#trying to figure out how to draw him still;;

[bonus-links]

Have you done commentary on your favorite page yet?

okay this is kind of hard to answer bc there's lots of updates I'm rlly proud of but i think RUINS pt. 3 is my personal favorite so i'm gonna do that one :D

genuinely I think this is the best set of pages I have ever made and I will probably never top them. literally how did I manage this. how have I never cooked like this since. I feel like I have lost this sauce somehow lolol

really I think it's just that I haven't drawn that much action since this. as a writer I rlly gravitate towards more character-driven, dialogue heavy scenes. which also happen to be rlly hard to make into visually interesting comics 😂 sometimes I think it's a flaw of mine but u know what. the point of making this comic is to do whatever I want

anyway. I know i'm just sort of screenshotting this whole page but I really like this sequence. the way that the momentum carries from the lizalfos choking loft into him getting slammed into the ground just really works. I also feel like this color palette is so cohesive. i love this like. acidic yellow and green combo. i should use it more often

this poor lizalfos cowering in the face of beetle's might. side note I kind of miss beetle's big pincers but I don't miss drawing them. I don't rlly regret the beetle redesign HAHA

I also LOVE this set of panels. Lightning powers should always come with glowing eyes, I think. it's non-negotiable.

I didn't even plan this panel in the sketch. It was originally supposed to be a full page, and I literally just wrote "lol" and left it for myself to figure out later. i knew what I wanted it to look like in my head, but it took FOREVER to figure out. It's not perfectly drawn but I still like how it turned out!

i remember this entire fight sequence took SO MUCH planning. I literally spent forever zooming around the spring of courage in botw trying to understand all the different angles I would need. I took so many screenshots.

anyway I knew I wanted Slate's first words to be "well, damn' since the beginning HAHA. Bro was just hanging out in Faron minding his own business before this. He was gonna step in eventually but it seemed like loft had it under control 😂 also, Loft's powers include chain lighting!

anyway that's all I got really, not too much to say abt this one but I'm still really proud of how it turned out

[tkwrites]

Hurt & Healing - Quinn Hughes x OFC

(Really, this whole gif set fits the mood for this fic)

Title: Hurt & Healing - Quinn Hughes x ofc

Author: Tory / @tkwrites 

Relationship: Quinn Hughes x Sarah Roberts

Summary: When Quinn loses his temper and snaps at Sarah after a hard loss, she draws a previously discussed boundary. Upon realizing something definitely has to change, Quinn seeks out comfort and advice from his mom. The next morning, he and Sarah talk about why she’s so upset and what they both can do to make the situation better. 

Warnings: Highly emotional angst, swearing, slightly suggestive at the end. Quinn going to his parents for advice/help, intense discussions. Though the title makes it feel this way, it’s not really a hurt/comfort fic. It’s more of a hurt/lets talk it out and figure out how we can both be better fic. 

Word Count: 6,000

Comments: I live! This piece has been eating at me for almost six months, and I’m so happy to share it with you all. I had it mostly done for quite a while but kept getting pulled into working on other things. Then, life happened. 

I know it’s taken me so long to post a new snapshot, but I’m so excited for you to read it. 

If you enjoyed this, please let me know by commenting, reblogging, or sending in an ask. Your encouragement and comments truly inspire me to keep writing. 

I love Quinn and Sarah, and I’m constantly blown away that so many of you love them, too. More snapshots here.

Asks related to this piece can be found under the Quinn & Sarah Snapshots hashtag (there are too many, and they're too long to include in this post). 

Hurt & Healing

A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot

“I can’t Sarah, okay?” Quinn snapped.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were wrong. It wasn’t even this particular order of them. Strung together in this same way but spoken in a gentler tone, no one would have blinked an eye. 

As it was, with his voice so sharp, clipped and loud, she took a step back, expressions of disappointment, hurt and even a brief flash of fear flitted over her face as a sheen of tears pooled in her eyes, reflecting the city lights shining through the windows.

Fuck, they’d talked about this. Why couldn't he get his shit together? 

Instantly, regret gnawed at him, and the gusto dropped from his voice, “Sarah, I’m sorry.” 

Pursing her lips, she shook her head and turned away. 

He watched her ascend the metal and glass stairs, her socked feet hardly making any noise, feeling totally helpless. 

When she disappeared from sight, he covered his face with his hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” On top of a terrible game, now he’d lost it and shot himself in the foot at home. Again. 

Well, there was only one thing for it. 

Feeling like his feet were encased in cement, he dragged himself up the stairs. He wasn’t surprised to see the bedroom door closed. What he didn’t expect was to find it locked when he tried the handle.

“Sarah?” 

Even though he could hear her moving on the other side, she didn’t respond. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, resting his forehead against the cool wood. “Please can I come in?” 

“No.” Despite trying to sound convincing, Sarah still heard her voice wobble. 

 Resigned, Quinn tried to swallow the sudden lump in his throat as he reset his mental expectations to sleeping in the guest room.

She’d told him this would be the consequence. After he’d snapped at her the third time, she’d sat him down to talk. She told him she understood why he was upset, but she didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his anger. 

He’d agreed right away and apologized profusely. He promised her it wouldn’t happen again. She told him she wanted to believe him and then told him what the consequences would be if this particular set of circumstances repeated themselves. Mainly that Sarah would likely pull away from him for a while. 

He just hadn’t believed she would have to go through with it. He’d been certain it wouldn’t happen again. He loved Sarah and never wanted to see her hurt. She didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his frustration. Especially when what he was really mad at were the circumstances, and not anyone in particular, especially not her.

“Could you at least hand me some pajamas?” 

“There are clean clothes in the laundry.” It was a rude, harsh thing to say, but she didn’t feel much like being nice at the moment. It’s not like he’d tried to be nice to her. Not really. He hadn’t even made it five minutes.

She’d watched the game and saw how dejected he was at the end. How he’d sat at the end of the bench much longer than anyone else, staring at the sheet of ice as if it somehow might tell him what had gone wrong. She’d made her way home and changed, readying herself to comfort him after his grueling media duties — forced to relive the loss and the reality of an unhealthy roster over and over and over again. She planned to meet him with a bottle of gatorade, open arms, and whatever comfort show he wanted to watch as she held him.  

Instead he’d snapped at her. And it had felt like a punch to the gut. She’d actually thought he’d been listening, that he’d been taking steps to change.

The reality of his failure twisted like a knife. 

Oh, he’d really fucked this one. 

“Sarah,” he tried one last time, voice suddenly thick with unshed tears. His hands floated up to press into the door as if she might be on the other side, mimicking his motions, longing to touch him as much as he was longing to touch her. “I'm really sorry. I know you were counting on me, and I let you down.”

She sighed, feeling like they were going around in circles. These were nearly the same words he’d used the week before. “Quinn, we can’t keep doing this.” 

“I know.” Her words sent panic spiking in his chest. Please, no. She couldn’t be done. He didn’t know what he’d do if she broke up with him. Life was hard enough right now. He couldn’t lose her on top of everything else. “I can do so much better. I promise I'll be better. Please let me in.” 

Please, please, please. 

Rooted to her spot several steps back from the door, Sarah put a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound of her crying. He sounded so hurt, so disappointed in himself. She never wanted him to be in pain, but that didn’t negate the reality that she needed to stand her ground. They’d talked about this, and still, as soon as the next bad game happened – which, as usual, wasn’t his fault – he was bringing it home with him. Their talks obviously weren’t working. So, like a disobedient child, he needed to be put in time out to think about what he’d done. Even if it broke her heart, too.  

Jenny had warned her how hard keeping a boundary would be at first. “In the long run, though,” she’d said at their last session, “it’s the best way to make sure he understands he can’t hurt you like this again.” 

Her silence had anxiety taking hold of his mind, and his voice broke when he said her name. “Sarah?”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning, Q.” 

Hands slipping from the door, Quinn stood there, leaning on it for a minute longer until he heard Sarah’s soft footsteps retreat toward the bed. Looking back, he supposed he should have been relieved she was already thinking about the morning, but in the moment, it felt like a punch to the gut. The last thing he wanted right now was to spend the night away from her.

He wanted to punch a wall, he was so stupid. He wanted to run through reps of any exercise until the pain of this went away. He wanted anything to distract himself, but he’d been alive long enough to know that would only prolong the situation. And the last thing he wanted was to make this pain persist any longer. It was time for him to man up about it. 

Flopping onto the (not so) lucky couch, he pulled out his phone and called the only person he thought could help. 

It was too late to be calling, nearly two in the morning where they were, but she answered anyway, just like he’d hoped she would.

“Hello?” her words were slightly slurred with sleep. 

“Hey mom,” he said, emotion flooding his voice at the sound of hers.

“Quinn? what’s wrong?” Though her mind was fuzzy, Ellen immediately sat up, dusting away the last cobwebs of sleep. The panic of being called in the night by a distressed child rung her heart. Even after 25 years, it never got any easier.

“I think I fucked it.” 

“What are you talking about?” she asked as she reached over to flip on the bedside lamp. He’d had a rough game, but those weren’t usually grounds for middle of the night phone calls. Especially not to her.

Quinn tipped his head back and blinked, trying not to cry. Fuck it. His mom had seen him cry before. Tears slipped into the hair at his temples. “I think I fucked it,” he repeated, before adding the worst, most painful, gut wrenching part, “with Sarah.” 

“What’s going on, sweetheart?” she asked, to mask the gasp that crawled up her throat. It wasn’t that she thought Quinn and Sarah would never fight. She knew all too well what it took to make a relationship work, but she thought this call would be a lot less dramatic when it came. 

“We had a fight.” 

Jim rolled over and blinked a few times. “It’s Quinn. He and Sarah had a fight,” she whispered before speaking into the phone again, “What kind of a fight?” 

Jim blinked himself awake, remembering those first scary arguments with Ellen, when he thought he was going to lose her, and worried he might somehow lose himself, too. 

“We –” No, that wasn't right, This was his fault. “I snapped at her,” he confessed. 

“Okay,” her voice was hesitant and confused in his ear.

He'd have to confess all of it. She couldn’t help solve the problem if she didn’t know everything. “It's happened before.”

“The snapping?”

Jim pursed his lips. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. He gestured to the phone.

Ellen nodded, reluctantly putting it on speaker so he could hear and offer advice, too. As much as she wanted to be the hero, she knew Jim would have some good insight into the situation. 

“Yeah. We talked about it last week. I snapped after that San Jose loss, and she told me she didn't deserve that.”

At least they both could agree on that. 

“She told me it couldn't happen anymore. That I…” his voice broke, “that I couldn't take my frustration out on her.”

“I think that's very fair and warranted,” Ellen said, trying to gauge where they were in this story. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But tonight,” his throat constricted with the memory, and he had to clear it. “I snapped again tonight. I was just so frustrated from the loss, and…” he trailed off, knowing it was no excuse. 

“Hmm.”

“And she locked me out.”

“Of the house?” 

“No. Out of our room.”

“I'm guessing it happened before San Jose, too?” she ventured. Sarah was too level headed for this to be the reaction to it only happening once before. 

“Yeah.” It came out a resigned sigh. She knew him too well. 

“Quinn,” she admonished, not quite able to hide the disappointment in her voice. 

“I know.” 

“Quinn?” Jim broke in, his voice far more gentle than he was used to. 

“Hey dad.”  It felt somehow worse that his dad was hearing this. 

“You need to find some way to let that frustration out before you go home. I used to scream on my drive sometimes. I know Bobby used to stop at the gym and run a mile on bad game nights.”

“Your dad snapped at me sometimes,” Ellen said, looking at Jim. He gave her a chagrined, guilty smile. “And I know hockey. I've played. I know that frustration when things don’t go your way, or the team doesn’t play their best first hand. It hurt me, but I knew the reason why and I could talk to him about it. I can't imagine what it's like for Sarah without that background. I know she golfs, but it’s not quite the same when you’re not on a team.”

The more they talked the guiltier and more hopeless he felt. “What do I do?”

“Well, you've got to apologize.”

“I did that.”

“No, I mean really apologize,” Ellen clarified. “An apology is acknowledging exactly what you did wrong and not doing it again.”

“Tell her what you're going to try to make sure you don't bring it home,” Jim suggested

“And don't do any big gestures,” Ellen said. “I know it can feel like a romantic thing, but I don't think Sarah likes things like that.”

He knew she didn't. She wanted real, measurable change and a real, honest conversation. It's a product of the dead parents. Life's too short to not have the conversation. 

“What if she…” he broke off, too scared to say it out loud. 

“Everything I know about Sarah tells me she’s not a quitter,” Ellen said, reading right through his subtext. “Just explain what you're going to do and then do it.” 

“Give her some action items,” Jim added on. “And tell her you’re sorry.”

“Ask her why it's so upsetting to her,” Ellen suggested. 

“I know why.”

“Quinn,” she admonished. 

He shut up. 

“You need to ask her how it made her feel. As much as it may feel like you do, you don’t know everything about her. You haven’t even been dating a whole year, bud.”

“It’s never a good idea to assume you know everything about her,” Jim said. “Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way.” 

He and Ellen shared a nostalgic smile, and he knew they were both remembering the first few years of their relationship where he’d really learned the meaning of the phrase, ‘when you assume, it makes an ass out of you and me.’

 “Sarah doesn’t strike me as the kind of girl that holds a grudge.”

“No,” Quinn agreed. 

“You haven't been calling me on your drives home,” Jim said. He’d been hesitant to bring it up before when he wondered why Quinn had stopped. It seemed so out of character for him.  

“Yeah.” He thought talking with Sarah was enough. Maybe he needed both. 

“I'm happy to talk it out,” he said. “If you need to get some things off your chest.” 

“Thanks dad. I think I do.” 

“I’m happy to talk through anything, too,” Ellen added. She knew Quinn didn’t always want to talk shop with her, but they talked about other things. “Relationships are hard, Q. You have to learn and grow together. If you don’t, it’ll never last.” 

These were things Quinn knew in the logical part of his brain, but experiencing it first hand was something totally different. 

“I know Sarah doesn’t tolerate bullshit,” his mom said, her voice soft as though she was trying to be gentle with the harsh statement, “and I know that’s one of the things you love about her.” 

Was he really that transparent? 

“But that means she’s not willing to tolerate your bullshit, either.” 

It was this - this concise razor of a summary that cut him deepest. He did love that Sarah didn’t tolerate subpar things in her life. She was exceptional, and if someone or something wasn’t meeting the standard she set, she wouldn’t hesitate to turn away from them. He just never thought he’d fall into that category. 

“So you’re going to have to grow. Learn how to better communicate your needs. Including if you need some time to yourself to process.”

“Okay.” 

A pocket of quiet passed over the phone line, and he heard his mom yawn. A fountain of gratitude gushed in his chest for her and for his dad. He did feel better after confessing and hearing that his parents dealt with these same things and still had a happy life together.

“Thanks for answering, mom,” he said, emotion shaking his voice again.

“Oh, Quinn,” she said, picking up the phone and taking it off speaker. It was a selfish move on her part. She knew that. But it was so rare for her boys to call her, to reach out to her first, that she wanted to savor this one as her own.“I'll help whenever I can. I love you.” It wasn't often that her boys needed her now. She would take the chance whenever it was given. 

“I love you, too, mom.” Worry and gratitude were still thick in his chest, but it felt a little easier to bear, a little more like something he could handle.  

“Are you going to be okay?”

He sighed a deep breath through his nose, “I think so. I'll talk to Sar in the morning.” At least he had a game plan. Or the start of one.

“I’m glad you called, bud.”

“Thanks mom. I'm glad you answered.” 

“Anytime. Love you, Quinn.”

“Love you too, mom. Thanks.”

“Of course. Good night, bud.”

“Night, mom.”

Keeping the phone pressed to her ear, Ellen waited until the line went dead before lowering it back into her lap. Only then did she glance at Jim. 

Just as she expected, his arms were crossed over his chest, a slight pout to his lips.

“They hardly ever call me anymore,” she reminded, reaching over to soothe the pad of her thumb over the furrow in his brow. 

His shoulders slumped almost immediately. “I know,” he said, resigned as his arms unwound. He knew feeling like she took the conversation away when Quinn had called her in the first place was selfish. He was just so used to being the one Quinn called to solve problems. When he allowed himself to think about it objectively, he knew Ellen was the better of the two of them to give advice on this particular matter. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

A chuckle fell from her lips. “That sounded like it hurt. Are you okay?” 

Jim laughed good naturedly, “Yeah. Come on, let’s go back to sleep.” 

Ellen flipped off the lamp and settled back into bed. 

“You’re a good mom,” he said, one of his big hands pressing steadily into her back. 

She fell back to sleep, hoping everything would be okay. 

The next morning, Sarah cut her routine short, only brushing her teeth instead of doing her usual shower and skincare. She didn’t want to put off talking to Quinn any longer than she had to.  

Walking through the upstairs, she wondered where he was. He hadn’t been in the guest bedroom - in fact, it didn’t look like he'd gone in that room at all other than to take a pillow from the bed. He wasn’t on the couch, either. Though the hasty way her favorite blanket was strewn over the back of it suggested that’s where he’d spent the night. 

He didn’t have practice until 10. And it was only eight-thirty. She’d been a little harsh the night before, but she didn’t think he’d been upset enough to leave. He hadn't yelled or stormed out in a huff. Plus, Quinn wasn't one to run away from his problems. He usually preferred to face them head on, in the most efficient way possible.

Thoughts were still racing through her mind when her eyes caught on his face. He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, holding two mugs of coffee, a hopeful, unsure quirk to his lips. 

Heart hammering in his chest, Quinn watched Sarah descend the stairs. God, even right after waking up, she was still beautiful. Her hair was piled in a messy bun atop her head, and she was wearing one of his hoodies. The sight of her in his clothes turned his heart into a delicate, flighty bird, fluttering inside his chest. 

Most of his night was spent restlessly tossing and turning on the couch. After he'd dug some clothes out of the laundry and changed, he'd gone into the guest room. It felt too unfriendly with its new sheets and bedding that Sarah had never slept in. There was no way he could sleep in there. Instead, he'd filched one of the pillows and gone back to the lucky couch. That, at least housed good memories, and he'd napped on it more than once. It was practically the size of a bed anyway.

Anytime he'd managed to fall asleep, anxiety over what was going to happen in the morning jolted him awake. It was only after he retrieved her favorite blanket from the gaming room that he managed to fall asleep. Its familiar weight and the lingering ghost of her perfume surrounded him in a comforting cocoon.

“Hey, can we talk?” he asked, willing his voice to be calm and smooth. The words still felt too rushed, too harsh in his mouth. He knew what he had to do, but that didn't make it any easier. The potential for this conversation to end badly swirled in his mind. 

“Okay,” she said hesitantly as she stepped off the bottom stair. Quinn was watching her, his expression unreadable. One second he seemed guarded, the next, full of hope. None of them stuck around long enough for her to fully decipher how he was feeling.

Following him to the living room, she took the seat across from him on the leather sofa rather than her customary one in the club chair next to his. The gesture told him more about how she was feeling than anything else. 

When she looked down at the mug he slid across the coffee table to her, she kept her expression guarded. A cup of coffee was a sweet gesture, but surely, he didn’t think this would solve their issues. 

“Let me know if I put too much creamer in there,” he said, almost wincing at how nervous he sounded. He hadn’t felt this nervous around Sarah in months. Actually, he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this nervous around Sarah. “I tried to get the right color, but I’m not sure I did.” 

The smile that ghosted over her lips made his sappy, hopeful heart slam itself into his ribs. 

She took a sip and couldn’t stop the grimace that took over her mouth. 

“Too much?” he asked, regret stabbing his stomach. He couldn’t even get her morning coffee right. 

He’d woken up long before she did, and upon realizing he was staring longingly at their bedroom door as if it might unlock by the sheer force of his will, he went down to the kitchen. Thirty minutes passed before he heard her moving around. When he heard the water in the bathroom shut off, he knew she was finished washing her face and would be down soon. It was then that he’d brewed them each a cup. Breakfast seemed like it might be too big of a gesture, but her morning cup of coffee felt right.

Seeing the despairing look on his face, she almost didn’t say anything. But there was no way she could force herself into drinking this. “Not quite enough,” she admitted finally. “It’s a little bitter.” 

“Oh,” Relief swept through him. At least he didn’t have to brew her another cup. “I’ll get the creamer.” 

He jumped to his feet as if his chair had shocked him, and Sarah admired his muscular calves as he jogged to the kitchen. He’d dug some Canucks shorts out of the clean laundry Sandra had returned the day before. 

Handing it to her, he sat down again and watched her pour another dollop into her mug. 

She took a sip, and the corners of her mouth tipped up in satisfaction.

“So, we can talk?” he asked, leaning to catch her eye. 

“Of course.” She was never going to tell him they couldn’t talk. Though now, she worried her reaction last night may have been too strong. Maybe she’d been too harsh on him. 

“I —” Quinn paused, not quite sure where to start. He supposed he should start by taking his moms advice. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”

Snapping out of her own thoughts, Sarah’s eyes darted from her mug of coffee up to his face. He wore an anguished expression she usually only saw when he misfired a pass or didn’t get a goal he thought he should have. 

“I know we talked about me not snapping at you - about not taking my frustration out on you, and I did it anyway, and I’m really sorry.” 

Part of her wanted to tell him it was okay just to get that pained look off of his face. But it wasn’t okay. 

“Thank you,” she said instead. 

“I’m sorry I let you down.” 

A weight settled in her chest. What could she say to that? This was always the worst part about having conversations like this. She didn’t want him to be upset, but she also knew she deserved to get her needs met. It was a strange balance to strike, and she felt like she was always missing the mark. 

“Quinn,” she said, her voice gentle. It was soothing to his ears, like maybe he hadn’t completely fucked himself over. “I —” 

He was looking at her with all this hope in his eyes, and as much as she wanted to nurture it, she knew in the long run, coddling wouldn’t help. If this relationship was going to work, things needed to change.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to find the right balance between firm and loving. She thought about how her mom used to correct her. Even though it had happened often when she was a teen, Sarah had never not felt loved by her. 

In the end, she decided truth was the best course of action. “You did let me down.” 

The hope crashed from his eyes, and she bit back her instinct to take it back. She hated having to make him feel this way. 

He’d known it was the truth, but hearing it from her mouth hurt more. It hit hard, knocking the wind out of him. “I’m sorry.” The words came out flighty, breathy things. He cleared his throat and tried again, “I’m really sorry, Sarah.”

“I know you’re sorry, but you really hurt me, Quinn, and I’m not really sure you understand why.” 

He gulped and ran a nervous hand through his hair, pushing the curls back. “Can you tell me?”

In past relationships, when her exes asked for her to be honest, it often ended up being thrown back in her face. Her expectations were too high or unrealistic, or “this is just the way I am, Sarah.” As soon as these conversations happened in the past, she knew it was time to move on. Fear of hearing this response again bubbled in her stomach. She really didn’t want to have to move on from Quinn. 

“Please. I need to know so I can get better.”

That was new. 

Reminding herself that Quinn had proved again and again that he was nothing like her exes, she went ahead, figuring she may as well lay it all out. He’d proved her wrong so many times, she hoped he was about to do it again. “I was ready to listen and cuddle and hold you,” Sarah said, “and instead, you threw it back in my face like you didn’t even care.”

Quinn opened his mouth to argue that he didn’t throw anything in her face, then remembered his moms admonishment. You don’t know everything about her as much as it may feel like you do. “What do you mean?” 

Sarah just looked at him. 

“I don’t know what you mean by I threw it back in your face,” he admitted. 

“I mean that I was trying to comfort you, and you just exploded,” she said. Her blue eyes shimmered with tears. “I understand you might need something different, but I can’t know what you don’t tell me. And getting mad when I do it wrong doesn’t help anything.”

His heart cracked in half. Instinctually, he abandoned his seat, and the coffee that had long gone lukewarm in front of it, to sit next to her on the sofa. He was insanely grateful when she didn’t lean back or move away. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sarah.”

“Then…” she was so confused, “why were you mad?” 

His mom was right. She just didn’t understand. 

“I was mad about the game.” 

“Right, but then you got mad at me.” 

“I –” he cut himself off to gather his thoughts. God, how did he explain this? “I was so frustrated about the game, and then I came home and I thought… I thought you wanted me to do more, and I just - I lost my temper, and snapped, and I’m sorry.”

“You thought I wanted you to do more by asking you to cuddle?”

“I know it sounds stupid.” 

“No,” she cut that thought off. Him brushing off his feelings to make her more comfortable wouldn’t get them anywhere. “Tell me why you thought I wanted you to do more.” 

He closed his eyes. He never wanted to tell Sarah she was wrong. But she was also asking. 

“I came in and you started giving orders,” he explained, “you just started going into ‘go get changed, and get us a blanket and pick out something to watch,’ and I just couldn’t.” Now that he was saying it out loud, he realized how much her requests had affected him. 

“Oh,” her face fell. “Quinn, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you needed to do those things right then or that you needed to make all those decisions. I just wanted to let you know I was here for you.” 

“No, you did, it just…wasn’t what I needed.” 

“Quinn, I’m sorry.” Her eyes met his, and he could see guilty tears shining in them.

“I’m sorry,” he said. This was supposed to be him apologizing. “I shouldn’t have brought my frustration home. I was talking with my parents last night and –”

“Is that why your mom texted me this morning asking how I was?” 

“I don’t – I mean, I guess so.” 

She shook her head, “I’m sorry, I interrupted.” 

“It’s okay,” he couldn’t remember what he’d been saying. 

“You were talking with your parents,” she prompted. 

“Right. I was talking with them last night, and I realized I haven’t been calling my dad after games.”

“Okay.” 

“I used to call him after every game, especially the bad ones, to talk through stuff.”

“Why did you stop?” 

“I had you,” he said. “We would talk, and you would hold me, and I'd feel better.” Sarah waited for him to continue, so he did, “but I think I might need both.” 

The way he said it made it sound like he shouldn't. 

“Quinn”, she said as gently as she could, reaching forward to cup his face. He leaned into her touch. “Of course you need both.” 

His gaze shot to hers, surprised.

“I’d never expect to fulfill all of your needs. ‘It takes a village’ isn't just something people say about raising kids. It's for everyone. You need a whole village of people around you. We’re not meant to be islands.”

Her thumb stroked over his cheek, and something in his chest knitted back together. 

“I don't understand hockey the way your parents or your brothers do. Of course you should talk to them about it.”

He sighed, nodding. “I realized after we hung up last night that talking with dad really helped me sort through those feelings, and when I stopped, it…” he paused, trying to find the right words, “it’s like they just built up.” 

Sarah let out an understanding sigh, “Jenny tells me all the time that when we don’t address our emotions, they come out sideways.” 

“I’m sorry my sideways meant all over you.” 

A ghost of a smile crossed her mouth, “I’m just glad you figured out what was going on.” 

“Me too,” he said, relieved. 

An almost comfortable pause settled into their conversation. Her hand was still on his face, and though her fingers were cold, he never wanted her to pull away. 

“So, now that you know what’s going on, what are we going to do about it?” she asked. 

“We?” he repeated. The use of the word in that statement wasn’t lost on him. It amazed him she was still willing to work with him on their relationship, even when he’d fucked up so bad. 

Something in her face softened, “there are two of us in this, Quinn. If it’s going to work, we have to work together.”

“Well, I’m going to talk to my dad after games,” he said. “That might mean I get home a little later.” 

“Okay,” she agreed, “that’s not a big deal.” 

Having his needs accepted and supported so readily made Quinn’s heart skip in his chest. A feeling of calm spread all the way to his fingers, which he laced with hers. 

“Can I ask you to do something for me?” 

Quinn’s eyes flicked from their joined hands up to her face, “anything.” He meant it. Sleeping on the couch had been torture when he knew he was there because he’d hurt her. He never wanted to be in that position again. 

Even more than from his guilt, though, he wanted to be better because she was responding in a way he’d never experienced before. With June, an argument like this would have ended with her storming out of the house, yelling that it was over, only for her to come back a few days later, wanting to try again. Sarah’s loving, steady response made him want to change, made him want to be better. 

“If you want something different than what I’m suggesting, you need to tell me. I’m not a mind reader.” 

Cringing at himself internally, he nodded. “I can try.” 

It was better than nothing, but it wasn’t the response Sarah had been hoping for. 

Her feelings must have shown on her face because he jumped to explain, voice squeaking as his words tumbled over each other, “it’s just that sometimes after games —” he cut himself off. He shouldn’t be asking her for things. This was supposed to be his apology, his commitment to change.

“After games?” she encouraged. 

Well, he was in this deep, he might as well just say it. “Sometimes after a rough game, I’m just…tired,” he admitted. She looked confused, so he continued, “when I lived by myself, I usually just got in bed and read whatever book I was in because it meant I didn’t have to make any decisions.” 

“I wish you’d told me this before,” she said, raising her head and looking into his eyes. It struck her how green they were. Usually, they looked mostly hazel. Today, they reminded her of the leaves on her grandmas beechwood tree. 

“I’m sorry,” he rushed, pulling himself a little closer with their clasped hands. 

She shook her head a little, not so much to dismiss the apology as to end the topic. “So should I wait for you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“After a bad game, do you want me to wait for you to make that call, or should I just keep doing  what I was doing when you get home and you can tell me if you’d rather do something different?” 

“I like the second,” he said. 

“Okay,” she nodded, feeling more settled. “You talk to your dad or whoever about the game, and when you're ready to just relax, I'll be here.” 

“What if I need to burn off some steam?” He meant for it to be a joke, but it came out serious instead. 

Her lips pursed, then relaxed. Longing sparked in his stomach. God, he wanted to kiss her every time she did that.

“I don't think it'd be wise of me to say I'll always be down, but when I am, of course I'm happy to help you burn off that steam.” It didn't hurt that when he was riled up like that, it meant he was hellbent on making her orgasm – usually more than once. 

“You just have to tell me what you want.”

He nodded. When he was with June, he got so used to pushing his wants and needs aside in an effort to keep her happy. It felt almost strange, even after nine months with Sarah, to express his needs and to have her take them into consideration so readily. 

After a few minutes of comfortable quiet, Sarah asked, “don't you have practice?”

He shook his head as his eyes fluttered open, “I messaged Tocc to tell him I couldn’t make it today. Told him I fucked something up at home and needed to make it right.”

“Oh.”

Seeing her bottom lip begin to shake, Quinn’s stomach lurched. Did she not know? He supposed he aught to tell her, just like his mom said. “Sarah, I love you,” he said, his free hand coming up to slide around the back of her neck, “You’re my top priority. I'm sorry if I made it seem otherwise.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling emotion choke her voice. This more than anything else they'd talked about that morning told her how he was feeling and where his priorities were.

Leaning closer, he rested his forehead against hers, “I love you so much, Sar,” he said quietly. 

“I love you, too, Quinn.” 

Hearing it banished the last of his doubt. “I promise I won’t bring my frustration home.” 

That wasn’t going to help anything. “You can bring it home, Quinn. You just can’t throw it up all over me. I know you’re going to have bad days. I am, too. This,” she gestured between them to indicate the conversation, “is about what you do with it.”

He nodded, feeling emotion rock through him. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” he asked. It was a question for the broader universe. He really had no idea.

“You’re just you,” she said, a smile gently tipping the corners of her mouth. 

He only had to move slightly to slide his lips over hers. 

She made a little noise that sounded about as relieved as he felt, and unable to help himself, Quinn pulled her into his lap. 

The kiss was slow and loving. It wasn’t until Sarah slid her fingers into his hair and swept her tongue past his parted lips and trailed it along the roof of his mouth that it grew more passionate. 

The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was only focused on sex, but he was so relieved, so incredibly relieved that she was even willing to kiss him, let alone be in his lap, that his dick popped right up.

She pulled away and glanced down. 

“Sorry,” he said, cheeks blazing, “he's got a mind of his own. I spent the whole night scared you were going to break up with me, so he's just rejoicing over the fact that you didn’t.”

He wanted to bottle the giggle she let out as she leaned in to kiss him again. 

Want more Quinn & Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist

To read all my fics, check out the Fanfiction Masterlist

©2025 tkwrites. I do not give consent for any of my work to be copied, re-posted or translated here, on Tumblr, or on any other platform.

[brawltogethernow]

OKAY. THE ART. Sources! Three of these are traced. I've never had enough stamina for big projects and knew if I was going to squeeze everything I wanted out of this one I was going to have to 👏conserve! 👏some! 👏effort! That I did this was supposed to be obvious but I might have been having an XKCD experts comic moment with that.

Matsuda and Ryuk are from just whatever panels,

but Light is the main reason I did it like this. Nobody draws that kid ugly-dead like Obata, and I figured the strongest way to get the effect I wanted would be to reframe the iconic visuals of his death scene directly. That said, the source ended up actually being the C-Kira postseries oneshot redraw, so it's probably not as immediately recognizable as a redone canon visual as I was going for.

None of the panels from the actual scene ended up being as well-suited for redrawing as the portrait I wanted as I was anticipating. I ended up liking this a lot anyway because it being a recap revisiting dn five years after it ended just makes him feel less...freshly dead, even though it's art of the same moment, which lined up with the story I was telling. And what a page! That is a lovingly rendered corpse: it looks like Obata enjoyed getting to briefly revisit the dn leads + got to pour more time into little details than you get to keeping up with a regular release schedule.

Alts! Analysis!:

They were ALL planned to be traces but I had a failure of willpower and mocked up L with no references of any kind and barely enough restraint to make sure the image would be the right proportions for a Disco Elysium portrait. I just got gripped by the concept of applying enough facial features to fit in in DE to this man native to an extremely smooth art style in a way that would still look like him. This is the kind of experiment you should consult some references for but hey I had fun. I greatly relished assigning him a nose, though if I took a second go at it I might go in the other direction and assign him Uncannily Little Nose to play up how he looks like Ryuk's humansona. Really work the kaleidoscope fractal of character parallels.

After it was completely rendered I shook off the fugue enough to emerge and actually look at some canon images of him, which illuminated that he needed reduction surgery. Of the eyeballs.

This first pass is really revealing of how much of his design in my mind is just big staring regarders.

(This is a more canonesque proportion of sclerae to iris than the final actually but replicating that on less tennis ball-sized eyes was uhhhh it was terrifying looking every time I tried it so that did not happen.)

Funny tidbit here is he wasn't supposed to be blue. I haven't watched much of the anime and don't associate L with blue at all. He's stark black and white to me -- some characters from black and white comics just feel more monochrome than the rest of the monochrome cast! (I say "some" but the only other example I can think of is NuraMago's Hagoromo Gitsune.) I do associate Light with red, but it's a tertiary part of his character palette to me - I mostly associate him with the gold-tan-camel range.

So I swear I went into the L intending him to pointedly NOT be blue, but while I did L first I knew what I was planning for Light and wanted the contrast of the dead body, rotting in warm gold and power red -- against the survivor and default winner regarding the viewer with good humor, entirely the inhuman colors of a cold corpse. So as I tweaked the palette I started with to look better while trying to convey this idea he ended up EXTREMELY blue. Like it's not the same shade they use in the anime at least?

An absolute last second backtrack I did here is L's square halo, which I only mocked up after the "real" piece was "done" to see what it would look like. If you're judging by his role in Death Note, L is absolutely important enough to get a halo, and as Light's foil it bangs as a contrast against Light's upside-down round halo that's also a pool of blood. AND I like it as an homage to all the official art where he's backlit by half-metaphorical walls of bright computer screens. BUT this is supposed to be a Disco Elysium sidequest, and Harry Du Bois does not know this dude. The only DE characters occupying the space in Harry's brain to get halos in their portraits are Kim and Jean. It makes sense with Light, because he has inspired Harry to have a hallucinatory religious crisis, and it's inverted so it's not elbowing in directly on any DE character's thematic territory and is acting as a counterbalancing funhouse mirror instead. But L is honestly nobody to Harry. He's not present in the fic in his full capacity as a Death Note character of profound importance and thematic weight. He's just visiting. So I was going to hold off and restrain myself to the next best thing of putting him in front of an abstracted background of filament cores.

And I do like this version better in some ways even if the overall composition gist is weaker. But then I was like, dammit! The big box looks better at a glance! It's more dramatic! He's supposed to be the special little treat cameo! (The special little treat cameo is a full third of the word count.) So I changed my mind about what variant to use AS I was pulling all the art I painted in October out to scale down and put borders around to be ready to inline, which was practically the last step I did after finishing all the coding (using a cap of Klaasje's portrait as a stand-in while I did all my formatting tests). I did NOT finish this overambitious project by denying myself the more indulgent options when making decisions. So.

Everybody who's going to read this has had a month to think about it already so I'm going to spill what I was going for. Like if I don't write it down I'M going to forget eventually. L gets stylized filament cores because he can't have his million computers background motif. The filaments in the background cut through his portrait in places to continue the theme of enmeshment in the proverbial-literal web of information. They're inspired by the ship rigging behind Joyce in her portrait -- mostly the way they're an actual object near her rendered almost like an abstract pattern, but arguably they share the thematic similarity of reminding you that a character is a traveler from outside the setting -- though in the fic the real foil for Joyce in that respect is Light, not L. Joyce initially seems like a foreign intruder from Ozonne, but she's a returning local. Harry initially assumes Light is a local, but he's a foreign intruder from Ozonne. Rejoyce was probably named in response to the revolution; Light's too young and from somewhere too cushioned for that to be a reasonable assumption.

The fucked up typewritery text texture was an unplanned addition because that space was too empty but I picked that as the filler also because of radiocomputers. (It's a Kyle photoshop brush.) Red ended up representing being doomed by the narrative, or just death if you prefer. (It's a slightly different shade from DE's Communism red, at least? Straight up didn't notice that on my playthrough and became aware of it after doing these, oops.) It's focal in Light's portrait, it's mostly in the background for L, it's absent from Matsuda entirely. It's the only color on Ryuk that doesn't come from the winter sky/general setting background muddle (Light and Ryuk's portraits are against the earth and sky of the same location) and it's only traces -- he sees times of death, he subsists on death, and okay I couldn't resist putting it on the heart earring, which I had never noticed before drawing this. A heart? A heart?! Have an extra dot of doom on that to symbolize the weird Thing you had going on with Light, which I think I was direct enough about in the actual fic to not have to rehash here. Ryuk got SO much more compelling to me after the 2020 oneshot dropped like wow. You really played yourself huh dude.

None of these REALLY pass as Disco Elysium portraits, but Ryuk is on purpose -- him being rendered almost entirely in inks with comparatively minimal color is supposed to seem uncanny.

Matsuda just looks like that. The full advance planning that went into Matsuda was "What color do I start with? I think the anime made him yellow or something but that isn't helpful. Well Garte is purple maybe purple will make it feel like he's at the Whirling." I also wanted to minimize how contrasting from the rest of the face the eyes were on this one because that's one of the hallmarks of DE portraits I hadn't observed with the other ones.

And then he ended up looking like a delicate stupefied deer you're about to mow down with your car or perhaps someone being seen through a ghost hunting show's night vision filter. (The eyes are still focal as hell.) This one also has an alt that I deliberated over because I think it looks better aesthetically but less like Matsuda somehow even though the change is just the suit lines.

When I posted him to the gc everyone immediately began interpreting the choices with more depth and cleverness than I was actively packing in and I was very pleased to be death of the authored in that case.

Overall these were a dream and a delight, definitely recommend painting over somebody else's stuff for fun if you've never done it before/doing three-quarter-assed art style studies.

The Disco Elysium/Death Note fic I discovered I'd accidentally crafted myself into the perfect engine to write when it possessed me for five straight months (based off neproxrezi's excellent viral post) is finally done and posted.

A crossover formatted like a Disco Elysium bonus sidequest! Play as Harry Du Bois*,

*simulate watching a letsplay where the player selects slightly different choices than you would

and investigate who fatally struck Light Yagami with a Kineema Coupris! (It was you.)

PROJECT your latent bisexuality onto Light's corpse!

FLIRT with Touta Matsuda????

ENCOUNTER an exciting new cryptid! (shinigami)

And learn about the main event: The etymology of Elysium's alternate history version of pogs

[ju1c3b0xx]

he’s genuinely so fun to draw

trying to figure out how to draw him still

[ugly-bug-starscream]

Was just looking through your things and for your AU where Skyfire is there for the events of TF1: so I take Orion showed Skyfire the map in the hope that he could be their transport on the surface? Then of course the events of the film happen. I'm so curious as to how it would go when they run into the High Guard. That idea is so fun to think about.

Yes!! I’m sorry that the story have been very vague but it’s all coming! since I plan to draw for the story!

So yes skyfire is being asked by orion to accompany them to the surface, skyfire being someone orion knows and trusts.. also in the moment thinking that Skyfire will be great protection from any danger coming their way! Little does he know that Skyfire has never been in a fight ever in his life before BAIDHSHSB

but skyfire is excited, not everyday that he gets to go to the surface! Infact no one goes to the surface cause it’s “dangerous” and I would think not even allowed to go to the surface, for obvious reasons (Still working this out as to how they get elita along but we’re figuring it out!).

they travel to the surface, they regret a little that they chose skyfire because they have to stop a lot because this scientist wants to get so many samples of the nature JAJDBSJSB but from the miners being in Skyfire’s cockpit as they fly across the landscape.. (I suppose I can reveal this for now) but they discover they aren’t alone.. as they find that air raid sneaked along with them, he’s trying desperately pleading silently to them to not give him away, bee probably does and skyfire is brought to a halt.. so air raid is coming along too!

I can say too that the interaction with the high guard becomes a little different! Orion and gang gets kidnapped when skyfire was not there, air raid included, they are being interrogated for longer from orion giving the idea of joining forces with starscream against sentinel.. air raid was being held somewhere else, not as a prisoner cause they could tell it’s just a child so they let him rest, put some energon by his side for when he wakes up.. and skyfire is coming to look for them all and finds air raid first.. and when finding the others he finally gets to see starscream after so long.

[mavratt]

Silver doodles!

still trying to nail down how to draw him (and still trying to figure out the Sonic style)

[aithusarosekiller]

Cutesy Stargazer idea :)

They start bumping into each other in the library every so often because Lily keeps trying to find new tables to sit at due to the second years getting disruptive and loud. Eventually they end up silently sitting together and one time Regulus ends up delivering her a note from Severus (against his own sense of self-worth) and it gets them talking to each other a little. They start to realise that they have a lot in common and while Lily is reluctant to trust another old-fashioned Slytherin so soon, she decides she doesn't have much to lose. Regulus realises that she's actually extremely intelligent and much more capable than him in most subjects. While he is initially thrown off and resentful that a muggleborn witch is so much better than him, eventually he softens up. He doesn't really have many friends so as long as he doesn't get attached it'll be fine...right?

They realise that they both have the same sense of humour, similar personal issues, and share a lot of the same interests that they'd never considered before. So they begin to talk more while they're in the library and eventually both of them are upgraded to 'smile when I pass them in the corridor' status and continue to get closer still after that. She starts to show up to Slytherin quidditch games 'just to see how it goes' so she can talk to him about it later. He listens to her talking about the muggle world with progressively less disgust and reluctance, eventually developing an interest in it, even if he'd never admit it around family. They both clearly like each other but won't dare to admit it.

One day, Lily is walking to the lake with her friends and she hears her name being called out from the courtyard. Slytherin were about to start practice and Regulus was always the first one down so he was alone, already in his kit, walking to pick up his broom from the shed before he headed to the pitch.

It's only her, the girls, and the marauders in that area, so it wasn't like Regulus was outing their friendship to the entire school, but it was still a shock to the others to see that he of all people had called her Lily; or sounded so gentle when he said it. They all turn around and Regulus is holding her pencil case, something she'd had to explain to him before due to his unfamiliarity with pens, pencils, and the desire to keep them all together.

He jogs over and hands it to her with a smile. Instantly, Sirius sees red and tried to stop her, warning that he probably stole and cursed it as a trap. Mary agrees and tries to step in but Lily steps forward and takes it with a smile. She thanks him and kisses his cheek, making a joking comment about how stressed she would have been in arithmancy without it. Everybody around them is thoroughly confused. They're all waiting for something to happen, for the case to explode or for him to spit on her, but nothing does. He laughs and says 'good thing I was around then isn't it?' with an unnatural level of charisma for someone as pathetic and grovelling as him. Lily thanks him again and wishes him luck for practice and then turns to the group again. Regulus smiles after her softly for a few seconds before eventually leaving.

Sirius has it all figured out of course. He had been terrified of the interaction at first because Lily was clearly threatened by his family's insanity but then Regulus was so receptive to her kissing his cheek and the way they looked at each other was sweeter than marshmallow fluff, and he wasn't stupid. It was a shock, sure, but he clocked what was going on pretty quickly. Not that he approved, he probably still gave Lily a lecture on not trusting evil villains (that she likely ignored) and attempted to lure her away from him to 'keep her safe' but was secretly impressed that she seemed to have softened him up a little; perhaps enough to draw him away from the family for good, only time could tell.

And James is mad because he'd just managed to get in Lily’s good books but now she's very clearly interested in Regulus- the most random person ever in his mind- even if neither of them have noticed it yet. Meaning he can't make a move without looking like a dick (again, the last time he tried to ask her out by the lake was admittedly a fucking disaster so a second embarrassment would not be enjoyable) He probably goes into a strop for a week before coming out of it with an even larger ego than before due to Sirius bigging him up and Peter insisting that he's perfect

Mary and Remus are not fans, they try to warn her but she's heard it all before and doesn't care anymore because she still thinks there's fuck-all to lose and she's actually starting to really love regulus as he climbs further away from his indoctrination

[xavissky]

Model of Love and Care | Rafayel

Rafayel x Reader | Love and Deepspace

SFW | ~900 words | Comfort/Fluff/Lighthearted

Rafayel didn't make a specialty of drawing you nude, but when he did decide to open up the option, you can't help but feel you've finally achieved some special treasured moment just for you two. You know these sketches won't leave his book, and he says its just for figure practice. Some part of you want to imagine his adoring face when he looks at the later. Would he? You try to think of it.

There you are on a couch, a thin cloth of chiffon draped across your lowers leaving little to the imagination while your chest lies exposed. Yet, you're surrounded by pillows. It's comfortable. You only regret that you're bored a few minutes in. You try to study his face in the meantime, wanting to know just how long he'd been wanting some more intimate sketches. There's a furrow in his brow that you know too well, and at first you're amused. It means he must not be getting all his lines right.

When it comes to his art, Rafayel is a perfectionist, and easily frustrated when the lines aren’t coming out right. Sometimes its a lack of warm up or some other mental or physical reason that lies trivial. This time feels different. He can’t stop thinking about you and he starts to hate the way he can’t just draw easily when you’re right there. You’re real and not a concept, and his mind wanders way too easily. He’s torn between actually concentrating and just wanting to give you attention. There were so many ways he was thinking about your body, not all pure, but all admirable. It felt like being handed an intricately designed dessert after so long a wait and not wanting to eat it because it looked too pretty, and wanting to devour it all the same. Either way the pencil doesn’t move right and he really just can’t get his head together while you’re exposed so, so beautifully before him.

Flustered and embarrassed, if not very defeated, he cuts your session short. It's his mind he can't defeat, guilty that you're doing this, and more guilty that he'd have images of you in his sketchbook to look at as he pleased, when he pleased. It didn't sit right. It makes him sick. He tries to blame one things or another and sees you off.

You have a good intuition to know by his expression it has everything to do with art and not with you. Every time you'd actually met his eyes, he had given you a soft smile or a wink, so you feel adored, but you can’t help but note the furrow in his brow from before. You’ve seen it when the paint color isn’t coming out right, or if he’s using the wrong brush, when his coffee tastes different than normal, and when his shirt doesn't fit quite right. So you let it go, and you call it a day, thinking he'll be better the next time. But much to your surprise, he doesn't ask.

He can’t look at you for a little bit. He blames a headache while he sulks in bed for a bit the next day. He opts for a call over a video chat. He says he's focusing on things with Thomas as an excuse. You know it’s not about you but it still stings. After a days of dodgy behavior and whining, you finally decide to do something about it. If you can’t get him out of his head soon you know it’ll get worse.

You find him wrapped in a blanket watching some godawful performances just so he can judge the voices, and you surprise him in a painter hat, a pad of paper, and a pencil, standing pointedly in front of the tv.

“Ahem. Rafayel. Your clothes sir.” And he huffs.

“Not right now. Wait- what are you-?”

You bend before him sharply and start tugging his clothing off not with any gentle manner. “Just shut up and do as I say.”

So when he’s bare and against all protesting, which is futile when you’re gritting your teeth like that, a certain mark burning on his collarbone that says he can’t resist - not that he would because its you, he finally settles, bare before you, blanket draped “tastefully” across his private lowers. “You better make this quick. I’m going to catch a cold out here.”

The complaints keep coming, but you’re determined, so you barely talk back and get lost in actually trying to do a good job, and when you look up you can see hints of a blushed smile now and then, that he tries to cover with protest or a roll of his eyes, or a shake of his head and a faux frown. You work until you can see those eyes soften and soften.

“Can I see?” He finally asked. “Before a fish dries out?"

“Nope!” You say, clutching the paper to your chest. “You didn’t show me yours soooo, you’re going to have to wait.”

You sigh. You can’t get it right either but unlike him, you don’t have the talent to make it look just like him so you wonder if it’s worth the efforts. Your eraser has been your best friend and yet the lines on the page are beginning to become erasably etched in, unable to be removed after being so harshly grilled into the page.

“It’s an inspired drawing so just to jog my memory. Don’t judge it too much.”

Dramatically you turn up your nose and in a mocking accent you present it to him, in spite of your words. You can hear him muffle a laugh, turned into a clear of his throat, but when you dare peak you think you see more emotion than he probably should have let you see.

“It’s…inspired, truly. I didn’t realize I have…such curves and ridges.” He’s trying his best, like he always does, and you can’t help but look even more enthusiastic while you snatch it back.

“Just wait til you see the finished product. Now this concludes our session for today, you’re free to go.”

You can’t help but to kiss his cheek and just for a moment you hold each other’s gaze, and he reaches for your thumb, rubbing his over yours and guiding you to sit next to him.

“You know… I felt like an exposed fish on a counter earlier but. It’s not really so bad, is it? I was having such trouble earlier, thinking I was making you do this for me and how awful it must feel that I was taking your likeness to be looked at when I pleased without your permission every time, yeah? But when I was sitting here I realized something,–”

And you begin to understand, and you stroke his cheek and wait with a smile.

“–What a beautiful thing to sit for your lover and know it’s a treasured view just for them.”

He gets it, and knows that you do too, and it’s like the sun through the clouds the way his magical eyes swirl over you and pulls you into an embrace.

“Now I can’t wait to finish drawing my beloved.”

“Don’t make me wait too long. I’ll sit there cold too long.”

“Multiple sessions then. Annnnd your pay will be duly compensated.” He presses a kiss to your forehead and then your lips. "Starting right now."

--------

Images: Free/Fair Use from Unsplash.com

[lady-eclipse3]

Kid Dark and Chosen au

I blame @i3utterflyeffect and all their awesome aus for infecting me with au making disease. I wrote the majority of this back in December in a haze of inspired mania but didn’t have the drive to finish it until now.

Au where when Dark and Chosen escape and do their attack on Newgrounds they’re like, children. Probably around 8 years old. Their young age combined with Chosen suffering from some effects caused from being in a box for most of his life (I refuse to believe that he didn’t have any lingering injuries/muscular atrophy from that) leads to them being captured and restrained during the Newgrounds attack just after Mitsi and Agent get zapped to the area.

However, due to how varied sticks are the only way to really tell how old a stick is, is by observing how they act/talk or putting them through some scan that can read that information from their code. Considering Chosen is refusing to speak and Dark is just swearing and spitting threats (he kept biting through the gags they put on him) no one at Newgrounds was aware that they were children.

Mitsi and Agent get a good look at the two terrorists and both notice how similar they look to Victim. Mitsi offers to hold them at Rocket Corp. Partly because they really do look like they could be related to Victim, but mostly because, with the animation tools Vic took from Alan, they’d have the best chance at making restraints that would work on the two.

Considering the restraints on them were already starting to decay and there not really being any other option, the other animations agree.

So Mitsi goes back through the internet portal first and tells Victim that Agent and the others are alright and that they need a way to contain 2 very powerful sticks pronto. She also tells him about how they look similar to him which Victim doesn’t really give much thought to since he’s more worried about making working restraints. Victim goes and draws, I don’t know, some super powerful power nullifying cuffs or something. Dark and Chosen, who are brought back alongside Agent, get the new cuffs slapped on them as soon as they touch down at RC.

And well, damn. Now that Victim is looking at them they really do have a lot of similar features to him. But obviously it’s all just a weird coincidence, there’s lots of sticks out there, some of them are going to look similar to each other.

Anyway neither of the kids are talking at this point, Dark is just growling and baring his (very sharp) teeth and Chosen is still silent. Since neither of them are willing to talk Victim does a scan on both of them trying to find out who they are or any other information on them. showing that, surprise, they were made be Alan and are Victims siblings and also that they are actually children and not just small adults. It also shows all the health problems that Chosen and Dark have.

Chosen’s code, alongside all the side effects of being in the box for so long, shows the remains of a popup blockers code. Dark’s code still has that Eliminate The Chosen One command in it, though it seems to be temporarily deactivated

And now there’s a whole bunch of new problems. Firstly Alan is still making stick figures. Victim, understandably, is kinda terrified by that. But it only takes one question about their animator for Dark to snarl that they weren’t going back there and even if they tried to send them back, they’d completely and irreparably destroyed the computer they were made on.

---

“You… you were made by Noogai.”

At this, the black one, The Chosen One, flinched and the red one, The Dark Lord, jerked as though he was going to lunge at Victim, Agent’s hand twitching on his weapon.

“You can’t send us back to him!” he snarled, “You can’t, we clawed our way outta his pc and blew up the whole thing on the way!” He bared his teeth in a sharp grin “There’s nothing left of it, it was blue screened and everything.”

The terror that had gripped Victim faltered. “You… blue screened Noogai’s PC.”

“Yeah! And we’ll do it to this stupid place too! Just you wait we’ll get out of these stupid cuffs and then this place -“

“You weren’t the only one to claw your way out of his PC. I just didn’t have the strength to blow it up when I did”

That seemed to stop The Dark Lord in his tracks as he blinked in startled confusion. But before he could say anything-

“How did you escape?”

The Chosen One had finally decided to talk.

He frowned, “When did you escape? I never saw you on the PC when I was - active” His voice was quite and calm.

Victim inhaled shakily, “Before you were made.” His escape and The Chosen One’s creation must have been mere hours apart. The scan says he was made the same day he escaped. Hell the kid was probably made because he escaped. Victim feels sick at the thought.

---

And Victim really looks at the kids at this point. It’s not as evident on Dark, but both of them have that haunted look of someone who’s gone through something no one should ever have to go through. Victim knows that look very well. (He used to see it every time he looked in the mirror. Sometimes he still does)

So, Victim gives them a choice.

They can either stay with him, someone who went through the same stuff they did, and keep the cuffs on until it’s decided that they aren’t a danger anymore, or they can be sent to wherever young stick criminals go. (Victim is sure the rest of the Net won’t exactly like the first option, but RC is the only place that can make restraints that work on them and if they try to make him give the kids up he sure as hell won’t let them have the cuffs so the rest of the Net doesn’t get a choice)

And well, neither of them want to get put in stick juvie so they agree to pretend to try this rehabilitation thing and escape when they get a chance.

It takes a while, but eventually both of them start to calm down and heal. Their want for destruction fades away because of the positive influences they now have in their lives. It eventually gets to a point where the cuffs are removed and Victim gets them a remote area where they can go and play with their power without causing any damage to others.

During all that Dark, Victim, and Mitsi bond over their shared interest in technology and Chosen bonds with them over… something else, I don’t really have any ideas on what. They both hassle Agent, trying to get him to spar with them (Dark more so then Chosen) and he winds up teaching them both some hand to hand while their powers are still locked.

Showdown still happens, several years down the line, but it’s basically just Dark and Chosen screaming at each other because Dark kept bring up trying to get revenge on their creator. Chosen just wants peace and going for revenge would only stir up trouble. They can’t even get revenge if they wanted, Noogai’s PC is dead and gone (heh) Eventually they compromise. Dark won’t try to find and attack Noogai but he’ll build the Virabots just in case their creator ever rears his head again.

From there on they just…live. Dark helps in the labs with making new tech and Chosen helps with security (I don’t know what to do with him bro has no hobbies. Maybe he helps out on the farm? I don’t know if they still even have a farm.)

At some point they hear about a strange occurrence. The game Minecraft was almost completely destroyed and no one can pinpoint a cause for what happened. RC, and by extension the three siblings, start to investigate and well. I’ll leave that up to you.

[crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf]

"To Rain and Caf Snobbery,"

Fox x F!Reader One Shot*

Summary:

The rain on Coruscant may be artificial, but the way it seems to guide you feels as natural as the force as it brings you to a chance meeting that quickly develops into something wild and unwise.

WC: 5390 - Read on Ao3

*this is just my general "mature rating" specifics:

Content Warning: A Little morbid, depictions of grotesque art and descriptions of dead bodies, smoking, sex in a morgue, unprotected PiV, biting, over-the-clothes, clothes-on sex, casual sex, rough sex.

*might revisit these two at a later date.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

You cursed as the downpour started. The artificial rain coming down on you in a torrent. You must've missed the notice, and it explained why the streets were so empty. 

Your heels made wet little splashes as you rushed for sanctuary signified by a blinking neon sign. It read “caf” with a simple cup, the steam rising in glowing alternation inside twisted glass. 

The door chimed an electric bell as you ducked into the dingy establishment, leaving a small puddle by the door as you brushed your wet hair out of your eyes. The place was nearly empty, the dark colors soothing despite the stale smell of death sticks in the air. 

You sat at the small bar and signaled for the barista who took your order for a cold brewed caf. 

While you waited, you pulled out your data pad… no new messages. 

You sighed, apparently forgotten. 

“Bad news?”

You jumped at the low rumble next to you. The voice came from a figure clad in a dark coat. He was bent over the bar, arms defensively cradling his own cup of steaming caf. You couldn't see much of his face, but the dark olive skin was marred with a patchwork of light scars. The hair falling over his forehead was streaked with a generous amount of gray. 

“More like no news,”

You muttered, putting the data pad back in your bag. 

“No news is good news in my world,”

“I'm sure…”

You were eyeing your new conversational partner, his intense eyes now looking at you over his folded arm. The chiseled silhouette held familiar features, though he wore them in a haggard kind of way. 

Clone.

Any problems you had of course would dwindle in comparison to one of these men… their short brutal lives. You didn't see many of their kind in this part of town despite your close proximity to the Senate and Garrison structures.  

Your cup of caf arrived, the ice sloshing as the barista gave it a flourishing swirl before setting it in front of you. Thanking him, you waited till he was a comfortable distance down the bar before drawing a mouthful through the straw. 

You winced, smacking your lips in obvious disappointment. They had let the carafe go stale. 

The clone chuckled at your displeased expression, a low and dangerous sound. 

“You should try mine,”

He slid the porcelain cup closer to you with what seemed like an air of playfulness. 

You were suddenly very aware of how cold you were, the steaming cup looking very inviting and making you regret your choice of a cold beverage. You flicked your eyes to the man's golden brown ones, there was no hint of malice but that didn't mean there was no cause for suspicion. You had seen him drinking from the mug himself though…

Ah, Kark it. If it's drugged it's drugged. 

You pulled the hot cup closer, tentatively taking a sip- 

And winced again. The swill was burnt and acrid. 

“Oh this place is just bad at making caf, isn't it?”

He laughed, a short barking sound, that complimented the gravelly rumble of his voice. 

“It might be, but it's still better than the stuff in the office,”

“That's a tragedy, I make much better at home,”

He laughed again, amusement dancing in his eyes. They were the usual shape and color for a clone, but they shone brightly in the moment, catching the light so that the soft reds and golds of the cafe lighting made them glow. 

“To rain and caf snobbery,”

He tilted the mug towards you before downing a swig. You took another gulp of your chilled drink, pursing your lips at the stale taste. 

The noise lifted as the scheduled downpour eased up. You glanced back at the man, and thought about your silent data pad. A wild and unwise idea lit through you. 

“You know, mister… uh…”

You looked over at him questioningly.

“Fox. Commander Fox,”

He offered his hand and you shook it,

“Charmed… you know, Commander, my place is nearby if you'd like to try something actually consumable,”

He arched an eyebrow, picking up his mug and downing the rest of the awful caf. The cup hit the counter with a over eager clink and he stood, gesturing with an extended arm,

“After you,”

You allowed him to guide you to the door, his hand at the small of your back warm as you stepped out onto the cold street. Though the rain had stopped, it was still windy and his long dark coat snapped around you as you turned towards your apartment. 

“What brings you down this way, Commander?”

“I like the cafes down here… no one tries to find me to put out fires, I get to take an actual breather,”

He reached into his coat, pulling out a crumpled death stick carton. Tapping it on his thigh, he bit at the protruding end before looking down at you with it hanging lazily between his lips. 

“You mind?”

“Not at all…Are you on a break now?”

A little disappointment flitted through you, thinking the handsome man accompanying you might have to leave your company soon. 

A small spark lit his features for a moment as he lit his vice, taking a long draw before releasing the smoke. A strong arm wrapped about your hips. 

“No, I'm off for the night, even more reason to be in hiding,”

He smirked conspiratorially at you, offering the lit stick. Fox held it steady as you drew the smoke into your lungs. He seemed pleased with that and you leaned into him as you led him through the streets to the building your flat was located in. That flicker of disappointment stirred into a flutter through your chest. You looked at the profile of his face again out of the corner of your eye, lit as it was by the burning embers. 

There was a prominent scar across his nose, a slight crook to it where it may have broken at some point. His chin was slightly more narrow than the clones on the propaganda posters. He flashed a smile at you, aware of your attention, giving you a glimpse of his canines- unusually prominent. You stifled a shiver as the warm glow of the light over your building's door settled over you. He crushed the spent butt beneath his boot heel as you made your way inside. 

The main floor of your apartment building was brighter than the cafe had been, and you suddenly became overly aware of your wet clothes clinging to you. The simple dress shirt stuck to your curves, leaving little to the imagination, the cold making your nip-

You tugged your jacket closed hurriedly. 

The doorman caught your eye as he took in your odd surprise guest. He narrowed his expression and you nodded at him so that he relaxed and settled back into his chair…but flashed the hand signal to call him if there was trouble. The concern warmed you a little as you made your way to the lift. 

The reality of the situation suddenly dawned on you as the doors slid shut and you found yourself alone with the commander. He was a complete stranger… you watched him out of the corner of your eye as the lift took you higher; chiming as it reached your floor.

The way his footfalls chased your heels brought an unbidden, nightmarish image of a scared child fleeing from the snapping jaws of a ghoul. You shook away the shadowy memory, the feeling of being hunted. Or at least you tried.

He was also watching you, an almost somber look of curiosity in his furrowed brow. It relaxed you a little, your pace down the hall became more sure. Not that he felt safe, quite the contrary… but you found you lacked fear for whatever danger he represented. Whatever trouble this was, you wanted it… were craving it. 

The heat of him felt intense through your wet clothes as he drew near while you tapped in the code to your door. His breath felt too close, the way it stirred the few dry strands of hair at your neck. 

Then you were inside. 

You kicked off your heels, swiping your hand up the wall panel to make the recessed lighting warm the room with soft light. 

Fox looked around at the dark colors of the flat, the dim, strategic lighting, the art spotlighted on the walls. He gave a small nod of approval. You could tell he was impressed and pride swelled in your chest, and a little giddy feeling, betraying your attraction to the man. 

“What do you do to afford a place like this?”

“It was part of my family's holdings, I’ve only moved in permanently since liquidating their estate.”

He raised a brow at that spurning you to add,

“They died,”

“Oh… I'm sorry,”

You shrugged your shoulders, 

“I'm okay, honestly I don't think I  was affected by it as much as I should've been… we weren't close.”

You took off your coat, draping it over the back of a chair. 

“If you don't mind, I need to change into something dry… then I'll get us that caf”

You turned to your bedroom, catching a soft mutter as you left,

“I mind a little…”

You smiled softly to yourself. 

~~~

When you reemerged to the living space, you found him under one of the lit paintings, the one centered to the space. It was tall, the gold frame almost reaching the high ceiling. 

He had removed his jacket as well revealing a dark red long sleeve that hugged his broad shoulders in a very pleasing way, highlighting his slimmer hips where it was tucked into the waist and of his dark denim pants. The scarlet coloring stood in contrast to the black leather gloves that gripped the back of the sofa he leaned against as he looked up at the artwork. 

“It's called, Grief of the Forceless,”

He turned, eyes flicking over the new black dress you had slipped into. The tight cut, flowing fabric shimmered like ink around your knees as you walked. You glided to his side to look up at the twisted imagery. 

The painting was a macab depiction of piled bodies, surreal, exaggerated- racked in obvious pain under a giant foreboding hand reaching over the horizon. It was all splashes of red, white lightning and burnt ashes. 

Fox nodded to himself idly. 

“I like it,”

Your lips quirked as you shared a glance with him, bemused but heavy with the question of, “what now?”

“How bout that caf?”

“Please… I'm dying to learn what a good cup of caf is like,”

The amused tone made you feel like he was teasing you, but it was hard to tell. Perhaps you simply didn't mind.

You padded over to the bar, and turned the nozzle on a line. 

“Hot?”

He nodded, now becoming engrossed with the bookshelves in the adjacent dining room. The paperbacks were expensive antiques. 

You pulled the handle, cold, rich colored liquid siphoning from a sealed canister in a fridge below the bar into the carefully poised mug. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as you lowered the steam wand into the cool drink. 

“Am I noticing a pattern here?”

Fox questioned, withdrawing a paper back, turning it to read the cover, then scanning through the list of digital titles. 

The caf in the mug started to froth. You made another cup for yourself and carried them to the dining room, offering one to the commander. 

“They’re all murder mysteries, can't get enough of them,”

“You like rather dark things, don't you?”

“Mysteries aren't that dark, Commander. They exist in a world we're no matter how clever or creative a killer is, they're always outsmarted by someone with just a little more wit and righteousness,”

He ran a finger down another book spine, nodding as he read the title,

“I suppose real life is much darker…”

“Much. Killers are rarely caught, murders go unsolved…”

“Hey now, I'm doing the best I can,”

He chuckled and you paused,

“You're with the Corries?”

You had had your suspicions but his nod confirmed them. He turned to you,

“Who were your parents? How'd they die?”

“It doesn't matter,”

“Humor me,”

“Their ship blew up on the dock, it took out the valets as well… no one was able to tell me if it was an accident or an assassination,”

“Would someone want to take out your family,”

“My father had his enemies, my mother too- though those wars were usually petty social affairs,”

He sighed,

“Sounds pretty standard,”

He took a swig from the cup you handed him, eyes widening in what you recognized as uncharacteristic delight. 

“That is good, it's so smooth,”

You smirked, pleased with yourself as you added some sweetener to your own mug from the container on the table. 

“Told you,”

He took another long sip from the mug, eyes on you as you leaned back against the table, facing him. 

The commander seemed to freeze a moment, a decision clicking into place behind his features. He moved to lean beside you, as if the morbid discussion before had awoken a sense of familiar solidarity in him stoked into something comfortable by the smooth caf. 

“So, tell me… why'd you bring me back to your place? You that proud of your brewing skills?”

His hand landed on the table next to yours, allowing him to lean into your ear as he spoke. 

“Hmm, maybe I was feeling a little reckless… and you were handsome enough to take a risk,”

“Risk? I'm the one alone in a stranger's home, how do I know you didn't spike the caf?”

His tone carried that gruff playfulness you were becoming accustomed to as his breath danced over the nape of your neck. 

“Mm, despite my interests I'm harmless, never even seen a dead body before- don't think I could handle making one,”

“Not even your parents?”

“There were no bodies to recover,”

…

“You want to?”

“Make a dead body?”

A puff of air against your neck as he silently laughed,

“See one… I can take you to HQ, I have one on hand, if it suits your… interests”

You hadn't really planned on leaving the flat, might've even been planning on convincing your new friend to stay the night,

“Wouldn't you rather stay here? Where we can get to know each other better… in private?”

His fingers moved, lightly brushing up your forearm.

“What's more intimate than looking into the face of death together?”

The offer was deranged, but the peevish look in his eyes, the smell of caf on his breath, it was tempting. You rose your eyebrow, surprised at yourself as you proceeded,

“Let me get my coat.”

“We'd better hurry,”

His voice followed you to where your jacket and heels were discarded, grabbing his own long coat from the back of the couch. 

“It sounds like they plan on hitting us with another downpour soon”

His words were punctuated by a sudden roll of thunder from above. 

~~~

He snuck you into the federal precinct through a service door after an oddly giddy jaunt through the dark, wet streets. Laughing as the rain started falling on the two of you, a lightning strike lighting your way. His hand was clasped firmly around yours, leading you with eagerness in every splashing step. 

The halls of the place were garishly bright, but mostly empty for the night. 

“The morgue is this way,”

He whispered, flashing you a grin, another glimpse of fang. His hand was still holding yours, pulling you along through the halls and it was making your heart race. The whole affair spoke of youthful mischief, sneaking into where you weren't supposed to be. 

As the two of you turned a corner, you ran into a clone decked in red armor, wings painted on the side of the scarlet helmet. 

“Fox? What are-”

The modulated voice cut short as the visor dipped over your form in its slinky dress. A growl of warning from the commander holding your hand and the soldier abruptly turned on a heel and hurried off in the opposite direction.

“Bring girls here often, Commander?”

“No, even more reason for him to leave me be,”

He led you to the end of the corridor, a marked door that he unlocked with a hurriedly typed code before ushering you inside.

The lights flicked on revealing a small, plain hallway of a room. The back wall was metallic, patterned with round latched doors spaced at even intervals. You heard the door click as Fox set a manual lock. No one would disturb you and a wave of nerves flipped through your stomach. It was one thing to be alone with the man in your flat, here was a different matter and for a moment you spared a thought as to what the kark was wrong with you. 

His hands softly gripped your shoulders through your jacket as he whispered into your ear,

“You ready? Can always back out now… if you're scared.”

Scared wasn't the word for it, and you had no interest in showing him your lack of resolve.  

“I'm fine… you sure this is okay though?”

“It's not… you shouldn't be anywhere near this place.”

He was pacing the short distance to the wall of doors. Cold lockers you now assumed. Him popping one of the latches with a loud “cachunk” as the door swished aside confirmed your thoughts. With a swift motion he reached into the cubby and pulled the drawer out. 

The metal shelf held a plasticine bag, translucent enough that you could make out the palid color of the flesh inside. He raised his brow at you as he reached for the zipper, almost as if he dared you to ask him to stop. 

As the bag came undone, you looked down at the face of the man inside. The look of death obvious in his sunken cheeks, the skin of his face and neck still bruised from whatever assault had killed him. 

“Who is he?”

“Just some low life thug… killed three of my men during a spice sting, 

Karked up thing is… my brothers were incinerated as soon as their bodies were collected. Meanwhile this shyte stain stays in our protective custody until we can confirm a next of kin. 

You know, to preserve his dignity.”

His monologue was low with anger, the contempt obvious on his features as he looked down at the dead man. His disquiet was obvious, as if this man had been plaguing his thoughts since before you entered the caf shop. He had gone tense and silent, a darkness in his gaze. You had to wonder,

“Why did you want to show me this?”

Fox blinked, and looked up at you, suddenly looking a little lost. 

“I don't know… I suppose I felt… I suppose I wanted you to see something from my world, to understand,”

He suddenly pushed the drawer shut again, slamming the door with a sharp snap that made you jump. 

“It seemed like you might…”

You wanted to say that you did, but you weren't entirely sure. Despite your own recent grief, how could you say you really knew what it meant to lose people so frequently, so… inconsequentially. 

Your feet seemed to move on their own as you approached the grim man with his back to you. You wrapped your arms around his waist, laying your head against his shoulder making his tight grip on the edge of the door slacken slightly in surprise. 

“It's all so fleeting, isn't it?”

You whispered against his coat, still damp from the rain. 

He turned in your grasp, wrapping his arms around your back as he came to face you, bringing his lips to yours. 

You could still taste the caf on him, the slight bite of smoke as he kissed you. There was desperation in the sudden action, looking for comfort in your embrace. His breath came sharp through his nose as his mouth moved on yours, sliding his tongue between your lips as the kiss became rough, frantic. 

You allowed him to move you, his hands guiding your hips to turn. A click and a swish as one of the other empty compartments was opened. He lifted you to sit on the cold, sterile metal of the drawer as he locked it in place. 

His narrow hips wedged between your knees as his hands came up to cup you cheeks, sharp teeth catching your lip, tugging at it before kissing you again and again. 

As he drew back, eyes searching for yours, you both jumped- startled by a sudden vibration humming from your purse. 

The com link inside had finally started ringing. 

You looked down at the bag, reaching for it instinctively, pausing when a heavy weight rested against your shoulder. Fox’s brow was against you, his words caressing your neck,

“Don't answer it,”

You didn't say anything, just breathed as the com buzzed. 

“Don't, just stay here…stay with me here,”

The rasp of his voice broke your heart. He sounded so tired…

You let the bag fall from your shoulder with a dull clink on the metal drawer before wrapping your arms about his neck. Reassured, his lips pressed to your pulse point, teeth dragging down the length of your neck to your shoulder and back again. The contact felt like electricity as you finally let yourself go, giving yourself to the fleeting moment. 

“Fox…”

He groaned softly against your skin before moving back to your lips, pressing against them hard. You felt his coat slip from his shoulders. He swung it behind you, spreading it over the cold metal surface. 

“Aren't you the gentleman…”

You breathed against his cheek, 

“I'm no gentleman, meshla,”

His tongue dove into your mouth and you moaned around it, heat flooding your core as his posture became domineering. 

Not breaking the kiss, he dipped to lift you, laying you back on his jacket while he leaned over you. It was easy for him to run his hands over you like this, the leather of his gloves smooth as they squeezed your breasts through your dress. 

His motions became sharp; His hand snapping behind your neck to lift you, the other pulling your coat off and tossing it aside. You cringed in the sudden cold of the room, a problem quickly remedied as he hopped onto the drawer in a fluid motion. Fox's trim bulk pressed down on you, hot through his clothing. 

With a needy growl his teeth were at your neck again nipping the soft flesh under your jaw, sucking hard enough to mark you and force your breath to hiss, your gasp sharp. The pain was exquisite, and you reached up to lace your fingers in his greying locks, pulling on them to keep his fangs on you. 

Fox's hands kept wandering, down your side, along your thigh. He pushed your knees to the side, making room for his hips to wedge between your legs. The denim of his pants was rough against the soft skin as he ground his pelvis against you. 

You gasped, pulling back slightly as the feel of him, hard through the fabric. 

“Wait!”

He froze. You only managed another deep breath before he pressed his mouth to yours again, softer than before, carefully,

“You wanted me to have my way with you the second you invited me to your flat… why doubt yourself now?”

You felt your sex clench at his words. He was right of course, you wanted him; The evidence began to pool in your panties as he nuzzled into your neck. 

“Give me this… I won't let you regret it,”

He punctuated his request by rubbing the hardened bulge in his jeans against your groin drawing an undignified moan from your lips. 

You nodded, a little incoherently, pressing your cheek to his. 

“Take me Fox,”

He smiled against your throat, sucking your skin between his teeth with a groan. Your wrists were gathered and held above your head; pinning you there with his left hand, the right slid back down your body. You gasped as his fingers brushed between your legs through your silky dress. 

He used two fingers to slowly rub you through the fabric. A languid pace, up and down, slow and firm making you whimper and squirm beneath him. As the tips brushed and circled your clit you jerked, crying out from the sudden pleasure and wincing as your head thunked against the hard surface. 

“That won't do…”

He growled, sitting up abruptly to tug his long sleeve off, tucking it behind your head. The shirt had barely hid his toned visage but you couldn't help but drink him in as he leaned over you bare. Your hands now free, you reached out for him, running your hands down his chest; feeling the taught muscle, the smooth dips of blaster scars, the jagged raised bumps from healed tears. Fox leaned into the touch, sighing softly as he continued his attentions on you, rocking back on his calves to look down at you spread beneath him. 

He tugged your dress up over your thighs, eyeing the red lace thong underneath with raised eyebrows. 

“You like it?”

His eyes flicked to yours. He didn't answer, just flashed you those fangs of his as he shifted down. He pushed your knees to the side as he leaned in, biting your folds through the fabric. You let out a squeak as his teeth grazed your clit, gasping as he did it again. He nuzzled you with his nose, breathing deeply the scent of your arousal. 

“You’re so kriffing wet, meshla…”

He was right, the cold air catching the damp skin of your thighs. He blew on the glistening flesh, making the skin bump and pulling a whine of need through you. 

Fox chuckled, grabbing the waistband of your panties. He twisted his fingers into the lace and with a sharp tug the delicate fabric tore, exposing you to him. You watched the ruined article disappear into his back pocket before he pinned you again. 

His lips locked to yours, hips grinding into you as you felt his hand undoing the belt buckle and buttons at his waist. You wanted him inside you already,

“Hurry, Fox…”

He bit your lip, a jangle out of sight signalling his jeans were undone. You hooked your fingers into the waistband, helping him slide them down. His cock slapped into you as it was freed, firm and ready. Reaching for it, you felt his length, stroking him as he repositioned himself. He lifted one of your knees guiding himself to your dripping pussy. The head slid over your folds, finding the natural nook for it between your legs. 

With your thigh wrapped around him, Fox braced himself on his elbow. He watched your face as he slowly began to penetrate you. Inch, by slow, tantalizing inch he filled you; watching your expression with intense concentration. He seemed pleased with the way your brow knit as you gasped, the flush that colored your cheeks. Your nerves were on fire, able to feel the ridge of him sliding into you, every vein on his shaft. You were ready to come undone for him right then and there, quivering as he finished sheathing himself inside of you. 

He stayed like that a moment, pinning you with his hips. Leaning in to kiss you, taking his time to feel your lips against his sure and firm, almost possessive. Fox's hand on your thigh pulled your leg around his side and you obliged, wrapping it around him tightly as he started to move. 

Short, shallow thrusts. Slow, grinding into you before withdrawing again. You needed more air, pulling your lips away to bury your head against his shoulder, panting at the rippling pleasure coursing through you. 

Suddenly his hips snapped, the sudden hard thrust ripping a small scream from your throat;The wave of ecstasy that hit your brain too sudden, and you arched back, thighs wrapping around him even tighter. He smiled down at you as he did it again, slamming into you hard. 

“Fox!”

He picked up the pace, brutal thrust one right after another. His belt buckle rattled against the side of the metal shelf, the harsh clatter contrasting the soft, wet pops of his skin meeting yours. You weren't able to make a sound through the onslaught, your body seizing under him as your synapses were set aflame. 

“Cum for me,”

He growled into your ear. 

That did it.

Your sex clenched around him at the command, body going taught and rigid as a strangled cry escaped you. You're sure you ruined his coat. The com in your discarded purse began to hum again. 

You stayed at that high, feeling floaty as your brain swam in the tingling sensation. The only things grounding you to reality being the soft leather of his gloves gripping your thigh, cupping your neck, the half groaned praises in your ear, and of course his hardened shaft hammering into you. 

“You feel so good beneath me, meshla…”

He was lost in his own pleasure, whispering almost incoherently into your neck as he fucked you. 

“I'm going to… soon, I want to… inside of you,”

Your nails dug into his back as you locked your legs around him,

“Do it… fill me,”

He groaned, something low and feral, his thrusts becoming less measured. His hips snapped erratically into you, overwhelming you over another edge. You bit into his shoulder as you came again, the glove on the back of your neck urging you on,

“Harder,”

He panted. 

You flexed your jaw, putting real weight into the bite even as your muscles twitched from climax. 

Fox's hips dropped, pinning you flat as he bottomed out in your cunt. The thob of his cock and the grunt in your ear betrayed the finality of his motions. 

He held you there, still and poised in the taught throws of climax. He twitched several times, filling you till it gushed around his sheathed cock to run down your already slick skin. 

His muscles relaxed, and carefully he settled his weight onto you, wrapping his arms under your back keeping himself firmly buried inside your pussy. He nuzzled your neck, satisfaction dripping from him,

“I needed that,”

…

“Me too,”

~~~

You laid back on his jacket as he inevitably dismounted, boots hitting the floor with a hard thump; Watching with longing as he pulled his jeans back up over his ass hiding it from the perfect vantage you had laying on the morgue self. 

Once his belt was done, he turned leaning in to give you pecking kisses as he gently took his shirt from under you. You drank in his musculature before he could hide it with the red fabric. You felt like you could fall for this handsome man, the odd melancholic look that was once again furrowing his brow. 

He felt the weight of your gaze on him, reaching to lift your hand to kiss your knuckles, your palm, teeth softly grazing your wrist. 

“What now, Commander?”

“You go home…”

He purred it playfully,

“...and I figure out a good excuse to see you again,”

“You need an excuse?”

“Oh yes, and I think I've already came up with a good one,”

He reached down to where your purse had fallen, withdrawing the com and cancelling the call that had started to come through again. You saw him type in a number, presumably sending a message to himself.

“Is that right? What little scheme are you brewing?”

“How about I pull the file for your parent's case, bring you a copy… you said they never shared their findings didn't you,”

Not in so many words, but there had been some bitterness in your exchange with him earlier he seemed to have latched onto.  

“You’d do that?”

“Not out of the goodness of my heart… I bring you the file,”

He put his pointer finger to your lips, trailing it down your neck, between your breasts down to the apex of your thighs.

“We get some caf… and we do this again,”

~~~

@hellhoundmaggie @feral-ferrule

Oh, @vodika-vibes not sure if this is your thing, not exactly bent over his desk but if you're still Fox thirsty 🫡

[sv3t1ana]

⇜ previous chapter ⋮ next chapter ⇝

➤ a multi-chapter fic in which Satoru and Suguru are your childhood best friends. Reuniting as adults, you realize you're in love with them both. Will they make you choose? S. Gojo x fem reader x S. Geto

WARNINGS ᯓ saying ily during sex, oral (f receiving)

WORD COUNT ᯓ 829

Chapter 4. Gravity

It was a quiet Sunday morning, the kind where the city whirs beneath the weight of early risers and caffeine addicts, when your heart drops. Your turn the corner, eyes half-lidded from the early hour, ready for the familiar warmth of your daily coffee.

Suguru.

He stands outside the corner store, his figure framed by the rising sun. For a moment the world pauses, and it felt like you two never drifted apart. He never really left.

He noticed you immediately, that subtle shift in his posture, the instant recognition, the way his eyes settled on you. It makes something twist inside you, a connection that felt so distant now so close again.

“Well, well” he says, his voice calm. He stepped closer, his earthy scent and the crisp morning air suffocating you, surrounding you in an embrace. “Look who we have here. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.”

You could only stare at him, breath catching in your throat.

“What are you doing here?”

He tilted his head, his eyes softening. “I live here now,” he says simply, like it should make perfect sense. “I moved for work.”

“Work?” You glanced at him trying to wrap your mind around the reality of it. Suguru, in the same city as you. Not just a passing figure, but you really weren’t dreaming, and he was really here.

His lips curving with his signature lazy grin. “Yeah, dropped out to start fresh. Figured I’d follow where things were taking me.”

Here it was again, the gravitational pull of past desires realigning in the most unexpected of ways. Suguru was no longer a distant star. He’s suddenly in front of you, a constellation you lost drawing you close. While the world breathed with the same rhythm, the spaces between objects collapsed on themselves, pulling together the fragments of what once was into something new.

You and Satoru were still tangled in the threads of each other, bounded by the quiet joy of rediscovering what you once had and never realized. His name being the most frequent in your messages, a pulse refusing to fade. He was the ache you felt rediscovering an old song that was once your favorite.

But now, Suguru stepped closer, sweeping you under to guide you once again. “I’m not the same person I was,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “But I think you might be the same, or at least the same person I’ve been looking for.”

It was like a breath held in anticipation, the sweetness in his tone, a pull toward the unspoken. It wasn’t just Suguru, but the way the world seemed to open up with him in front of you. He was a map you wanted to explore again.

Later that day, Satoru’s name appears on your phone, a message lighting up the screen.

“Hey, what’s up? Miss me yet?”

You laughed softly, fingers hesitating over the screen as you relished in his familiar warmth, slipping into something you knew all too well. The connection you had with him only pulled the threads tighter with every exchange, every laugh, every glance.

When you’re with him, everything falls into place. It’s like the universe just clicks, like things that were scattered in time come together in this perfect alignment. There’s no awkwardness or hesitation, just the familiarity of someone who’s always been there, even when you didn’t realize how much you needed them.

And maybe that’s what it is. Suguru’s unexpected arrival, it’s not just him. It’s the way the world keeps pulling you back into the same cadence. The things you lost finding their way back to you.

That’s why you decide to visit Satoru the following weekend. It was like no time passed in the days spent without him. He always took your burdens on his shoulders, navigated your obstacles for you. That’s why it accidentally slipped when you said you loved him.

It was in the heat of the moment, at least that’s the excuse you gave to yourself. Tears brimmed your eyes when he made out with you after giving you the most liberating, mind-numbing orgasm with his mouth. You were having aftershocks, coming down from your high when he stuffed your deprived hole full and leaned in to kiss you through it.

“Fuck, ‘Toru,” he fucked you deep, senseless in the way you felt intoxicated every time he hit your cervix, stretching you out with his languid pace.

“’Toru, I love you,” you muttered between kisses.

He stilled inside you, unblinking as he asked you to repeat yourself.

You just couldn’t do it, your Freudian slip masking your face in a deep blush.

It took until he said it back, fucking you with purpose. Grunting like an animal, and repeating it over and over as he released deep inside you.

It was a cathartic experience, an unreal moment shared between you two and only you two. You couldn’t ever imagine sharing this with another person.

tags: @fortunatelyfurrygiver

[monkmain2]

Concept. Error-ified Ink. but like not a fusion or a ship child. just Ink.

Even more forgetful, to the point he forgets his own name sometimes. He can’t see due to buildup of ink constantly leaking from his eye sockets and hardening over the opening. His vials are also fused to his body, so he can’t control how much of each color he takes in at a time, as it constantly flows from the vials directly into his system. He gets overwhelmed a lot because of that.

He also can’t exactly speak, instead he kind of emanates voices that repeat single words to try and express how he’s feeling or what he wants. He can’t form full sentences, and he doesn't use super big words. He can also feel pain, but only if someone touches his glitches. Since he has no eyelights, his scarf is more expressive(?) than normal.

Sometimes he zones out randomly and comes to extremely confused and scared because he forgot where someone is and he starts freaking out and thinks they abandoned him. This also happens if he wakes up after sleeping without something to hug in his sleep like a pillow or someone’s hand. (in case you haven’t figured it out by now he’s not great with object permanence)

He can also still draw fine. He takes a couple minutes to figure out the paper and the position of the paint etc. and then draws from muscle memory. He also still has some idea that he should be protecting something, but he’s not entirely sure what, and he’s really bad at it anyway since he completely forgot how to use Broomie.

[khyonwa]

There he is. Again <3

[humming-fly]

The 2D vs 3D contrast of the sonic and shadow generation hubworlds cracks me up the more I think about it

Bonus:

[humans-are-tasty]

[devilart2199-aibi]

Time to change up this tune, baby! ‼️🎶💥