door to your chambers. If you’d known you were close to your rooms you would’ve just stayed quiet. Having the Elven King in your bedroom, looking at your art, was a bad idea.

Art was your escape, your passion, your diary. There were notes about your feelings and poems about your life scrawled among the pages among grocery lists and drawings of cats napping in sunlight. There were also -you realized with sinking dread- one or two drawings of the King that you did not want him to see. You had to get out of this.

“Sire, it’s very late-“

“Nonsense, you’re up later than this quite frequently, as am I.” He stood by your door, waiting for you to open it for him. His excitement faltered for a moment as he seemed to consider the situation, and he then added; “If you truly do not desire it, I will not impose myself.”

“No, I simply hesitate because I am afraid you will not find my art as impressive as you hope.” Your eyes were firmly on the handle of your door as you opened it and allowed yourself and Thranduil into your rooms. He was very close to you as he entered behind you, and you caught a hint of his scent of petrichor and spices in a way that sent your head spinning. 

Your rooms were simple. Far from grand with books and papers strewn about haphazardly. As you entered you felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you at the state of your things, but you would not let it show. Your bed was in one corner, luckily you had remembered to make it up before leaving, but the bedside tables were covered in strewn papers and pencils. In the opposing corner there was a desk with your notebooks and sketches, and that was where Thranduil made his way to as soon as he entered.

“You live your life messily.” He stated, looking around the room before passively picking up one of your loose sketches from your desk. It was a picture of a young couple walking the halls together arm in arm, oblivious to any observer. Oblivious to you. “I do not question it. You prefer to be hidden away whenever you leave your chambers, so it must be comforting to have such things to hide yourself behind in your own dwelling.” He chuckled, glancing at you as he perused through your art, leafing through the piles of sketches on your desk. It wasn’t as if you could tell him not to, and although you were surprised at his understanding of you, you’d never admit to yourself or him whether he was right or not. 

“Or perhaps you simply collect too much and want it all near you, like a raven building its nest.” Thranduil continued despite your silence, unphased by it. He reached for a drawing closer to you, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest moment that sent a shameful shiver down your spine. It was only when his gaze left you that you realized he had grabbed one of the drawings of him, but before you could protest, he had turned it over to look at it. It was one of the less embarrassing ones; he was sitting with his chin resting on his fist, staring off into some uncaptured distance. His face was peaceful and yet melancholy. It had been at one of the star celebrations that you had forgotten the name of last year; you had been sat at the sidelines happily drawing those partaking in the merriment when you had seen him. His sadness as he sat on his perch above his kin had captured your attention, and you hastened to put his likeness on your paper lest the spell of the moment be broken. He was beautiful to you in that moment, beautiful and wounded. The moment had ended with your eyes meeting and him sending a prideful smirk your way that left your stomach churning, but you would always remember how striking it was to see past his hardened exterior for one brief moment.

As you watched him then, taking in that art piece that had truly cemented your growing fascination with the widowed king, you could not decipher the emotions on his face. His brow furrowed as he traced the lines of his face as they were portrayed on paper, and he hunched over the drawing to better see its details. You almost made a joke, just to break the hideous silence, and yet something stopped you. Your words were stoppered in your throat with tenuous curiosity and something inside you told you to bite your tongue.

“I remember this night,” Thranduil whispered, tracing the roughly sketched embroidery on his portrait. “I was lost in thought, not one of them was pleasant, but my mind was determined to see the end of the chain. I could sense eyes on me, but there is always one person or another watching my every move.” He looked up at you, and the depth of his gaze was hauntingly sirenic, like a calm sea below a dark gray sky. “You were different. I saw your brow furrowed as you looked at me, always fiery and determined to find a flaw where no one else will.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face, no more than a twitch of his eyes, and yet it comforted you. 

“A gap in your personified stoicism is more so due to a lack of divinity than any flaw.” The words flowed easily from your lips, and you stepped closer to him so you could look at your art. “Truthfully, when I found you ‘lacking’, I found you more fascinating than I did when I believed you perfect. Like how a fly, when caught in amber, reveals the quality of the jewel.”

“Am I to be the fly in this metaphor?” He teased, lowering the drawing and stepping closer to you.

“You are aware of what I intended, my lord.” The tone of the conversation had turned lighter, but the air remained tense. It was taking all your might to will yourself not to look at his lips, or his chest, or anywhere but his eyes or your feet. You were afraid any slight unexpected movement would be perceived the wrong way and break the wavering thread of connection between you. 

“What if I were not? What if we were to spend another year misinterpreting each other? Dragging out your stay here in Mirkwood for no perceivable reason?” He seemed as hesitant to move as you were, waiting for some unknown signal to allow him to act.

“Then I suppose, should I be prevented from completing my work, I would need to stay here longer.” You were beginning to catch on. Perhaps there was more to this banter and teasing than you had originally thought. Perhaps the guilt-ridden attraction that had festered deep within your gut was mirrored in his own tumultuous emotions. You leaned slightly closer, taking your drawing from his hands and setting aside. 

“To properly record Mirkwood in such sketches as yours would take decades…” Thranduil drew out the idea, but did not finish it. Instead, he stepped forward and tenderly placed his hand upon your cheek, caressing you gently. “May I kiss you?”

The thought struck you like a blind man meeting a drunken bird, and you inhaled sharply as reality dug its cruel claws into your skin. He was the king. He had asked you to kiss him. But more than the king, he was Thranduil. Your playful nemesis who was the bane of all your existence and yet whose presence you yearned for in the darkest parts of night. Was this change in your relationship worth it? Was this a risk worth taking?

“Yes.”

[saturna625]

You work at the Mystery Shack in Gravity Falls.

It's no big deal, really. I mean, every once in a while, you realize that it's gotta be a front for something. A cult, the illuminati, or the mafia, you weren't really sure.

You weren't paid enough to care, honestly.

But the job was fun enough, and the customers were cool to screw with, and it paid the bills, plus your coworkers were pretty cool.

Your boss was.... an odd man, sure. A good con, a great sense of humor, and a mouth that could make a sailor blush, but you wouldn't say he's evil.

He's got a great nephew and niece, who come up every summer. They're chill, too. Mabel sends you home with at least two new stickers every day. Your binder is getting too full. But you didn't mind, the kid was sweet. You'd find a use for these stickers, later.

Gravity Falls was an odd town, but you didn't really seem to mind that either. A little town, barely even a dot on the state map, hidden behind back roads upon back roads in the great state of Oregon. It had its moments, and it's stories.

You were decently sure the lawn gnome in your garden moved on its own, and your attic was definitely haunted (you regret mentioning that to the kids– you've found that Dipper kid trying to look up where you lived), but it was cheap and homey, and a great place to live after scraping past college.

Then your boss– who was really your boss's brother? Who had taken up his name, when he disappeared, the ultimate con, you actually admired him for that– Stanley, and his twin, the original owner of the Shack, Stanford emerged from behind the vending machine, you knew that you were maybe in a little too deep. Mafia ties, for sure.

Then quite some events happen: ie, the sky splits open, you become a statue for a hot minute, and then... aren't, anymore (dude, the squirrel that you treat as your therapist is gonna go wild when he hears this) and you're back at the Shack.

The building is warmer now. Pointdexter– or Ford, the actual one, is a pretty good man. A little blunt, with not much common sense for the amount of books smarts he has, but good.

If you find anything weird, or out of place, it's his.

If you see him fighting an interdimensional squid, and then you're told there's seviche in the kitchen, you don't question it.

And you take some seviche to go.

The shack is a little louder since Ford's arrival. Stan seems happy. Dipper too. And Mabel, well, she still gives you stickers as you leave your shift.

You're on a walk, something you read that could help with coping, through the woods. The weather is nice today, and for once, it's not raining, and even better, the air is crisp and cool.

You decide to take a new trail. It leads into a bit of a clearing, you can see a rock piling, some flowers, and a creek. It's pretty.

You take your journal out, a small, leatherbound thing (the inside cover is coated with stickers. Mabel, please) and begin to sketch it, a hobby you've picked up in the last months.

You're not the best, but you're not the worst, either. As you're finishing up, you spot a weird shift in the rocks.

Weird is normal here.

So you get up to go investigate, holding your journal at the ready, like a defensive position.

The statue does not move.

It looks like the illuminati symbol. Like the top of the pyramid on the back of a dollar bill. It's overgrown with moss, but you do not recognize it. It's hand is held out, like it's ready to shake yours.

Heh. That would be pretty funny.

If you shook the statue's hand.

It's what it wants. Shake it's hand. Shake the hand.

You draw the statue. It's a shoddy deal, but you actually enjoyed how it turned out. It looks cool.

The hand is outstretched.

You leave one of Mabel's stickers on the statue. It looks a little less intimidating that way.

Your shift starts in twenty minutes, so you tuck your journal in your jacket, and you're off to it.

Maybe you'll come back later. There's a bit more you want to do with the drawing.

Shake the hand.

You've gotta fix the angle on it. You wonder how the sculptor got it to be that way.

You clock in, and pull your journal out again, as Dipper walks through the doors, followed by Ford.

The younger twin asks what your journal is about. He's got a few of his own.

"Kind of random." You tell him. "I draw things I see on my walks, or write down recipes, or stuff like that. Dude, wait until I show you this statue I found in the woods. It'll fit right in with those notebooks you keep..."

[sleepyghostuwu]

The Artist and the Gem (Part 2, rewrite)

Synopsis: You start brainstorming about your mysterious client's request and begin working on it. Unfortunately, that means finding a way to get your unconventional art subject to cooperate with you, whether or not he knows about it.

Notes: (Edit: I wasn't too happy with how it turned out and it was bugging me a fair bit, so I had to redo it for my own peace of mind.)

Fem! Reader POV will be used in this series as it is what I'm most comfy writing in ^^ Also it's really lengthy lmao (I got too excited writing this) so get ready-

Previously: Part 1

It has been a good number of months since you've received the mysterious client's commission.

You've been finding yourself becoming increasingly productive in both your white collar and artistic jobs, presumably from wanting to rid yourself of as much work as you could to work on Aventurine's portrait. It has gotten to the point you even managed to send out most of your commissions to your other clients, even the impatient one who had been living on your nerves for what felt like an eternity. What made you want to get his portrait done and over with so badly? That was a question you were too afraid to find answers to.

Speaking of Aventurine, you have a slight problem: while you knew how he looks like very well, you had no clue how to draw him that well. The fact that the both of you work in different departments and hence very rarely see each other made your task of observing his appearance better all the more difficult.

With all possible odds pitted against you, only two solutions remain: you could either spy on Aventurine during your lunch and tea breaks and sketch him in secret, or directly ask him to pose for you for a few minutes. Given your current ranking in the IPC, you have a slightly better chance at the former. As the clock strikes at lunchtime, you quickly grab your tablet and head for the first place you can think of: the lounge.

-------

"...Don't worry, I'll be sure to send you the updates as soon as I get them," Aventurine's carefree voice echoes like a chime as he and the other Stonehearts leave the meeting room for their break. Your breath hitches and you quickly crouch behind the nearest potted plant you spotted in the vicinity, peeking through its leaves cautiously.

"This is the worst idea I've ever thought of..." you curse under your breath as you stabilised yourself against the wall. You have passed by Aventurine during work before on several occasions, and rarely ever get to briefly speak to him about work-related matters, so seeing the man himself with your eyes was not something unfamiliar to you. However, what left you the slightest bit horrified was the next thought that entered your mind.

Aventurine is stunningly handsome.

His sandy hair, which was slightly tucked behind his left ear, flowed down his neck like sand in an hourglass, and his eyes were as vibrant as stained glass windows in the sun. The deep green and gold coattails trailing behind him reminded you of a brightly coloured bird as he strode across the hallway, always seeming like he had people to show off to in every corner.

(Y/n)! Focus! You frantically shake your thoughts out of your hand and ready your tablet. It's your only chance at this, so don't mess this up! Propping yourself against the wall as you continue crouching behind the potted plant, you whip out your stylus and begin drawing furiously.

The first few attempts you made were a little sloppy (by your standards, at least), but in a short while, you manage to fill the better half of your drawing spread with surprisingly good sketches. The fact that Aventurine was perfectly still as you drew each pose made your success feel too good to be true. As you watch Aventurine leave the vicinity with a few cups of coffee in hand, you heave a sigh of relief and stood up, propping yourself against the wall as you wait for your legs to recover from crouching on the ground for so long.

And it's still lunch hour, too! You smile to yourself as you turn to leave for the office cafe. Everything went according to plan. Surely nothing could possibly go wrong after this-

"Oh, (y/n)? I didn't expect to see you here."

A chill runs down your spine as you slowly come face-to-face with none other than Aventurine himself.

-------

"H-hello, sir," you squeak, clutching your tablet in a tight embrace as you desperately tried to hide its contents. Clearing your throat, you add, "I was just going to the lounge to...well, take a rest."

"Hmm..." Aventurine stares intently at you before checking his watch. Then, he looks up at you again and chuckles. "Really? With that tablet of yours, too?" He raises an eyebrow at the tablet in your arms. "I'm pretty sure doing extra work isn't something a person would be doing to take a break."

Damn, he's catching onto me. Embarrassment and fear kicking in, you avert your eyes from his. Aventurine tilts his head to the side in feigned curiosity. "What are you doing here anyway? Are you...hiding something from me?" His eyes shift to the tablet in your hands.

"No..." You cling to your tablet tighter as the voices in your head scream for you to run before he does the last thing you want him to do. However, Aventurine swiftly swipes the tablet (which, much to your dismay, was still switched on) from your hands before you can physically react.

"Well, well, what do we have here- oh?" Aventurine's smirk gives way to a more surprised expression as he gapes at the canvas of digital sketches of him. "Oh my. Is that- is that me?"

You feel the heat rising in your cheeks as your worst possible outcome unfolds before you. Frantically, you attempt to snatch your tablet back, only to have your hands flail in vain as he kept moving it out of reach, only relenting and returns the tablet to you after a good few minutes.

"Oh, relax, (y/n). I didn't mean anything negative by that. Those sketches of yours are quite majestic, really. I'm just...pleasantly surprised, hehehe~ Though, I have to ask..." He leans slightly closer to you, his iconic sly grin now back on his face.

"What exactly are they for?"

[moafloribunda]

hello there, dark lord ll bangchan (english ver.)

pairing - bangchan x afab!reader

tw - magic,supernatural powers, demons, slightly suggestive (if you squint)

✧ inspired by the concept pictures for Railway (oopsie)

@muneeba-satti you asked, i executed, i hope you'll like it <3

A lightning bolt split the sky just as I turned the page of the thick grimoire resting on my lap, making me jump. My body tensed up in the armchair, my fingers pressing against the ancient paper. Slightly crinkled by the passage of time and the handling of its former owners, it gave off a peculiar scent. A fragrance of apples and ash that tightened my throat for no apparent reason. As if this scent had settled on its surface and seeped in, leaving its mark forever in the fibers. The leather cover looked like it had been through a lot, but the deep violet amethyst set into its center gave me the impression it was glowing in the heart of the shadows. I watched it for a few seconds, captivated by the reflections I saw within, like wisps of smoke frozen forever in the translucent stone. A shiver ran up my spine and I lifted my head, glancing out the window. The sky was pitch black, like a bottomless chasm ready to swallow everything, and the rain was lashing furiously against the glass. Another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, traveling hundreds of meters before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, followed a few moments later by a menacing rumble. Squinting, I could make out the trees outside bending under the force of the wind, battered by the fury of the elements. I had always liked storms and they had never particularly frightened me. On the contrary, I even found a certain fascination in them. There was something awe-inspiring in the way nature could turn brutal and dark, reminding us poor mortals that she remained the undisputed mistress. Everything she gave, she could take back in the blink of an eye. But there was something different in the air tonight. Something I couldn’t quite put into words, a sensation lingering at my fingertips, on the tip of my tongue. Still, I returned to my reading, finding the line where I had left off and following the handwritten words, my eyes brushing over the delicately calligraphed curves. The book had caught my attention on a display, and I hadn’t been able to resist the pull I felt toward it, barely noticing that I had stepped closer to examine it more closely. Use with extreme caution.

Those words, spoken by the old man who had sold it to me, still echoed in the back of my mind, and I bit my lower lip. Yet it wasn’t as if I planned to do anything with the texts written inside the grimoire, which mostly consisted of old herbal remedies and rituals meant to cure everyday ailments. However, notes in Latin had begun to appear after a few pages, scattered here and there in the margins of certain chapters, and I’d grown increasingly intrigued by their meaning. The comments seemed to have been written in haste, as if the person hadn’t had much time to jot them down, and the ink had slightly faded over the years, making them difficult to read.

My brows furrowed as I turned the next page, my lips pressing together at its strange appearance. Phrases had been scrawled in tiny, spidery handwriting next to a botanical sketch of a belladonna plant, known for its dark properties. They had been circled multiple times—so roughly that the nib had nearly pierced the page. Dark stains dotted the paper, like random splashes of ink, and I ran my fingers along the back of my neck to chase away the odd sensation that had settled there.

I cleared my throat, casting a glance around the room. The moon was throwing shadows across the living room, playing with the outlines of the furniture, and it was all too easy to let one’s imagination wander in front of such a grim tableau. Still, my only companions were the night and the storm crashing violently outside my house—my cat had retreated beneath my bed upstairs. Then, I began to decipher the handwritten lines aloud, my brow furrowed.

Princeps Nigrum, tibi gratissimum adventum in domum meam exopto. Accipe vocationem meam et veni ad me. Black Prince, I welcome you into my home. Accept my call and come to me.

Everything went dark the moment I finished reading the lines aloud. The lamp on the side table flicked off without warning. At the same instant, the window burst open, slamming violently against the wall and tearing a gasp from my throat. The pouring rain rushed into the living room, driven by the wind, and I snapped the grimoire shut in one sharp motion, clutching it tightly against my chest. Then I stood, cautiously making my way to the window to slide the latch back into place, hoping to prevent it from flying open again with the next gust of wind.

My heart was pounding wildly in my chest, and the sound of the storm seemed muffled by the words that kept spinning endlessly in my mind. Black Prince, I welcome you into my home. There was something deeply unsettling about the prayer written inside the grimoire, and it wasn’t hard to guess what it was referring to. There weren’t many entities described that way—but just saying the words aloud made my head spin. I didn’t particularly believe in spirits or magic as a spiritual practice, but my grandmother had always warned me never to underestimate the power of words. And the crawling sensation on my bare arms wasn’t helping me rationalize anything.

I shivered at the feel of water under my bare feet, quickly stepping back toward the wall to switch the light on. I wasn’t superstitious, but it wouldn’t hurt to grab some rosemary to burn in the living room and clear away the memory of the last few minutes. My interest in magic lay in the properties of plants for the body and mind, and in the power of stones—hence my initial curiosity about the manuscript. I hadn’t expected it to contain anything capable of summoning a demon, and I was just being cautious, trying to purify the space.

I turned toward the kitchen—only to let out a sharp, piercing scream.

A figure was sitting in my armchair, one leg casually draped over the armrest.

My body froze, and my fingers clenched around the grimoire’s leather cover, still pressed tightly against my chest. My heart was hammering so violently I felt like it might burst out at any second. And all words died in my throat when the man lifted his head, one icy eye meeting mine through the shifting shadows that surrounded him.

My body was paralyzed, and I felt a wave ripple from the top of my head to my heels, snaking down my spine, brushing over my shoulders, then sliding down the other side. As if cold fingers had wrapped themselves around my ankles, pinning me to the floor. I knew—even before I tried—that I wouldn’t be able to take a single step back. I could feel it. Something was holding me in place, locking me inside my own body. And the panic was growing, faster and faster, sending blood pulsing in my temples like a drumbeat.

I felt like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to flee, doomed to endure the inevitable impact. Except the crash never came, and the seconds stretched on—endless.

“Come closer,” he breathed, his voice authoritative. Clear, as pure as spring water—yet wrapped in the same darkness that coiled around him like a living thing.

Goosebumps rose on my arms and I fought against the invisible force holding me in place, panic rising at the thought of getting any nearer to him. My gaze hadn’t left his. Those eyes… their dissonance was disturbing. One iris black as the sky above us, the other so pale it was almost indistinguishable from the white of his eye. Both stared at me relentlessly, like twin bottomless wells I could fall into without a sound.

His brow furrowed slightly, then a smirk curled his full lips. “Come. Closer.”

My body moved. As if detached from my mind, I took a step forward. Then another.

His voice had echoed inside my skull like a deep, commanding vibration—one that simply could not be disobeyed. A summons that demanded an answer. And I felt the pull—undeniable—as if a rope had been tied around my waist, leading straight to the hand he’d rested casually on his knee, tapping rhythmically.

No.

My inner scream burst forth, and I struggled within the depths of my own consciousness, desperate to sever the link that bound us, to resist the command etched into my bones. The distance between us was shrinking rapidly, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe, my heart lodged in my throat.

None of this made any sense.

For a brief, flickering moment, I found myself hoping it was all a dream—that this was nothing more than a vivid projection of my imagination. Because it couldn’t be real. There couldn’t be a demon in my house.

They only existed in folklore, in religious texts—creations of human imagination to give form to our greatest fears. My mind rejected the reality in front of me, and I blinked hard, trying to dispel the illusion.

But he was still there. Majestic, cloaked in shadow.

As I drew closer, I could make out the contours of his face, the dark strands of hair that framed it, falling gracefully across his temples. The way the leather of his black jacket clung to his broad shoulders, in stark contrast to the pearly white of the shirt beneath. The unnerving contrast of his eyes, like two opposing forces coexisting in a single body, locked in eternal conflict. And the curve of his mouth, stretched into an expression of pure, unfiltered satisfaction.

My eyes followed the movement of his tongue as it swept across his lips to moisten them, and I felt my stomach tighten. He was terrifyingly beautiful—the kind of beauty that left a disturbing impression because it inspired both fear and fervent admiration. As if someone had reversed the negative of a photograph and revealed something more captivating than the original image. A chiaroscuro painting, crafted from shadow and touched by flickers of light.

But they often said demons were once angels, and it had never felt more true than in that moment.

His power tugged at me for the final few steps, and I stopped just in front of him, my throat tight, breath shallow. Then I froze, struck by a scent that reached me—surprisingly familiar.

A blend of apple and ash.

I swallowed hard, my legs shaky beneath me. He uncrossed his legs and extended a hand, palm facing up. My arms loosened around the grimoire, which dropped heavily at my feet, and I gasped, air seeming to abandon my lungs. His fingers brushed the delicate skin of my wrist before curling around it, pulling me forward. I toppled onto him with a startled yelp, half-collapsed across his thighs, hands pressed against the cold leather of his jacket to steady myself.

My breath hitched in that instant, and time seemed suspended—crystallized in the confined space of my living room.

“You’ve got a lot of conviction for someone who didn’t even know what she was reciting out loud.”

A warm breath ghosted across my face, and I realized I had closed my eyes. My cheeks were burning, and the knot in my throat swelled with every second, cutting off the flow of air.

I pushed against him with both hands, trying to escape his grip, but his hands slid slyly to my hips, holding me firmly against him—and the depth of my helplessness made my head spin.

I was completely at his mercy.

“Open your eyes, little bird.”

I pressed my lips tightly together, my fingers clenching into the velvety fabric of his jacket, and I felt humiliation blaze across my skin like wildfire.

But I didn’t want to surrender. I wouldn’t let him think he had the upper hand. He was in my house. He was here because I had invited him—even if it hadn’t been intentional. And I refused to be the one to bow to his rules, no matter how disturbingly he awakened something in my senses.

“Who are you?” I whispered as I opened my eyes again.

He leaned in closer, closing the already negligible distance between us. His lips hovered near my cheek, and his fingers felt like they were setting my skin ablaze through the fabric of my sweater.

“You summon me, and yet you don’t even know who I am? How careless.” His voice was measured, smooth as honey—yet fractured beneath the surface. But his nonchalance grated on me, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my composure.

“Well, I didn’t need your name to make you show up,” I finally shot back with a scornful look.

He burst out laughing, his chest shaking under my hands before settling again. A smirk curled his lips, and his fingers resumed their slow, steady rhythm—this time against my hip.

“You’re surprising.” “Glad someone here’s having fun,” I muttered through clenched teeth.

One of his hands slipped from my waist and rose to cup my chin between his thumb and index finger, freezing me in place. His grip was firm—I knew he could shatter my jaw in a second if he wanted to. But it remained surprisingly gentle, as if he were holding something precious in the palm of his hand. He tilted my face from side to side, examining it from every angle, his lips pursed in vague appreciation. As if the tension in his touch was just something I’d imagined.

His mismatched eyes bore into me, scanning every corner of my face, and I felt my heart hammering wildly in my chest.

“Are you afraid?” he asked at last, his voice barely more than a breath.

I took a moment to think about my answer—and it surprised even me. “No.”

I couldn’t describe what I felt toward him as fear. Maybe I’d been afraid when I first found him in my living room—when he wasn’t supposed to be there—and felt him take control of my body, pulling me toward him. But now, in this moment, everything was a blur. Every internal alarm screamed at me to run, to put as much distance as possible between us, because he was pure danger—because he could tear me apart with a flick of his fingers.

And yet, he hadn’t.

“You should be.”

My eyes traced the contours of his face—from the dark strands of hair falling across his forehead to the sensual curve of his mouth—and not an ounce of fear stirred in me. Even the way he held me against him was surprisingly courteous, considering the position we were in. If I’d felt uneasy at first, that feeling was long gone. And I couldn’t quite tell if it was because of the way he acted with me—or the warmth spreading across my skin with every brush of his fingers.

“What do you want?” I murmured, smoothing the lapel of his leather jacket nervously, just to keep my hands busy.

He raised a brow, letting go of my face and resting one arm lazily on the armrest of the chair.

“What I want?”

His fingers pressed ever so slightly against my hip. So faintly that, for a second, I thought I imagined it. Yet the gesture sent a shiver crawling up my spine.

“Many things,” he continued, his voice grave, his eyes never leaving mine. “But that’s not what matters. I’m here because you desire.”

His voice echoed through the room—deep, resonant—and I could feel it crawling up my bare arms, trying to slip beneath my skin.

“I don’t know,” I admitted after a pause.

“I don’t believe you,” he replied, tilting his head slightly. “You humans—you all have something you ache for in the dark. Something you keep hidden, right here.”

His index finger hovered just over my shirt, right above my heart—and for a second, my breath caught.

“Wealth. Power. Love. Death. Or the absence of it. There’s always a secret slumbering underneath, fed year after year by frustration and longing—whatever form it takes.**”

His lips curled into a mocking smile as he spoke.

“Some don’t even hesitate. It’s funny how quickly the proudest among you fall to their knees to claim it,” he said, tapping his chin absently with a fingertip. “So I’ll ask you again, Stay. What is it you want most in this world?”

My stomach tightened at the sound of my nickname.

“I don’t know.”

“Liar,” he whispered, that maddening smirk still etched on his face.

“I don’t know!” I cried, brows furrowed. “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to summon a demon in my living room!”

I pushed him with both hands, and this time, he let me. He simply watched me as I rose shakily to my feet.

“And yet you did. I’m here,” he replied, gesturing vaguely toward himself. “And I’m still waiting for an answer.”

I could still feel the ghost of his fingers on my hip, as though they’d left a burning imprint on my skin. But I could breathe more easily now that I had stepped away from him—away from his intoxicating scent. Still, now that I stood before him, I felt cramped inside my own body.

“I don’t have one to give you. How many times do I have to say it? Can’t you go haunt someone else?” I asked, pacing back and forth across the rug.

“Do I look like someone who enjoys wasting his time?”

I stopped abruptly, my head snapping in his direction—and that’s when I understood his persistence.

“You can’t leave.”

“Bingo,” he muttered bitterly, snapping his fingers.

My throat tightened, and I curled my fingers into my palms. He was stuck here. And if I understood correctly, the only way to send him back… was to make a wish.

But none of the things he’d listed earlier interested me. All I wanted was to be free. That was the reason I’d chosen to exile myself to this remote place—somewhere no one could reach me. And making a deal with a demon was signing a contract in blood. Everyone knew they always demanded something in return—and they never forgot to collect.

I was dealing with a being whose power far surpassed mine, and I needed to be cautious.

And yet… temptation hovered in the corner of my mind like a shadow I couldn’t ignore.

I could ask for almost anything. The mere fact that I had that kind of power at my fingertips made my head spin. It was hard to suppress the almost primal greed I felt at the thought of demanding something—anything—and receiving it without lifting a finger.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I knew that. And that knowledge alone kept me from blurting out the first thing that came to mind just to make him disappear.

So I would take the time I needed. Time to find an answer worthy of the “gift” I had been given.

And maybe… just maybe, it would allow me to satisfy the growing curiosity I felt toward him.

I had no experience whatsoever when it came to demons—he was the first I’d ever encountered—but he didn’t match the portrait usually painted of his kind. Or maybe I was just being naïve, and he was manipulating me so subtly that I couldn’t even tell. It was hard to explain, because none of it made sense—he just felt… too human for a demon.

His behavior didn’t align with what I had expected from such a creature—almost as if I were doing him a favor by responding to his request. He had simply spoken to me politely, waited without showing any real impatience, and even though he had used magic to compel me earlier, I couldn’t bring myself to resent him for it.

He was… surprisingly agreeable. If that was even the right word. He remained entirely courteous, and the unease I had felt at the start had dissolved far more quickly than I’d like to admit. And I never thought I’d say something like that about a demon.

But I could feel a kind of weariness radiating from him. As if he’d been doing this for so long, it no longer brought him any satisfaction. As if he had seen the full extent of human desires—and they no longer held any real interest for him.

He hadn’t tried to coax me, not even for a second. He hadn’t promised me riches or miracles to lure me into a choice. He just waited—legs once again crossed, quietly studying me, as he had been doing since the moment he appeared in my living room. And truthfully… I had the feeling I was just as much a subject of curiosity to him as he was to me.

“I’ll think about it,” I finally said, shrugging my shoulders.

He straightened up in the chair, uncrossed his legs, and stood. He wasn’t especially tall, yet the shadows wrapped around him made him seem much more imposing beneath his long leather coat. He towered over me by a good ten centimeters, and I felt my throat tighten without knowing why. Maybe my body could sense the danger, recognize the threat standing only steps away.

He sighed, running his fingers through his dark hair, pushing it back. Then tilted his head to study me again.

“You’ve really decided not to make this easy for me, haven’t you?” he asked, the corner of his lips curled into a resigned smirk.

“I’m just being cautious,” I replied, folding my arms over my chest.

He took a step forward, shrinking the distance between us, and I instinctively backed away. But he kept coming, calm and silent, until I was stopped short by a piece of furniture at my back.

He leaned in, and my breath hitched in my throat as I felt his across my neck.

"Consider yourself lucky, little bird. I’ll give you until the end of the week to make your choice," he whispers against my ear. "However, it’s wise of you to remember who I am and, most importantly, what I am capable of. Because you won’t be able to escape me forever."

I shiver, both from his proximity and the weight of his words. Yet, the smile that curls on his full lips seemed out of place compared to the crushing weight of his words. As if he were offering me a brief respite, but in doing so, he was gaining some advantage as well. Despite everything, he remained a being of darkness, whose moods could shift in an instant. If indeed they still possessed such things.

"You can’t leave until I give my answer anyway," I respond, even though the uncertainty in my voice contrasts with the boldness of my words.

He lets out a low laugh, which undulates across my skin like the caress of a velvet glove. His fingers hover near my face without touching it, tracing the line of my jaw. Yet, I feel their warmth as if they’ve actually made contact.

"There’s one thing you haven’t understood yet, Stay : I’m doing you a favor by letting you decide for yourself. If you haven’t found what you want by the end of these few days, I’ll go find the answer myself."

I freeze, raising my eyes to him.

"What ?"

" Tick tock. Tick tock, little bird. "

He steps back, and it’s my turn to advance, my brows furrowing.

"What does that mean ?" I ask, my throat tightening with sudden concern.

But he’s already starting to disappear, as though swallowed by the shadows surrounding him. The lower part of his body is nothing but darkness, but his eyes glow with a wild gleam, resembling the satisfaction of a predator when he knows he’s caught his prey.

However, where I should have felt fear, there’s only a deep unease that has nothing to do with dread.

"Chan."

His voice resonates with surprising softness, and my lips part in surprise. One blink later, he has vanished from the living room. And I might have thought it was a dream if not for the dark tendrils still creeping across the floor before they dissipate as well.

"Chan ?" I murmur into the emptiness, my fingers clenched around the hem of my sweater.

My heart is still pounding in my chest, and my fingers are trembling slightly, my feet cold, contrasting with the searing heat that still lingers on my cheeks.

"Might as well get to know each other if we’re going to spend some days together, little bird."

His presence suddenly echoes all around me in the room, disembodied, and a shiver runs down my spine at the silky tone.

"Bangchan, at your service."

Note to self: never read Latin out loud again.

[cod-thoughts]

silly ghostprice headcanons?

I HAVE A LIST IN MY NOTES!!! rest is under the cut its uhhh quite long 0_0 i have some silly headcanons for every character i write and for every relationship i write too its my favourite way to find a characters voice!! Thinking about all the things that arent really in character but could be lol. This was a joy thank youuuu

Ghost

Ghost has the craziest sweet tooth ever and any time someone hints at him having a sweet tooth he denies it vehemently.

Animals, particularly cats, seem to gravitate toward Ghost, which he pretends to hate but secretly loves. Soap once caught him petting a stray cat and called him Snow White for a week after.

Despite his stoic demeanour, Ghost is a master of deadpan humour and silent pranks. He once moved Soap’s entire kit three floors down and acted like he had no idea what happened.

Ghost says unintentionally funny things in his dry, deadpan way, and the team is never sure if he’s joking. Soap once laughed so hard he cried, and Ghost just blinked at him.

Ghost has the same pair of boots he’s worn for years, meticulously cleaned and maintained. Once caught Soap trying them on as a joke and nearly disowned him.

Ghost keeps a little potted cactus in his bunk. He named it “Spike” and gets genuinely annoyed if anyone even looks at it funny.

Price

Has an absurd number of backup hats. Once lost his hat during a mission, and Soap joked that Price was more upset about the hat than the firefight.

Price has an incredibly detailed routine for making tea. If anyone interrupts it, he’ll grumble about it for days.

His idea of “relaxing” is reading military strategy books or going fishing alone in the middle of nowhere.

Price has a knack for showing up exactly when he’s needed, even if it’s just to interrupt Soap and Ghost arguing over who gets the last biscuit.

Price once tried to sketch out a mission plan on the fly, and it looked so bad that Soap framed it as “modern art.”

Price always brings back something odd from missions if he can—like a carved wooden owl or a tiny snow globe. His desk looks like a charity shop exploded on it.

Couple Antics

Price's snoring is so loud sometimes that the team jokes it could scare off enemies. Ghost wears earplugs when they’re sharing quarters if its that bad.

Ghost always wears dark, tactical clothing, while Price’s off-duty wardrobe is full of mismatched jumpers and ancient jeans. Ghost pretends to be embarrassed, but secretly loves how comfortable Price looks.

They have a knack for understanding each other without words. It’s mostly handy in the field, but Soap insists it’s creepy how they finish each other’s sentences off-duty.

They play card games during downtime, and it gets competitive fast. Price accuses Ghost of cheating because he always wins, while Ghost just shrugs and says, “You’re predictable, old man.”

Price is a tea purist, but Ghost introduced him to iced coffee, which he secretly loves. Price drinks it when no one’s looking, and Ghost never lets him live it down.

They can’t exercise in the same room without turning it into a competition. Who can do more push-ups, who can run faster—it always ends with them both sore and laughing.

Price insists he never gets lost, but Ghost always calls him out when they’re wandering in circles. Price claims it’s “strategic reconnaissance.”

When they’re on a black op together, they give each other silly code names. Price once called Ghost “Shadow Biscuit,” and Ghost has never forgiven him.

They tried to take a cute couple selfie once, and it ended up with Price’s hat covering half his face and Ghost standing like he was posing for a mugshot. It’s the only picture of them together, and Soap and Gaz both keep it on their phones. (its blackmail but it also makes the sergeants happy to know that their CO's are happy)

Ghost constantly steals Price’s jumpers and shirts because they’re “comfy.” Price complains but secretly likes seeing Ghost walk around the house in his slightly too small clothes, belly peaking out the bottom.

Price loves fishing, but Ghost has zero patience for it. He’ll sit there, dead silent in his mask, but the second he catches something, he starts narrating it like it’s an epic battle with a sea monster. Price is half-amused, half-exasperated. (i really want to write this one it sounds like a really fun one and also Ghost would make a good DM i think :O)

Price always insists on carrying the heavy bags or doing the dangerous tasks, which Ghost finds ridiculous. Ghost once let him carry all the shopping bags just to prove a point, but Price still claimed it was “no trouble.”

[lmelodie]

Doodle dump for the SOUL!!

This is a real eclectic collection, some of them are SUPER old, but I wanted to get most of my odds and ends accounted for before really chipping away at the two mega oc pieces I have planned. And there's a few really sick concepts here I've had in the chamber for a WHILE so let's go down the list!

The firs four are a few wips left over from last Halloween, including the second illustration I had going at the time but never finished. Maybe it'll come together this year!

Plus a close up of Autumn who was supposed to be on the balcony of the haunted house, in bat themed dress.

Five is my quick little take on the Frost Family photo that Jacquie has (I love them <3)

And then six and seven is a mushy blackice thing that I just barely managed to line in any decent way. And what Kills is saying is true! His eye color doesn't change when shapeshifting! And most people don't really notice but this winter sprite certainly did.

And eight to ten is a really really dumb, really really OLD mini comic made from a golden girls quote lol. This one is YEARS old at this point and i just didn't have the brain power to finish it beyond sketching. What Kills is saying here is ALSO true, in exactly what capacity he will not say

Eleven is taken from this post about a fanfic because it fit them TOO well not to

And then we just have some Lucy centric gestures! Gotta figure out how in what ways she swings that damn staff around. Answer: Easily.

And a NEW CHARACTER that's supposed to drop with the next Chance and Choice chapter! I don't have a concrete name for her yet, but she's a cutie! She's probably just gonna be a background character for CC but ill hopefully get to explore her more when she gets to be Lucys friend in the Epilogue Series.

OH BOY its DEATH CONCEPT (!!!) The Complient/opposite to our awful Moon Man that Lucy WILL meet in the finale. Her whole design theme is that she's quite literally the inverse of Moon Man. He has the white skin and starry hair, so she has the white hair and starry skin. They are cosmic siblings that have really had enough of each other at this point

And while I was doing the Lucy gestures, Jack snuck in there for potential fight scene between them, but I liked this particular pose of his enough to sloppily render it lol. He is SUPPOSED to be pathetic 90% of the time, that's just who he is. But I LOVE giving him just a few moments to be badass and cool, as a little treat.

[morningstar-warriors]

It's Been Awhile

So I haven't been posting here much, admittedly I've been keeping my paws of social media for awhile to save my sanity. Not to mention tumblr no longer works on my phone, just endlessly crashes. Alas! No tumblr on my phone??? What should I do??? Pick up a healthy habit? ACK!

Either way, I told my followers and discord members I'd start posting little update blogs and since tumblr was where I'd originally done so, I'll keep it up.

What Has Danny Been Up To..?

Well mostly writing, editing, writing, work, editing, hiding from life, writing writing writing... A bit of drawing too but right now I feel like my art is just a tool for my writing. You get the picture.

Book Updates & Inner Turmoil:

I've been updating the Playbooks, refining them a tad more to feel more like my day dreamy visions while also tightening up wording and mechanics. I'm not sure how tight they'll be considering I love me a floaty soft rule, but I want the common cat to read it and get it. I think I'm having fun with it again, which is good.

Admittedly I hardcore procrastinated on working on the Kittypet and Rogue Playbooks. I felt a hard wall of... Burn out? Terror? Stagnation? Not sure, but I remember feeling like writing was not where I wanted to put my energy. Got this bad thing where, if I don't want to, I WONT.

I think what was stopping me was the social media attention. I felt stressed but amazed by all the eyes it was getting. Its good, so many people are inspired. But with people comes critique, envy, odd treatment, and other funny emotional things.

Man. How do you handle all that? Especially with the prospect it may only grow? Well in my case, feel embarrassed and guilty for not being grateful. Then sit in a bathtub till the water grows cold looking at messy notes about a cat using their cuteness to blow up the bad guy, followed with "Or smth idk." Great! Good notes.

But those days have waned and now I'm back on the horse, smile on my face and keyboard loudly clacking.

I think I just finally told myself "This is a hobby you do for fun, so if you're not having fun you can take a break." gave myself permission. If you need to hear that too, then hear it. Anyways though--

Ritualists are getting the biggest revamp so far, if you were curious. Though its nothing supremely crazy.

Croweye

New Moon:

New Moon has ended its filming! The game for me, is officially over. It was the first game I ever completed as a GM. If you take a look through this blog you will see just how LONG it lasted. Not to mention my poor players went through every mechanic change under the sun.

Looking back at those old posts were what made me want to go back and write the occasional update blog. I'm honestly proud of my friends and I, and how far we've all come. I really couldn't have done it without a group of goof balls making the ugliest gingerbread cookies ever.

New Moon's final episode will be released to the public either late April or the beginning of May. I plan to slow my videos to once a month ideally after the last episode is posted, because I'm working on another project already and I want it to be good.

Buttermoss & the Torch

The New Project:

I can't say much, but it's the next campaign to be recorded. Its what is presently eating up my note books, sketch books, media intake, and I have only told two people about it. Truly about it. Its driving me nuts because I have such a clear vision, the things I have so far are AWESOME. The things I have planned are ambitious, but they make me smile. I want to challenge myself a little. I probably shouldn't say much else though.

I promised myself I wouldn't let it slip. So you're just gonna have to wait.

I do plan on leaving clues when it gets time to release the project. But I am going to pre-record several episodes and edit them before they ever see the light of day. So you'll all have to wait for awhile lol.

Next Time

I do want to go more in-depth about why I made certain changes to the playbooks, but I've gotten pretty good at just being tight lipped so, next time. Thanks for your patience and interest.

Morningstar

[marauders1971-1978]

Newt Scamander x Remus Lupin

Be reborn, pull a corpse out of a bog, fall in love

Snippets, Songs, Images and Sketches from two fics (linked at the bottom)

It was odd, but not unpleasant company. Remus had spent many long weeks walking across various British farmland and woodland in the days before and after his transformation - both to keep himself away from civilisation and to give himself something to do, lest he fall into a well of self pity. Having another person by his side was a welcome change. 

He was quite adept at herbology, and knew more than enough about mundane and magical creatures to get by in his school years, but it was nothing on Scamander (or ‘Newt’ as he repeatedly insisted). Unusual though it was, at first, to spend so much time with one person and be asked very little about his personal life, and told very little in return, he began to appreciate how refreshing it was to have something to think about other than the death of his closest allies. 

Boggarts and ley lines, bowtruckles and species of wand wood, harvesting of leeches and how to call for various species of mundane birds. His strange (research partner? Friend? Mentor?) employer had plenty to fill their silences. He was rather like James, in that way, Remus supposed. Always with something to say, if the topic tickled him the right way - not to mention fond of a cold morning outside. He still hadn’t officially agreed to let the man conduct any off the books observations or experiments on him at his most vulnerable, but he was warming to the idea. Surely the hands that coaxed red squirrels down from the trees could never do anything too dehumanising. 

Presently, they were sat on their haunches, Wellington boots rendered redundant in the still, murky water of the New Forest peatlands. The sunlight was waning behind them and the low streaks of light pierced through the trees, dappling the wet marsh before them in evening gold. Remus’ feet were numb, but he wasn’t willing to complain, and instead focused his attention on the clumps of mud and thick reeds that poked above the surface of the deeper areas, waiting for magical activity. 

Newt leaned in slightly, so that their heads were close enough for Remus to catch his low whisper. 

“They come out at sunset of course, but I suspect it’s because of the dappling. They can be quite lonely creatures. A facsimile of your kin is sometimes enough.”

Remus didn’t comment, but silently agreed. Particularly as the light tickle of Newt’s conspiratorial mutterings reminded him quite painfully of Sirius’ sarcastic commentary whispered in Remus’ ear at the back of the classroom for his amusement. 

“See it?” 

Remus’ eyes searched the water’s edges until he found it - the dapple of light that didn’t belong. Slightly more silver than gold, and bobbing almost imperceptibly at the wet banks to their right. 

“How will we catch it?” 

Newt gave him a rare sideways glance and a small smile. 

“Play along,” he muttered, before slowly rising to his full height - out of the sparse remaining sunlight and into the shadow. Remus watched as the little orb seemed to come to life. As the light continued to wane, it was much easier to see the creature fully. The orb was but a fishing lure for an unsuspecting mammal, and the beast responsible for it a true wisp of a thing, thin limbed and almost transparent - holding the ghostly lantern up for Newt to see. 

It remained crouched, belly to the soil, muscles tense like a waiting viper, feeling the magical, insatiable hunger beg at its mind. 

“I’m not frightened of you.” 

It was somewhat true. Viscerally, he was frightened. But that was just biology. He could think over biology - his mind was king of his body. No matter if there was fear in his bones, they couldn’t make him flee. 

He was not a miracle worker. The beast did not roll, belly up, and welcome him like the young crups in the suitcase, but there was some tentative understanding between them. An hour and then another slipped by while the two sized each other up. Newt could crouch there all night if his life depended on it (which it did). Eventually the wolf snuffed what might have been read as a sigh of resignation and the muscles in its hind legs visibly relaxed. Its eyes, however, did not leave Newt. 

“Thank you.” He muttered, ducking his head slightly to match his words. Slowly, he moved to the mud wall of the den and sat himself down, leaving a good six feet between the two of them (enough space to cast the chain in a pinch) and took out his notebook. 

“I’m glad we could come to understand each other,” he carried on, opening it to a blank page and taking out a pencil. “I doubt you’d enjoy me anyway. I’ve had plenty of animal bites and nobody has bothered to clean the plate, so to speak.”

As the moon met the horizon and began to disappear from sight, the serenity and careful quiet between them was broken. A hauntingly human scream tore through the silent night and the wolf scrabbled in the mud, trying to lodge itself in the furthest corner of their little den - defensive and frightened. The teeth reappeared for the first time in many hours, snapping at Newt, though this time with a blatant stay back in its wide-eyed stare. 

Newt was never one to act predictably. 

Unwilling to watch and offer no comfort as the creature squealed in terror, he edged forward, mindful to tuck the chain safely up his sleeve, lest it accidentally make contact. Whale-eyed and desperate, it snapped at him, but without much direction. With one hand carefully placed on its tense neck to make sure it couldn’t catch him in its jaws, Newt crouched down along its flank and ran a gentle hand along the thick brown fur in some instinctive effort to console it. 

He could feel the rippling muscles under his hands, knotting and unknotting as the daylight broke the curse. The whimpers and desperate screams were something beyond pain. Newt wondered if the wolf had any awareness that it would be back in a lunar month’s time, or if, at the end of every cycle, it felt it would die. 

They couldn’t hide from the sunlight much longer and the screams died to a breathless keening as its biology rewrote itself all over again. His boldness waned when the animal was gone, leaving behind the sweaty, shuddering shoulders of the man on the ground in front of him. Contorted like a frightened child and facing away from him, Newt could only assume that tears might accompany the frightened gasps. The idea of bearing witness to it did something uncomfortable and foreign to his insides and he felt as though the skin under his hands, where soft fur once was, might burn white hot as punishment for looking and touching where he didn’t belong. 

It was raining.

Remus reached down to the floorboards to collect his jumper and trousers from the day before and attempted to wriggle into them without leaving the scant warmth that had managed to accumulate under the bedding. Finding his wand on the windowsill, he summoned a pair of wool socks and tried to convince himself to stand. 

He’d had worse mornings-after. Nothing seemed to be broken or bleeding, and there was no taste of iron in his mouth. There was an undeniable sickening feeling twisting in his stomach, but there were a hundred things that could be. 

The old floorboards groaned as they bore his weight and he made his way downstairs, careful to make enough noise so that he wouldn’t startle Scamander. There was a warm, dim light coming from the kitchen and Newt was sat at the scarred farmhouse table reading a book with both hands wrapped around a cup of tea. 

At the sight of him, the odd sickening feeling seemed to rise like a tsunami and he clamped his lips together, willing himself not to retch. The other man looked up, and now it was Remus who could not meet his eyes. Instead, he tried to focus on something safe, like his hands, but the ghost of his cold fingers against his back crawled down Remus’ spine and he could think of no solution but to back away, into the dusty sitting room where Newt was safely out of his line of sight. 

“Remus?”

He swallowed a shuddering gasp and the urge to vomit along with it before answering. 

“I’m fine.”

He heard the rustle of Newt’s book closing, but not the scraping of a chair. The thudding in his ears calmed somewhat and he pressed his cold fingers against his eyes.

“There is… literature about werewolves being “moon sick” before and after transformations,” Newt offered matter-of-factly. “Perhaps that’s the issue?”

Remus laughed. Once. Cold and empty. 

“It’s not that. It’s true, but it’s not that. It’s just… It’s been a while.”

Newt was silent. Remus pressed his back against the wall and slid down it so he could sit and rest his head on his knees. He could feel the tense pull of his shoulders, ready to spring up at the threat of movement. Thankfully, there was none. Newt stayed still and out of sight. 

“A while since what?”

Since he’d been seen. Since he’d been touched.

Since anyone had said ‘Moony’.

“Since I’ve had company.”

“Are we going to bury it?” He asked, trying to catch Newt’s line of thinking. He was crouched down beside the jar and had placed both hands on the wide lid. Again, the light caught him. The bright eyes, the determined expression and the careful hands that set his chest on fire with a bone deep pining for the company of friends. 

“I don’t think so. Let’s see if I’m right.”

He twisted and released the lid before stepping back to watch. 

The little wisp climbed, weightlessly, out of the top of the jar and dropped down onto the ground without disturbing a leaf or twig with its tiny feet. Newt leaned in, looking almost eager, as it picked its way across the forest floor to the body of the dog. 

Whatever was in the lantern seemed to have a want, or a need, to be closer. Remus could see it struggling against the ghostly glass like a moth on a window. The two creatures met - the wisp and the corpse - and the lantern was lowered onto the still body. 

As the wisp released its grip, the lantern shattered, as though made of something more than light and smoke. The tinkling of ethereal glass echoed around the small clearing and the little light sank into the dog’s fur. 

And the animal went up in flames. 

Remus staggered back without thought and turned to Newt for some reassurance that the silvery flames were to be expected. Unable to find any horror or panic, he watched the reflection of the fire in his eager eyes instead. Had he known?

As abruptly as it had started, the flames vanished, leaving behind no trace of the dog other than a handful of ashes that slipped away on the slight breeze. The hinkypunk, looking much dimmer without its lantern, disappeared with the ash, like a wisp of smoke. 

Newt vanished the jar and crouched down where the dog had been, his nose almost to the leaves. Remus lit his wand, now that they were without the lantern. 

“Completely gone. Passed on, I suppose.”

“Passed on?”

Newt stood and placed a hand on Remus’ shoulder - the first time he’d touched him since the moon had touched the horizon line the night before. With a slight pressure, he steered Remus around so they could walk, side by side, back the way they’d come. 

“The rest of it. What was left, I mean.” Newt paused for a moment, apparently looking for the right words. 

“The body died a good while ago, I’d think. But perhaps it’s the nature of an environment like a bog. It clings to things that should be let go. Things get left behind, left to stagnate - trapped in the water.”

Remus stumbled on a tree root and felt Newt’s hand tighten on the shoulder of his jacket. He made sure to hold his wand aloft, to better light the path. 

“So it’s alone in there, unable to move onward, or to return to how it was before, it longs for someone, or something to join it. To share the misery or to pull it out, I’m not certain.”

“You think the wisp comes from the bodies?”

“Quite sure. I believe there was something soulful about the little light.”

“I don’t want to hurt people.” He confessed. He wasn’t going to cry. Not over this, again. He’d done his time.

“I don’t think you ever have.”

He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars and pressed his lips together to try and keep from embarrassing himself further. 

“You don’t know me that well, Newt, but thank you.”

There was a rustle, and Remus tensed in fear that Newt might touch him, but no touch came. 

“You’ll have to prove me wrong, then.” His voice had a shy cheekiness that forced a laugh to bubble free from Remus’ tight lips without his permission. It was but a small wave that warned of a coming tsunami of unbidden relief and he turned at the sound of a small laugh and managed to enjoy the sight of Newt’s crinkled eyes as he chuckled to himself despite his recent roller coaster. 

Their laughing filled the room this time and Remus reached for his now tepid tea for something to break the delirium. 

“I should have warned you that you can’t turn your back on Moony,” he mumbled into the rim of his mug. “James did say he was a menace for it.”

“It’s difficult to know what to do with yourself after fighting, I’d imagine.” Newt's gift of dropping true, but uncomfortable statements was as accurate as ever.

Still, that was something he wasn’t about to delve into with an eccentric magizooligist on this weekend afternoon.

“Shall we do the sitting room?”

They went around the windows and doors, sealing them against the outside air and making the place worthy of having a fire in the hearth. Remus found a tin of semi-congealed paint under the stairs and took it upon himself to touch up the flaky gloss after pulling as much moisture from the wood as he could manage. 

Thankfully, there was little more talk of the death of their intended adulthood trajectories and they finished in the back bedroom, Remus pulling the bed frame away from the wall so they could see how effective his limited cleaning spells were at sorting out mold. On his hands and knees between the bed and the wall, he tried not to imagine how foolish he must look to Newt as he cleaned away another unsuccessful scourgify attempt. 

“Maybe a banishment type, rather than a cleaning type?” 

Remus jumped, not expecting Newt’s voice to be so close. He had stretched across the bed on his stomach so he could peer down into the gap over Remus’ shoulder. 

“Christ, Newt.” He looked determinedly down at the skirting board to make sure Newt could see nothing more than the back of his head and certainly not his burning face. “Yeah, that’s a shout… How do muggles do this?” 

He couldn’t concentrate with Newt’s face so close to his hair and, again, tried to push any deeper examination of that reaction to the back of his mind. 

It had been long enough since anyone had been that close to him, so surely it wasn’t unfair to get a little flustered. 

“That’ll have to do.” He retreated a little, before unfurling himself from behind the bed and revealing the slightly better state of the wall. 

Newt kneeled on the bed, apparently content with the outcome. Remus was tall enough to be getting on with, but he had rarely been in a position to look down at Newt. A familiar but unbidden fizzing was set off in his stomach again, along with the sickening lurch of painfully tainted memories of being in this position several years ago. 

“Your knees are dusty.” 

The memory of Newt, twisted on the counter, forcing up the sash with both arms, the hair lit on fire by the afternoon sun and that dangerous slip of pale stomach, was burned into his eyelids. He sank as low as he could in the bath, his knees breaking the surface so he could hide himself up to his nose in the hot water. He couldn’t seem to wash away the image of his crinkled nose, laughing on his bed that morning, nor the wry look in his rusty green eyes. 

He’d been here before. He knew when he was done for. 

He lay there, crumpled like a discarded scrap of paper, until the water went tepid and there were goosebumps covering his thighs. He didn’t know if he was brave enough to let his solitude end, now that he was quite sure what he was afflicted with, but he could hardly hide in the bathroom forever. 

There was a soft knock on the door and Remus startled so abruptly that a wave of bathwater splattered on the tile floor. 

“I was just checking you hadn’t drowned.” It was muffled by the door but he was certain he could hear the cheeky smile in his voice. 

“Unfortunately, I’ll live to see another day,” he grunted, spurred by the intrusion to stand up. As he’d feared, it was bitterly cold, standing there damp, and he swiftly took on the appearance of a recently plucked chicken. “Did you manage to get a fire going?” He called out hopefully, clambering out of the tub and rummaging through his discarded clothes for his wand so he could vanish the puddle of water he’d made. Apparently, Newt had already left after confirming signs of life and he was forced to peer down the staircase in his towel to see if there would be anywhere warm for him to retreat to. 

(Never mind the burning in his chest that screamed of coming home at the sight of Newt’s head in a book that he glimpsed over the back of the sofa. Never mind that.)

Newt shook his head like a wet dog, smattering Remus with water, and clumsily tried to drag his waterlogged body to firmer ground. Apparently out of his depth and without foothold, Remus coiled the rope around his arm a few more times and tugged him in until he could reach out a hand for him to grasp. 

His slippery hand gripped Remus’ like a vice and after a moment of frantic scrabbling, he freed his torso and waist from the waters. 

“I think so, but I couldn’t pull it up.” He was breathless and Remus allowed him a moment to orient himself before he set about helping free his legs. “Wouldn’t go under in the dark - it’s like devil’s snare down there. Think something bit me.”

“ Bit you ?” Remus’ voice came out strangled and horrified - mind full of inferi. 

“Probably a newt or something,” he grunted, scrabbling without grace onto mostly dry ground and untying himself. “Water’s freezing. Can’t feel my feet.”

He looked like a wet ferret with his clothes filthy and clinging to him. He’d lost a boot to the bog and just as predicted, there was some strange creature hanging off his ankle. Remus curled his lip in disgust, leaning closer for a proper look.

It was shaped like a snail shell, but soft and pulsating. He reached out a finger intending to prod it, but Newt caught his hand hurriedly. 

“Don’t poke it, you might hurt it!”

Remus couldn’t help himself from one short disbelieving laugh even though he knew it would annoy Newt. “You must be kidding. It’s biting you. Looks like a massive leech.”

Newt picked up his own leg and forced it round so he could inspect the creature latched onto his exposed skin. “Not a leech. It almost looks like a lobalug, don’t you think?” Remus was flattered that Newt looked up at him as though genuinely expecting his expert opinion, but all he could do was shrug. 

“Never heard of that. It just looks like a fat ugly leech to me.”

Newt was contorted around like a pretzel in his effort to get as close a look at the creature as he could manage without dislodging it. Remus watched him, not wanting to offend him but also feeling that he was not thinking straight. 

“Um, so what exactly is a lubalog?”

“Lobalug. And they’re usually salt water dwellers, but it might be some kind of variant. The body shape is very similar, but the colours are slightly different. I’ve only seen them a couple of times - sometimes used as weapons my merpeople, on account of the venom-”

“Newt!” Remus tucked his hand in the safety of his jacket sleeve and shot out  to flick the creature off. It flopped onto the wet ground and Newt turned to him, scandalised. 

“Remus! They’re quite delicate!”  

“You just said they were venomous!” 

Distracted for a moment, he stepped over, brushing some sketches of what he now recognised as their hinkypunk friend to see what looked like an open journal. His own name jumped out at him, like an inviting little wave, dotted here and there across the open pages of scrawl. Again and again and again. 

Remus. Remus. Remus. Remus. 

Remus traced a thumb over the drawing in Newt’s notebook, remembering the afternoon that he had fallen asleep reading in front of the fire and felt the hair along the back of his neck stand up in some mixed up combination of embarrassment and flattery. The drawings of his mangled body as a wolf, he could do without looking over again, and tucked them back into the pages of the journal, but the others did something strange to him. 

He was both compelled to commit them to memory, but also to look away as though he was prying on something private (which he was) and shameful. He pulled out the portrait. God knows how he’d managed to pull it off without Remus realising he was doing it, but Newt spent so much of his free time either reading about beasts, looking at pictures of beasts or drawing beasts perhaps it was no surprise he had overlooked it. 

Remus wouldn’t say he was unpleasant to look at. He was quite content that he had been blessed with a face that was generally inoffensive and trustworthy. Certain things annoyed him, on the days he felt more self-critical than usual. He wished he had more noticeable eyelashes, or perhaps visible eyebrows to speak of. He had spent too much time admiring the determined set of James’ thick eyebrows, or of Sirius’ long lashes, dark against his pale cheeks. In comparison, he felt a little washed out and bland - not even blessed with the sparkly blue eyes and cherubic cheeks that Peter had to go with the blond curls. Perhaps less of a long neck or a less prominent Adam’s apple, or a more interesting colour of hair might’ve improved him. 

Looking in the mirror, he might think all of those things, but looking down at Newt’s drawing, it felt offensive that he might even suggest anything should be changed. 

If Newt had thought his pale eyebrows and bony neck pleasant enough to commit to paper, then perhaps they weren’t so unfortunate after all. 

He would feed the lethifold for Newt. He would wade through a bog for Newt. He would answer questions that made him confront the horrors of the recent past for Newt. And now that he really catalogued their time together, Newt would do all that and more in return.

That was frightening. 

Of course - Newt could just be a kind man - it was plain to see that he was more than happy to bend over backwards for any misunderstood beast. It was a real possibility that he was simply one more for the collection (and would that be that bad?). It would not be the first time he looked upon another with admiration and desire and received nothing in return. He was familiar with that. He had admired many men to the extent that it might have pushed the boundary of admiration into infatuation. There had certainly been a time where he had hero-worshiped James to the point of pushing his own morals aside just for a glimpse of his approval. Pining was safe territory. 

Reciprocation was dangerous ground. 

And it was the smallest of things that had planted that niggling worry. The constant cups of tea, the willingness to follow whenever he fled, the endless patience, the laser-focus of occasional eye-contact and the invitation in. Into the excitement of his interest, into the adventure on the moors. Into the little house in the countryside. Into the suitcase of worldly treasures that he was sat in now. 

He groaned, weighed down by the heavy reality of it all, and ran his hands through his hair. 

Regardless of the pain it might cause to touch the barely-healed wounds of a few years ago, he had to accept that he was in debt. And not only was he in debt, but that debt was to someone who would keep giving regardless. 

And so he should really begin to repay it, no matter how frightening it might be to participate in his own life and stop just allowing things to happen to him, hoping that if they were going to hit him, that it would at least be a glancing blow. 

He would run right at this one and, God willing, he would be met with open arms. 

“Hey, sit up a bit?”

Newt groaned, screwing his eyes up as though he was worried Remus might try to physically pry them open. He couldn’t help but laugh - there was something undeniably endearing about his scrunched-up face. 

“I have to get this off - it’s filthy.” 

“‘M not filthy.” He winged petulantly, trying to turn away again. “‘M tired.”

Remus sighed, resolving himself to a lack of cooperation, and climbed back onto the bed, resuming his business-like position straddled over Newt’s legs and took one of his arms in each hand. 

“C’mon, up.” He tugged, hoping that Newt might get the picture and help him out a little if he just went for it. Indeed, he allowed himself to be pulled upright and slumped forward straight into Remus, eyes half closed. The solid weight of him draped over Remus’ shoulders and chest was a touch more than his careful mind-wiping could overcome and he froze for a moment, frightened of where to put his hands and of what Newt might find himself leaning against. 

Hopefully Newt was far too preoccupied with trying not to be awake to notice Remus’ heart thudding against his chest. 

“Er, okay.” He flitted his hands nervously around Newt’s torso, arrested by adrenaline. “Okay, arms first, I think.” 

Manoeuvring around the dead weight against him, he manhandled Newt’s arms out of their sleeves, savouring the feeling of his head lying heavy in the crook of his neck and his breath ghosting over his collarbone. Surely that wasn’t a crime? His hands were still inside of Newt’s jumper, the heat of his back burning against Remus’ fingertips and he was unable to resist stroking his thumb over the notches of his spine, pushed out tight against his flesh by his hunched posture. What he wouldn’t give to lean into his desires and pull him close, hands planted against Newt’s back with the sole wish to embrace him so hard that they might melt into one. And what he wouldn’t give to be pulled in, in return. 

Not now, though. He wasn’t being selfish now.

And so he took the trim of his jumper and tugged it up over the back of his head, freeing him from it and making him pull closer at the assault of cold air - his freed arms falling by Remus’ hips. 

“Er, you’re free to go.” He prompted, shrugging a little to see if jostling Newt’s head might liven him up. Instead, one hand just patted Remus’ thigh vaguely. 

“Of course.” He would have to turn himself inside-out in sheer horror if it was revealed to him that Newt had been kidding him on this entire time. 

He didn’t want to push Newt off, lest he just fall back, so he went down with him, extracting his arms from under him with some difficulty. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he rolled back over onto his stomach and buried his face into the bedding. Remus snorted and stood, bringing Newt’s shed jumper with him. 

“Should have seen that coming.”

Their knees were touching. Through the quilt, but to Remus it felt as if he was being burned. Remus stared at the point of contact, feeling the weight of something pressing in on the both of them in the little room. The quilt rustled and then, quite unexpectedly there was the warmth of another’s face close to his. Too close and yet not close enough. That strange, excited, churning anticipation reared its head again and he felt simultaneously like he might vomit or laugh. Newt’s nose brushed against his, then pressed cold against his cheekbone as their lips met, warm and dry, soft and kind. 

He was inhabiting a strange universe where two things were possible at once. Somehow they stayed like that for minutes - maybe hours - and somehow it was over in no more than a couple of loud and painful heartbeats. 

And surely, they must have pulled apart. And perhaps their eyes had met - perhaps not. As soon as the eternal moment passed, his briefly silenced mind filled again with frantic buzzing and before he could comprehend whatever happened in the aftermath, he was standing in the hallway listening to the incessant swishing of his own heart in his ears. 

Newt did not call out for him. And why would he? He’d just fled after a kiss. He dragged his fingers through his hair, tangling his fingers in it, pulling on it as though a little physical discomfort might push out the painfully loud buzzing of his own painful thoughts. 

He needed to get out of the house. 

“All fine.” Remus heard his own words as though someone else had said them. He was far away from the present moment, already in the next one - one where his hand was in Newt’s rumpled auburn hair, where his eyelashes tickled his cheek. Where the other man might feel his triumphant, self-satisfied smile against his own lips. 

And then the moment rushed up to meet him and the fiction became reality. More impatient than he had intended, but just as sweet. There was his hand on the back of Newt’s head - hair soft under his palm, his fingers snagging in the occasional knot. There was the tickle of the other’s eyelashes against his cheek and the smile, impossible to suppress, pressed recklessly against Newt’s own. 

Not soft and kind. He didn’t have the luxury of confidence. Instead, he was forced to fake it until it became reality - pushing himself upon the other in a desperate plea of ‘please, confirm to me that I was right to be brave’.

Newt pulled away and tipped his head forward, breaking their lips apart but resting their foreheads together as he planted a hand on Remus’ arm, gently directing him to sit down beside him. Remus opened his eyes. 

Newt was looking at him - with that same lopsided smile that shorted out his thoughts. 

“I had hoped that would be your answer.”

Remus snorted and kissed him again, the courage coming easy now. “Did you, now?”

There was another moment or two of silence, Remus looking into the dark silhouette of Newt and Newt, presumably, looking back - waiting for acknowledgement. 

When none came, the shadow retreated and the rustling began anew as Newt buried himself back in the familiar quilt. 

A few tentative steps into the room gave Remus enough understanding of what he was looking at to see that Newt had not quite turned his back on Moony. That wasn’t to say he was being watched. Sheepishly, like a nervous cat, he inched forward until he was eye to eye with the wizard on the bed who was looking sleepily over at him, blinking slowly in the dim light. Remus wasn’t sure if it was he, or Moony (or if the distinction was idiotic) that noticed the casual position of Newt’s shoulders, sloped down and exposed - the long, vulnerable line from his jaw to his collarbone bared to the night. 

He would have been suspicious that the exposed neck was an elaborate act to try and put him at ease, if it weren’t for the fact that Moony’s ears heard the easy noises of a defenceless and sleepy man with ringing clarity (some may say it was by design). The slight rattle of a positional snore and the gurgling of many cups of tea sitting in his stomach could hardly lie. 

There was no concealed anxiety in this room.

(Other than the smell of his own fear that was assaulting Moony’s nose, stinging like acid at the back of his throat.)

Emboldened by using the wolf’s image as a convenient mask, Remus stepped forward again, resting his chin on the edge of the mattress and blinking questioningly at Newt’s half lidded eyes. Their faces were so close Moony’s lips twitched as Newt’s breath disturbed the air by his whiskers.

“It’s okay to feel lonely.” Again, just the ghost of a voice behind the words. “Not that I know what you’re thinking - I don’t mean to make assumptions. Just… I just wanted that to be clear. That if you feel alone, it’s alright to look for company.”

It was very difficult to keep strong his weak threads of self control when Newt said things like that. 

Moony shivered. He wasn’t sure if it was anxiety, or the cold, but the involuntary movement seemed to break the seal and before he could second guess his decision, Remus was crouched on the bed - four paws awkwardly occupying the small space that was not taken up by Newt. 

The image of Fenrir Greyback looming over his childhood bed moments before his life as he knew it was ripped from him floated unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t help but groan in horror, then again at the hope that the noise hadn’t sounded like a growl to Newt. 

He gagged before he realised the sickening feeling was coming. That seemed to frighten Newt more than the looming form of the werewolf above him and he pushed himself back up before reaching out tentatively towards Moony’s head. 

“Goodness, not you feeling out of sorts as well. Perhaps it was a brewing error?” 

Newt’s mumblings and worried fluttering fingers were somewhat comforting and Remus would have laughed, if he was able to. 

He had been frightfully careful when brewing the potion. The least he could do to repay Newt was to be sure that he wasn’t going to rip his throat out in the middle of the night. 

No. It was definitely the horror of realising his own power. 

It had always sickened him. 

Moony’s breaths came in rough pants and he couldn’t bring himself to look into Newt’s face - instead fixating on the worn collar of the soft, ribbed undershirt and trying not to let his mind float away. As though he’d read his mind, Newt placed one gentle hand on the top of Moony’s head. 

“Maybe you’re frightened?” Newt posited, gently brushing his thumb over one of Moony’s soft, whiskered eyebrows. “I look for the company of things that won’t judge me when I’m frightened, too.”

Remus absently wondered if knowing that Moony would not answer back had loosened Newt’s inhibitions too. Or maybe it was the knowledge that Remus in there, closer to the surface this time, that gave him the confidence to put a hand to the back of Moony’s head and pull the wolf in close, inviting him to hide his head under Newt’s chin - the other’s arms around his chest squeezing just hard enough to keep him safely in the little room, present and held. 

He wasn’t sure how long Newt let him stay like that, tucked against his chest. He’d acclimatised somewhat to Moony’s superior hearing and no longer heard every breath the other took as though it were an unexpected wave crashing and breaking against him. Perhaps not having his nerves fried at every slight movement or sound had been a helping hand to calm him too. Regardless, Newt’s arms seemed to have grown tired and when they slipped away down to his sides, Remus, or Moony, or perhaps it didn’t matter who, had decided to spend that night - often so panicked and alone - up on the bed, snuggled under Newt’s arm, head lying heavy across the other’s shoulders with the comforting weight of his chin on his head.  

They lay there for what might’ve been minutes or hours, Remus’ mind drifting between memories and blissful nothing as he continued the stroking of Newt’s back. He found he twitched less when his hand  was heavier, so he obliged - thinking of many similar mornings with Sirius and his long, light fingers trailing back and forth over Remus’ arm. 

He didn’t imagine Newt would like that. 

Strange how one could be in the same situation and yet enough small details were different that it felt entirely new. 

In return, Newt’s hand disappeared from his hair and found the flat of his back between his shoulders and with a firm, predictable touch he pulled them closer with an almost crushing surety. Pressed that close, there was no secret to the contours of the other’s body. Long-limbed and wiry, like Remus, but unexpectedly strong, he was buried almost entirely under the quilt and guarded by the arm tensed against his side, the curve of a shoulder by his ear and the familiar entanglement of their legs - uncomfortably comforting, long shins and sharp knees locked together. Safe in the almost-darkness, he didn’t have to trouble himself with what may come next, or if his ears were burning red. Just the smell of Newt’s neck pressed against his nose, the warm quilt and the echo of the other’s heartbeat that was just audible where his sweaty ear was pressed against one equally sweaty bicep. 

He had often thought that the moments after the moon were somewhat like being born - frightening and vulnerable, exposed and cold. Confused and disorientated, forced to acclimatise. Strange that this felt reminiscent - like the other side of the same coin. Warm, a little uncomfortably damp, bare and held in a quiet moment. 

Too warm, actually. Though he was loath to let it end, he wriggled up and resurfaced, swallowing the cool air and he knew his cheeks must be bright red and feeling the strange sweaty stickiness of his right ear where it had been crushed between their bodies. He met Newt’s eyes and his freckled face cracked into an amused and lopsided smile before he could even light the spark of his own self-consciousness.

Giddy with desire and bolstered by Newt’s light-heartedness, he hooked a finger in the waistband of Newt’s shorts and yanked them down as far as his reach would allow. Again, Newt laughed, soft and short, and Remus caught it, lightheaded from the success of his own daring. Newt wiggled his hips - showing off his recently acquired below-the-belt coordination - and Remus pushed them the rest of the way down with a well placed foot. 

And God, wasn’t it nice , wasn’t it electrifying, to be here again? Wasn’t it thrilling to have the hot, excited breaths of someone else against his skin, and his own thudding heart in his ears?

They were still nose-to-nose, laughing against the other’s lips. Newt’s gaze travelled from Remus’ red cheeks to his eyes. 

It was less like staring into the sun - blinding and unknowable. More like peeking through a ground-floor window into the brief fleeting image of foreign life. 

As quickly as he glimpsed it, Newt looked away and pressed a kiss at his temple before rolling onto his back and pulling Remus with him. For the second time that night, but for the first in this body, he found himself looming on top of the other, and once again, he found the other laying there beneath him, unconcerned and - this time - delightfully bedraggled. Head quirked a little to one side as though pondering what might happen next. 

Facsimile of Kin - Chapter 1 - BeckettSimpleton - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

As Observed by Newt Scamander - Chapter 1 - BeckettSimpleton - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

[chiyuumiii]

Miles-1610B Headcanons

Giving you guys some content whilst Labyrinth is still in process !

♡♡♡

IN-A-RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS:

• Miles would be the typa guy that gets super concerned whenever you're out alone without him, texting you every 10 minutes like a worried mom.

Miles: “BABY ARE YOU OKAY??”

You: Yeah i'm just out with my friends, don't worry!

Miles: “ALRIGHT TEXT ME WHEN U WANT ME TO PICK U UPP, ILY AND STAY SAFE PLS ❤️”

• At the first months and weeks of your relationship, he isn't as clingy as he doesn't wanna pressure you too much, but when the two of you have been together for a long time, he starts to get a little clingy.

• If you have pets with him he will absolutely cherish and treat the pet like its his child, even purchasing a stroller for it when you walk around malls!

• Buys the two of you matching sneakers, he just thinks they're stylish and cute.

• Words of affection, quality time, and acts of service are his main love languages.

• Sketches you from time to time, if you take a peek at his sketch book, you find doodles of you and beautiful sketched portraits.

• Sometimes when you're not with him, he gets bored and goes to put up a graffiti with you on some places, and at some point, you see the graffiti, taking a picture of it and asking if its him (ofc it is)

• When he first had a crush on you, you could notice he was always a bit nervous to talk to you.

Miles: “Yo...! Um.... You got a pen...?” He says with obvious unease and anxiety.

• Babbles to Ganke Lee about how amazing you are and all your best qualities, sometimes he rambles for so long Ganke is sleeping on his gaming chair.

Miles: “They're so adorable and I love the way they hold me and I love their hands, I love their eyes and I love-”

Ganke: *snoring his ass out*

• If you know he's Spider-Man, sometimes he knocks at your window to your room when he gets the sudden urge to visit you.

BEST FRIENDS HEADCANONS:

• A cool best friend to be with, sometimes he lets you decorate his skateboard and takes you to paint graffiti with him.

• He tells you EVERYTHING, even gossips he overhears.

Miles: “Did you know what Peter did-”

You: “No I did not know what Peter did.”

• You know his deepest darkest secrets, and it was he accidentally painted on a cat while he was out painting graffiti and his dad saw the cat.

Jeff (Miles' dad): “I saw a cat on the road and I was like ‘oh a cat’ and it turned... there was some spray paint on its ass...”

Miles: *chuckles nervously* “wow dad... What an odd discovery...”

• It's always a blast having sleepovers with him, if you're an artist, he challenges you to an art battle, and if you're much of a gamer, he challenges you to with him.

• If you can play an instrument, he requests you to play his favorite songs sometimes, and even posts you on his insta.

♡♡♡

Pls wait patiently for labyrinth guys I am having a hard time writing 😭😭😭

[unconvtional]

Heyoo can i request smut afab mayoi x top gn reader?You can just ignore it if its uncomfortable

Mayoi's self-depreciating has been a lot worse lately. Finger him, praise him and love him until he no longer looking down on himself

cries so hard i love my boy mayoi 💔 no. this doesn't make me uncomfy, dwdw!

i dont smoke, mayoi ayase

smut under read more!

sketch info : cursing, praise, self depricating/negative thoughts, no sex, comfort smut, mdni obvi, kissing, dom gn reader, ftm mayoi i suppose, cringe writing, maybe ooc mayoi(jp only😒), hand holding⁉️, ED warning ( like. not even mentioned, just described)

a/n: im bitchless but im a therapist so this is amazing for me, anon thank you!

"aah.. i look horrible, " he mumbles, staring at his chest, eyes following the line down to his stomach, to his thighs, and back up to his face. his hands come to his arms, and he feels worse than ever, he cant stop looking at every single one of his flaws, the way his bones made an appearance almost every time he breathed wouldnt please.. you. panic is evident in his voice, mayoi throws his head back, "Does yn even like me.. i- I'll just... ah?!" loud footsteps could be heard outside of the quiet and dark room..— "mayoi~.." Your soft voice rings from behind the door along with a quiet knock. his response is delayed, extremely; a long period of awkward silence before he screams. you open the door in an almost panic, eyes wide.

"Are you.. okay? Huh," he's fine, just.. in a weird position on his bed. "mayoi, baby.. come here, " you giggle, walking torwards the purple haired man with open arms. he sniffles weirdly, throat closing up; tears begin to flow down his flushed face, you smile and kiss them away, eyes crinkling in contentness. "Hey, mayoi~... What's wrong?" its a stupid question, but you know hes going to answer it well. mayois voice is even shakier than before, almost unintelligible. "im not feeling great– about me.." you huff, trying to look at him, but he just moves closer. "i dont look good anywhere.. and you must hate being with me," he continues, you could barely hear him breathe."i dont know what i would do if you left me..."

you cock your head, stepping away from him. "If i left you?.." your voice is sincere, "i dont think i would." and its hurting him. mayoi clings to you like a koala, trying to bring back his composure— and fuck, his glossy eyes looking back into yours made you really want to cry. he blinks away tears, looking up at you expectantly. "Really? you won't?" No, you wouldn't. I never even thought about it, but you can't say that, can you? You shake your head, smiling softly. "i love you, you're really great." his breath hitches, and he looks away quickly. "Listen, mayoi.. you're amazing, look at yourself!" You ask gently— of course.

he turns his head, facing the mirror for a few seconds, and then looks away, body trembling. "What do you see in me.. uuh, i dont want you to leave!" he cries, gripping your shirt like a vice. your eyes water, breath becoming labored. "You're so handsome, mayo~ my beautiful boyfriend. Your face is so pretty, and so is your body," stopping for a brief second, staring at his face for confirmation to continue. It's strange, his eyebrows furrowed, and his flushed cheeks were either from his tears or embarassment. "Your flaws are what make you.. yknow, you, and i love that." its not odd for him to be like this, but you wanted to try something different.

you crawl behind him, letting him sit between your legs. hands hovering over his thighs. "Is this okay, mayoi?" You were conflicted between just hugging him til he slept and doing this.. neither felt right. he hums, fiddling wth his fingers. you run your hands up and down his legs, stopping at his crotch. your head rests on his shoulder as you begin to speak, "You're everything I've ever wanted, mayoi." you slid your fingers between his thighs, toying with his clit. he hides his face behind his hands and grinds into your fingers, longing for your touch "youre my pretty boy, forever, i promise" he looks ethereal, his hair messy yet so clean, face tired and tear-stained. this is what makes him pretty, his emotions. "you do so much for everyone around you," you whisper, curling your fingers inside of him. "hn.. do i really?" mayoi whimpers, putting his legs over your thighs.

hes almost so engrossed in pleasure, the feeling of your voice reaching his brain, scratching the itch that had tortured him for so long. it was rewarding for him, for staying strong. "Yeah, my pretty boy. youre always worrying about everyone else" mayoi lifts his head, staring at himself. He no longer looked pathetic. sweat drips from his forehead and tears well up in his eyes, "uuh.." he whines, trembling worse than before, taking deep breaths, he follows your heartbeat. "you learn so quickly, its amazing." with his legs spread on your lap, being so close to you made him so happy, but your reassuring words and praise

mayoi grabs your hand, bringing it close to his heart. "and you spoil me so much, and i want you to rely on me too, handsome boy" you feel his heart skip a beat, rate rising in bliss. your pace speeds up slowly, fingertips reaching deep enough to push and prod at his g-spot. he gasps, shutting his eyes and squeezing your hand tighter. "fufu.. i love– oh.. ah, i love you!" he weeps, closing his legs yet still leaving them open enough for you to keep going.

he keeps pushing against your hand, desperate for his release. "mayoi~ you're greater than a lot of people i know, my favorite." you mumble into his ear, mayoi actually sobs, cumming around your fingers. you sit there in shock, worried you did anything. "im sorry.." he sniffles, kissing your cheek. you grin, removing your fingers from inside of him and hugging him tight.

for the rest of the night, the clothes he had prepared to wear were left somewhere on the floor. instead of forcing himself to go outside, you both slept peacfully.

ugmughhh this feels so wird i didnt finish it how i wanted i just didnt know how to explain it lol... welp, here you go anon, sorry if this wasnt how you wated it to be!

[draconeye45]

So, since its been easier to write than draw lately because i'm working so much and its easy to write on the go....(i will hopefully have art to post very soon though)

have some fic-WIP in the meantime for my proto warner fic Second Draft involving my interpretation of Smakky. he ends up having a kind of wierd dream.

(There was light on the other side of his eyelids.

Smakky tried and failed to open his eyes all the way. There were hands, pressing parts of his middle, muddled voices talking about…

Me?

He wasn't sure.

The tides of unconsciousness washed him away again. Calm, inviting, a place where he could drift in a space between thought and feeling, but nothing could touch him…

I'm so tired.

Smakky just wanted to sleep.

Yet there was a tug that disturbed the peace. A connection, the deep one to his twin. Which had always seemed so unusually strong, even for twins. And made him feel incomplete if he was too far away from Wakky.

Why?

In the back of his mind, Smakky had always wondered why. Why he felt that sense of incompleteness when Wakky was too far away, why his temper got even worse…

Smakky fully drifted into sleep again.

….A fuzzy dream came to him then. He saw a chubby man, pouring over a piece of paper. Four pencil drawings of toons, all in the same standing pose. No other doodles present, the lines of the drawings slightly messy. Clearly the results of brainstorming, nowhere near being defined. Not a drop of the special ink that brought toons to life present.

"Hmm," the man hummed. "Come to think of it…perhaps these two would be better combined as one toon. A bad temper and prone to violence doesn't seem quite distinct enough…but merged with the trait of being wacky?"

A pencil tapped on a desk. "That could go somewhere."

The man circled two of the toons, still muttering things, but Smakky didn't care; he only cared about the paper that the man had pushed aside.

The two circled pencil sketches looked almost like -

'Me. Me and Wakky -'

It hit, then, as the odd dream washed away into a blur of color and noise. Why he had come out so wrong, why he had no powers, why….

Everything made sense now…)

[beebundt]

would you mind sharing a bit about Angel's character design and the process of developing it? are there qualities of her personality/story that inform her appearance that you haven't shared so far? have you talked about her tattoos yet??

yeah absolutely!!! i have a Lot i could say here actually because its my favorite thing to think about when designing a character! this is going to get a little long. thanks for the question! 💕💕

to begin with, since she's paired with 2D ill be comparing the two a bit here. i intentionally wanted to use a lot of curves in her initial design from the git go (body shape, her curly hair, etc.) and generally contrast other features against his, so how i draw him with circle eyes, i draw her with much sharper ones, or him being like 6 ft and shes short af. which is not to say there's any real importance behind that besides my satisfaction seeing this scrawny coward of a man tower over this 4'9 chill af beef queen and knowing she could easily snap him in half if she wanted & he'd worship her for it. but anyway it is something i consider in contrast to 2D even in outfits. not that it's purely the only way they dress or anything, but angel tends to wear a lot more leather + punk elements in comparison to him so there's also contrast in style there reflective of their general attitudes.

her development + concept is sort of an odd one for me because i already had a mostly clear idea of what kind of character i wanted to make from the start, im sure it has something to do with just how long i've already been into gorillaz so ive.... def had the time to think about it lol. here are some REALLY rough sketches from the very first time i drew her, they're very ugly bc i never expected anyone to see but just want to show how little she's actually changed from initial conception? disregarding style ofc. i can't really explain my motives anymore than i wanted someone who was not afraid to challenge 2D, equally as wild + independent, but also supports his vulnerabilities, is protective of him. someone who would be similar to murdoc in attitude in a lot of ways but uses it to protect, not destroy.

spitballing some little stuff because ive been so in my head im not exactly sure what i've shared and what i havent lmao. some things angel used to do were habitual out of insecurity like when she used to straighten her hair from teenage-young adult years, but then started wearing it natural from p3 and on, or plucking her eyebrows so much she doesn't have really left anymore & has to draw them in. also her brothers used to make fun of her tooth gap and shit when she was a kid so she stopped open smiling but since being 2D she's felt confident about it again. has a lot of tats + piercings bc she was big into the rock/punk scene way back and that's something i try to show at least a little throughout her wardrobe no matter the phase. like an aging rock fan trying to get with the times. her style does get more "modern"? as the phases go on though, so her rock influences become a bit harder to spot by p7, but are most prevalent p2 & p4.

for tattoos, i have talked a little about it on her toyhouse page but ill go more into it here!! all current tattoos include:

large wings on her upper back - angel symbolism of course. she really leaned into liking her name the she older she got because it almost became a sense of pride to her as she's sort of a local legend to the general community. so with this one she got to represent that, her community and friends is what gives her her wings.

long roses + stems from her right forearm to her shoulder/collarbone - honestly she just fucks with it. was done by a friend who wanted to test her skills on her & angel really does not give af so ofc she was on board with that.

a small star under her left collarbone - represents an old friend she used to know and is put there so she can always keep them close to her heart.

a chubby cupid with a bow and arrow on the top of her right upper thigh - dare by a friend because they thought it was funny. plus you know. angel symbolism with her name. anyway the arrow points directly at her you know.

a heart with an arrow through it on her left shoulder - used to have her ex best friend/crush’s name on it but she had it completely removed later when they had a big falling out, so it's just the heart now. was one of the first things she had tattooed on her when she was a teenager)

a large black scorpion just below the left shoulder and all down her upper arm - represents her old band, the scorpion was a symbol they used for a one-off album.

a dagger with a snake wrapped around the blade on her left forearm - honestly she just fucks with it. another done by a friend to test on her.

and a small cross on her left middle finger - she grew up in a christian household, although she's atheist, it still holds some comfort to her. but mostly it's just funny to flip murdoc off with (and why she initially got the tattoo lmao bc she cant stand his ass)

when thinking about angel's design/lore i have to be mindful that not even gorillaz cares this much about their own lore or go deep into it at all lmao. so i always struggle with how far should i cross that line in the name of developing an interesting character i can imagine for the world and how much i should step back and be like.... "its just gorillaz bro" lmfao. so i TRY (keyword try) to only briefly go over some things in her lore and not dig too deep into it. but its hard being a gorillaz fan and wanting to be invested 💔