#messy sketches right now. very messy

[etherealvoidechoes]

Can either of you learn how to let go?

Sad-ish future scene of that VoidWalker AU.

[coern-art-very-cool-and-nice]

encore nnks

[boughclan-clangen]

SELKIE WHADDYA MEAN YOU DON'T SKETCH YOUR PAGES

HOW

LMAOOOO okay its like. okay. i think ive posted about this before but its like hahahaha

okay. it REALLY depends because sometimes my thumbnails look like this:

(think this was page 9)

so sometimes if the expression or body language is super important i'll put in a little more detail for my thumbnails to remind myself what i was thinking about when i was conceptualizing the page.

so i guess it's not necessarily accurate to say that i don't sketch as much as it is that my sketches are.................. not particularly legible and i go straight from this to lining. i have one panel on the next page that looks like this

if id left this for four months and come back to it i would not know what it meant hahahahahaa

[fryologyy]

Do you have commissions open…*poses cutely*

im so sorry anon and anyone else who asks this question but right now the answer is no :( i am not very consistent with commissions and theyre kinda the hardest thing ever for me depending on the subject matter so i don't wanna lead anyone on... on account of my average wait time of anywhere between a week and half a year

[arsitaeliska]

• Tasper Finadolcy

this is Tasper. his favorite show would probably be The Office (if it existed at that time), he is in his fifties, and he smells like cigarettes, mold, and an old sofa - and his cologne makes all of that worse. he is small, pathetic, he neglects his hygiene and health, his fur is falling out in clumps, and he has horrible posture.

He also makes propaganda posters. he's an exceptional artist but he uses that talent in all the wrong ways.

(Dacciam Shepherd - fictional/original breed of dog.)

[unalive-drawer]

You guys are in for a huge treat when I finish this

[sami-ca]

Ops got sidetracked into another drawing

[iris-qt]

between the lines

a very inconvenient discovery

You don’t realize what you’ve done until you’re halfway through your second class of the day and open your notebook to find...

Not your handwriting.

Not your diagrams. Not your very specific color-coding system. And certainly not your very dramatic drawing of Professor Binns mid-lecture, labeled “Sir Snooze-a-Lot.”

You stare at the page. Then flip. And flip again.

Oh no.

You’ve taken someone else’s notebook.

You never make mistakes like this. Your entire personality is built around being the girl who does not make mistakes like this. The girl who labels her tab dividers and rewrites her notes in neat, margin-aligned bullet points.

And now you’ve accidentally stolen someone’s entire academic life.

You're about to panic when a small ink blot in the corner of a page catches your eye.

It’s not a blot. It’s… a doodle?

Of a plant. One you recognize from Herbology drawn with an almost obsessive attention to detail, like someone who secretly loves the subject but doesn’t want anyone to know. Cute. Kind of nerdy.

You flip again.

Another page. Another harmless doodle.

You squint. There’s writing next to it, a scrawled little annotation that reads: cold in the library again. she never brings a jumper.

Your stomach does something weird.

You turn the page one more time.

It’s a sketch of… you.

It’s not a masterpiece or anything, but you recognize yourself immediately: the curve of your cheek, the way your quill rests against your lower lip when you’re thinking. There’s a tiny label under it, scribbled like an afterthought:

"Library girl."

You slam the notebook shut, face hot.

Okay. So.

You’ve just accidentally discovered that someone, an anonymous, emotionally repressed someone, has not only been sketching you in their notes… they’ve noticed things. Like the fact that you’re always cold in the library. Like the way you sit. The way you—

Oh Merlin.

Who does this belong to??

You think back to that morning. The rush of class. The pile of identical-looking notebooks on the desk in the library.

There’s only one other person who sits near you there. Always. Like clockwork. Never speaks. Just reads quietly in his perfect posture and his perfect jumper and his perfect bloody bone structure.

Theodore Nott.

You nearly fall off your chair.

Because if this notebook is his...

You look down at the cover. Nothing. Not a single identifying mark.

Of course. He would be mysterious about it.

You spend the next three hours spiraling.

Maybe, hopefully, it wasn't Theodore Nott’s? What if it is his and he finds out you saw and... Oh no.

He’s going to hex you.

You clutch the notebook like it’s about to self-destruct. You need to return it. Quietly. Discreetly. With as little eye contact as possible. Preferably while pretending you’ve seen nothing at all. Unfortunately, fate (and Theo Nott) are not that kind.

Later that evening. The library.

You slip into your usual spot and there he is.

Seated across from you like always, looking calm and composed and terrifyingly unreadable. His hair is a little messy, like he’s been running a hand through it, and his tie is slightly askew in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.

Your eyes meet.

Something flickers in his.

He looks down at the desk in front of him… where he has your notebook. Oh no. He knows.

You hold his notebook out toward him like a peace offering, trying not to die on the spot. “I, um— We switched. Earlier. I think.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just takes the notebook from your hands and flips it open. Your face burns in mounting horror as you take your own notebook back and see that he dog-eared a page where your very detailed to-do list included:

Finish Transfig essay

Ask Theo Nott what his problem is

(or if he just hates me personally???)

(he’s hot tho. unfortunately.)

“You read it,” he says, voice low and maddeningly calm, snapping you back from your brief paralyzation of horror.

“Did not,” you lie immediately.

One of his brows lifts.

Your face burns. “Okay, maybe a little. But like... casually.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you. “You read this casually? Was it a casual read for you?”

You fidget. “I didn’t mean to.”

There’s a long, awful pause. Then, softly and unexpectedly, he says, “I thought you’d be mad.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I thought… you’d be freaked out.” He taps a finger lightly against the edge of the notebook. “That I drew you. That I notice things.”

You stare at him.

“Theo,” you say, voice too high. “You drew me like a Victorian botanist in love. I’m not freaked out. I’m flattered.”

He gives a quiet huff of laughter, then looks down, shy, almost. It's disarming. You reach for your own notebook again, flipping it open and finding a new note on the inside cover. In that familiar sharp script:

“You looked cold. I’ll bring a jumper next time.”

You glance up.

He’s already pulling off his jumper and sliding it across the table to you.

[itsamarlfox]

I hate only being a consumer of creation. Reading other people's writing, seeing other people's artwork, watching other people's videos, movies, TV. Wishing so badly to create myself. I am a slave to the doom scroll sitting hours on my phone hoping anything on this tiny screen will make me feel something again. I want to create. But I am tired. And overworked. And burnt out. And it's been so long that the creator in me has shriveled up to a husk, any attempts at reviving it are painful and slow. I know I have it in me but I don't know how to get it out anymore. I'm afraid it's too late.

[mercvry-glow]

Busy bee was so cute - just picturing Lucas drawing a picture for Mel as a thank you and Jack’s like ‘he really liked you - thanks for taking care of my kid’ It just has Mel beaming looking at the kids drawing

little continuation of busy bee

“He really liked you,” Jack said softly as he stood next to Dr. King while finishing some charting.

Mel looked over to him a bit confused, before realizing Dr. Abbot was talking about his son. “Oh yeah- uh… he was very sweet.” the blonde gave him a meek smile, now thinking of the young boy she had spent time with a few days prior.

Slipping a hand into the pocket of his cargos, Jack pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to the younger woman.

"It's supposed to be a thank you, I think. Lucas drew it for you and told me "I had to give it to Dr. King" so... there. He put a lot of work into it supposedly, no idea how it came out. though" He gave her a flat smile, his way of showing her respect for helping out with the incident that had occurred.

"Thank you for being him," and with that said, the two fell into a comfortable enough silence.

Mel walked away, feeling the urge to open the little piece of paper right away—though not in front of Dr. Abbot.

That felt too personal.

Stepping into the bathroom she took a moment before unfolding the parchment. Inside was a smattering of little colorful doodles, many of which were purple.

Flowers, the sun, a dog, and in the middle a drawing of a woman with a blonde braid and glasses.

It made her smile.

The lines were messy, as expected from a five-year-old, but the details were unmistakable—Lucas had really tried to capture her. The figure had a stethoscope around its neck and was standing beside a smaller stick-figure with curly hair, both of them holding hands. Above them, in all capital letters and some backward ones too, reading

"THANK YOU DR. KING 💜"

Mel’s throat tightened just a little. Not realizing how much the moment in the family room had affected her until now—how quiet and scared he had been, how tightly he held her hand.

And now, this.

She blinked a few times, pressing her lips together to keep the emotions at bay, then carefully refolded the picture and tucked it into the chest pocket of her scrubs.

She splashed a little cold water on her face, gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, and left the restroom with a clearer head.

Out on the floor again, things were picking up—alarms chiming, stretchers rolling past, voices rising in coordinated urgency. It was never still for long in the Pitt. But amid the chaos, Mel caught sight of Dr. Abbot at the end of the hall, already with a new patient, eyes locked in as he gave orders.

He hadn’t looked her way again. He didn’t need to.

She was starting to understand Jack Abbot now—how his gratitude was quiet but honest, how fiercely he cared beneath all that defensive sarcasm and night shift wit.

And somewhere in her pocket, a crayon-sketched thank-you from his son warmed her chest.

your honor I love them all

[lovemni]

𐔌 현진 .ᐟ ꒱ ── "the art of loving you."ㅤ❀

HWANG HYUNJIN! ⓘ when your artistic boyfriend wants to use you as his muse for the first time . . (,,>ヮ<,,)!

⌣ ﹒ ✿ ﹕ 𝑏f!hyunjin ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff , pure love ! 33OOwc. ⎯⎯ Yᗩᑎi's ᒪIᗷᖇᗩᖇY ⟢ cw. nicknames , kisses , intimacy , jokes. ┆ 🐇 ⋮ an original drabble .ᐟ ֹ ₊

𝑦𝑎𝑛𝑖'𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𓈒 𓈒 ⭑ huhuhuhu i wrote this in the span of an hour. minus the formatting. i love love so much :( i love hyunjin so much :( i cried writing this sorry. mostly written for my hun, ishi. i know life isn't the best right now, but here's a lil' something that might help you be a bit more at ease! apologies if it isn't very effective though. love you! happy reading <3

the apartment smelled like faint lavender and the lingering sweetness of the vanilla candle she had burned earlier. a warm, golden haze from the late afternoon sun spilled in through the sheer curtains, pooling on the wooden floors, stretching shadows long and lazy.

the world outside hummed softly—distant car horns, the occasional laughter of neighbors, the rhythmic tapping of a tree branch against the window. inside, everything was still.

cozy.

wrapped in the kind of silence that only felt peaceful, never empty.

hyunjin had been staring at her for a while now, perched on the couch with his sketchbook in his lap, his pencil resting against his bottom lip. he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle. every few seconds, his fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for her but thought better of it.

she was curled up at the other end of the couch, distracted by the book in her hands, knees tucked to her chest, one sock slipping off her foot.

he liked her like this.

relaxed.

unfiltered.

beautiful in the way that people are when they don’t know they’re being watched.

he swallowed. his heart was already tumbling over itself.

he had been thinking about it for days now. weeks, even. the idea had planted itself in his mind like a stubborn seed, refusing to be ignored. i want to capture her.

it wasn’t just a want. it was an ache. a pull.

he had sketched her before—messy, thoughtless doodles in the corners of napkins and on the backs of receipts, quick little impressions of the way her hair fell, the way her lips curved when she was deep in thought. but this—this would be different.

this time, he wanted her to be his muse.

he exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly. she finally looked up, blinking at him, and he panicked—like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

"what?" she asked, voice soft with amusement.

hyunjin hesitated. his fingers drummed against his sketchbook. "nothing," he mumbled, glancing away.

a pause.

then she nudged his thigh with her foot. "liar."

he huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. she always saw right through him.

for a moment, he debated brushing it off, pretending like it wasn’t clawing at his insides. but he knew he couldn’t. not with her.

so he bit his lip, gathering his thoughts, before finally exhaling.

"i want to paint you."

the words hung between them, stretching the air thin.

she blinked again, tilting her head. "what?"

hyunjin sat up straighter, shifting so he was fully facing her now, sketchbook balanced on his knee. his fingers curled over the edges of it, gripping it like a lifeline.

"i—i've been thinking about it for a while," he confessed, voice quieter now, like he was scared of startling the moment. "i want to paint you. properly. like… really take my time with it."

she didn’t respond immediately, just studying him. he could see the gears turning in her head.

"you want to paint.. me?" she repeated, as if testing the weight of it on her tongue.

hyunjin nodded. "yeah."

he couldn’t quite read her expression. he wasn’t sure if she liked the idea or not, and the uncertainty sent something anxious skittering through his chest.

"you don’t have to say yes," he added quickly, fingers tightening around his sketchbook.

"i just—i think you’re beautiful. and i want to capture you. not just your face but… you. the way you exist. the way you are."

there it was again—that ache. that pull.

she was silent for another beat, then a small smile played at her lips. "that’s very romantic of you."

hyunjin exhaled a breathy laugh, relieved by her teasing tone. "i am very romantic, actually."

she hummed, pretending to consider. "i don’t know… what if you make me look ugly?"

he scoffed immediately, reaching out to flick her knee. "impossible."

she giggled, pulling her legs away.

hyunjin watched her for a second, then, quieter, more vulnerable—"you’ll do it?"

she held his gaze. and then she nodded.

"yeah," she murmured. "of course. i'll be yours in whatever way you need."

hyunjin's entire body melted. his shoulders dropped, his fingers loosened, his breath left him in one long, relieved exhale. a slow, glowing grin stretched across his face, dimples appearing, eyes crescented with something soft and adoring.

"you really will?"

she rolled her eyes, but her smile was fond. "yes, baby."

baby.

his heart stumbled over itself again.

before she could react, he was already leaning forward, hands finding her waist, pulling her into him. she laughed as she tumbled into his lap, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

"hyunjin—"

"thank you," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder, voice muffled against her skin. "you have no idea how much i wanted this."

she softened, fingers threading through his hair. "i think i do."

hyunjin smiled against her skin. his hands rested against the small of her back, warm and secure, holding her like something precious. because she was.

and now, he could finally capture her the way he saw her.

the apartment smelled different today.

not drastically—just subtly altered, the way a shift in seasons feels. the usual traces of lavender and vanilla were still there, clinging to the air like a familiar embrace, but now they mingled with the crisp scent of stretched canvas, the faint musk of oil pastels, and the distinct earthiness of paint—thick, rich, waiting.

hyunjin had been preparing for this all morning.

sunlight pooled through the wide windows, gilding the hardwood floors in a lazy sprawl. the apartment was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of fabric as he adjusted the sheets draped over their couch to protect it from accidental paint smudges.

his art corner—his sanctuary—was usually a little more chaotic, but today, everything was placed with care. he wanted the space to feel right. to feel like it could hold something sacred.

at the center of it all, his easel stood tall, an untouched canvas waiting, patient and expectant.

his brushes were lined up beside it, freshly cleaned, their wooden handles smooth beneath his fingertips as he traced over them absentmindedly. next to them sat his palette, dappled with early mixes of color—soft beiges, warm caramels, a whisper of rose.

he had mixed those shades by memory alone. he knew the way she looked under sunlight, the way her skin carried warmth like a secret.

now, all he needed was her.

the guy straightened, glancing toward the hallway just as she appeared, wrapped in one of his oversized sweaters.

his breath caught.

she always stole his clothes, and he always let her. he liked the way she looked in them—how the sleeves hung past her wrists, how the fabric swallowed her just enough to make her look small, but never lost. she looked comfortable. at home. and something about that made his chest ache in the best way.

"you done?" she asked, voice still laced with sleep, soft and warm at the edges.

he smiled.

"almost," he murmured, crossing the room. his hands found her waist instinctively, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his sweater, tracing over her skin. "but first, let’s make you comfortable."

she raised an eyebrow, "is that an excuse to undress me?"

"partly."

she rolled her eyes, but there was no real protest as he gently peeled the sweater off her, leaving her in just a simple tank top and shorts.

hyunjin hummed in approval, fingers trailing over her shoulders, brushing against her collarbone.

"perfect," he murmured.

she let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. "you haven’t even posed me yet."

he smiled, but he didn’t answer right away. instead, he took her hand, guiding her toward the chair he had placed near the window—where the sunlight would catch her just right.

"i want you to be natural," he said softly. "just be comfortable. let me see you the way i always do."

she settled into the chair, shifting slightly, and he stepped back, studying her.

he had painted people before. strangers, muses, faces he barely knew but found interesting enough to capture. but this—this was different. this wasn’t just painting a face. this was capturing a feeling. a presence.

his fingers twitched, itching to start.

she watched him, tilting her head slightly. "how do you want me?"

he swallowed. his gaze softened.

"just like that," he murmured.

she held still, trusting him, and something in his chest tightened.

slowly, he stepped closer, fingertips grazing her cheek, tilting her head just slightly. his thumb traced the curve of her jaw, lingering at the hinge where her pulse thrummed beneath his touch. then, his hands drifted down, adjusting the way her shoulders rested, the way her hands settled in her lap. every movement was careful, reverent.

"there," he breathed. "stay like that."

she held his gaze, steady and sure. "okay."

he let out a slow exhale, stepping back. his hands found his brushes, and then, finally, he began.

the first strokes were light, tentative. the foundation of something much bigger. his focus narrowed, the world outside of this moment falling away. it was just her and the canvas, and the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing.

he traced the shape of her first—soft lines, delicate curves. her shoulders, the slope of her neck, the gentle angles of her collarbones. then, slowly, he worked his way up—capturing the arch of her brow, the fullness of her lips, the way the light kissed her skin.

hyunjin didn’t just see her—he felt her.

every touch of paint was a memory, every brushstroke an echo of the way he adored her. the way she looked when she laughed, when she was lost in thought, when she reached for him in the middle of the night, half-asleep but seeking.

she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

and now, she would live on his canvas, exactly as he saw her.

...minutes melted into hours.

the apartment existed in a bubble of stillness, broken only by the soft drag of bristles against canvas and the occasional shift of fabric as she adjusted her posture. hyunjin barely noticed time slipping through his fingers; he was lost in the rhythm of creation, in the steady pull of something deep and unspoken.

she remained patient, quiet but present, watching him work.

at some point, she broke the silence. "you’re really taking your time with this."

he didn’t look away from the canvas, but a small smile played at his lips. "of course. you deserve to be painted slowly."

her lips parted slightly, caught off guard. then she exhaled a soft laugh. "that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said."

his gaze flickered to her then, his brush hovering midair. "i say romantic things all the time."

she hummed. "you do. but that one made my heart flutter a little."

hyunjin grinned. "good."

he went back to painting, his eyes flickering between her and the canvas. the room had dimmed slightly, the sun lower now, casting long golden streaks across the floor. the light touched her cheekbones in a way that made him pause, his fingers tightening around the brush.

"hold still," he murmured, stepping closer.

she obeyed, but her brows lifted slightly in curiosity.

hyunjin reached out, fingertips barely brushing the corner of her mouth. he tilted her chin, his touch featherlight, tracing the outline of her lips with nothing but air between them.

"you have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" he murmured.

her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. "w—"

"you don’t," he cut in gently, thumb ghosting over her bottom lip before he stepped back. "you’re always so effortlessly perfect, and you don’t even realize it. that’s why i want to paint you. so you can see yourself the way i do."

a moment passed.

she swallowed, something unreadable flickering across her face. then, softly, "i don’t think anyone has ever looked at me the way you do."

hyunjin’s throat tightened.

he knew he was staring too much, that his emotions were slipping into the air between them, heavy and unguarded. but he couldn’t help it.

"i love you," he said simply.

her lips parted again, but this time, she didn’t try to deflect. she just let the words settle, her eyes softening as a slow, glowing smile spread across her face.

"i love you too."

he inhaled deeply, letting it fill his chest. then, shaking off the moment before he could get too distracted, he gestured toward the canvas. "now stay still, my muse. i have work to do."

she giggled, settling back into position.

hyunjin returned to his easel, but his mind was still full of her.

brushstroke after brushstroke, he captured the softness of her gaze, the delicate slope of her nose, the warmth in her expression. he mixed colors carefully, making sure her skin glowed the way it did under sunlight, the way it did when she laughed, the way it did when she looked at him like he was the only thing in the world.

hours passed like this—soft conversations, lazy teasing, moments of silence that weren’t empty but full of something warm and steady.

eventually, she sighed, stretching her arms above her head. "hyun, my legs are falling asleep."

he blinked, coming back to reality. "oh—wait, don’t move yet."

she groaned playfully. "i’m dying."

"you’re not dying."

"i might be."

hyunjin laughed, but he set his brush down, stepping closer again. he crouched in front of her, hands gliding up her legs, massaging gently. "here," he murmured. "better?"

she melted instantly. "mmm. yeah."

his thumbs pressed into her calves, slow and firm. "you were so patient for me," he murmured. "thank you."

she peeked down at him, her fingers threading through his hair. "always."

he exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes briefly at her touch. then, without thinking, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her knee. just because he wanted to.

she stilled slightly, then her fingers curled against his scalp.

"hyunjin."

he looked up, his hands still resting on her legs. "yeah?"

her gaze softened. "can i see it?"

his heart did something funny in his chest.

he stood, suddenly nervous, rubbing the back of his neck. "it’s not finished yet."

she reached for his hand, squeezing gently. "that’s okay."

he hesitated, then nodded. slowly, he stepped aside, letting her stand and move toward the easel.

her eyes widened slightly.

for a long moment, she said nothing, just taking it in.

he chewed on his lip, waiting. "do you like it?"

she turned to him then, and he almost staggered back at the look on her face.

she wasn’t just smiling. she wasn’t just admiring.

she was looking at him the way he looked at her.

like he was something to be treasured.

like she had never felt so loved in her entire life.

"hyunjin," she breathed. "it’s… it’s beautiful."

hyunjin let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

then, before he could say anything, she was in his arms, burying herself into his chest, wrapping around him like she belonged there.

he closed his eyes, arms curling around her, holding her impossibly close.

"it’s you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. "exactly the way i see you."

and that was all he had ever wanted to do.

...she didn’t let go.

even when the painting stood in front of her like a quiet confession, even when her eyes were still drinking in every delicate brushstroke, she couldn’t bring herself to step away from her lover.

instead, she pressed her face into his chest, arms tightening around his waist.

hyunjin chuckled, his palm smoothing over her back. "baby," he murmured. "aren’t you gonna keep looking?"

"i’ve seen enough," she mumbled, voice muffled against his sweater. "it’s too much."

his brows furrowed slightly. "too much?"

she nodded, inhaling deeply—his scent, the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "hyunjin, my boyfriend, the love of my life, the most dramatic artist to ever exist—"

he snorted. "oh, here we go."

"—has painted me with so much love that i might actually pass out. and it's-"

hyunjin grinned, resting his chin atop her head. "please don’t pass out. i’d have to catch you, and we’d both go down, and then you’d blame me."

"i would. because it would be your fault."

he hummed. "i love how you admit it so easily."

she lifted her head slightly, just enough to peek up at him. her eyes were still shimmering, lined with something fragile. but her lips curled, soft and fond.

"hyunjin, you love me so much," she whispered.

his breath hitched.

he wasn’t sure what it was—maybe the way she said it, like a realization, like an overwhelming truth she was only just coming to terms with. maybe the way she was looking at him, wide-eyed and almost awed, as if she couldn’t believe how much love she was receiving.

but something inside him ached.

he lifted a hand to cup her cheek, brushing his thumb over her skin. "of course i do," he murmured. "you didn’t know?"

she swallowed, her lashes fluttering. "i did— but i didn't think it'd be this.. much!"

"then why do you look like you’re about to cry?"

her lip wobbled. "because—because i love you so much too, and you just—you love me so much, hyunjin, it’s ridiculous."

his heart squeezed.

and then she was rambling, as if the words couldn’t come out fast enough, as if they’d been sitting in her chest, waiting for this moment.

"my boyfriend loves me so much that he paints me like i’m the most precious thing in the world," she whispered, blinking rapidly. "my boyfriend loves me so much that he stares at me like i’m art before i even become art."

the guy bit his lip, trying to fight the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"my boyfriend loves me so much that he took hours to mix the perfect shade for my skin, because he wanted me to glow exactly the way i do in his eyes. my boyfriend loves me so much that he barely blinked the entire time, like he was memorizing me all over again."

she sniffled, voice wobbling. "my boyfriend loves me so much—"

hyunjin burst into laughter.

she gasped, offended. "hyunjin!"

"i’m sorry," he wheezed, pressing his forehead against hers, shoulders shaking. "you’re just—" another laugh bubbled out of him. "you’re so cute, baby. you’re literally giving a whole monologue right now."

her cheeks burned. "it’s not my fault! i’m emotional!"

he softened instantly, his laughter fading into something gentler. "i know," he murmured, tilting her chin up. "i love that you are."

she huffed, her lips pursing, but her eyes were still damp. "well, you did this. this is your fault."

"yeah?" his thumb brushed over her cheek, catching the faintest trace of moisture. "then let me take responsibility."

and before she could say anything else, he kissed her.

soft. slow. full of everything he couldn’t put into words.

her hands curled into his sweater, and he felt her melt, felt her sigh against his lips, felt the warmth of her love spilling into the space between them.

when he pulled back, she blinked up at him, dazed.

"you’re not real," she whispered.

he laughed again, quieter this time. "neither are you."

she exhaled, leaning in to press her face into the crook of his neck.

for a long moment, they just stood there, wrapped up in each other, the painting forgotten in the background.

then, in a whisper—"thank you."

he smiled, his arms tightening around her. "you don’t have to thank me."

"yes, i do." she pulled back just enough to look at him. "for painting me. for looking at me like that. for loving me like this."

his heart swelled.

he kissed her forehead. "always."

she sighed dreamily, resting against his chest again.

and just like that, time slowed.

there was no rush, no urgency—just them, bathed in the golden remnants of daylight, wrapped in love, in laughter, in warmth.

just them, in their little world, where hyunjin’s brush had captured her beauty, but his love had captured her heart.

⤿ 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝘵𝑒𝑟𝘵𝑎𝑔. @its-stayville-forever @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos — fill out this form to be added !! ✶

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3

[dollyswishingwell]

After reading "Mama Prince P.4", I had a thought:

What if mc wants to return to work after some time in marriage? Like, mc felt nostalgic after looking at old photos, or she just started feeling useless, felt like she wasn't bringing any real benefit to society. And I'm not saying that they already have children, it just happened at some point. Just imagine the mc wanting to go to work and get back into her old form and the boys wanting that to not happen. It looks comical in my head.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ You like being mine

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandere, scary men, fluff, brat tamer energy again, i honestly took this idea and made it dark cause i had so many other requests with a yandere version of this

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They will never let you go back into the real world

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

CRASH.

The heel hits the door with a dramatic bang.

Another one follows. Your voice is high, whiny, furious.

“I said I don’t want to sit in this stupid mansion all day! I’m bored, Rafayel! You’re always out at meetings or sketching or — or. I want to go back to work! I’m losing my mind!”

The bedroom is a chaos of thrown pillows, frilly dresses half-ripped from your vanity rack, tiara crooked in your hair like a war crown.

And there he is.

Standing at the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a pastel lollipop. He’s blinking slowly, messy purple hair, dressed in a half-buttoned silk shirt like he just woke up from a nap.

He stares at you for a beat.

Then, very calmly, he speaks around the lollipop.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Your breath catches.

He walks in slowly, each step echoing through the marble tiles of your shared estate. Your tiara slips a little more with each stomp of your bare feet, but you stand your ground.

“I’m not yours to keep locked up like some kind of, of pet!” you snap, trembling now. “You can’t just keep distracting me with dresses and jewels and, and kisses and expect me to shut up!”

He stops in front of you. He’s smiling now, all drowsy and sugary-sweet.

“Except I can, sweetheart. And I do.”

He takes the lollipop out of his mouth and gently taps it against your lower lip, tilting his head.

“Throwing shoes? Hm? Is that how you tell me you want attention now? I thought we were using our words.”

You pout. Glaring. “I was using my words, you weren’t listening!”

He exhales dramatically.

“Okay, tantrum princess. Strip.”

You blink.

“…What?”

“Strip. Off with it. The robe. The tiara. The attitude.”

You stay frozen.

So he comes closer, grips your chin gently, tilts your head up, and looks at you with that glowing, patient, deranged love.

“You don’t want to work,” he murmurs. “You want to scream and pout and fight so I’ll manhandle you into my lap and make you feel wanted. You want me to kiss the brat out of you until you’re soft and giggly and dumb again. Don’t you?”

Your cheeks heat. Your knees wobble.

“…n-no…”

“Lie,” he whispers.

And then his lollipop is discarded, and you’re in his arms, being tossed onto the nearest couch like a misbehaving doll. He looms over you, fingers slipping your robe off your shoulders as he hums:

“I’ll give you a little real-world reminder, sweetheart. You’re my wife. My spoiled, pretty, housewife. You don’t belong in boardrooms. You belong right here, whimpering in silk, covered in bite marks, too dazed to remember what a ‘job’ is.”

And god, you melt under him. Brattiness gone. Gasping and pliant and ruined. Just how he likes you.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The designer heel hits the marble wall with a crack, the second one skidding across the floor like it’s in a rage of its own.

“I’m sick of this!” you shout, voice sharp and dramatic as your silk robe flares behind you. “I’m sick of doing nothing! I used to have a job, Zayne! I used to matter!”

He says nothing.

He doesn’t even flinch.

You turn around, chest heaving, mascara already smudged from your fury tears, and there he is, leaning against the doorframe of your walk-in, arms crossed over his scrubs, lips pressed into a perfectly neutral line.

He tilts his head.

“Are you done yet?”

His voice isn’t cold. But it is calm, calm in that deadly Zayne way that makes you want to sob and submit all at once.

You glare at him, trembling, pout threatening to wobble.

“I just— I could’ve been someone, you know? Not just your stupid little—your—your housewife!”

“My stupid little housewife, hmm?”

He steps forward. Slow. Controlled. You try to take a step back but he catches your chin before you can even flinch.

“The same housewife who sleeps until noon. Whose closet is worth more than the average surgeon’s yearly salary. The one who pouts when her bath isn’t the right temperature and throws tantrums when the staff forget to bring her lavender pastries?”

You go quiet. Red-faced.

His fingers trace along your jaw, so gentle, so cruel, and he tilts your face up to look him in the eye.

“You want to go back out there?” he murmurs. “Back to that cold, thankless job where they ran you dry? You want to give up all of this? Give up me? Because that’s what this tantrum is saying.”

You try to speak, but the lump in your throat won’t let you.

He sees it. Of course he sees it.

“You can keep throwing things. I’ll wait. But we both know you don’t really want to go. You’re just acting out because you’re overwhelmed.”

He finally leans in, brushing his lips over your tear-damp lashes.

“So stop acting like a brat. Be good. Let me take care of you like I promised.”

And god… your knees just give out right there.

You cling to him, burying your face in his chest, voice soft and cracked:

“I’m sorry…”

His arms curl around you like steel and silk.

“There she is,” he murmurs, kissing your hair. “My sweet girl. No more nonsense, alright? Let’s clean this up and get you back in your slippers. You’ve got a lunch reservation at the garden lounge in an hour.”

And you nod. Obedient. Docile. His again.

Like you were always meant to be.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

THUD.

Your pearl-studded purse hits the floor with a dramatic smack. “I’m bored!” you shout across the pristine, minimalist penthouse. “I’m bored and spoiled and useless! I want to go back to work, Xavier! I want to leave this penthouse, just for one day!”

From the kitchen, Xavier slowly turns his head.

He’s barefoot, wearing one of his loose, half-buttoned shirts, silver hair still a little messy from his nap. He’s holding a slice of lemon in one hand and a tiny crystal fork in the other. His expression?

Blank.

He blinks.

Once.

Then, softly, so softly it’s almost bored:

“…You’re being loud.”

You blink. “Xavi! did you even hear me?! I’m going stir-crazy in here!”

He gently sets down the lemon slice. Walks toward you with that lazy, barely-awake gait of his, eyes unreadable.

You start again, stomping your fluffy-slippered feet: “You can’t just keep me here like a little trophy! I used to be a hunter—I had missions, Xavier! I had—”

“No.”

His voice slices like a blade through velvet.

You freeze.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly.

“You’re not going back,” he says. “You’re mine now. You don’t need to be anything else.”

You open your mouth to protest,

He raises one finger.

“Shh.”

You blink again. Shut it.

And then, then, he cups your face with his cool hands and leans in so close your pout quivers.

“You don’t want to work. You want to be pampered and spoiled and reminded you’re my pretty little thing. You want to yell until I pin you to the bed and kiss the noise out of your throat.”

You whimper. Weak.

He hums softly.

“Do you want me to ignore you again?” he whispers. “Like last time? For hours? Until you crawled into my lap and begged to be good?”

Your cheeks go red.

“…n-no…”

“Mm. Thought so.”

Then he scoops you up, just like that, princess-style, and walks you back to bed.

He doesn’t scold you. Doesn’t punish you.

He neutralizes you.

Lays you down gently. Crawls on top of you with the weight of someone who never rushes, who never loses control. His silver hair brushes your cheek.

“You’re not useless,” he murmurs, brushing kisses along your collarbone. “You’re mine. That’s more than enough.”

And your bratty tantrum?

Gone. Melted into kisses and breathless apologies. Because Xavier always wins.

Always.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You slam the cabinet door, hard enough to shake the glasses inside.

“I’m going insane,” you snap, pacing the length of the regal, high-security safehouse in nothing but your silk robe and fury. “I need to go outside. I want to go back to work. I want to do something, Sylus, anything that isn’t being locked in here like a spoiled doll—!”

Behind you, the fridge clicks shut.

You turn.

There he is.

Leaning against the counter, black gloves still on, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a single dark brow arched above those infernal red eyes.

Unbothered. Unimpressed. Unmoving.

“Try it, princess.”

Your stomach flips. Heat rushes to your cheeks. But you cross your arms anyway, trembling.

“I mean it, Sylus. I’ll walk out that door. I don’t care what security code you set”

He holds up a hand.

You go dead silent.

“One. More. Word.”

And just like that, he pushes away from the counter, strolling over like a predator to prey. Every step deliberate. Every click of his boots against the marble floor a countdown to your surrender.

You try to back up. You hit the wall.

He cages you in.

His gloved hand curls beneath your chin, dragging your gaze up to meet his.

“You don’t get to care about the outside world anymore,” he murmurs. “You gave that up the second you said yes to me.”

Your pulse hammers in your throat. He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“You are my wife. My darling, pampered, silk-draped little housewife. And if you think I’d let the world have even a fraction of you again, you’re more delusional than I thought.”

His voice drops, smooth as poison.

“You walk out that door, and I’ll burn the city behind it. So go ahead, sweetheart. Try it.”

Your lips part. But no sound comes out.

He smiles.

“That’s what I thought.”

Then he picks you up with no effort, slinging you over his shoulder like you’re weightless, carrying you into the master suite like a misbehaving pet that needs re-training.

You pound on his back, breathless.

“Put me down! Sy, I’m not a prisoner!”

He tosses you on the bed.

“You’re not a prisoner,” he says smoothly. “You’re mine. There’s a difference.”

He unbuttons his cuffs, slow. Deadly.

“Now. On your knees. I want to hear that sweet little apology before I fuck the attitude out of you.”

And you obey.

Of course you do.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

“I said no!”

Your voice bounces off the walls of the Skyhaven penthouse, high and frustrated, your tiny fists clenched as you stand in your fluffiest slippers and pink satin robe, glaring at him across the living room like you’re not half his size.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Caleb! I can make my own decisions! I can think for myself, I don’t need you watching my every move and deciding what I wear, eat, or do like I’m some dumb little pet!”

He sets his tablet down.

He doesn’t even blink.

Just tilts his head, watching you like a scientist studying a tantruming creature.

Then, gently, so gently, he stands up and walks over, the floor quiet under his polished boots.

You try to back up.

He catches you first.

Two gloved hands slide around your waist, pulling you in until your forehead is pressed against his chest.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, so soft, so calm. “Is that what we’re saying now?”

You open your mouth to snap again, but his thumb’s already under your chin, guiding your face up.

“You used to look at Gege just to figure out if you liked strawberry or lemon candy.”

You squirm. “That was when I was littl—!”

“You still do it,” he says. “You still look at me when the waiter asks what you want. You still can’t pick what earrings to wear unless I nod. You still curl up in my lap and pout until I fix it for you.”

You whimper.

His lips brush your forehead.

“You can pretend all you want, pipsqueak,” he whispers. “But you don’t want freedom. You want your Gege. You want to cry and throw things and make a fuss until I carry you back to bed and kiss the brat out of you.”

And oh, you’re trembling now.

“So let me take care of it, yeah?” he murmurs. “Let me handle the big stuff. You just be my good little wife. That’s all I ever wanted, the hunter association doesn’t deserve my sweet girl.”

You nod.

Teary-eyed, shamefaced.

“There she is,” he coos. “There’s my good girl.“

And then he scoops you up, effortless, practiced, carrying you back to the velvet-draped bed like nothing happened at all.

He tucks you in. Brushes your hair from your face.

And before you fall asleep in his arms, you hear him whisper:

“No more yelling. I doesn’t like when my pipsqueak’s voice gets so hoarse.”

[valeisaslut]

Possibly cannon that collide Ellie draws some of her album covers?….. or even some of her singles😗😗

NONNIE. OMG. YOU JUST REWIRED MY BRAIN. I'VE BEEN ON PINTEREST FOR AN HOUR STRAIGHT. it’s SO canon now. also took a little bit of freedom and added so much more stuff!

COLLIDE ROCKSTAR!ELLIE'S SKETCHBOOK

collide ellie isn’t just a rockstar—she’s an artist in the most chaotic, sexy, VERY EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED way imaginable. like yeah she can shred onstage and yell into a mic, but she also stays up at 3am in hotel rooms with a pencil clenched between her teeth, sketching like her life depends on it.

her art style is raw and unhinged—scribbly pencil lines, charcoal smears, ink-stained fingers. it’s messy and moody and SO her. her sketchbooks are war zones. pages torn, corners bent. sometimes it looks like she attacked the paper in a blackout. other times it’s so delicate you feel like you’re intruding just looking at it.

she’s done some of the Fireflies’ most iconic album and single covers:

but here’s the real kicker: she’s got a private sketchbook. not the kind that gets left on the tour bus or tossed into her duffel. no. this one’s hidden. zippered into her guitar case or shoved between mattress and box spring.

and it’s full of you.

you think ellie’s moody and mysterious? babe. she’s sketching the curve of your spine, the indent of your hip, you mid-orgasm in obsessive, excruciating detail like she’s trying to exorcise it out of her system.

not just one drawing. we’re talking a series. a full-blown, chronological, positionally accurate collection of "you riding her into next week." some from memory. some from quick glances in the mirror. some from angles you don’t even remember being in.

her sketchbook is like if a horny Victorian painter had access to lesbian sex and insomnia. it’s less “study of the human form” and more like, “i’m losing my mind over this girl and the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth is compulsively drawing her bare pussy.”

she loves drawing your tits. like, spiritually. artistically. carnally. your thighs too. your eyes. the curve of your back. your collarbones. she’s got whole spreads dedicated to each. and in the margins? little notes. deranged notes. written in her messy handwriting around the edges like she's documenting rare wildlife:

“shaky hands here. she said my name when she came. HOT. why can't i sketch that.”

“draw this angle again but darker. deeper shadow. more tongue.”

“bite marks from earlier. left side deeper.”

“she bit her lip right here. fuck.”

“she always arches like this when i touch her there”

“don’t forget: her thighs shake right before”

“this one’s from that night. THAT night”

“do a side-by-side of the mirror reflection next time”

and the occasional pure chaos like “looks like a renaissance painting if you squint” or “god i’m so fucking in love with her KILL ME” or just "im so down bad."

sometimes they’re messy and fast, like she was racing to capture the memory before it slipped. sometimes they’re painfully detailed. shaded with love. and lust. and obsession.

meanwhile, jesse saw a single page once and practically had a religious experience. he didn’t even mean to. he was looking for a setlist, flipped to a page, and BOOM: a full-frontal, beautifully rendered graphite version of you doing...things. his brain blue-screened. he stared for 10 full seconds and went–

“jesus, your girl looks like THAT??”

ellie almost passed out when she saw it. tackled him to get the sketchbook back “GIVE ME THAT—IT’S FUCKING PRIVATE!! FUCK OFF!!!”

she didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day and jesse still won’t make eye contact with you in certain lighting. he's kinda traumatized. but very impressed.

you’ve never seen these. she won’t let you. and if you even joke about it she turns bright red and buries the sketchbook under some old band tees, mumbling “they’re not ready,”

the only ones she’s ever shown you are the soft portraits—your face in the morning light, your hand curled into a pillow, the crease between your brows when you’re asleep. they’re beautiful. you love them. but you know she’s hiding more from you.

and then there’s the other pages. the ones she won’t even talk about. the ones never meant for anyone to see.

they’re raw. brutal. jagged lines and too-dark shading, like she pressed the pencil hard enough to tear through the paper. fractured self-portraits that barely look like her—hollow eyes, clenched teeth, limbs twisted or missing. some of them look like they were drawn during a full-blown breakdown, like she was trying to bleed something out.

eyes. strangers. cameras. flashes. everywhere. watching her. judging her. lines scrawled in the margins like “it’s my fault” and “i will never be enough” and “i never stopped seeing it.”

drawings of joel. not always his face. sometimes just his boots, the outline of his shoulders. him playing guitar in the backyard. once, a pair of hands—his—holding hers. the page next to it was blank, but smeared with something darker, wet-looking.

there’s nightmare stuff too. scratchy renderings of dark woods. of hands reaching. of her own face split down the middle. of you, once, too far away to touch.

“can’t forget what it felt like,” she wrote next to a sketch of her alone at a table, head in her hands, white powder ghosting the edge of the frame.

sometimes, she draws her heart. anatomically correct, messy and weirdly delicate—and cracked. stitched up with tiny letters. your name. again and again. “hold it together,” she scribbled next to one. “don’t let her see.”

you found one like that once. just a glimpse. and she snatched it out of your hands before you could ask anything. just shook her head and mumbled “it’s not for you.” like it would hurt you if you saw it too clearly. like she’s afraid of what it means.

she writes her lyrics in the sketchbook, too—tucked in the margins, between drawings, like they just spilled out of her without thinking. half-finished verses. little poems for you. stuff she’ll never sing out loud but still needed to write down.

“you look at me like im worth something.” “you showed me what real love is.” “don’t know how to be gentle, but i try for you.” they’re raw and messy and heartbreakingly sweet. and they live right next to sketches of your body—like loving you is this chaotic, overwhelming thing she has to get out of her system by every means possible.

she posts her sketches on instagram sometimes, but never the real ones. just a hand in motion. a mouth caught mid-laugh. a silhouette. something cryptic. mysterious. artsy. the comments always go insane: “who is this??” “this looks like album cover material omg” “is that y/n??”

but you already know.

her art is another language entirely—one made of ink stains and graphite dust and pages warped from being clutched too tight. it’s the truth, stripped down and shaking. it’s everything she can’t say out loud. and through every smudged line, every fucked-up detail, every sketch she hides from you—

she’s still telling you.

IMPORTANT: all of these drawings are from Pinterest—credits and deepest respect to the incredible artists behind them. their work captures so much raw emotion and intimacy, and truly helped bring the vision of ellie’s sketchbook to life. nothing but love and admiration for their talent! <33

[butchrgoth]

metalhead Erik Campbell x goth fem reader!

summary : Erik and reader are getting ready for a underground concert and Erik watches reader do her makeup and asks her to do corpse paint on him,,,

warnings : nothing! small kisses and touching,,,

(enjoy - ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ)

It was about 7 pm. slightly windy outside but pretty normal weather.. It was steamy in the small bathroom from the shower running warm water. a small penis drawn in the steam on the mirror. Erik. Erik just finished blow drying his hair, his eyes turning to gaze at his girlfriend who was powdering down her stark white base of foundation.

Erik slipped his black very much washed jeans on and put his hands on her waist, giving her a squeeze before leaning his chin on her shoulder, "You look like a dork." he says, "Glad I'm dating a fuckass ghost." You just glared and pushed him off of you. "Shut up.. its a trust the process kinda thing, you know something you don't know how to do." You barked back.

Erik just clutched his chest and gave an offended look, "Excuse me? my messy hair takes A LOT of time to get right... so fuck off."

You just gave him a look before picking up your eyeshadow brush and started to drag the black from your palette across your eyelid. Erik just stared like a kicked puppy being neglected.

You finished your makeup and looked at him, "You done pouting now...?" Erik sighed dramatically and crossed his arms, "I guess..."

This guy was a brat. You just wanted to smack him. But that's abuse... Don't abuse your Erik's .

You raise your eyebrow noticing how Erik was looking away trying to be nonchalant, batting his eyelashes. "Ookay.. you look like you want something. What." Erik grinned as you finally noticed, "Pretty please make me pretty? Not like you though. You're kinda hard to look at..." He said with a shit eating grin.

And that earned him a smack. Erik was now heartbroken. Well not really. He deserved it.

But soon enough you gave him a small kiss as you apologized. "I'm sorry. Please stop saying you'll call the police for "abuse" now.."

Erik sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine."

You grabbed a headband and pushed it through Eriks hair, please never go bald Erik... he's kinda scary...

Erik just watched as you lathered his face with white foundation, hitting his face with a beauty blender. "Violent...." You just rolled your eyes, "I can just not do this..?" Erik scoffed and shut up again.

You blended everything and grabbed your eyeliner to start the rough sketch outline... Pretty basic corpse paint design. She grabs her black face paint just to make things go by faster and so she doesn't have to literally dry her eyeliner out....

You hum to some fuckass song stuck in your head and give Erik a little kiss. "Happy?" you asked as you dug your brush into the black paint, the cold texture touching his skin, Tracing the sharp design filling it in.

Erik sticks his tongue out and licks the leftover lipgloss you transferred off his lips. "Very sweetheart." You just roll your eyes and finish taking a small brush and making sure the tips are sharp. you grab your black lipstick and trail it across his lips slightly, making pointy edges. Erik was slipping his bracelets on at the same time. multitasking king.

Erik took the headband off and shook his head, fixing his hair. He looked in the mirror. He can't lie. he fucking loved it.. You smiled proudly, "You look hot... Like it?" Erik nodded and pulled you into him. "So much. I look very sick and my girl looks very hot.." Erik kissed you deeply, his tongue asking for entrance. You pulled away, "Nuhuh. not so fast. We have somewhere to be dork." Erik sighs and dramatically pulled his black tanktop on, grabbing his leather jacket. "Whatever... neglect at its finest...."

You just rolled your eyes and grabbed your jacket, pulling it over your outfit. "Yup.. you sleep in a box outside... I know.."

Erik grabbed your hand, your rings clinking against the ones on his own fingers. "Love you." You smiled and kissed his cheek, leaving a small black print of lipstick.

"Love you too." You grinned.

"I still call abuse..."

"shut up." You snarked as the two of you left the apartment.

(A/N: guess who! me! I rlly hope this lives up. uhm. Request page is gonna be pinned to my profile. so if you want me to write anything pls do check that out! I hope you enjoyed....)

[tomahachi12]

ma’am you canNOT just mention you were scolded by Alex goddamn Brightman and then just not mention why. What did you do???

lol fair enough

while at the con, I decided very last minute to hop into the line to meet Alex Brightman. While waiting in line I pulled out my sketchbook and drew a very fast, very messy sketch of Adam and Fizzarolli for him.

After I got to meet him and said hello, I gave him the picture and apologized for it being so quick and messy because I literally drew it while standing in line.

He stopped, looked me dead in the eye and said, "did you just apologize? What the fuck are you apologizing for?"

He told me to never apologize for my art, no matter now messy it is, and he's right.

it was all in good fun, and he was very nice and fun to talk to!

He even signed an old peice I drew of RoboFizz a lifetime ago

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-one: hypothetically

word count: 2.5k

warning: fluff overload. like i'm throwin up.

twenty | twenty-one | twenty-two

Outside, the sky had long turned to shades of navy and indigo, city lights bleeding gold through the windows. Inside, her tiny apartment was dim except for the desk lamp and a string of warm fairy lights she’d added since the last time he was here. Lando claimed they looked like a fire hazard, but he simply scoffed at it instead of telling her she should take them down.

She was curled up on the floor, legs criss crossed, with her laptop propped on one knee and a textbook splayed open in front of her. Lando was behind her on the couch, half-lounging, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, holding a packet of ethics notes he’d been trying to read for the last twenty minutes. 

Key word: trying.

Her living room smelled faintly of cardamom and vanilla. Textbooks were spread across the coffee table, and one of her oversized throw blankets had somehow made its way into Lando’s lap. He scowled when she’d thrown it at him, but he didn’t seem to mind enough to want it off. The fabric was soft, and it smelled a little like her.

She was curled beside him on the floor, back propped against the couch, legs folded beneath her, pen tapping against the corner of her notebook. Her laptop was open to the assigned reading, but the screen had long since dimmed. A highlighter sat abandoned near the spine of a thick ethics textbook, and instead of annotating like she had been, she was now drawing mindless doodles in the margins of her notes.

Lando nudged the back of her hand with the eraser of a pencil. “Didn’t know you could get tired of reading,” he teased. “Isn’t that your whole personality? I thought you and books were, like, in love or somethin'.”

She looked up and shot him an annoyed glare. “We’re on a break. Clearly.”

He chuckled, watching her lazily sketch a cartoon scale with one side weighed down by the words student debt. “That’s tragic. You get tired of reading?” he teased further, nudging her knee with his leg.

“I get tired of you, Li,” she shot back with an overly sweet smile.

Lando smirked, faking a hurt expression with a raised brow. “That’s impossible.”

She huffed but didn’t argue, pressing her pen back to the page.

Her little doodles were careless at first—messy, nonsensical swirls—but then he saw something taking shape. An outline of a figure. A hooded one. Sharp edges. A face that looked just a little too familiar.

Lando’s lips twitched. “You drawing me?”

She immediately covered the page with her hand. “No.”

“That’s crazy,” he mused. “Because it definitely looks like me.”

She gave him a flat look. “I was drawing a grim reaper.”

“Right.” He smirked. “So… me.”

She groaned, her cheeks burning a light pink as she shoved him lightly. “Shut up. You’re supposed to be helping me study, not bullying me.”

Lando chuckled, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. “Alright, alright,” he said, tilting his head like he was thinking about it. “How about we test this virtue ethics thing with a hypothetical?”

She raised her head from where she had dropped it in defeat and eyed him suspiciously. “A hypothetical?”

“Yeah. Like, uh…” He tapped his fingers against the couch, gaze flickering to the ceiling. “Let’s say you’ve got a guy. A businessman.”

Her brow arched.

“He’s got a… company,” Lando continued. “A very successful one.”

“Right.”

“And he’s got a competitor who keeps screwing with his deals. Ruining his reputation and all tha’ – costs him millions.” Lando glanced at her. “So, naturally, he does what anyone would do and has the guy’s car stolen.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

She squinted. “Liam—”

“It’s a hypothetical.”

Her arms crossed. “Uh-huh.”

He fought the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So. Ethically speaking. If the businessman is already successful, does it make him less moral for going after a guy who wronged him? Or does he get to act in his own interest?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, tilting her head. “I don’t know. That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether or not he’s a good person.”

Hm. Lando hummed, letting the words sit there between them.

She took her pen, tapping it lightly against the page. “A moral businessman wouldn’t have to steal his competitor’s car.”

“Well, maybe the competitor totally deserved it.”

She gave him a look. “And maybe the businessman needs a new hobby.”

Lando snorted. “Yeah, alright. Fair.”

She smirked, victorious, going back to her notes.

Truthfully, he had no fucking idea what half these sentences in this book meant when he tried to read them himself. The letters shifted, danced. Merged. Split apart again like they had minds of their own. His eyes blurred after the second line. It had always been that way. No one ever bothered to catch it when he was younger — too many fights, too many missed classes. Reading became a war of attrition.

But she had a tendency to read out loud. She would explain things, talking with her hands when she got excited about a particular concept. He watched her, and soaked it all in. All he had to do was match her tone when she sounded confident about something, to use her tells to follow the thread.

And he was a hell of a reader when it came to people.

A moment of quiet settled before she spoke again.

“You’re actually not terrible at this,” she said softly, surprised. “I thought you’d be the type to roll your eyes at ethics.”

“Why’s that? ’Cause I wear black?”

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound soft and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

He watched her for a second too long. That laugh—it caught him off guard every time, like the sound of something bright breaking through the darkened clouds on a rainy day in Monte Carlo.

“No,” she said through a grin, shaking her head. “Okay, maybe a little. But mostly because you always act like you don’t care about anything. Even you can’t be that heartless.”

His brow quirked, and his voice dropped lower. Dark hazel eyes met hers, pupils dilated just enough to make the color seem almost lost in the dim lighting.

“Oh yeah?” Lando murmured, his voice suddenly much huskier and his face suddenly much closer. 

Y/N had to swallow.

“And would you rather I care about—” he paused for effect, then smirked, “What was it you said? Reviving the lost art of hand-painted postcards? Or was it ethical beekeeping? I forget.”

In an instant, the throw pillow closest to her transformed into a projectile weapon, hitting him square in the face before he could react. By the time he caught it, he was already laughing—loud, unrestrained,  and triumphant.

“Shut up, Liam! We are not having that conversation again!”

He doubled over, laughter tumbling out of him, rich and easy.

Yeah. Maybe he’d let her hit him with a hundred more pillows if it meant hearing that sound again and again.

“I thought we were supposed to be focusing?” he asked, looking far too smug for his own good.

Couldn’t he see the method to her madness? The doodling was part of the focusing. Duh. She made a face. “I am. I’m just… reading adjacent?”

“Right. Doodling in the margins of Kant is very academic.”

She stuck her tongue out, but didn’t argue.

He smiled, eyes flicking toward the textbook like he might be able to absorb the content through sheer osmosis. The truth was, he’d stopped even trying to read the fine print on those pages twenty minutes ago. The words swam, overlapped, no matter how hard he tried. 

But he knew how to pay attention, knew how to read her. Lando paid attention to every minute detail – her posture when she was sure of something, the way her voice got a little faster when she was more nervous, the exact moment her pen paused when something confused her. 

He’d made an empire on knowing people, gauging risk and emotion without needing anything spelled out. Of course, she was no different. If anything, she was a familiar subject.

Y/N flipped back a page, frowning at one of her underlines. “Okay, so wait. This whole part about moral relativism and applied principles—what even is this?”

Lando leaned forward like he was about to study the page, but really he just watched the way her fingers rested against her notebook. “What do you think it means?”

“Liam, do not go all Socratic method on me. I’m the one studying for the exam.”

“I’m the one helping you get there, yeah?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re guessing.”

“Not guessing,” he said, stretching his legs out. “Strategizing.”

She let out a short laugh. “God, that is so you.”

He grinned. Truth was, he couldn’t explain a single ethical theory if she asked him directly. But he could pose a hypothetical – give her something of his world if it could be of any use to her.

“Hm. Now,” he said, voice a touch more serious now, “what if you had a friend. Let’s call him… Mando.”

She raised a brow. “...Mando?”

He held up a finger, looking extra serious. “Shut up. This is my hypothetical, remember?”

“Okay, okay. Go on.”

Lando sat back, satisfied. “So Mando, yeah? He finds out that this rich bloke –massive sleazeball, by the way– has been laundering money through charity events. He’s, like, using sick kids in the hospital as a front. Gets away with it too, every time! The fuckin’ police would stick ‘m with any charges, f’course. Idiots get paid to look the other way.”

She frowned. “That’s awful.”

“Exactly! Now Mando thinks so too. So now–”

“Wait, how come the other guy doesn’t get a name–” 

“No questioning the hypothetical,” he cuts her, an exaggeratedly stern expression on his features as he shushes her.

“Right, of course. How could I forget,” she rolled her eyes, but the smile as she listened to him was nothing but fond.

“So one night, this Mando, he does something about it. Maybe he messes with the guy’s property, sends him a little message, yeah? The guy’s fine, no one dies or anythin’, but at least the fucker loses enough money to ruin him. The whole operation has to fall apart.”

She’s quiet for a second, contemplating. “You’re asking me if that’s ethical?”

“Yeah. Is Mando the bad guy?”

She absentmindedly curled the corner of a stray sticky note for a moment, thoughtful. “Well… according to the law, yeah. Definitely.”

Not that he gave a shit about the law, but whatever.

“And ethically?”

She exhaled through her nose, pressing her lips together before answering. “Hmm. I don’t know,” she admitted, and he could tell she wasn’t just saying it to say it—she was turning it over in her mind, pulling it apart like a puzzle. “Like, technically, it’s not morally sound to take justice into your own hands. Obviously. But sometimes… sometimes the system doesn’t work, and someone has to do something. If no one else is gonna help you, then you gotta help yourself, right? ”

As they both fell silent for a moment, he watched the notes of chestnut in her eyes, the depth of them. Something in the way she said it made his fingers flex slightly against his knee, as if wanting to reach for her or something equally stupid. In her eyes… there was conviction there. A quiet, unshaken belief beneath her uncertainty.

She’d thought about this before.

He wondered what had made her think that way. Had she ever been let down like that? Had she ever been let down, looked for a way out only to realize that no one was coming to fix it?

His eyes traced over her features before he could think better of it—the soft furrow of her brow, the depth of her eyes, the way they reflected flickers of light from the lamp beside them.

If it were him, he’d never let her down.

What kind of fool would let down someone as good as her?

The thought unsettled him more than it should.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the lamp, the wind against the windowpane—everything else faded into the background, nothing more than a distant whisper making space for the silence.

Even the periphery of the room seemed to blur, momentarily irrelevant. There was only the warmth, here and now. Only earnest eyes and a pure heart that was worth more than any gold in the world.

For a brief moment, his gaze flickered to her lips. It wasn’t intentional, by any means. It wasn’t even conscious. He was simply noticing them, nothing more. Noticing the faint shine of chapstick—some kind of strawberry flavor, perhaps. Noticing the way they still looked slightly raw from where she’d been nervously nibbling at them earlier.

He swallowed.

Then, before the thought could go anywhere, he cleared his throat and glanced back at the book in his lap, forcing his focus elsewhere.

Right. Ethics. Moral relativism, or whatever the fuck.

“Right, uh, erm– So you’d defend Mando then?”

She scanned his face like she was trying to gauge whether she was on the right track. “I… think so? You said no one got hurt or anything, so only if he didn’t set fire to anything, I s’pose.”

“No fire. No blowtorches involved whatsoever,” he lies easily.

“Then yeah. Maybe.”

He lets the corner of his mouth curve into a teasing smile. This part of the dance was easy, familiar “I’ll be sure to let him know then.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’d better not be Mando.”

“I’m not,” he replies indignantly. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

But her smile’s back, and so he was content to sit here for as long as he can until the horrors of the city’s criminal underbelly come knocking.

They fall into a lull where she keeps sketching, her eyes flitting rapidly across the lines on the pages. Lando keeps pretending he’s not watching her, mesmerized by the picture in front of him.

She always made it look so easy. It was unfair, really.

“I don’t wanna read anymore. Think m’one paragraph away from committing a few unethical acts m’self,” he blurted out suddenly, voice low.

Y/N looks up. “Please don’t. There is absolutely no need for such drastic measures.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t for me. Not good with… words. Not in that way.”

She doesn’t ask for more, doesn't press. Instead, she just closes her textbook a little, tucking her finger in place of a bookmark, then nudges her notebook toward him. “Then you do the hypotheticals,” she says. “And I’ll do the reading.”

Lando stares at her. It’s such a small thing, a nothing sentence. But the words, the effortless consideration for him nestles somewhere in his chest like an anchor dropped into water.

He picks up her pen and leans back on the couch, smirking.

“Alright,” he says. “Let me tell you about a guy who robbed a bank once.”

“Please let it not be Mando again,” she groaned.

“No promises.”

a/n: YOUR HONOR I LOBE THEM