#where did it come from… just appears in my sketchbook

[aeb-art]

i… i don't remember drawing this 😭

geo belongs to @8um8le

[sonotpattismith]

where I first saw you

pairing: tattoo artist!sukuna x ballerina!reader word count: 10.3k content: fluff, grumpy+sunshine vibes, sukuna is low-key an asshole, reader is depicted as a bit naive, special guest starring choso my shnookums, almost loss of virginity, smut, 18+

Sukuna loved his job— no really, he did. He didn’t have to speak a certain way to garner respect, his marked up face helped his occupation rather than hindering it, and he was finally able to put to use what seemed like the one goddamn skill the universe graced him with. Anyone who walked into the shop and saw that look on his face though might assume he’d rather be anywhere else than holed up in the dimly lit tattoo parlor he worked at, but it truly was just his face. Luckily for him though, his resting bitch face seemed to match the vibe of the shop, so his boss let it slide.

So, yeah, there really wasn’t anywhere else the daunting man could see himself working in, but there was one qualm about his job— the people. God, how Sukuna fucking hated some of the half-wits that sat in his chair most of the time. Whether it be cuddled up inconvenietnly to their significant other with whom they would soon be matching ink with, or the awkwardly beefed up masculine types that were convinced that their decision to get a big ass tiger on their back was unique. 

Perhaps he should have started working on his judgemental nature long before he decided on a career that centered around servicing people, but he just couldn’t find it in him to feign interest in their drawn out stories about why they were sitting in his chair that day. At the end of the day, it was the art that kept his soul alive while having to work with so many idiots. He loved drawing, since he received his first sketchbook at the ripe age of ten so that he’d stop scribbling on the walls of his room. 

He often joked that it was his one redeeming feature, never having been the best academic student and failing to be as charming as his twin brother so easily managed— this was his one thing. 

That was why he seriously had to exercise restraint and put on his best poker face when a group of babbling college students stumbled into the shop just shy of an hour before closing. There were about five of them, all shouting over each other and giggling obnoxiously as if they could hear any of what the others were saying. 

Don’t lose your job over some sorority kids. He had to keep telling himself as he set his pencil down, looking up from his sketchbook with his lips set in a firm line. They were huddled around the stencil book now, shoving at each other for turns looking at the choices before them. The bickering grew louder and louder until his last thred of patience snapped. 

“Oi, if you shitheads are gonna come in here so close to closing, you better quiet the fuck down and pick which one of you is getting inked, cause I ain’t got time for all of you, and you’re givin’ me a fucking migraine.” 

The group was stunned to silence, blinking up at the aggravated man behind the counter who was shutting his book with a huff. It was silent for a moment before they broke into hushed, excited rambles about how he was perfect and how fucking funny this would be in the morning. Taking in a controlled breath, he watched them shove one of their members to the front.

“It’s her, she wants a tattoo.” They all guffawed, looking at each other with barely concealed smirks that appeared far too incriminating. 

You stumbled forward, bracing your hands on the counter as the room seemed to spin around you. The apples of your cheeks were flushed red, but he assumed it was your nerves, along with the fact that your gaze couldn’t seem to focus on the man before you. 

“It’s late, so if you want something it’s gotta be small.” Sukuna explained with poorly concealed annoyance as he stood up to begin prepping a chair. He heard you begin to speak, but you were quickly cut off by the boisterous group surrounding you. 

“It can be small!” One of the guys insisted desperately as he guided you by your shoulders to sit in the leather, reclining chair the tattoo artist was standing by. “She wants a…” His words trailed off as he glanced back at the giggling group, who were all giving him a thumbs up as they shouted various ideas at him. “A tramp stamp! She wants a tramp stamp.”

Sukuna felt his jaw tick at the outdated term, but he swiveled his head to face you nonetheless. 

“You fuckin’ mute or what?” He grumbled as he snatched the stencil book from the group. 

“N-No, I… they told me they’d pick something nice for me.” Your words slurred almost unintelligbly, and, upon closer inspection, he was taking note of the blearly look in your eyes. 

“You plastered right now?” 

“She’s only had a couple drinks!” One of the girls defended quickly, leaning the entire upper half of her body across the counter in anticipation. “But she’s been talking about this for like everrr.” 

Something about their eagerness to speak for you sounded off warning alarms in his mind, but he shook his head nonetheless. 

“You ever done this before?” The pink-haired man questioned as he donned a pair of gloves. 

“Umm…” You hummed nonsensically, head lolling to the side to watch him snap on the last glove. His deadpan expression made you flush with embarrassment, staring down self-consciously at your ink-free skin. “No.”

“This one! She wants this one!” Another degenerate spoke up, pointing excitedly to the stencil depicting various sized lipstick marks that would traverse the expanse of your lower back. When you leaned your head forward to look, he quickly snatched the book away from your line of sight. 

Sukuna watched the motion with narrowed eyes, irritation slowly creeping up each of his fingers with an urge to ring someone’s neck out. Glancing back at the way you were slumped back in the chair, eyes barely able to stay open, he gave a curt shake of his head. 

“Nah,” He finalized, ripping his gloves off before tossing them in the bin beside him. “I don’t know what it is you lowlives call a joke, but I ain’t the one. Take her home.”

The group quickly broke out into a string of protests, walking around the counter to level with the man, but he had already made up his mind. 

“C’mooon, man!” The guy pleaded with the stencil book still clutched in his grasp. “She’s fine! I’ll pay extra, c’mon!”

Sukuna stepped forward to snatch the book from his grasp, pointing it back at your figure still sat obliviously beside them. 

“She can barely fucking sit up straight. Take her home before you seriously piss me off.” He repeated once again. 

There was an encore of disappointed groans from the idiotic group that had brought you in. 

“Whatever man, there are like three artists on this block. We’ll go somewhere that actually wants to make money.” The ringleader quipped before grasping at your arm to pull you up.

All at once, his patience seemed to drain from him as his hand came forward to grip the man’s wrist in warning. Sukuna towered over him, his broad shoulders unknowingly blocking you from his view as he tilted his head at him. 

“Yeah? How ‘bout I call the fucking cops?” The shadows seemed to cast an impossibly more intimidating aura to his already less than welcoming expression. “Or do you wanna take this outside?” 

The group could be heard murmuring to each other, weighing their options out and deciding their cruel joke wasn’t worth whatever fate this man had in store for them should they continue. Upon acknowledging the fearfully complacent expression on the guy’s face, Sukuna leaned back, dragging his gaze across the group where not one of them stepped up to defend you in your inebriated state. 

As the idiot rushed to get you up so they could hightail it far away from this shop, the artist shook his head, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

“She’s fine there.” Sukuna said simply, not trusting that any one of these lowlives had even the slightest intention of taking you home unscathed that night. 

Baffled eyes stared up at him, but he remained resolute in his decision. It didn’t take much convincing at all though, because soon enough the group was scrambling out of the shop without so much as a second look at their ‘friend’. 

With an aggravated growl, Sukuna finally turned to face you again, only to find you passed out against the leather chair. He pursed his lips in annoyance, carefully reaching out to jostle your shoulder. You groaned softly, your still flushed face falling against your shoulder. 

“C’mon, brat.” He grumbled, glancing at the clock on the wall and deciding he deserved to close the shop a little early tonight. His boss would just have to get an explanation the next day. Reaching up, he gently pinched your warm cheek between his knuckles in an attempt to rouse you from your comatose state. “Where does your sorry ass live?”

Your eyes opened blearily, and it almost appeared as though there were two of him. Trying desperately to focus your gaze, a dumb smile spread across your face as you reached up to poke at his cheekbones. He grimaced, trying to shift his head away from your reach. 

“Haha, ‘sup four eyes?” You giggled deleriously at your own joke. 

“Yeah, real funny,” Sukuna quipped with a huff as you tossed your head back against the chair to close your eyes again. “Hey, hey, no, wake up and tell me where the hell it is I need to drop you off at.”

You only hummed sleepily at his words, and it was clear that he’d already lost you once again. Closing his eyes, he inhaled slowly through his nose to calm his temper. When he opened them once again, your lips were parted ever-so-slightly as you slipped off into a drunken slumber. 

He tsked in frustration before giving you a once over. You didn’t have a bag on you, and he wondered if your ‘friends’ had taken it with them. Glancing down at your pockets, he carefully reached down to feel around for a phone or wallet that he could use to get you home. When your front pockets proved to be useless, he grimaced slightly as he slumped you forward to search your back ones, sighing in anguished relief when he procured a cell phone. 

“Fuck.” He growled out when the damned thing prompted him for a passcode. 

In a desperate attempt to get you the hell out of his shop, he began pounding in random variations of four digit codes. Typical ones, 1-2-3-4, 0-0-0-0, 9-9-9-9, anything that might get him out of the situation he’d put himself in. After countless attempts though, he nearly tossed the device across the room when it alerted him that he was locked out due to too many failed attempts. Opting to toss the wretched thing on the table beside him, he groaned up at the ceiling. 

This is what I get for not minding my own damn business for once in my god-forsaken life.

There was a light scratching noise that flooded your consciousness. With it, came the realization that your brain was absolutely pounding against your skull, and you were sure there was a knot in your back that no amount of stretches would be able to unfurrow for at least another week. Parting your lips to lick the desert-like dryness from them, you noted that your mouth was just as parched. 

It was cold— far colder than you ever dared to keep your dorm room set at, and the sensation manifested goosebumps that prickled at every inch of your exposed skin. Despite this, there was a sheen sweat that was lining the back of your neck as you attempted to stretch. The nearly forgotten scratching stopped abruptly at your movements, and you slowly pried your eyes open. 

“Oh my god.” Your rasped voice blurted out as you came to the gruelling realization that the ceiling you were staring up at was not that of your room. Sitting up with a start, you frantically took in your surroundings as your mind reeled with the feeble attempt to remember what had transpired the night before. 

There were a myriad of… unique posters lining the walls, and, from where you were sitting, you could see a counter filled with various body jewelery. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front were drawn, making it difficult for you to determine what time it was, though you could swear you saw a sliver of sunlight peeking out through the cracks. 

Your hands suddenly began feeling around your own body in search of your phone, but you came up short. 

“It’s on the table.” Came an unfamiliarly deep voice on your right. 

Whipping your head around so quickly that it nearly made you dizzy, you caught sight of the monstrous-sized man lounging on the leather seat on the opposite end of the room. His hair was disheveled, but you were still caught off guard by its soft pink hue as strands strew across his forehead. An intricate work of black tattoos lined his face, emphasizing the secondary set of eyes he had inked under his real ones. 

“Oh my god!” You repeated with a mortified expression. He set aside the notebook that was perched on his lap to stand from his seat, and you shrunk farther into yours as he stretched to his full height. “Did we… oh my god, did I get a tattoo?” You weren’t sure which outcome sounded scarier to you as you frantically began assessing your skin for any evidence. 

“Check your ass.” He quipped with an amused glint on his otherwise stoic expression, but it almost broke upon seeing the horrified look on your face. “I’m fucking with you. Nothing happened— no thanks to your dumbass choice of friends though.”

You slowly settled back against the leather seat, trying to calm your racing heart as his words sunk in. With a vague haze, you could recall going out with a few members from your class who you were paired with for a group project. They weren’t exactly your friends, but you were desperately trying to change that being new to the city where you had begun university. 

“What… what do you mean?”

“I mean, they brought you in here telling me to tat you. You couldn’t even keep your eyes open. I told ‘em to fuck off.” His explanation was nonchalant as he began organizing a few things behind the counter. “And your sorry ass wouldn’t wake up long enough to tell me where you lived.”

The hazy puzzle pieces slowly started to come together, and you felt yourself flush instantly. Glancing at the time on your phone that was waiting for you just beside your seat, you noted it was still far too early for a tattoo parlor to be open. 

“I’m so sorry, this is mortifying—” You babbled as you stood up, quickly trying to straighten your rustled clothes. “I’m not from around here, and I was just trying to make some friends, but I didn’t know that—”

“Woah, woah woah,” The man before you grimaced with a wave of his hand to halt your rant. The warmth in your cheeks grew that much hotter at the realization of your rambling. “I just spent the night on a damn tattoo chair. I am nowhere near awake enough for your sob story right now, doll.”

“Right, sorry. Um, I should really get out of your hair.” You stammered, glancing awkwardly down at your feet as you made a beeline for the front door. With a barely noticeable hesitance, you turned back toward him one more time. “Thank you, by the way. That was… really cool of you.”

Sukuna watched with a lazy gaze as you pulled at the door only to be met with stark resistance. With a quiet huff, you used both hands this time to try to wrestle it open, even attempting to push it just in case. His long legs slowly dragged toward the front of the store with a tired mischievousness. Reaching over you, he switched the door unlocked before leaning back again, watching as the heat creeped up your neck. 

“Thanks.” You mumbled once again in humiliation, unable to face him as you finally pulled the door open. In an instant though, his hand was reaching above your head to hold the door closed. Your heart leaped into your throat, a nervous sweat nearly breaking out onto your forehead as you hesitantly looked up at him. 

“No friends is better than shit ones, you hear me?” One of his brows was raised as he glowered down at you, and the breath slowly escaped your lungs. 

His broad figure made sure his shadow consumed you, and from this close your clouded mind was finally able to process how terrifyingly hot this man was. Not trusting your voice, you could only nod meekly at his solemn advice, nearly crying in relief when he finally pushed off the door and allowed you to slip through it. 

In the end, you, by the grace of a higher being, made it to practice only ten minutes late, though you were still scolded by your instructor since you cut into your warm-up time. It was arguably the hardest practice you’d yet to endure, what with the crink it your back from spending the night on a tattoo chair. 

The more you thought about the mortifying events that had transpired the night before, the more you wished you could take your brain right out of your skull and hose it down in hopes of forgetting all about it. It was humiliating to think of how naive you had been to keep accepting drinks from the group you were with, who were still essentially strangers to you. Still, you were desperate for some friends after having spent an entire semester holed up in your dorm with nothing to do and no one to see. 

You had moved to the city from a small town, the kind where everyone knew everyone, and the culture of hospitality was far different from the uppity vibes you had received from nearly every new person you had met here. It was never really in your plans to move so far from home, but the university you had been accepted into had one of the best ballet programs in the country, and it had been your dream to dance professionally since you were six years old and perfected your first pirouette.

Still, you hadn’t expected to sacrifice so much to make it happen. 

You were friendly with the other members of your ballet group, but they all seemed to have already known each other for so long. It was more difficult than anything— trying to fit yourself into friend groups that had already been solidifying for years before your appearance. So, when your group members invited you out with them that night, you were more than elated to go along with whatever they had planned. 

You groaned in frustration, gently hitting your head against the wall of your shower as you washed off the sweat that had built up from your questionable night as well as practice later that day. There were at least five minutes spent inspecting your naked body in the mirror to confirm that you did not in fact have any unexpected ink anywhere. 

Despite your being in the clear, you couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of what could have happened had the kind yet terrifying tattoo artist not been as decent of a human being as he was. The guilt and embarrassment gnawed away at you in the few days that followed at the thought of the complete stranger staying with you in the shop until your stupidly drunk self decided to wake up. You thought of his parting words as well, that made you feel even a tiny bit better about your less than fortunate social circumstances.

It was an impulsive urge spurred on by your incessant boredom just two days later that had you meticulously weighing out the ingredients for the easiest cookie recipe you could manage in your dorm’s tiny kitchen. You heard the timer ring in the next room as you tied your hair up in front of the mirror. After carefully packaging the baked goods in a leftover, holiday themed cookie tin with a neatly written ‘thank you for not tattooing me!’ note written on some pink stationary, you set off for the shop that had been haunting you for the past two days. 

The lit up, neon red ‘TATTOO’ sign that hung outside the front seemed to buzz ominously as you stared up at it. It was never the type of… establishment you ever frequented, but it was far from you to judge given your previous circumstances. 

With an anxious sigh, you pushed into the door, hearing the faint jingle of the bell attached to it. The shop was fairly busy, a stark difference from that morning you’d woken up in it prior to its opening. 

“Welcome in. You here for a tattoo or a piercing?” You were pulled from your thoughts as a man behind the counter greeted you. He definitely fit the part, you thought as you took in his tattooed nose and pierced lips. What appeared to be eyeliner was smudged haphazardly around his already ominous, dark orbs, and there were two spiked out buns at the top of his head. 

“Um, neither actually.” You flushed unnecessarily, your fingers curling tighter around your tin as he raised a curious brow at you. Mustering up a kind smile, you finally found the courage to look him in the eyes. “I’m looking for a guy that works here. Tall, pink hair, face tattoos— do you know who I’m talking about?”

“Sukuna? Yeah, he’s working on an appointment right now.” The man explained as he looked at the time. You opened your mouth to ask if he would be so kind as to just give him the tin whenever he got out, but he cut you off. “He should be finishing up soon if you wanna wait here for him.”

Abruptly shutting your mouth, you weren’t sure why you couldn’t bring yourself to decline his offer, far too self-conscious about your every breath in this place. Nodding in thanks, you slowly sat down on the low, leather black couch that was in the waiting area. You clacked your nails anxiously against the tin in your lap, hyperaware of the man’s eyes still on you. 

“So, what’s in the container?” He questioned with a curious glint in his eyes, jutting his chin toward your lap. Looking up at him in surprise, you offered a bashful smile.

“Oh, they’re just cookies.” You explained with a nonchalant wave of your hand. 

His intimidating expression seemed to melt right off of his face, darkly lined eyes lighting up in a way that gave him a child-like aura. Smiling knowingly, you stood to walk over to the counter and opened the tin to offer him one. The boyish smile he gave instantly fought off any fear you previously held toward him, and the tension in your shoulders slowly faded as he eagerly grabbed one. 

“‘Thank you for not tattooing me’?” The man read the card through cookie-filled cheeks, crumbs gathering around his lips as he looked up at you in question. “I’ve gotta hear this—”

“Choso, get him a tube of aftercare, will ya’?” That familiar, deep voice saved you from the embarrassment of having to explain yourself to the kind man at the front desk. Sukuna, as you had now learned his name was, was walking in from the back followed by a shorter man. His movements faltered upon seeing you in the shop again. 

His ruby eyes took in your soft appearance in contrast to the gothic decorations that adorned the shop. You stuck out like a sore thumb, with your baby pink cardigan and perfectly glossed lips, and he couldn’t for the life of him think of why you would step foot back in here. 

“Sorry, doll, bed and breakfast is closed.” He quipped as nodded at the customer who had stopped to thank him again before exiting the store. You flushed at his jab, wondering why you bothered humiliating yourself like this. 

“She made you cookies.” Choso announced excitedly, once again with his mouth stuffed.

“Yeah? Then why the hell are you eating them?” He grumbled, swatting the man on the back of the head as he raised his hands in mock defense. The pink haired man walked behind the counter, picking up your note and skimming it with a raised brow before casting his eyes to the side dismissively. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought you had flustered him. “Don’t gotta thank me for not being an asshole.”

As he leaned over to distract himself with checking the computer for his next appointment, Choso stared incredulously between him and you.

“You can thank me, I’m not an asshole.” He gushed, leaning his forearms on the counter to smile invitingly at you. His eyes skimmed your face before a flush fell over his cheeks. “Won’t tat you either if it means a pretty girl brings me cookies, too.”

“Quit being such a freak.” Sukuna growled as he elbowed him, finally tearing his gaze away from the computer to close the tin back up before Choso could steal another, but he was far too focused on getting your attention to pay the grouch any mind.

“How ‘bout a piercing, hm? Bet you’d look reeeal cute with a septum ring.” 

“Oh, um…” You flushed at his words, subconsciously reaching up to touch your bare nose. “I’m actually in ballet, and they’re pretty strict about—”

“Ballet?” Choso guffawed, much to Sukuna’s dismay as he huffed at the energetic man. “That’s so tight. So you do like shows and cool shit like that?”

“Yeah! I… actually have a recital coming up next week.” You explained enthusiastically, eager to connect in any way you can to the first person who’s shown you any sort of kindness since moving here. Without stopping to think about how desperate you might appear, you fished out a spare handout from your bag. “You should come— y’know, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

The pierced man before you snatched up the paper eagerly, dark eyes skimming the contents before he slumped in disappointment. 

“No can do, I’m working that night.” He sighed before turning to Sukuna, who had been watching the exchange with a barely concealed glare. “You should totally go though— he can go, right?”

You were undeniably flustered as you looked up at the man you had come here for, who looked less than enthused about your sudden turning up to the shop again. God, were you totally out of your element inviting this insanely attractive, crushingly edgy man to your ballet? Gulping down your nerves, you nodded softly, offering a timid smile. 

“Y-Yeah! Of course—”

“What the fuck would possess you to think I look like a dude who goes to ballets?” 

Your words died in your throat, and you felt all the blood rush to your face so embarrassingly fast that the only possible solace would be if the ground opened up below you and swallowed you whole. Looking down at your pristinely manicured nails, you dug your top lip mercilessly between your teeth. 

“Well, I-I usually invite my friends, but… it’s my first show since moving here, and I don’t… really know anyone, so…” It was as if you were growing more pathetic by the second, and you willed yourself to just shut the fuck up.

Sukuna, on the other hand, felt his stone cold heart shrivel up in horror at your words. Even with all the terrified glances he’d get from passerbyers on the street, and all the children he’d scared to tears with just a sharp glance their way, he had never felt like more of a monster than he did in that very moment watching your lively face dim so abruptly. 

He remembered what you had said the other day about trying to make some friends, and apparently you were desperate enough to get yourself in the position he’d had to pull you out of himself to do so. Beside him, he could feel Choso stepping on his toes as if to tell him to take it easy on you, but he was already wallowing in a pool of his own guilt. 

With a guarded scowl, Sukuna snatched the paper from his half-brother’s hands, red eyes skimming it furiously as you began apologizing for disturbing him. As you turned to make a desperate speed-walk toward the door, he spoke up. 

“Better be fucking good, brat.” 

Pausing mid-step, a subtle warmth spread in your chest as you slowly turned back around with a tickled smile. He didn’t deserve it, he was sure of it— not with the way your eyes lit up the entire room as if he’d just found the cure to cancer or solved world hunger. No, he’d just stepped on your innocent offer with the sole of his heavy, black boot after you’d just brought him home-made cookies for not tattooing you while you were under the influence. He didn’t deserve the way you flashed your teeth at him. 

“Heading to practice right now, boss.” You beamed with a mock salute before making your way to the exit with more pep in your step than had been there previously. Just before the door shut behind you, you shouted over your shoulder. “I hope you like the cookies!” 

“Why doesn’t this type of shit happen to me?” Choso questioned rhetorically as he stared longingly at the door you just left through with a shake of his head. “You’re a real asshole, you know?” 

And, boy, did he know it. 

While you had been flattered at Sukuna’s implication that he’d be showing up to your recital, a larger part of you was coming to terms with the fact that there was no way in hell that dude was coming. You couldn’t blame him. After all, you were essentially strangers, and it truly didn’t seem like his scene. Still, it would have been nice to have one person coming in your support. 

Sighing wistfully, you sprayed the final touches of hairspray into your slicked back bun, turning your head to the side to assure there were no stray strands. The lights of the dressing room mirror reflected the subtle glitter on your eyelids as you watched your fellow dancers bustle around behind you as they also prepared. 

Resisting the urge to bite at your lip for fear of ruining your lipstick, you glanced down at the message on your phone. 

Mom: Please send me a recording! I hate that I can’t be there for you today :(

In all your years as a dancer, you had always had someone there for you in the audience to cheer you on. Whether it be your family or your hometown friends, someone was always waiting for you outside with flowers and a proud smile. Swallowing down your self-pity, you gave yourself one last once over before you heard your three minute warning. If you weren’t dancing for anyone, you determined, you would just have to do it for yourself. 

That was the notion that got you through both of your group numbers and your solo. With every pointed kick and turn, you reminded yourself that this was for the life you were working so hard to achieve. The stage lights were blinding, and the beautifully orchestrated music almost made you forget that you were so upset in the first place. It showed on your face though, you were sure. After all, every instructor you’d ever had always told you that your expression would tell the story of your number louder than any lyrics ever could.

With all the preparation that went into every recital, you still never failed to be shocked whenever it ended so suddenly. There was a strong sense of pride bubbling in your stomach as your team met up backstage for a few celebratory photos. That familiar buzz came to an end though as everyone began departing, all greeted by friends, families, or lovers. With a wistful smile, you tugged your jacket tighter around yourself as you stepped out into the frigid air. 

“There you are— jesus,” A man sighed in exasperation as you accidentally shouldered into him, his hand closing around your arm before you could walk away. “All you people look the damn same with your hair like that.”

Looking up in bewilderment, your jaw fell open in surprise upon seeing that familiar head of pink hair. He was scanning the area with an awkward tension in his shoulders, as though he felt out of place in the midst of all these ballerinas— he certainly looked out of place. 

There was a black, button down dress shirt clinging mercilessly to his sculpted form, the first few buttons undone and revealing a teasing amount of his chest. As if it was the only color that ever graced his closet, his slim-fitting dress pants were also black, emphasizing his slim waist as it contrasted against his broad shoulders. 

Your lips parted as you took in his appearance, and you could swear the air around you grew at least five degrees warmer. As if your face couldn’t get any hotter, your eyes finally landed on the arrangement of flowers clutched in his hands. He glanced down at them with what seemed like an annoyed expression before shoving them toward you. 

“My brother said you’re supposed to bring crap like this to these things…” He explained, still not looking you in the eyes as you slowly took the bouquet into your arms.

“You actually came.” You commented, still a bit shell shocked to see him here. 

“I said I was gonna, didn’t I?” It came out harsher than he would have liked, but he couldn’t help but feel so oddly out of place before you. 

“Right.” You muttered pathetically, looking down at your feet so he wouldn’t see the flush in your cheeks. After taking a moment to compose yourself, you offered a hopeful smile that struck him like lightning. “Did you like the show?”

“You were alright, brat.” Sukuna grumbled as he peered down at you. 

It was a gross understatement though, because the man was absolutely floored when he saw you on that stage. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen before— so used to the heavy metal and the harsher things in life. As soon as that center light hit you though, reflecting the ardently despaired expression on your intricately done up face as you allowed the music to take hold of you, it was as though you had cast a spell on him. 

The flowers in his lap nearly dropped to the floor as he found himself subconsciously leaning forward in his seat, lips parted in disbelief. You were angelic, each of your calculated movements translating etherally into the overall story you were conveying through your choreography. Even the subtle positioning of your delicate fingers seemed intricately thought out, pulling him further into your orbit. It made him want to trap you in your own little snow globe to put you on his shelf, ready to twirl so breathtakingly each time he longed for it. 

Yeah, maybe alright was an understatement, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it to you. Even now, as you smiled up at the waiter taking your order, Sukuna pretended not to be enamoured by the way your stage makeup made your eyes glitter under the restaurant's dim lighting. He had insisted on taking you to dinner following the show, not exactly asking and certainly not taking no for an answer as he led you to his sleek, black car with an urging hand on the nape of your neck. 

And you— you were far too elated to be making a friend to care about his off-putting demeanor. You barely had the chance to be remotely nervous over the fact that this teetered very closely on the edge of being a date with a man you would have deemed far out of your league just days ago. 

“So, you own the tattoo shop?” Your soft voice pulled him from his haze once the waiter placed your plates in front of you. You leaned forward on the table, a curious smile tugging at your red painted lips.

“Hah— yeah, that’s fucking hilarious.” He scoffed with an amused grin, leaning back as he took a sip of his drink. Taking note of the barely concealed confusion on your face, he cleared his throat, trying to remind himself to be on his best behavior. “I mean, I just finished my apprenticeship— don’t got the kind of money it takes to own my own shop.”

“Oh,” You muttered with a shy smile, suddenly feeling stupid for asking in the first place. “Well, I’m sure you’re really talented. I could barely draw a stick figure without making him look deformed.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, amused by your attempt to smooth over his negativity. You nodded affirmatively as you took a sip of your wine. There was a subtle flush in your cheeks that told him your drink was starting to catch up to you, and he made a mental note to stop the waiter from refilling your glass again. “And what about you, huh? You’d let me come at you with some ink since you think I’m so talented?”

A mock hum bubbled in your throat as you pretended to think about it. 

“I don’t know, you’d have to come up with something real cool.” You teased, running your hands dramatically up and down your bare arms. “This is virgin skin you’re seeing here— not to be tainted with any of those boring designs, you know?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.” Sukuna assured with theatric sincerity, only spurring on your giggles as you played along. 

“It has to be something that’s me, you know?” You pursed your lips pensively before casting a sidelong glance his way. “Maybe like a pair of pointe shoes.”

“A pair of what?” 

 “Pointe shoes! You know, the shoes ballet dancers use?”

“That’s fucking lame.” Sukuna blew a raspberry at your idea.

“Oh yeah?” You quipped, biting down your embarrassment at his abrupt shut down of your suggestion. “What would you put on me then?”

The tattoo parlor was already closed by the time you and Sukuna stumbled inside, your excited giggle filling the deadly silent shop as he locked the door behind you and switched on the lights. He shrugged his jacket off, watching you carefully as you snooped around the store. 

“Why don’t you sit your ass down before you break something?” He grumbled, snatching a tattoo gun from your curious grasp before taking a seat in one of the leather chairs. You rolled your eyes playfully before sitting down across from him, swinging your dangling feet gently as you looked around. 

“So, what were you thinking then, boss?” You questioned, watching as he pulled out his sketchbook and flipped it open. Rummaging through the drawer for a pencil, he peered up at you with a raised brow. 

“I don’t know. Tell me something.” He murmured as he began a rough sketch. 

“Like what?”

“About you.” 

“Oh.” You looked down bashfully, toying with a run in your tights before shrugging at him. “I don’t know. Nothing to tell, I guess. I’m kind of boring.” 

“That’s bullshit.” He brushed off nonchalantly, not looking up from his book. You blinked owlishly at him a few times. Noting your silence, he continued. “I saw you dance— saw the look on your face. Can’t tell me there’s nothing to tell there.” 

You were taken aback by his astute observation, staring back at the way he concentrated so intently on his drawing. He didn’t look nearly as intimidating in this light. It was silent for a beat too long, and he glanced up at you, the sharp nature of his gaze sending shivers down your spine. 

“Well?” 

“Okay, well, um… I guess I just never know if I’m making the right decision? About anything ever?” You rationed with furrowed brows, trying to make sense of your own illogical feelings. “I moved here because of the dance program, because I thought that this was really what I wanted. Now I’m here though without all my friends and family, and I’m…”

“Lonely?” Sukuna finished for you as you trailed off. 

“I guess so. And, I mean, I know it’s supposed to be hard in the beginning, but I can’t help but feel like I made a massive mistake and my life is about to crumble around me?”

The sound of his pencil scratching against the paper filled the sudden silence that hung between you, but you knew he was listening. Taking advantage of his distraction, you stared unashamedly at his hunched over figure. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the black rings that were tattooed across both his arms. There was a subtle furrow in his brows, but for the first time since meeting him it wasn’t born out of anger or frustration, instead telling a story about his dedication to his craft.

You felt the breath get knocked out of you as you observed him. Frantically trying to veer back on topic before he noticed your creepy gawking, you cleared your throat before offering an enthusiastic smile. 

“Guess it’s just always been hard for me to commit to things.” You tried to wrap up your subtle sob story. “Maybe that’s why I’ve got no tattoos then, huh?”

He huffed out a breathy laugh, the corners of his lips curling up ever so slightly as he shook his head at your conclusion. 

“Is that what you want? You know, do this ballet shit for a living?”

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“Then to hell with people. If they give a shit they’ll be there whenever you come back.” He scoffed as though the notion offended him personally. “You’re too talented to hold yourself back for that kind of crap.”  

His nonchalant compliment made your heart pound just a little bit harder.

“What about you?” You asked breathlessly, shaking off the butterflies waging war in your stomach. 

“What about me?”

“Why tattooing?”

“Wasn’t good at anything else.” He answered simply, and his dismissal made you roll your eyes. 

“Come on, I was just very honest with you.” 

“Yeah, well you’re probably better at all that sap shit anyway.” 

Sliding off the chair, you walked closer to him and leaned your elbows on the work table before him. Propping your chin on your fist, you grinned knowingly at him, though he still hadn’t looked up from his sketch. 

“Maybe that’s why then, huh?” You assumed. He hummed in question at your vague statement. “You draw cause you’re not good at all the… ‘sap shit’. If you don’t know how to say it, you draw it, right?” 

The careful maneuvering of his pencil slowed before pausing all together at your read. Of course, he’d always known that his drawings were an outlet for him, having learned through years of repressed feelings how to convey words through lines and swirls. No one had ever explained it so… simply to him before though. Taking note of his forlorn expression, your lips curled up empathetically. 

“I do it sometimes too, you know— when I feel too overwhelmed to put my thoughts into actual words. I put them into my choreographies instead.” 

“Yeah, it shows.” Sukuna finally spoke up,  suddenly uncomfortable with the serious energy that had invaded the space around them. Clearing his throat, he put his pencil down before handing you his sketchbook with an awkward scratch to his forehead. “That ‘you’ enough for ya?” 

Your pretty, pink nails clutched at the edge of his sketchbook, slowly bringing it toward you as you soaked in his creation with parted lips. Right in the middle of the page was a snow-globe, flowers that you recognized as the same type he’d brought you earlier decorating the base of it. Inside though, was a ballerina in the very costume you had donned just hours prior on stage, one leg curled up as her arms curved softly around her in the perfect pirouette position. 

“Sukuna, this is…” Your voice failed you as you gave each detail another weighted once over. Blinking back the haze that threatened to form over your eyes, you looked up at him with a besotted smile. There were stars in your eyes, and he didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of them. “This is so beautiful. You’re incredible.” 

He tsked dismissively, trying desperately to conceal the softness in his gaze as he took in your reaction. 

“Why the snowglobe?” You questioned suddenly, glancing down at the sketch before flashing him with that eagerly curious grin. 

He opened his mouth only to shut it once again, not sure how to tell you of where his thoughts had taken him to while he watched you dance so gracefully across the stage. So, he simply huffed in feigned annoyance before snatching the book from you and jutting his chin toward the chair. 

“You questioning my artistic decisions now, brat?” He didn’t give you the chance to respond as you sat back against the leather chair. “So, where are we putting this thing?”

“Oh!” You quipped, suddenly coming to the realization that he was dead serious about giving you a tattoo. Anxiety creeped up in your stomach as you brought your hand up to chew apprehensively at your nails. “Um…”

“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out on me now.” Sukuna teased with a mischievous smirk.

“No!” You quickly defended, much to his surprise. “I want to do this— get over my fear of commitment, right?”

He hummed thoughtfully, brushing your jacket from your shoulders to inspect your arms. Grasping at your hand, he turned the inner side of your arm out to face him, purposeful in the way he allowed his fingers to trace up the delicate skin of your forearm. It made your breath hitch, his proximity allowing for a generous waft of his cologne to flood your senses. You clenched your thighs together in a manner you prayed was subtle. 

“I think it’d look good right here.” He suggested, grazing his thumb over the expanse of skin just above where your elbow creased. 

Taking in a calculated breath to pull yourself together, you quickly shook your head. 

“Can’t be anywhere too visible.” You explained, staring down at where his hand still wrapped around your elbow. “I mean, it can, but I’ll have to worry about covering it up for every performance.” 

Sukuna’s dark eyes glanced up to meet yours at this statement. His brows were raised in suggestion, an amused smirk pulling at his lips. 

“So your friends were serious about you wantin’ a ‘tramp stamp’ then? That what I’m  hearing?”

“I don’t want a— a tramp stamp.” You scoffed with flushed cheeks, but he was just too elated at how easy it was to fluster you. “I don’t know, where else do you think that can be covered up easily?”

Sukuna sighed, eyes trailing over your body in thought. It made you squirm in your seat. After a moment, he leaned forward to pull the lever on your chair, sending it reeling backwards until you were nearly laying flat. You squeaked in surprise, quickly grasping his arm for support as he smirked at your reaction. 

You watched as his hands came up to hover over the hem of your sweater before glancing up at you in question. Despite the way your heart was beating up into your throat, you nodded softly at him. It had to have been deliberate— the way he dragged your sweater up so agonizingly slow, assuring his fingers brushed against each inch of skin that was exposed on the way. You gulped as he paused just under your bra, and he was once again looking up at you in search of approval, to which you nodded silently, far too convinced you’d embarrass yourself should you speak.

With your approval, he tugged your hem up to rest just under your chin, trying to appear professional as he took in the sight of your bra-clad chest. The truth was though, that his thoughts were so very far from the tattoo at the moment, reveling in the way your breasts strained against the confines of your cups with each ragged breath you took. Your breathing had been growing heavier since the second he laid his hands on you— and he noticed each time. 

He trailed his hands up your sides, thumbs grazing over the divets of your ribs in a manner far too sensual to just be chalked up to searching for a good placement. As his pointer fingers traced where the wire of your bra met your skin, he hummed affirmatively. 

“It would look nice right here.” His raspy voice was almost a whisper now as he tucked his finger underneath the area of your bra just between your breasts, right over your sternum. 

A breathless whimper threatened to escape you, but you swallowed it back and looked down at where he had placed his finger. 

“Y-You think so?” You whispered, and he quickly nodded, gradually leaning over you more and more with the illusion of getting a better look. 

“Might be a little painful, but…” His voice trailed, as did his hand, escaping from under your strap to dance up your chest and neck. “I’ll let ya’ hold onto me if you’re good.”

You were sure your soul had left you at that point, off to find a body whose nervous system wasn’t utterly short-circuiting. Your knees drew together as you fought to maintain your composure at his suggestive words. 

“Sukuna, are we… still talking about the tattoo?” You questioned doubtfully, and the smirk on his plush lips told you you weren’t wrong. 

“Do you want it to be about the tattoo?”

“Well, it’s just…” He thought the way you stammered over your words was endearing, and it was sending all the blood in his system rushing down south. Glancing up at him timidly, you chewed on your bottom lip. “Would it hurt more if it’s… my first? You know… tattoo, of course.”

For the third time since meeting you, Sukuna was struck by the startling realization that he seriously didn’t deserve any of this. The hand that had been slowly traversing up your neck grasped at your jaw. 

“Well, I’d make sure you were good and ready first, doll.” He assured, eyes drifting down to stare longingly at your parted lips before meeting your heated gaze once again. “But you should always be sure you chose the right artist first, you hear?” 

And you heard him loud and clear. With your heart beat reverberating mercilessly in your ears, you nodded breathlessly at him.

“I trust you.”  

And oh, how hard he worked to assure you didn’t regret those words. Something told him you didn’t though— maybe the way those pretty, manicured nails were digging into his scalp just as his jaw began to ache deliciously in tandem with his mouth’s relentless ravishing of your perfectly supple pussy.

You were dripping down his chin, evidence of you tickling down his neck as he desperately tried to drink up every last drop of you. His colossal hands had come up to hold your trashing hips down against the chair after one too many jolts away from his eager tongue. The sound of his grotesquely sloppy, open mouthed kissed against your core filled your ears as you stared up at the ceiling blearily. 

You were so grateful that you always wore waterproof makeup for your performances, because you were sure your mascara would have been smeared unattractively down your face with the sheer force of your overstimulated tears. The saccharine moans that were hurdling their way from your throat made him dig his black fingernails into your stomach as he sucked on your clit as if rewarding you for the melodies. 

He grunted when the sensation made you yank at the roots of his hair, and you quickly gasped apologetically before releasing your tight grip. 

“Oh! I-I’m— ah! I’m sorry.”

Your disappointed whine made him smirk as his face suddenly emerged from between your legs to leer at you menacingly. One of his hands left your stomach to catch yours as it departed from his scalp, guiding it back affirmatively. 

“Tear the shit out if ya’ want— quit fuckin’ apologizing.” 

His words had your eyes rolling back into your skull, more confident now as you dug your fingers through his soft locks once again. The hand that had abandoned its post on your stomach never returned, and you instead felt it gliding purposefully up the inside of your thigh. Two of his long fingers sweeped up your weeping slit, gathering some of your arousal as his lips remained focused on your bundle of nerves. 

With a thrust that seemed so uncharacteristically careful of him, he dipped his two fingers into your sopping entrance. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, the heels of your feet finding the edge of the chair to pull yourself away from the subtle sting. 

“Easy, easy,” Sukuna rasped, tearing his mouth away from your honied center in favor of talking you through your unease. The remaining hand on your stomach began tracing soft, sensual circles against your silken skin. It made you slowly release your hitched breath, apprehensively relaxing back against the leather. “Atta girl, relax for me, yeah?”

You nodded deleriously up at the ceiling, head lolling to the side to watch what he was doing, not expecting to find his ruby eyes already focused on you. A flush fell over your face, hoping your expression didn’t give away how utterly torn apart he had made you with his tongue alone. A smirk tickled his glistening lips as you met his gaze, and he turned his head to press comforting, open mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. 

After a few moments, his fingers began slowly pushing through the subtle resistance of your core. Casting a sidelong glance your way to catch your reaction, he gently curled his fingers up, digits massaging at the cusiony bundle of nerves at the roof of your walls, and god, how the blissed out popping open of your mouth failed to disappoint. 

Burning for a closer look, he rose from his knees to climb onto the tight space of the chair. It was by no means designed to hold two people— especially not when one of them is as abnormally overgrown as Sukuna, but he’d be damned if he couldn’t drink up those candied whimpers slipping past your lips. The steady pace of his fingers picked up as he hovered over you, taking a moment to soak in how beautifully debauched you looked just like this. 

“Sukuna—” You whined at the sensation of the steadily growing knot in your stomach, but he only offered a mockingly sympathetic nod. Your fingers dug into the soft fabric of his button down, clinging for dear life as he lowered himself closer to you until his lips brushed against your ear. 

“Call me Ryomen, doll.” 

And that was the very name that slipped from your lips in an almost strangled sob as you crumpled against him. His lips quickly found yours, though you were hardly able to reciprocate his kiss as moans continued spilling from you, falling into his awaiting mouth like a prayer. 

Much like the startled realization you had earlier that he was very serious about tattooing you that night, you were for some reason just as gobsmacked as you watched him rise with his knees trapping you in, purposefully unbuttoning his now wrinkled dress shirt as his hungry eyes stared down at you. He had pushed your sweater off of you just before burying his head between your thighs, and he was now reaping the reward of watching your breasts heave as you looked up at him. 

Your expression must have given you away, as it always seems to, as he stood up to work his belt off. The clinking of his buckle made your mind race, chest swelling with a feeling that you couldn’t decide was anticipation or anxiety. As he pulled the leather material through the loops of his dress pants and worked away at his button and zipper, he observed your horribly practiced poker face. 

He tilted his head to the side as his bottoms pooled at his feet, the outline of his erection now on full display for your already perturbed gaze. Maybe it was just because you’d never exactly seen one up close before, but, even through the straining fabric of his boxers, you were almost positive that thing wasn’t natural. Hiking yourself further up on the leather chair, you tried not to stare in a way that screamed fear. 

The motion made him pause, his thumbs slowly unhooking from their spot in the waistband of his boxers. A careful sigh escaped him, the tiniest of knowing smiles masking the subtle disappointment in his chest as he turned from you to pull up a stool. 

“W-What are you doing?” You questioned, watching with fluttering eyes as he leaned down to begin pulling supplies out from the drawer to place on the work table beside your chair. 

“I’m tattooing you— the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” 

Your mouth opened and closed much like a fish as you closed your legs self-consciously. His hair was still rustled from your fingers’ assault through it, and there was still a very prominent tent poking out through his boxers, though he still began prepping his station as though he hadn’t just been about to take your virginity in the middle of this tattoo parlor. 

“Well, um… what about you?” You stammered anxiously as he guided you by your shoulder to lay back. 

“What about me?” He murmured while pulling on a pair of gloves. 

“Didn’t you want to…” The words died on your throat, far too embarrassed to utter them aloud. Your eyes drifted to the side as you felt your face flush. “I mean you… helped me, so.”

Sukuna finally paused, tilting his head to look at you with a challenging raised brow. 

“I wouldn’t tattoo you in that chair cause you weren’t a hundred percent about it before. What makes you think I’ll fuck you in it when you clearly don’t want to?” His crude words only made your embarrassment grow that much deeper, but his fingers quickly came up to tilt your chin toward him before he winked teasingly at you. “Don’t worry— one commitment at a time, right?”

Your gaze softened at his consideration, even as he turned away from you to continue prepping his station. It made you forget how nervous you were that he was about to permanently mark you, but a small part of you already felt like he had. 

So, you allowed him to carefully pull your bra off when he asked, sighing wistfully as he pressed a longing kiss against each one before cleaning the area. Much like just minutes prior, he let you pull at his hair as the needle gradually began piercing your skin, laughing through your tears as he grumbled about how much of a wimp you were. His soft smile told a different story though as he sat still clad in his boxers and paused each time you needed to breathe, taking each opportunity to kiss and nip at your lips with the false pretense of taking your mind off the pain. 

You were sure the process was prolonged at least an hour longer than necessary with how long your breaks would last as he couldn’t bear to interrupt you as you nervously rambled about whatever came to your mind. As you began growing used to the subtle pain, you traced each of the black marks on his face as he worked with a fierce concentration. 

Pathetic tears of awe and shock spilled from your tired eyes as you stood in front of the mirror to observe his delicate handiwork. It was just as beautiful as it had been when he first showed you the rough sketch, though he would argue that your skin did it far more justice, chin hooked over your shoulder as he observed your reaction in the mirror. 

Sukuna scoffed at you when you tried to ask him the price, much to your mortification. He wouldn’t even look in your direction, busying himself with cleaning up the station as he pretended not to hear your countless protests. 

“You just spent like— hours doing this.” You gaped, through flushed cheeks as you jostled his arm. “Please, let me pay you.” 

“Wanna know how you can pay me?” He finally questioned gruffly, leaning back against the counter as he pulled you in closer to his bare chest. Breathlessly, you nodded, eyes unable to meet his as they were too focused on his curled lips. 

“Whenever you’re ready for your next big commitment,” He whispered, his warm lips brushing against the shell of your ear as you clung to his biceps. “Let it be me, yeah?”

part two

a/n: got the inspiration for this yesterday, blacked out, and suddenly it was finished the next day oops

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[the-odd-shu]

Sky regrets trying to play wingman

A continuation of lab shenanigans.

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Characters: Viktor, Jayce, Reader, Sky

(Pre-Jayce/Viktor/Reader) (POLYCULEEEE!)

Summary: A sketchbook goes missing, Viktor and Jayce feel soft about it and Sky is fighting for her life.

Note; this takes place during season 1, and the reader is gender neutral with they/them pronouns.

Lab Illustrator!Reader has a secret A5 sketchbook they don't use for assignments. It's a small thing, that they keep tucked beneath all of their other paperwork during the day, and take home with them every night.

It is as non-descript as sketchbooks come, with a plain, black cover and pages brimming with hundreds of sketches and stuck in sheets of paper.

But what makes it different from their professional sketchbook, you ask? And why does it need to be a secret?

Well, because it is a notebook solely dedicated to drawings and doodles of their co-workers. And neither of them know that Reader has been drawing them.

There are hundreds of stolen moments stuffed between these pages. Late night coffee breaks, where the pencil lines are thick and dark to accentuate the dimness of the lab against the stark light leaking out of the kitchenette, where backs are turned and coffee mugs steam, whilst eyes fall to half-mast from the sheer weight of the late hour.

There are a dozen or so slower, more carefully done doodles of Jayce sprawled out across the lab couch in various positions. Several cane studies, because Viktor had a habit of leaving it in more and more odd places when he has had a breakthrough, and sheer determination and spite keep him standing unaided before the whiteboard.

There are pages dedicated to Viktor reading. And pages brimming with Jayce's broad shoulders and winning smile.

There is a double page spread of Viktor stood before the chalkboard, cane in one hand, his other tucked under his chin with a piece of chalk tucked between two of his fingers, his lips pursed in thought as he tried to find a solution to the problem before him. The lines of this sketch are soft and gentle, almost dreamlike, as the image was teased out of the page.

The pages directly after it show a heavy handed pen drawing of Jayce bent over his desk, goggles over his eyes, his tongue peeking out from between his lips as he welds pieces of metal together. A single, loose curl of hair having broken free of its slicked back appearance, and is now sprawled cutely down his forehead.

And that's only the beginning.

Neither of them know that Reader draws them. As far as they know, Reader can't even draw people. And Reader wants to keep it that way. Because if EITHER of them found the sketchbook, they just KNOW they would not let them live it down. Jayce would be embarrassed, no doubt asking stupid questions like, 'is my nose really like that from that angle' or 'why didn't you tell me I had soot on my cheek', which, how dare he, you'd spent hours learning how to draw him and picking out imperfections was just an insult to your skills. Whilst Viktor would make fun of your subject choices, and then make it one hundred times harder to sketch him without him getting suspicious and catching on and deliberately moving around MORE to make it seventeen times more difficult.

Out of everyone in the lab, Sky was the only other person remotely artistically inclined. She'd shown an interest in your work one afternoon, and let slip that she liked to draw in her spare time. And although she insisted her work was nothing like your professional illustrations, they were good! And you told her as such.

Unofficially, the pair of you had begun taking your lunches outside in the academy gardens together to chat and draw. She did not look it, but Sky was a mean gossip, and seemed to know everything that was going on in the science department. Such as who in the academy was currently trying to court who, or the latest experiment that blew up (literally) in a freshman's face, or that Councillor Medarda herself dabbled in painting.

The last one certainly caught your attention more than the drama on campus, which of course Sky was more than happy to provide more details for. Apparently, the Councillor's paintings were bold and striking. Depicting scenes from her childhood lands, and figures dressed in traditional Noxian-style garbs.

"Gorgeous, simply gorgeous." Sky said, tone bordering on wistful. "And large too. Councillor Medarda works on such a large scale, that some of her pieces literally command your attention the moment you step into the room. I'm sure you can talk Jayce into getting you a glimpse of some of her works. He and the Councillor have been growing close lately."

You ignored the suggestive hint to her voice, in favour of humming noncommittally and finishing up your lastest sketch of Sky perched on the wall beside you, waving her sandwich around as she talked animatedly. You were so engrossed in your work that you didn't notice she was watching, when you flipped back towards the front of your sketchbook, only for her to choke on her next bite.

“Wait!" She blurted out between sharp coughing. "Is that Viktor!?” And then suddenly your sketchbook was no longer on your lap and the apprentice of the man you were always drawing was flipping through the pages. The pages that HEAVILY featured Viktor's face.

Your cheeks burned, and lunged for the sketchbook out of sheer panic, as Sky began discovering just how MANY sketches of Viktor you've been hoarding and that he's not the ONLY ONE you've been drawing.

"Jayce too I see." She mused, more to herself than you. And then she snorted. "Why are there so many?”

“Because I get bored sometimes, and they're always just there!" You defend yourself guiltily. "It's good anatomy practice.”

Which wasn't technically a lie. The lines never came as easily as they did when you’re sketching your co-workers. So much so, that now, it had almost become instinct to know when your pencil had drawn a line wrong, even before you glanced back to the reference themselves to check. The pair of them were just so effortlessly beautiful in their own ways. It would a a crime for you <i>not</i> to draw them, and focus solely on the things you're SUPPOSED to be illustrating instead.

Sky hummed along, having paused on a page with a rapid, barely recognisable pen sketch of Jayce ducking away with a cackling laugh as a furious Viktor swung his cane at his head. Her fingers idly slid down the sketchy lines, a fondness to her expression.

"Have you shown them these?" Sky asked, "they're really good. All loose and fun. I can practically hear Jayce laughing in this one with how you captured his expression."

“Of course not!" You were quick to deny as your cheeks heated. "Do you know how embarrassing it is to show someone you’ve drawn them? Jayce will pretend to be all impressed but subconsciously begin to pick out all the things I got wrong. Like the shape of his ears. And Viktor will tell me it's 'lovely' without looking up from his textbook."

You shuddered at the very thought, already seeing Viktor's disinterested frown and Jayce's tight grimace in your mind's eye.

Sky frowned, her eyes jumping between your down turned expression and the sketchbook in her hands. “I dunno about that."

“Can I have it back now?” She shook her head and went back to flipping through the pages, the other half of her sandwich forgotten in her lap. “You know, I think Viktor would be flattered if he knew you paid so much attention to him. And Jayce would probably try to steal a couple of these and frame them for his desk.” You scoffed.

Sky's frown deepened. "Why are you having such a hard time believing they might like these?"

“Because in the end it doesn’t matter how they'd react,” you decided sharply, “because they're not going to find out. Are they, Sky?”

“You’ve even drawn Viktor's canes!”

“Sky, focus!” “I am focused- IS THAT A JAYCE HAND STUDY-?!”

"OKAY ENOUGH OF THAT FROM YOU!" You tackled her, and she went down screeching, drawing the attention of several passing students as the pair of you fell cleaningly off of the wall and landed in the flowerbeds below.

Sky did not keep her promise.

After a week or two of waiting to give the impression she'd forgotten about the whole ordeal, she sprung into action.

It was obvious now that she knew just how much Reader paid attention to their co-workers. It seemed like they were constantly sketching the boys throughout the day, a private, fond smile on their stupidly love-struck expression, as their pencil flew across the page, documenting coffee breaks and break throughs, and verbal spats. Now Sky has noticed that they did it, she couldn't stop seeing it, and it is driving her crazy. All three of them are so oblivious, and watching her superiors pine for one another whilst doing nothing to move things forward, was NOT the working environment she'd been hoping for during this internship.

So she took matters into her own hands.

When the hour was late, and the lights were dim, Jayce passed out at his desk for a quick nap, Viktor's attention on his textbooks at the chalkboard, and Reader in the kitchen cracking open a can of energy, Sky sidled over to the latter's desk. Her eyes immediately clocked the little, black sketchbook, easily overlooked amongst the other papers and opened notebooks with half complete drawings scrawled all over the place. It was a testament to how much they trusted each other in the lab, that no one questioned why she was lingering so close to a desk that was not her own.

It almost made it too easy for her to simply pluck the sketchbook out of the pile, add it to her pile of library books already balanced in one hand, all before loudly calling "good night" to the room and leaving.

Sky planned to be the first person in the next morning to plant the sketchbook, but the lab doors were unlocked when she turned up, and all three of her superiors were already in the room, looking in various states of exhaustion. Did they even go home last night?

Not to mention, half of the lab looked like a hoard of dogs had come tearing through. Come to think of it, Reader's desk was especially messy, with papers strewn everywhere and the drawers hanging on just barely- oh fuck! They had already noticed, hadn't they?

"Ah Sky, good morning." Viktor acknowledged her from where he was calmly sorting through a stack of books. Picking one up, and shaking it out before placing it onto a second stack and picking up the next. "Right on time." "Good morning," Sky greeted calmly, "what's going on here?" She motioned to the war zone that was the lab. To Jayce balanced precariously on a chair, checking a high book shelf, and the frantic shuffling sounds of Reader under their desk. They were out of view, but somehow, Sky could just envision the frenzy in their expression from the sound of their searching alone.

"Ah, well, Y/n appears to have misplaced a rather important sketchbook."

There was a yelp as a skull collided with the underside of a desk, before Reader's head popped up over the edge. "Sky! I can't find it!"

"Oh no." Sky replied, trying to ignore the burning weight of the 'it' in question, currently hiding in her backpack. "Where did you see it last?"

"They insisted it was on their desk." Jayce interjected, hopping down from his chair with a shake of his head.

"But I'm assuming it's grown legs," Sky joked, "judging by that picked over, barely standing, mess of a desk."

"This isn't funny Sky."

"No, you're right." She put down her backpack and began to help in the search. After all, not doing so would immediately out her as guilty, and she'd already come this far, why stop now. "Come on, it can't have gone far."

Of course, Viktor discovered it amongst his books and papers a couple of days later.

It was during one of those rare hours in the lab when he was alone. The hour was late, but the curtains were not yet drawn despite the darkening sky.

He frowned when his fingers brushed the unfamiliar notebook, tucked behind a stack of textbooks and scrunched up balls of notes. Pulling it out of its hiding place, his brows furrowed as his eyes tracked the state it was in. How the edges of the hardback covers were creased from numerous journeys in bags, whilst pencils marks and scuffs from countless hours of being opened and used, marred the covers.

At first, he assumed it was one of Jayce’s notebook. The material was expensive enough. Definitely of high quality. The paper itself was thick when he rubbed his finger along a page. But when he opened it, he quickly realised the pages are not lined, and were once blank before they had been filled in with hundreds of drawings.

The first few pages were illustrations of everything under the sun. Still life drawings. Animals. People. Silhouettes. Isolated body parts with detailed annotations encircling them, such as the names of muscles and tiny corrective comments like ‘fingers too long’ or ‘that muscle doesn’t stretch that far’. 

Then he turned a page, and was met with himself. And then Jayce. And then more and more sketches of himself and Jayce. Sometimes together and interacting. Sometimes just existing.

The drawings were skilfully done, as all of Reader's illustrations tended to be. A little rough in the beginning, from rushed pen strokes. But then the artist seemed to understand something. A break through of sorts, and he recognised himself more and more. The sketches held his likeness. From the way he stood, to the slouch of him sitting at his desk, to the way his hand held something as simple as a stick of chalk.

They were always sketches from behind or a side profile. Never head on. And any that did depict him as facing the artist, were drawn when his attention was elsewhere; focused down at a textbook, or fixing something on the table. 

It was flattering really. He looked good in the drawings. Confident, with an authoritative aura. Seemingly engrossed in every task he sat down to complete.

And Jayce, Jayce looks good in his drawings too. His sunny personality shining through in drawings where he was animatedly talking or debating with sketched Viktor. There seems to be a whole double page spread trying to figure out the shape of his slicked back hair, and then even more drawings of the gel softening throughout the day, causing strands to fall down around his ears and frame his eyes.

But what really catches Viktor's attention was the way the artist had caught their interactions. The way they have depicted Jayce's softened eyes when looking at Viktor when his attention was elsewhere. The way they caught Viktor's private little smile when Jayce got lost in a muttering spell and stopped including Viktor in the debate. It left him feeling a little raw in truth, like this person had seen something no one else had taken the time to notice before.

No wonder Reader had been so adamant about finding this sketchbook. This must have been hours upon hours of careful work.

Carefully, Viktor closed the sketchbook and sat back in his chair. It felt heavy in his hands, and he almost didn't want to put it down.

The door to the lab swung open then, and Jayce called out a greeting.

"What you got there V?"

And of course, Viktor was contractually obligated to show him. It would simply be criminal if he didn't show his partner just how well their resident illustrator managed to capture his winning smile. A much more accurate depiction of it, compared to the 'man of progress' merchandise the academy sold nowadays.

The sketchbook continued to go unfound.

Reader was growing more and more distraught.

The guilt gnawed at Sky and she confessed.

All hell broke loose.

An hour later, Skye came SPRINTING into the lab, the double doors CRASHING into the walls in her haste to get into the room.

Both Viktor and Jayce jumped in their seats in the kitchenette. Viktor barely managing to keep from spilling his sweetmilk everywhere. And Jayce almost THREW the little black sketchbook across the room, where he had been admiring its pages.

“Woah there, where’s the fire?” Jayce tried to joke, but Sky looked GENUINELY scared. 

“Sorry! Sorry! I left something in here, and the owner is NOT happy with me.” Sky scrambled to explain, as she charged towards Viktor’s desk and began pulling apart stacks of paperwork. Sweat beading on her brow.

“Hey, calm down. What is it? Where did you see it last?” “It was a sketchbook. Um, uh, black, hard cover, it was practically bulging with how many pages it had stuck in it.” Sky explained, "I could've sworn I left it on Viktor's desk." Viktor’s brows jump up in realisation. His eyes dart over to the sketchbook in Jayce's hands, before leaping up to meet the man's wide, knowing eyes.

“I take it that Y/n found out you took it then.” Viktor spoke up. Sky winced. “I may have let it slip-” her voice began to backpedal, before the distant stomp of approaching footsteps made her pale. The gait the recognisable, the tempo just a touch faster than its normal pace. “DON’T THINK HIDING BEHIND VIKTOR OR JAYCE WILL SAVE YOU NOW!” A booming voice hollered from down the hallway. 

Sky became frantic again. She redoubled her efforts.

Jayce very slowly lowered the sketchbook down to his lap, where the table would conceal it from view if anyone peered into the kitchenette. And Viktor just sighed as he got comfortable.

Heavy footsteps approached the laboratory door, which was then promptly kicked open, so fast that the door smacked into the opposite wall for the second time today. Y/n, brandishing a broom of all things, visibly seethed in the doorway. 

“Do you know how much <i>work</i> has gone into that sketchbook?” They demanded, more furious than Viktor had ever seen them before. “How many hours I’ve spent amongst those pages.” Sky looks appropriately guilty. “I know! And I’m so sorry I lost it, I really thought I was doing you a favour!”

Reader’s lip curls up into a furious snarl, eyes narrowing. “And I thought I told you to leave it alone!” They snarled.

“But they’re just so good. I seriously don’t think you should be hiding your talent. What if the right person managed to find it, like Councillor Medarda, imagine the connections-” “And how, pray tell, is Councillor Medarda, supposed to come across my sketchbook in the laboratory of all places.” Skye’s voice lowers. “Well, she does stop by to see Jayce often enough.”

Reader sighed heavily. "Side-stepping that poor excuse, because we both know you were just trying to embarrass me-" "I was not! They're good drawings!"

“Where is it Skye? For the final time.”

They stepped menacingly into the room then, broom clutched tightly in both hands, only to pause when a single sheet of paper slipped out of their pocket and fluttered to the ground. The action clearly held significance, because Sky winced.

Meanwhile, Reader took a deep, steadying breath, before slowly, calmly leaning down to pluck the paper off of the floor. It was only for a second, but Viktor could have sworn he saw yet ANOTHER sketch of him and Jayce, which HOW? They'd been with the pair of them in the lab ALL DAY!

“Now look at me, I’m shedding paper left and right without my sketchbook to keep all my thoughts ORGANISED!” “I’m sorry! I’ll buy you a new one.”

A groan. “Skye, that is NOT the point-!”

“Okay, okay! Time out! Let us all take a breath.” Viktor interjected to which both apprentice and Illustrator startled. 

Reader visibly seethed in place, whilst Sky just winced and ducked her head.

It was the former who spoke up first. “Sorry for the interruption.” They said sharply, eyes cutting over to Viktor and Jayce. To which Viktor just inclined his head, whilst Jayce very poorly concealed his guilty wince. Reader was too preoccupied with Sky however to notice as they turned back to her. “May we continue this debate outside? Preferably away from the workshops?” Skye seemed to shrink in on herself more. Eyes darting over to Viktor, then jumping up to Jayce. 

“Sky!”

“Only if you promise to stop yelling.” She demanded. 

Reader breathed out forcefully through their nostrils. Expression thinning out, shoulders easing, although the tightness to their jaw remained stubbornly present. “Fine.”

"Leave the broom!" Viktor called after them, to which Reader audibly groaned but let the broom in the lab before stepping out into the hall with Sky. The door clicked shut behind them. 

Jayce and Viktor shared a look and held their breaths. Waiting. Listening. The conversation that inevitably started up once the door closes was fast paced, but in the promised quieter tone. 

"I'm just going to-" Jayce began to say before motioning to the desks out in the main lab. Viktor shrugged, and allowed his partner to stand, sketchbook in hand, only for both of them to freeze when a loose slip of paper fell out.

"Oh no." Jayce said aloud as Viktor quickly pinned the sheet to the floor with the toe of his shoe, before it could drift away. "This is going to be adorable, isn't it?"

Viktor did not reply, as he stooping to pick it up. He turned it over, and he and Jayce collectively sighed as they discovered yet another sketch of the pair of them.

They're stood in front of the chalkboard, which seemed to be Reader's favourite place to draw them without being discovered. And it was clear from the way the pair were facing each other that they were deep in one of their debates. But what really caught the pair's attention, was the way that their drawn selves were looking at one another.

Viktor's with a small, knowing smile and a visible twinkle in his eye - which should have been an impossible thing to capture with merely a pencil. And Jayce's who was staring down at Viktor with an intensity in his eye and a playful lift of his eyebrows that spoke of challenge. They looked happy together. Feeding off one another's energy.

And it was startling that an outside perspective had managed to capture such a moment without either of them noticing.

"We don't get that absorbed in our debates, do we?" Jayce asked tightly, a soft look in his eye now as he gazed down at the sketch with reverence.

Viktor did not bother to deny it, because they both knew that they did. Here was a sketchbook stuffed with the evidence right before them.

Jayce tucked the sketch back between the pages, his expression complicated and yet oh so fond for someone who was no longer in the room with them.

Jayce and Viktor put the sketchbook back on Reader's desk, who later comes back in, visibly more subdued, and Sky nowhere in sight.

Viktor cracks a joke about them having stuffed her in a supply closet somewhere.

To which they reassure him that, "no, she had a meeting," and he would still have an apprentice turning up to work tomorrow.

Jayce looks up from his work, as does Viktor, when they make a beeline for their desk. In time to watch Reader stiffen when they see the little, black sketchbook placed neatly on top of their larger, official lab sketchbook. Then they lunge forward, snatching it up and flipping through the pages, shoulders loosening when all seems to be in order.

"You found it!"

"Viktor found it." Jauce interjected.

To which Viktor just preens and makes another joke about Sky thinking twice about getting between Reader and their belongings. He also throws in a compliment on the penmanship, just to see how Reader reacts.

To both of their surprises, Reader locks up at the compliment. “Please tell me you didn’t look though it.”

“I liked them." He said truthfully, "you certainly captured my likeness.” They groan and drop eye contact. 

“Please don’t joke about it.” They plead, “it was just anatomy practice. But I completely understand if it makes you uncomfortable-”

“Uncomfortable?" Viktor parrots back, shooting Jayce a look. "Why would it make us uncomfortable?" "You might feel watched?" Reader offers.

Jayce shrugs. Viktor waves off their concern.

Jayce, "can we put some up on the pin board?" "No. None of these are remotely good enough to be hung up on display!" Reader is quick to deny.

By the end of the day, there are three new papers pinned to the pin board above Jayce's desk. One drawn by each of them in the lab. A chicken scratch drawing of Jayce, courtesy of Viktor. A carefully, but wonkily drawn Reader, courtesy of Jayce. And a recognisable and remarkably good drawing of Viktor done by Reader.

(Yes, they had a drawing competition and sat in a circle around someone's desk, simultaneously posing for and drawing each other. The boys had to do some major convincing so that Reader didn't assume they were being made fun of. And they all ended up having a great time).

Next part

[cheesesandwichsanto]

Detention

Summary: You and Eddie got detention together.

Warning: some curse words, reader is Jason’s sister.

Word Count: ~1.4k

A/N: English is not my first language. 🖤 I got inspired by this song:

If you enjoy the story; likes, reblogs and comments are really appreciated 🖤

Masterlist

Checkered Vans.

Black nails.

Red lipstick.

Black skinny jeans.

Band shirt.

Metal music.

That’s how people would describe you.

Or Eddie Munson.

Well, except for the nails and the lipstick.

And Eddie didn’t do eyeliner.

Finally, English class was over.

You hurried out as fast as you could for lunch break.

Your friend Sam told you they were serving pizza today, and you didn’t want to end up with one of those nasty slices with paprika on them.

“Miss Carver… Miss Carver…”

You heard Mrs. O’Donnell’s voice behind you.

How can she be so annoying and stubborn?

You rolled your eyes and turned around with a fake smile.

“Yes, Mrs. O’Donnell?” You said, sugary sweet.

“You forgot your sketchbook in class.” She held up a totally worn-out notebook with monster drawings on the cover.

“Sketchbook?” you asked, brows furrowed.

“Uhm sorry, but that’s actually mine so…” Where did he come from all of a sudden?

“Mr. Munson. Of course it is yours. I should have known. Detention. Tomorrow, after school.” She handed him the book with a mean look and turned around to leave.

“Stupid bitch” Eddie mumbled under his breath.

Just as you started to walk away, his voice interrupted you.

“Hey Carver. Don’t you want to have your book back? I saw what you were drawing. Monsters ‘n shit. That one on the front is really cool. I got to say, I am impressed. You should come to Hellfire Club. You would like it. We meet up for DnD every Friday after school.” Just as you tried to grab your book, he yanked it above his head, out of reach.

“I’m not interested in joining your little nerdy club, but thanks for the compliment on my drawing of O’Donnell. Don’t you think I met her ugly face perfectly? And thanks for taking the detention for me, though.”

He handed over the book, smiling like a damn fool.

“Why the fuck are you grinning?” you asked, annoyed.

“Oh, nothing. Just excited to spend detention with you.”

“Miss Carver.” Fuck.

You didn’t even need to turn around to know who that voice belonged to.

“You can join Mr. Munson for detention tomorrow.”

The next day, after last period, you made your way to the detention room.

Let’s see who she invited to her witch coven.

You opened the door and were met with an empty classroom.

No other students, just that hag O’Donnell, sitting at the teacher’s desk.

And, of course, Eddie Munson.

As soon as he saw you, that stupid grin appeared on his face again.

“Hey sweetheart. We were already waiting for you.”

He was sitting in the first row.

Apparently, that hag made him to. He would never sit in first row willingly.

Just take a seat faaaaar away from him.

Last row.

Seat at the window.

That’s where I want to sit.

“Miss Carver. Take a seat in the front row.” Hell no.

At least there is one empty desk between him and me.

“Please do the worksheets that are already on your desk. When you’re done, open your book to page 94 and finish the exercises. I have to make some copies. Don’t do anything stupid.”

As soon as she exited the room, you heard him talking to you.

“Won’t your brother be disappointed you’re in detention with me?” He asked you mockingly.

“The fuck has Jason to do with anything, freak? Why am I always degraded as “the sister”? Everyone always compares me to him. I’m not him” You snapped, annoyed. A pissed-off look on your face.

Eddie looked a little bit surprised by your raised voice. He didn’t knew you felt that way.

He had always thought you were Jason’s precious sister, even though you looked like one of the “freaks”.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you…” he said quietly.

You felt sorry for being so harsh to him.

Everyone asked themselves, why Jason put a target on Eddie Munson of all people.

Hard question.

Easy answer.

He saw, what others didn’t see.

Whenever he saw you and Eddie somewhere in the hallway, distance between you two, Eddie’s gaze on you lingered too long for his liking and Jason can’t have that.

You were a Carver.

He thought you deserved the best.

And Eddie wasn’t the best. At least, in Jason’s eyes.

He would never admit it, but he knew you and Eddie probably had a lot in common, but Jason didn’t want you to see it.

So, he and the other jocks made fun of him whenever they could.

“Problem solved”, according to Jason.

You took a deep breath and paused.

“I know what Jason and his friends are doing to you and your little nerds. And I want you to know that it’s not okay, and that I have told him more than once to stop…”

“I know, princess. I saw you yelling at him last week in the parking lot. He was not so happy about it. I mean, you and I are basically the same person, except for, you know …” He chuckled, then continued “Let’s change the subject. Why don’t you want to come to Hellfire Club? Just one time? Come oooon.” He rocked back in his chair.

“We are not the same person. Weirdly enough, that I am not saying this for the first time.”

“We totally are. The shirt you are wearing right now” he pointed at your black Dio shirt. “I’ve got the same one. And your shoes” now he pointed to your black and white checkered Vans “mine are black and gray.”

“Okay, maybe we have some things in common, but that still won’t make me going to your club.”

“Well, okay, but what about coming to a gig of my band? You will love our performance. We mostly do covers of Metallica, but, yeah…”

“Maybe… what do I get out of it?”

“Duh… VIP front row tickets at the trashiest bar in whole Indiana and…” he pulled something from his pocket “and this sketch, design made by me.” On the piece of paper was a drawing, a similar to the one of Mrs. O’Donnell in your sketchbook.

“Wow, that really impresses me, you are so charming, such a flirt, I almost dropped my panties.” your voice was dripping with sarcasm. Eddie laughed.

“But that sketch is dope. Even better than mine.” you admitted.

“You are a really cool girl, Carver. And it was badass how you were drawing O’Donnell in English, like you were a professional artist or something.”

“Wait. You were watching me during class?” you smirked. “Why are you so obsessed with me, Munson?”

“I…uhm..”

“Calm down. I’m just kidding. It’s cute that you were watching me, like, not creepy at all. I mean, you’re like, really pretty, and I am flattered”

“You think that I’m pretty?” he asked shyly. He couldn’t believe what you were saying.

“Yeah you are. I don’t get how no one sees it. Every girl here must be blind.”

“Well then, wanna go out on a date with me? We could go to the movies. I bet you love horror movies just as much as I do.”

“Sorry, I only date guys with …”

“Detention’s over. You can get home now, Miss Carver. Your brother is already waiting for you outside. Mr. Munson, I need to speak with you.”

You grabbed your stuff and headed to the door.

“See you, Eddie.”

That was the first time you used his real name, and he loved how it sounded when you said it.

“See you too, sweetheart.”

[luveline]

𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨'𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

you have to find new ways to communicate when a cold leaves you voiceless. miguel is less than happy —featuring grumpy miguel and his cheerful spider-girl. requested here. fem!reader, 2.3k.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Miguel's hackles hike as you appear. You have an obsession with toying with him and he's in the middle of something more important than your whims and wants.

"Don't start," he warns, barely looking at you. 

You point at yourself as if to say, Who, me? Grinning, you pull your arms behind your torso tightly, your shoulders harsh slopes where they'd usually be lax with calm. Your spider suit strains against the movement, shining with a subtle shimmer as you twirl your way into his side. You blink up at him, mock-innocent. 

"What did I just say?" he asks. 

He's expecting a charming rebuttal he doesn't get. You're awfully charismatic; Miguel often thinks you've manufactured a devilish siren call that yanks him in like a fish on a line no matter how hard he tries to split his lip and flee.

You're pretty, sure, but it isn't your looks that endear you to him. You have this way of speaking that's effortlessly carefree, despite the frankly ridiculous depth of the well that is your fondness for the world. It shouldn't make sense, and it does: you're happy because you love the world. When you speak to him, annoy him, praise him and degrade him in the same breath, Miguel thinks you might love him, too. 

You're silent. Miguel takes it as a blessing and finishes analysing the footage playing in front of him. He finishes as quickly as he can, and he's not a dick, he says, "Thank you." Then, with an unimpressed eyebrow raise, "Where have you been?" 

You come to see him so often he kind of forgot you didn't have to. He's taken you for granted, he knows, and after three days of not seeing you he should be happier. He should've asked you about it as soon as you appeared. 

You shrug and point at his screen. He can practically see the question mark in your eyes. 

"That's nothing. What, you're not speaking to me now?" he asks. 

Paper creaks in your hand as you pull a sketchbook from your pocket. Small, lilac, you flip to the first page and show him the scrawled message there with a rueful smile. 

Miguel's expecting a cartoon version of himself, but instead you've written three words. 

I have laryngitis. 

Miguel's gaze flickers between you and your book, assessing the claim with scepticism. "Why would you have that? You're practically impervious to disease." 

You flip to the next page. 

Superbug from Earth-87222 defeated my enhanced healing.

One of your Peter Parker friends lives there. He isn't jealous (because he knows that particular Peter doesn't like girls). "And you can't talk?" he asks. 

The next page. I can't talk.

You tuck the book to your chest. Lips parted, you attempt to speak, but all that comes out is hot air and a cruel croaking scratch that makes his chest ache. 

"Don't hurt yourself," he says, softer than he'd been speaking beforehand. He can't decide whether to glare at you or pull you in for a hug. If he hugs you, you might attach yourself to him like that thing from Alien. He glares. "You could've told me." 

You gesture to your throat. I can't speak. 

"That you were sick, you know how to type. You bother me every day for weeks and then one day you stop showing up, and you don't answer your watch, what am I supposed to think?" 

You stare up at him dreamily. He swears you get off on being scolded half the time. 

Miguel takes your wrist into his hand and turns your wristband forward to showcase the screen. "You see this? You see when my prompt comes up? You could take ten seconds and hit me back." 

Again, you open your small sketchbook, turning to a fourth page. You've predicted him well.

I didn't want to worry you. Don't be mad, handsome, you'll get more wrinkles. 

"Tu sabes todo," he fumes. You know everything. "If you're so smart, you can help me recalibrate the pocket dimension storage." 

You flip a page. It's finally a drawing rather than a knowing line, your familiar artistry obvious in your weighted linework and rushed shading. It's Miguel, his expression one he isn't sure you would've actually seen to reference as well as you have, lovingly concerned with a speech bubble coming from beside his softly rendered hair. Get well soon, cariño. 

He scoffs. "You seem fine to me." 

In truth, you don't seem fine. Now he knows, he can see evidence of your days away. Your lips are chapped under the balm you've applied, your hair dishevelled (though it's often unruly, in line with your personality). You wince when you breathe too hard. Miguel lowers the platform and sets you up next to him on a workbench in the back of the laboratory beside him for purely professional purposes. He has to make sure you're doing the calibration correctly, that's all. 

He can't quite explain away the tea he gets for you from the cafeteria, nor the research he does on the way back to you, Lyla at his shoulder saying, "You're such a softie." 

You find you don't need the sketchbook to communicate. Miguel places your tea down and your smile alone is thanks enough. It's pure reverential delight. He doesn't really deserve it, so he pretends he doesn't see. 

When you need help with a recalibration, you take his wrist gently. You don't even need to point at the screen, the subtle uptilt of your brows enough clue.

"Here, you're almost there," he murmurs under his breath, distracted by the complicated code you've been editing in the corner of the screen. "Oh, is this what you do when I'm not looking?" 

You tug his elbow. 

"No? You're not messing around?" he asks, rolling his eyes. "You think I'm stupid." 

Your fingers tighten. Miguel clicks a couple of things to finish the calibration. He looks at you from over his shoulder. Your face is near. It radiates heat. He bites the tip of his gloved finger and yanks it off clean to press the back of his naked hand to your forehead. 

"You're warm," he says, patting carefully downward. Your skin is as hot as he'd worried. 

Miguel drops his hand without rush, the side of his pinky tracing down your cheek. "Maybe you shouldn't be here." 

You shake your head vehemently. There's something in it he doesn't understand, an uncharacteristic shyness. He supposes he'd feel the same if he were sick like this, but you have no reason to be ashamed of a bad cold.

"Enough calibration, then. Take it easy." 

You do not take it easy. Your first port of call is to request to share his screen. He grants you permission and rescinds it soon after, irked when the majority of his monitor becomes wallpapered by digital post it note drawings of him looking cranky and of you in a crown, a ship's captain's hat, standing on the moon. He sets them each back to the perimeter of his window and tries to work. Trust you to find ways to bother him without teasing aloud. 

He thinks that… but then, his hands falter over the keyboard. You aren't a bother. You irritate him but he kind of likes it, most of the time. He turns his head just enough to see your face, blue and white light kissing your skin. You glow. 

Miguel thinks about how he used to do this alone. Lyla on his shoulder when she felt like it but usually tinkering in the quiet, trying to stop the end of the world, the pressure akin to how Atlas himself must have felt, knees locked and arms braced above his head to stop the Earth falling into the black abyss. Miguel doesn't always know what he's being punished for (or, he didn't). He doesn't know why this ended up on his plate, but the panic of doing it alone ebbs every day. With you by his side, unshakeable if not unfailing, it feels less like a death sentence and more like a problem that needs solving. He can't save everyone, but he can try. He can't stomach the agony of his life if he thinks about the past; you make it easy to stay present. 

Who would he rather have here than you? Out of everyone living that he knows, you're the only person he could stand to sit with for this long. 

It's not the same without your voice. Your murmurings, your kind doting, your put upon and less-so confusion. He misses it more than he can say in that moment, worse when you feel his eyes and turn to face him with a soft smile. 

Everything okay? you ask without asking. 

You don't need to speak. He can see it on your face. 

Miguel gets up from his bench to tower over you. Without giving it too much thought, he bends down, wrapping his right arm behind your shoulders, the left loose over your front, and kisses your forehead with the barest of pressures. It's hardly a kiss at all, and it makes no noise. More like he's resting his lips there, his nose at your hairline, breathing in. His hand rubs an up and down of its own accord into your upper arm, the soft fat of it melding under his touch. 

Your head dips back invitingly. You're like butter in the sun at his touch, a slow melting. 

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll deny it," he says quietly. 

You snort. You give his arm a pat and reach over it to grab your sketchbook. Miguel straightens but doesn't remove his arms, watching as you flick to the right page. 

I can't talk, the page says. You beam at him.

"I see," Miguel says. "You think it's funny because you couldn't tell if you wanted to." 

Your answering hum comes with the feeling of your fingers latching onto his elbow. Exactly. 

Well, fuck it. If you can't tell anyone, Miguel might as well send it. He leans down to grab you up into his hold, a squeezing hug that says everything he wanted to tell you while you were gone, his worry for you and his annoyance at your lack of communication. You don't need audible words to tell him things, and Miguel doesn't need words either. Hopefully his arms around you and his nose digging too rough into your temple says how he feels plainly. 

"I figured you got sick of taking orders," he confesses. You got sick of me. "When you didn't come back." 

You refuse to act small —Miguel doesn't want you to—, standing despite the weight he'd been resting on you, turning in the circle of his arms to look up into his eyes. It's too much, Miguel doesn't want your face this close to his, not with the rawness of his feelings aching a trail up between each of his rib bones, one by one. He clenches his jaw. 

Your hand climbs to his ear. He stays very still. As the initiator he should be forgiving, but your fingers touch his ear and he contemplates sinking his teeth into your hand. You stroke hair away from his face with a dramatised expression that says it's in the way, pesky stuff, though the final fond tuck of it behind the shell of his ear is impossible to deny.

Your thumb rubs his earlobe. 

"Are you having fun?" he asks dryly.

Your nod is sincere. Enthusiastic, you start to ease your fingertips into the thick tresses of his hair. 

Miguel grabs your wrist in an iron grip. 

"Enough." 

He guesses more than knows what your pout means —that isn't fair. 

"Life isn't fair," he says, pressing your forearm to your chest, an action fraught with apology. It's ridiculous how much can be said without words. He'd like for you to get your voice back solely to end this confusing misery. Well, not solely… Miguel misses the sound of it, distinct as your lopsided smiles and unconventional hand movements. "You can file a complaint just as soon as you get your voice back, how's that?" 

You roll your eyes and sit back down on your bench. Miguel takes a lap around the laboratory to calm down, returning to a new program blinking on computer his taskbar to be opened. 

He doesn't give you the satisfaction of looking your way as he opens it. 

"Miguel!" The program chirps, in a voice jarringly close to yours but not nearly as sophisticated as the majority of language intelligence he uses in his own coding. "I was waiting for you, handsome! Where have you been? Now you're back, I have a very special song to sing for you. Sing along if you know this one! Alright… Ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety nine bottles of beer! You take one down, pass it around, ninety nine bottles of beer…"

Miguel realises he can't mute or close the program shortly thereafter. Vocaloid you counts down to sixty one bottles of beer by the time he resigns to turning off his computer altogether, a headache twinging angrily behind his eyes. 

Maybe he could use a break from your voice after all. 

You giggle breathlessly at him as he drops his face into his hands. 

"Drink your tea," he orders, words muffled by his palms.

He doesn't look up. There's the sound of a big sip. Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. He's kidding himself —the sooner you get your voice back, the better. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!

[honey-flustered]

Kinktober Day 9: Body Worship

DBF!Jim Hopper x Artist!Fem!Reader

Summary: Hopper becomes your muse.

Warnings: age gap (Hopper 40s, Reader 20s), unethical relationship, cheating, c*ck worship, cum eating, cumming untouched, facef*cking, body worship, hopper has a big one (i know it), dacryphilia

You’re sitting at your dining room table sketching away when you felt a heavy hand on your head, tussling your hair. You quickly place your arms over your work, looking back at the unexpected guest with an anxious smile.

Hopper gives you a warm genuine smile. He’d come over for dinner by your father’s invitation with his girlfriend, Joyce Byers. When you learned of his relationship status, you were quite disappointed to say the least. You want to be happy for him as he appears to be a lot healthier and happier but because he’s not with you, it doesn’t settle right. Because of this you ignored him the entire night.

“Hey, kid,” He says with a soft chuckle at your startled look. His eyes squint at the way you hid your sketchbook. “Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” You sigh, trying to feign indifference. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“No, I’m really curious,” He insists, sitting in a chair to face you. “I always care for your art.”

You clutched the book to your chest before slowly releasing it for him to take. It’s erotica art. The male vampire lover similar-looking to Hopper feeding from the breast of a woman similar-looking to you.

“That’s pretty good stuff.” He says, much to your surprise.

“I-it is.”

“Yeah,” He laughs. “Is this why you were afraid to show me?”

Your eyes bug out of your head. Did he catch on that the drawing looks similar to him? It’s so obvious! Of course, he knows.

“Because of a little nudity?” He continues. So he didn’t catch on, after all.

“Well, yeah,” You follow through with his observation. “People tend to get a bit uncomfortable with nudity so I didn’t want to do that to you.”

“I don’t mind nudity especially when it comes to incredible art like yours. The human body’s a natural thing.”

“Exactly! That’s actually the concept I’m going for with my art. Natural bodies, sexualities, and kinks. It’s about what makes humans find beauty and attraction or lack thereof beyond the human flesh.”

“I think it’s brilliant. Maybe a little above my intelligence level but I know you’ve got it.”

“Actually, I think you might be the only one who understands around here,” You admit. “My parents…they just think this whole art thing’s unsustainable. But I think with this art installation project coming up, I can prove them wrong. Do you…do you think you can help me, Sheriff Hopper?”

“How could I help?” He asks.

“Be my muse, pretty please.”

And when he agreed he’d no clue what he’d signed himself up for. For you to be so bold to ask your father’s best friend to be your muse when it meant seeing him in the nude, he couldn’t fathom you asking such a thing. And yet now here he was in your small studio contemplating on whether he should go through with removing the remainder of his clothing.

You place your pencil down onto the canvas’s utensil holder, approaching his tall frame. “What’s wrong? Do you need help taking off your pants?”

He swallows convulsively. “When I said I’d be your muse, I thought you just needed me to hold a quick pose…fully clothed.”

“My art concept’s about natural bodies, Sheriff,” You grab unto the waist band of his jeans that had been slightly undone to reveal his white boxers. You drag his pants down a little to where his rather sizable member rests above the open fly. He’s growing hard. “You knew that though. It’s exactly why you agreed to becoming my muse—so I can worship you.”

You palm him through his underwear and he groans, taking your hand away to place them over his hairy chest.

“I knew you as a teenager.” He protests.

“I was 19.” You roll your eyes, using your free hand to hook into his underwear and pull him closer.

“Your father wouldn’t approve.” He argues, a moan bubbling in his throat when you begin to kiss on his chest and swirl a tongue around his nipple. He squeezes your hand a little, releasing as if it is an expression of his diminishing restraint.

You pull away with a wet pop, a line of saliva connecting as you stare up at him with doe eyes. “When have I ever cared what my father approves of?”

“I have a girlfriend.” He counters.

You move your lips to his ear, hotly whispering, “So do I.”

Your lips find each other’s in a sloppy make out session of tongues and clashing teeth. Your hands roam his body, caressing his belly then slipping down his underwear to jerk him off. Even though, you can’t see it, you can tell that it’s not only deathly thick and long but super veiny, too, with a wicked curve. No wonder Joyce had been limping all throughout dinner that day.

You break away from his lips, peppering wet kisses all over his stomach and dipping your tongue in his bellybutton. When you’re finally on your knees, you rub the base of him through the fabric. You bite your lip in anticipation as you finally take initiative and pull him out of his confines, mouth dropping open at the look of him. Just as veiny as you thought with heavy, sagging balls to match. You’re drooling, licking your lips and staring up at him one last time before focusing your eyes on the leaking tip and enclosing your mouth around him.

He cradles the back of your head with one hand while the other pounds a fist against your not-so-high ceilings, a loud growl escaping his clenched teeth.

You bob your head quickly, dramatically gagging on him and its loud and messy but neither of you care. Soon, he’s fucking your mouth both hands interlocked on the back of your head while you do a mix of massaging his clothed thick thighs or raking your sharp nails down his pudgy tummy. Tears prick your eyes as you struggle to take him but you’ll take whatever he gives you even if it kills you.

You don’t even need to touch yourself as the juices flow out of you, streaming down your inner thighs. You’re humping the air, core contracting around nothing as his whines are the only thing fueling you to near your end.

“Fuuuck, I’m cumming.” He hisses, rapid final thrusts of his wide cock into your mouth. He holds you down, your nose embedded in his pubic hair and you taste his hot spunk shoot down your throat. Just from that, you cum untouched, the act of being used so filthily making it possible.

You’re limited in breathing as you inhale through your nose and your jaw hurts but it’s all worth it as your eyes roll back and you quiver as much as your body could under his hold.

He finally releases your head, pulling his cock out of your wet mouth with webs of saliva to follow as you gasp for air.

“Was I inspiring enough for you?” He asks cockily.

Your throat itches as you let out a low giggle. “You’re perfect.”

[cultkinkcoven]

Had a dream about Lord Hermes last night that almost brought me to tears

I appeared in this house, a modern house, no idea where but I’m quite sure I was in the states. Hermes was there, in human form standing in the living room. And I was very surprised to see him. There was an old assumably Mexican lady sitting on the couch watching the news, she was half asleep. She couldn’t see us.

And Hermes said “I want to show you something,” and started up the stairs. I followed him and we ventured into a little bedroom.

In this room were a lot of posters and drawings of Hermes among other things. Lots of Steven universe and adventure time merch. Obviously the room of a child or teen, lots of toys and books. And Hermes gives me a smirk and then slowly opens the closet. There’s a kid in there, or teen, maybe 14 years old. They’re wearing large headphones over their ears and watching something on their phone, Steven universe I think.

And Hermes says hello, and the kid waves his hands, smiles. I immediately knew this kid was autistic, likely high needs. It’s easy to tell when you’re around another autist.

And Hermes goes, “this is my best friend Austin. He’s autistic, almost completely non-verbal. Say hi, he can see you, y’know.”

And I said hi, kneeled down. He looked at me, made a face of recognition, and started nodding his head. Smiling. I smiled back. “Hi Austin, I like your room.” Happy stimming hands. Aw.

“Austin doesn’t talk but he loves to read. He’s actually a fan of your blog, did you know that?”

And I looked at Hermes, “no, I didn’t.”

“He was inspired by your post to make his first real altar for me y’know. See, Austin and I have been great friends since he was real small. He struggles a lot with some things, but he is incredibly talented at other things, especially seeing. Austin found me when no one else would find him, and he’s been an amazing friend to me since we met.”

Aw. I smiled. That made me feel really good.

“He didn’t feel safe or comfortable exploring deity work in the way others often do. Austin is excluded from a lot of things because people think he can’t understand. But you wrote a post once Shi, about giving the mentally diverse space to engage with spirituality on their own terms. And it made Austin feel a lot better about pursuing me, making an altar.”

Austin made a noise of excitement and happy stimmed, kicked his feet. And showed us his phone. I think one of his favourite characters, Peridot had appeared in the show and he was excited to show us.

I got excited with him, and so did Hermes.

“I just wanted to thank you,” Hermes added under his breath. “I know that Lucifer could have told you this a million times but you may have become desensitized to his praise. So it’s coming from me now. Shi, most of my most cherished humans are people like Austin. That’s the way it has always been, Gods have always held special protections and affinities over the most vulnerable. And those people often have hidden talents. So I’m thanking you for creating a space for them, for standing up for them, and I’m personally requesting that you continue. When your work evolves and becomes more than an online blog, remember Austin.”

Oh… wow.

“Austin has never felt like he deserved to be chosen by me, he gets down on himself sometimes. You open a space for people like Austin to feel worthy. And we like that, don’t we Austin?”

And Austin smiled. I smiled back.

“Thank you for letting us hang out with you, Austin,” I said.

And then he got up and out of the closet, went over to his bed and pulled out a sketchbook from underneath it. He began showing us drawings he’d done of him and Hermes together. They were precious.

But after a while of that, Austin was becoming visibly uncomfortable and nervous. Hermes gave me a look, I already knew.

“Okay, buddy, I gotta take Shi home now. I’ll be back in a flash!”

And Austin started nodding his head again, crawled back into the closet.

“Bye Austin.”

I will never forget that kid. I wonder if he’ll see this.

[cami040405]

Sis, have you ever seen the masked girl? If you haven't, it's basically a thriller k drama where this woman is considered having an ugly face. But she wants to be a celebrity, so she has this mask on whenever she does her online streaming, after an incident happened, this gurl did plastic surgery for many reasons that I won't get into spoiler territory about. Either way, I want you to make headcanons about the slashers knowing Y/n as a kid, then when meeting her again, she is this killer with a new beautiful appearance. But also has trauma issues since she's now preggers. It's like she desperately went to her boys for help.

Slashers Reunited with Childhood Friend Who’s Pregnant

Summary: As a child, you formed deep bonds with infamous slashers—Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Charles Lee Ray, Tiffany Valentine, and Thomas Hewitt — each seeing something pure and fearless in you. Years later, you return to them as a beautiful yet broken woman, now a killer yourself, hiding trauma and carrying the weight of an unexpected pregnancy. 

Includes: Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Charles Lee Ray (Chucky), Tiffany Valentine & Thomas Hewitt (SEPARATE)

A/N: I need to watch this movie, it looks really interesting, I've already added it to my list. About your request, thank you for sending it, I was happy to imagine and write what this reunion would be like, I hope you like it!

Vincent Sinclair

“You were the only one who ever looked me in the eyes… now you’re back. And I will never let anyone hurt you again.”

Vincent Sinclair had always lived in the silence between wax and shadow.

Most people avoided Ambrose. Tourists might drive by, but the town was quiet, eerie, forgotten. That is, until you arrived.

You were a strange little kid—curious, wild-eyed, and drawn to the macabre like a moth to flame. You wandered into the wax museum without fear, only fascination. The first time you saw Vincent, towering, masked, silent… you didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.

You stared at him, tilted your head, and said,

“Your face is cool. Like a living statue.”

Vincent froze. No one had ever said that before. Not even Bo.

You kept coming back. You’d bring your sketchbook and sit beside him as he carved wax figures, asking questions no one ever dared ask:

“Do they feel real to you?”“Why do you make them so perfect?”“Do you ever get lonely?”

And though Vincent never answered aloud, he listened. He started carving differently—softer details, more emotion in the wax faces. You brought something into his world: light. Innocence. Understanding.

But one day… you just stopped coming. Bo told him your family had moved away. Vincent had simply turned back to his wax, but that ache in his chest never fully went away.

.

Years later, a storm rolls in over Ambrose. It’s dark, the air heavy, the rain unrelenting. Vincent is working in his studio, surrounded by statues, his fingers dipped in red wax—when the old bell above the museum door rings.

He assumes it’s Bo. Or a curious deer. Until he hears the voice.

Soft. Raspy. Familiar.

“Vincent…?”

He turns.

And there you are.

But not the girl he remembers. You’re older now. A woman. A killer. He sees it in the way you move—stealthy, cautious, ready to strike. But more than that… you’re beautiful. Hauntingly so. But you’re not okay.

Your eyes are swollen from crying. Your clothes are torn. Your skin is bruised. And most of all—your hands rest protectively over your swollen belly.

You're pregnant.

His stomach drops.

You stare at him with trembling lips and whisper,

“I didn’t know where else to go… they’re trying to kill me. Please, help me. I didn’t know who else I could trust.”

You collapse into his arms before he can react.

Vincent carries you like you're made of porcelain. He lays you in the old bed behind the museum, where sunlight never touches. He cleans your wounds with gentle, trembling hands. He works in complete silence, except for the soft dripping of rain outside.

You stay asleep for nearly a day. When you wake, you find clean blankets, water, and a fresh white dress laid out for you. You touch the fabric with a shaking hand. It’s the softest thing you’ve felt in months.

Vincent watches you from the shadows, notebook in hand. He’s drawing you. He never stopped.

When you sit up and whisper his name again, he approaches, slowly, kneeling in front of you like a silent guardian. You start to cry. You tell him everything—in broken sobs.

That after your family moved, life only got darker.

That you fell in with the wrong people. That you killed to escape. That the man who hurt you was the father of your child—and he’s hunting you down. That you're scared of what you've become. That you still see Vincent’s face in your dreams.

He doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he places your hand gently over his heart and bows his head, telling you the only way he knows how that you’re safe now. That he never stopped thinking about you.

Vincent becomes your shield. Your caretaker. Your only peace.

He starts creating again—but it’s all you. Wax busts of your face. Paintings of your expression as you sleep. A sculpture of your pregnant form, arms cradling your belly like you’re a goddess from some forgotten temple.

He never lets you walk alone. He never lets you cry by yourself. And God help anyone who tries to come after you now.

Bo finds out eventually and raises hell—until he sees the fire in Vincent’s eyes. For the first time, Bo backs off.

“This one’s different, huh? You always were a sucker for her,” he mutters.

Vincent holds your hand for the first time one night when you wake from a nightmare, screaming, gripping your belly and sobbing that something will happen to your baby.

He sits beside you. Presses your hand against his cheek. Shakes his head slowly. Not on his watch. Never again.

Months pass. You feel your strength returning. You start to laugh again—just a little. You find one of your old drawings you’d left behind as a child, framed on the wall by Vincent’s bed.

It’s a sketch of him, mask and all, surrounded by flowers.

You never meant to become a killer.

But now you realize… you’re home.

And when you finally go into labor, when the pain rips through you and you cry out for him—

Vincent is right there.

Holding your hand.

Not speaking.

But everything in his eyes says:

“You saved me once. Let me save you now.”

And he does.

.

Bo Sinclair

You were just a kid when Bo first met you—a loud, stubborn brat who showed up in Ambrose on your bike, covered in dirt and full of questions. Most kids would've run screaming at the sight of a wax museum in a ghost town, but not you. You wandered right in, fearless. Bo found you poking around the gas station first, sipping a warm soda you’d helped yourself to, like you owned the place.

“You lost or just stupid?” he had snapped, narrowing his eyes.

“Neither. I'm exploring,” you’d answered smartly, chin held high.

He should’ve sent you packing, but something about you made him pause. You weren’t scared of the town, or him, or even Vincent. You came back. Again and again. Always with scraped knees and fire in your voice. You’d ask Vincent about his sculptures and Bo about the engines he fixed, always making yourself at home where you didn’t belong. He’d pretend to be annoyed, but secretly, he liked the sound of your laughter bouncing around the old Sinclair home.

Bo never admitted it, but you reminded him of something real—something before the lies, before the killing, before the town rotted into a wax graveyard.

Then one day… you were gone.

He told himself it was better that way. Kids didn’t belong in Ambrose.

.

It’s been years. Long enough that Bo’s pushed the memory of you into some dusty corner of his brain, labeled “gone.” The town’s just as dead, and the routine of blood, wax, and silence is all he knows now.

He’s just cleaned up a mess Vincent left behind—another poor soul who strayed too close—when the bell above the gas station door rings.

He doesn't look up right away. “Closed, sweetheart. Try the next town over,” he says, wiping his hands.

Then he hears it.

“Bo…”

His name. Your voice. Breathless. Frayed.

He looks up.

And time freezes.

You’re standing in the doorway, soaked from rain, hair tangled, dirt on your face. You’re older now—grown into your body in a way that makes his chest twist. Strong jaw. Wild eyes. Clothes torn and smeared with blood. But it's your belly that makes his heart skip.

You're pregnant.

Bo stares, jaw clenched, trying to process the storm that just walked back into his life.

“Y/N…?”

You nod. Then the dam breaks.

Tears spill over your cheeks as you take a step forward, voice cracking. “I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t know if you’d even remember me. I’ve done—bad things, Bo. And someone’s after me. I just—”

You stumble, and he’s on you before you hit the ground, catching you in strong arms. You tremble against him, and he feels how fragile you are now, even beneath the layers of blood and anger and fight. He feels your rounded belly press against his chest as you bury your face into him like he’s the only person left in the world.

And maybe he is.

Bo says nothing for a long moment, just holds you. His hand—rough, calloused, shaking a little—cups the back of your head.

“Jesus Christ, baby girl…” he mutters, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it.

He brings you inside the station, bolts the door, pulls down the shades. He lays you out on the cot in the back, takes a damp cloth and starts gently cleaning the dried blood off your skin. He doesn’t ask questions. Not yet. He sees the bruises. The cuts. The way your hands keep twitching like you’re ready to fight something that isn’t even here.

Only when you’re calmer—wrapped in an old blanket, sipping sweet tea with shaky hands—does he speak again.

“You look like hell, darlin’. But you made it back.” He pauses. “Who did this to you?”

You look away. “Someone I trusted.”

Bo’s blood boils.

He doesn’t press further. He doesn’t need to. The way your voice cracks tells him more than words ever could. He’s not the sentimental type, but watching you like this—worn down, scared, pregnant—something twists hard and ugly in his gut.

He wants to kill whoever did this. Wants to make them scream. But more than that… he wants to protect you.

Bo keeps you close.

He fixes up the old Sinclair house—repairs the fireplace, brings you blankets and food. Every time you flinch at a loud noise, his jaw tightens. Every time you reach for your stomach in fear, he mutters under his breath and starts cleaning his shotgun.

And he never, ever lets you go out alone.

“You wanna piss me off?” he snaps one night when you try to sneak out. “Then go ahead, keep wanderin’ off like nothin’s wrong. But don’t act surprised when someone else tries to hurt you. You came to me, remember?”

You bite your lip, holding back tears.

“I don’t want them to hurt the baby, Bo…”

His face softens. He kneels in front of you, resting a rough hand gently on your swollen belly.

“They won’t. Not while I’m still breathin’.”

There are quiet moments too. Dark, strange, tender ones.

Like when he catches you humming to yourself as you trace circles on your stomach. Or when he finds you curled up on the couch, crying into one of his old shirts, whispering you “don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Bo isn’t used to affection. But he’s getting used to you. The way you make the house feel less empty. The way your laugh sounds—even broken—as the fire crackles. The way you lean into him at night, your hand finding his under the blanket.

“Was I really that annoying when I was a kid?” you ask one night, lips trembling in a half-smile.

He grins crookedly. “You were a damn pain in the ass. But you were my pain in the ass.”

Bo never thought he’d feel anything close to tenderness again. But watching you grow into this fierce, haunted, beautiful woman—with blood on your hands and a baby in your belly—he realizes he’d burn the whole damn world down for you.

And when the time comes?

Whoever's hunting you?

They won’t make it out of Ambrose alive.

.

Charles Lee Ray (Chucky)

Charles met you when you were barely ten—maybe younger—outside the police tape of one of his crime scenes. Most kids ran when they saw blood. Not you. You stared. Eyes wide, fascinated. You watched the cops drag the bodies out like it was an art exhibit. He caught your eye and, instead of being creeped out, you smiled at him.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asked, crouching beside the yellow tape, amusement quirking at his lips.

You told him your name proudly and added, “I wanna be a monster like you someday.”

He laughed so hard he nearly doubled over. “Ain’t that somethin’? A little psycho in the making.”

From then on, he kept tabs on you, popping up at strange moments in your life. Birthday parties. School events. That time a bully wound up in the hospital after “falling” down a flight of stairs. You swore it wasn’t you—but Chucky knew better.

He gave you your first real knife for your 10th birthday. Engraved with your initials. “Happy Slashin’, sweetheart.”

You became like a little sibling to him, an apprentice even. He taught you things—how to dispose of evidence, how to manipulate a scene, how to lie through your teeth and make it sound like a love song. It was twisted. It was special.

Then one day, you vanished.

No word. No trace. Just... gone. For years.

.

He’s in the middle of gutting some scumbag in a dingy Chicago motel when he hears the knock. Annoyed, blade still dripping, he storms to the door, ready to kill whoever dared interrupt—

But he stops cold.

You’re standing there. Or more like barely standing.

Your clothes are torn, drenched with blood and dirt. There’s a deep gash over your eyebrow. You’re shaking. But your eyes? They’re the same ones from years ago.

And below your shaking hands—your swollen stomach.

“…Kid?” he croaks.

You whisper his name. Voice hoarse. Pleading. Like he’s the last lifeline in a sinking world. Then your knees give out.

Chucky catches you before you hit the floor.

He lays you out gently on the bed, hands twitching in uncertainty. It’s the first time in a long time he doesn’t know what the hell to do. He patches you up the best he can, muttering obscenities at whoever did this to you.

“Who was it?” he finally asks once you wake up. “Who hurt you?”

You cry—but it’s not soft. It’s guttural. Broken. Years of pain spilling out at once. You don’t say his name, just shake your head and whisper, “I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t think I’d make it.”

Charles listens—really listens.

You tell him about the man who claimed to love you, then locked you in a basement. How you escaped. How you killed people along the way, just to survive. How this baby growing inside you doesn’t feel like a gift—it feels like a curse. You love it. You hate it. You're scared. You don't know who you are anymore.

And Chucky? He’s silent. For once. And that says a lot.

He starts acting differently. Still his cocky, foul-mouthed self, but there’s a line he won’t cross with you. No sexual jokes. No teasing your body. None of that. He treats you like something precious.

Like family.

He starts calling you by your old nickname again—“Little Psycho”—but now it sounds more like a badge of honor.

When your nightmares start, he doesn’t say anything, just curls up beside you in bed, letting you cling to him like a lifeline. He even lets you fall asleep with his knife in your hand.

He starts leaving presents for you:

A locket with a switchblade hidden inside. A box of chocolates with cyanide in one. “For fun.” Baby clothes with little skulls printed on them.

And when you finally ask: “Are you mad that I came back?”

He snorts. “Mad? Baby, I’ve been bored as hell without you. And now look—you’re back, all grown up, crazy as ever, and carrying the spawn of Satan. You think I’d pass that up?”

If Someone Comes for You:

God help them.

Charles doesn’t just kill—he sends messages. A flayed body hung upside-down in front of your old abuser’s house. Your tormentor’s name carved into his own tongue. A finger sent in a baby bottle.

“You don’t touch what’s mine,” he growls. “Not ever again.”

He’s not soft. He’s not sweet. But he’s loyal. In his own demented, messed-up way, Chucky becomes the only constant in your chaotic life.

He doesn’t care if you’re broken. Hell, he likes it that way. He sees your trauma, your rage, your instability—and he celebrates it.

You’re not just the little psycho anymore. You’re his little psycho. And now, you’re family.

.

Tiffany Valentine

Tiffany hadn’t thought of you in years—not since you were that fierce little thing, all scuffed knees and glitter lip gloss, trailing after her in crime-ridden alleyways like a wannabe Bonnie to her Clyde. You were smart-mouthed and a little too curious for your own good, always asking how her knives stayed so sharp or how to tell if someone was playing dead.

She’d adored you.

Back then, you’d idolized her—not just the sexy femme fatale vibe, but the power. The way she walked into a room and men either melted or died. You wanted that. You wanted her.

And for all her jagged edges, Tiffany had tried to protect you from the worst of it. She showed you how to load a gun, how to hide your heartbeat when cornered, how to cry pretty if you had to—then how to stop crying altogether. She called you her “little shadow,” painted your nails blood red, and made you promise you'd never let anyone break you.

She never expected you to disappear without a word.

But now, years later, she’s in a cheap motel room lit by flickering neon, glass of red wine in one hand and a bloodied hairbrush in the other, when there’s a desperate knock at the door.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Tiffany rolls her eyes and sways toward the door in her silk robe, ready to snap. “Jesus, Chucky, I told you I was—”

She opens the door and freezes.

You're standing there—barely. Drenched in rain, clothes torn and crusted with blood, a heavy backpack slung over one shoulder. There’s a gun tucked into your waistband and a haunted look in your eyes. But most of all, it’s you. And you’re—

Pregnant.

Her gaze drops to your swollen belly. It’s impossible to ignore. And then it swings back to your face. You look like a kicked dog, like someone who’s been fighting alone for way too long. There's a split lip, a healing bruise near your collarbone, and the faint tremble of your knees.

“T-Tiff… I didn’t know where else to go,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Tiffany doesn’t hesitate.

She pulls you inside, slams the door, and locks it with one hand while the other wraps around you in a crushing embrace. You sink into her like you’re drowning and she’s air.

“Oh, baby girl…” she breathes, running her perfectly manicured fingers through your tangled hair. “What the hell happened to you?”

You try to answer, but the sob comes first. It breaks out of you raw and ugly. You hadn’t cried like this in years—maybe since you left her side. And it’s not just pain. It’s relief. You’re safe. You found her. Tiffany’s arms are warm and smell like perfume and gunpowder and too many memories.

She doesn’t push for answers. She holds you until the sobs stop shaking your spine.

When you finally manage to speak, your voice is hoarse. “I did bad things, Tiff… I killed a lot of people. And I think—I think someone’s coming for me. For the baby. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Tiffany steps back just enough to hold your face in both hands. Her lips twist into a dark smile.

“Sweetheart. You came to the right person.”

She draws you a hot bath. Rubs your back while you soak. Even hums an old 80s power ballad under her breath like it’s any other night. When she sees the bruises on your hips, her hands freeze. Then they clench.

She doesn’t ask questions she already knows the answers to. She’s been there.

Later, she lays out clean clothes—black lace maternity leggings, because of course she has them, and a dark red sweater that still smells faintly like her perfume. You slip them on, feeling the weight of exhaustion finally settle. When you lie back on the bed, Tiffany sits beside you and strokes your hair.

"You were always meant to be a killer, honey," she says softly, eyes glassy but burning with pride. “But no one said you had to do it alone.”

You turn your head. “What if it’s too late for me to be saved?”

Tiffany smiles—a slow, dangerous curl of her glossy lips. “You don’t need to be saved. You need a family. And lucky for you, I’ve got a wicked one.”

The next morning, she brings you black coffee, croissants, and three new knives.

“We’re going shopping,” she announces, already pulling on her leather jacket. “Guns, clothes, baby stuff, and C4. You pick the order.”

You laugh for the first time in months. It hurts, but it feels good.

In the following weeks, she becomes your everything. Best friend. Weapon supplier. Self-defense coach. Emotional support war goddess.

She tracks down the man who put those bruises on you. You don’t even ask her to. You just wake up one morning and she’s back with blood on her heels and glitter in her hair.

"All taken care of, baby."

She helps you plan your kills better. Cleaner. Quieter. Flashier, when needed. And when the trauma hits in waves—those moments when you can’t stop shaking, when you wake up screaming—she’s there. Holding your hand. Reminding you who you are.

And when the baby finally kicks under your skin one night, you flinch, then stare down in shock. Your hands tremble.

Tiffany notices and kneels in front of you, laying her hands gently over your stomach.

"You feel that?" she whispers, misty-eyed. “That’s power. That’s yours, sugar. No one gets to take it from you again.”

And from that moment on, she’s not just your friend.

She’s your protector. Your family. Your fury and your calm.

And she swears on her stilettos and switchblades:

“I’ll raise hell for anyone who tries to hurt you again.”

.

Thomas Hewitt

You met Thomas when you were just a little girl—a scrappy, curious thing who wandered too far off from a roadside rest stop and stumbled right into the Hewitt property.

Most kids would have screamed the second they saw him, but not you. You stared wide-eyed at the tall, masked man standing with a bloody apron, holding a severed arm. He had frozen in place, expecting shrieks and fleeing.

But you blinked up at him and said with a straight face:

"That guy was probably mean anyway."

Thomas was stunned. Silent. But you didn't run. Instead, you wandered into the porch, sat cross-legged, and started talking to him like you’d known him forever.

You came back after that—always carefully, always with treats or wildflowers you found. Sometimes you brought little trinkets, sometimes stories. You never asked to see under the mask. You never needed to. You looked right into his eyes and saw him.

You once said:

“You’re like Frankenstein. Big and scary to most people, but he was just misunderstood. I get that. You’re not a monster. You’re my friend.”

He never forgot it.

.

It had been years. He figured you were long gone. Dead maybe. Or worse—just like the rest of the world, cruel and careless.

So when he sees you again, stumbling across the overgrown dirt road leading to the Hewitt house, it doesn't even register at first. You're older now—a woman, strong and striking, though clearly weathered by pain. You’re dragging a bloodied bag behind you, clothes torn, bruised. And your hand cradles something protectively beneath your shirt—your belly.

You fall to your knees in the dirt, eyes locking onto his towering figure. Your voice is barely above a whisper:

"Tommy... I didn’t know where else to go."

He drops his chainsaw.

Not gently. It clatters, forgotten as he rushes to you. He’s shaking when he kneels in front of you, massive hands trembling as they hover over your body, unsure where to touch.

When you reach up and press his hand to your cheek, tears welling in your eyes, he lets out a soft, choked sound—like he’s in pain just seeing you like this.

You’re injured, exhausted, and pregnant. Your voice breaks as you say:

"They were going to kill me. And the baby. I didn’t know where else to run."

Thomas carries you inside like you weigh nothing, his arms wrapped around you like a human shield. He lays you in the old guest room and frantically fetches Luda Mae. The older woman gasps when she sees you, recognizing your face despite the blood and time.

“You’re the little girl who used to sneak him cookies…”

You pass out not long after.

Thomas doesn’t leave your side. He watches you sleep, his eyes haunted. You whimper in your dreams—trauma pulling at your mind like hooks—and he flinches every time.

He wants to kill whoever did this to you.

When you wake, disoriented, and whisper his name again, he gently takes your hand in both of his. 

You’re startled at first—but then you realize…

It’s the same gentleness he showed when you once gave him a daisy and told him it was for “a heart that just needed one.”

Thomas starts to change after your return. Not soften—but focus. He’s different with you.

He prepares your meals, helps you clean your wounds, and gives you his room while he sleeps on the floor beside your bed. Luda Mae helps care for you too, but it’s Thomas who stays up all night watching you breathe.

He begins building things for you again, like he did when you were a child.

A rocking chair for when the baby comes. A bassinet, hand-carved from wood. A cradle with hand-stitched cushions.

Each time, he leaves them outside your room like gifts.

No words. Just acts of devotion.

You catch him one night sanding down a handmade mobile with tiny stars and moons, and you break into tears—because no one has ever loved you like this. Quietly. Deeply. Fiercely.

You don’t talk much about the father.

You can’t. But your trembling voice and glassy stare tell Thomas enough. Whoever it was—he left you broken. Maybe he hurt you. Maybe he betrayed you.

But Thomas knows one thing: he’ll never touch you again.

He sharpens his chainsaw every night now. He watches the woods for signs of strangers. Anyone who gets too close disappears—without a trace.

The world thinks you’re lost. But you know you’ve finally been found.

One evening, you sit on the porch with him beside you, the sunset painting the sky. You place his massive hand on your swollen belly and whisper, almost like a secret:

“If it’s a boy… I want to name him Thomas.”

He jerks his head toward you, eyes wide. You just smile through tears, stroking his scarred knuckles.

For a moment, his breath catches. His chest tightens. He makes a soft, strangled sound—half-sob, half-laugh.

And in that silence, you both know:

He will protect you and your child with his life.

Because to Thomas Hewitt, you’re not just a visitor from the past. You’re the only person who ever saw the man behind the mask.

And now—he sees you too.

.

[bisexualbrainrots]

I remember oliver mentioning that lou had been nervous when they shot the first kiss scene and that got me thinking thoughts, trailer thoughts... this turned out a bit sweeter than what I'm used to with louliver. also, tagging @cjlouwho because she rotted my brain with louliver.

The knock on the door startled Lou. He had been really focused on his sketch, so much so that he tuned out the world around him for the time being.

He stood up, and a kind smile appeared on his lips when he opened the door of his trailer and saw Oliver Stark.

It hasn't been that bad to work with the kid, he was focused and serious about his craft, which he could respect, although he still wasn't used to the way his humor worked. Maybe it was the British thing.

“Hey”

“Hi, uh...” his eyes trailed off to the charcoal dust that had gotten his hands dirty, and looked at him curiously “Is this a bad time?”

Lou looked down and noticed his hands and chuckled “No! Not at all, come in!”

Oliver walked around, taking in the surroundings of the trailer that had been given to Lou, and noticed the open sketchbook on one of the tables “I didn't know you drew” his fingers brushed over the page and Lou just wanted to to take his wrist and pull him away from the drawing.

Lou tilted his head, shifting his body from side to side “I mostly paint actually, but you can't really bring paint and a canvas here, right?” he laughed nervously when he noticed Oliver had barely given him a half smile, but kept his gaze on him.

The younger took one last look around the room to turn his eyes back on Lou, and lifted what looked like the script up to the side of his face “Remember I asked if we could run some lines together?”

He nodded, finally walking towards Oliver instead of just staying there, standing on the closed door, “Right! Sorry about that, sometimes when I sketch I get into a sort of—”

“Trance? Yeah I figured” he chuckled and got closer to Lou, and pushed the script onto his chest “So, I was thinking we could practice the kiss scene, if you were okay with that”

Lou stiffened. It's not like he had problems kissing a man (nobody should know about it, he reminded himself), but the thought of his father getting to watch that sent shivers down his spine.

The thought of the world seeing the son of the Hulk kiss a man made him want to curl into a ball.

Oliver arched his brow, looking at him in confusion “You're... Not okay with it...?”

Lou quickly shook his head, shoving down the reasons deep inside his heart “It's not that! It's just I...” he sighed, looking at his sketchbook, the desire to create burning on his fingertips.

“You've never kissed a guy before?” Oliver looked at him a bit surprised, like the thought had crossed his mind more than once.

He was about to be honest, share a piece of his truth, but instead chose to go with a lie “Yeah, uh, it's not something I'm used to, if you know what I mean”

Oliver nodded, a sympathetic smile crossing his lips “Hey, it's not a big deal” he said stepping into Lou's space, their chests separated by the pages “If you close your eyes there's not really a difference, Lou”

Lou looked at him dumbfounded, he didn't know what to make of it.

Has Oliver kissed guys before? Had he like it? Would he be fine with kissing him?

He didn't know why that excited him, but his chest did that funny thing where he felt like it was about to explode, and tilted his head at the younger “Really? Wouldn't like... This make a difference?” he gestured at his stubble, and Oliver chuckled.

He liked the sound of that.

“Maybe, but in the end is just lips” he smiled, tilting his head at the older “I heard that you talked to Tim about changing this, the scene”

Lou nodded and took the script from Oliver's hands, looking for the kiss scene “Yeah, uh, I didn't think a make out scene would be appropriate for this kiss I mean... This is Buck's first kiss with a guy, it shouldn't be...”

“Too much?” Oliver finished, and Lou nodded, sort of grateful that he understood his predicament with the writing, “I get it Lou, you wanted to make it more intimate for them” Lou nodded, smiling at the younger “I really like change, did you have a plan on how to go over it?”

Lou's smile turned a bit playful, he had been thinking about all the little details he wanted to add to the kiss “I actually did, uh, I thought about this thing where I'd grab Buck's chin to guide him in? Would that be okay?”

They didn't have time for a chemistry read, so both actors took it upon themselves to practice their scenes the best they could alone, which helped in moments like this.

He noticed Oliver's eyes seemed to sparkle at the idea, and the blue in them slowly disappeared, covered by the darkness of his pupils.

“That... That would be good” Lou asked himself if he was seeing things, because there was no way Oliver Stark gulped and looked like he had lost all the air in his lungs.

Lou bit his lower lip and ducked his head to read the script “So... You wanna go about it now?” Oliver nodded frantically, and they got to it.

They stepped aside, ending on opposite ends of the trailer. As they ran their lines they got closer, just like their characters were supposed to, but Lou felt it was different somehow. Like it wasn't Buck and Tommy but them doing this.

The closeness of their bodies excited Lou, which he couldn't show because that's not how his character was like. He had to remind himself he is not Tommy Kinard, he's just an actor paid to do his job.

But it was hard not to go there when Oliver was giving him those heart eyes, when his energy pulled him in like a magnet, making him almost ditch the script and kiss him for real. Kiss him as Lou and not Tommy.

He focused back on the scene where Buck went about maiming his best friend, and when Oliver kept going like he was supposed to Lou took him by the chin and closed his eyes before joining their lips.

Oliver's body twitched and, oh my god was that sound a...? It took him less than a second but he returned the kiss, a kiss that ended very quickly for the liking of both men.

Lou's eyes were still closed, and he only opened them when his co star called his name. He wasn't ready for that sight though.

Oliver looked ecstatic, his eyes dazed like he was drunk on the kiss. There was a blush creeping up his cheeks and his lips, my god, Lou wanted to dive in and kiss those pink lips again.

But he had to contain himself. Even when he noticed the black smudge on Oliver's chin and it made him feel like his entire body was on fire.

“Uh... Sorry” he chuckled nervously, the younger's gaze still locked on him “W-was that okay Oliver?”

Oliver nodded slowly, his eyes now drifted towards Lou's mouth “Yeah, uh... That was really good Lou... The chin thing really works”

Lou's brain shortcircuited, and he thought fuck it, grabbing Oliver by the back of the neck and pulling him closer, lips brushing, “Yeah, the... The other idea I had was this, you know, grabbing Buck by the neck, do you... Do you think he'd like it?”

Lou knew he was playing with fire, this wasn't a rehearsal anymore this was just them.

Oliver nodded, beaming for the first time since he met him “Yeah, yeah, he really would, I mean who wouldn't–”

Like their characters in the show, Lou kissed Oliver to shut him up, which was funny given that in real life the older was much more like Buck in that sense, talking nonstop.

Oliver kissed him back quicker this time, and Lou relished on the feeling of younger's lips. He knew this wasn't in character anymore, but he didn't care, not when he wanted to play a bit with the younger.

Biting Oliver's lower lip got him a moan and the opportunity to slide his tongue in, which his co star took happily.

Lou's other hand found its way in the curve of Oliver's waist, holding onto it tightly. The younger, on the other hand, had his hands gripping on the older's hip, pulling him closer and closer until their bodies were flushed together.

None of them noticed they moved until Oliver made a sound because his lower back had been hit with the table. It didn't make it weird nonetheless, not when Lou's hand lowered from Oliver's waist to his thigh, grabbing and pulling it towards his hip.

Oliver groaned when he felt Lou grinding against him and returned the motion enthusiastically, with one of his hands supporting his weight on the table.

He started to slide his other hands inside Lou's shirt when they heard the door being knocked, forcing them out of their kiss.

“Lou?” a female voice the older still didn't recognize well called out his name, and made him look towards the closed door.

“Yeah? Who calls?” his hand was still gripping Oliver's thigh, now drawing circles on it with his thumb.

“It's Sarah from Hair and Makeup, we need you on the chair now” Oliver looked at him pleadingly, his eyes begging him not to leave right now as his hand played with the hem of his shirt.

But he needed to go.

He couldn't be a pain in the ass of the team, not when he was just a guest star.

So reluctantly he stepped aside, and the warmth that had built between them was met with the cool air of the AC, sending shivers down his spine.

“In a minute” he knew his voiced sounded wrecked, and he thanked the universe when the woman agreed and heard her stepping away from the trailer.

His eyes went back to Oliver who had a grim on his face “You really are leaving?” Lou closed his eyes for a second when he felt the younger's hands on his chest.

He really didn't want to go.

“Not everyone has the privilege of being a main Oliver” he chuckled and kissed his co star's cheek, making him smile “That's more like it”

Oliver rolled his eyes and hit him lightly on the chest, grabbing his pec “Okay, go, they don't like to wait” he leaned in and nuzzled their noses together “I think they're gonna get mad when they see your hands like that”

Lou laughed softly “Not as much as they're gonna hate to clean the smudge off your chin and neck Oli”

Oliver's eyes widened, a ‘what’ escaping his lips as he moved towards the closest mirror, laughing mischievously when he saw his face “Oh you are so gonna pay for this later Lou” he looked at him, a promise in those words.

Later.

He liked that.

“I'm counting on that, see ya Oliver” he laughed as he opened the door of his trailer, stepping out towards Hair and Makeup.

He didn't want to think about the implications of what just happened, not when he was feeling so giddy inside.

read on AO3

[lushleona]

I HATE IT HERE. mattheo riddle

mattheo riddle x fem reader

summary ; in which mattheo is an artist in a businessman’s world… inspired by ‘i hate it here’ by taylor swift words ; 905 warning ; swearing

navigation masterlist

Overhearing crunchy footsteps walking through the fallen autumn leaves, Mattheo snaps his sketchbook shut in fear that some random person would accidentally see his innermost thoughts. He’d been drawing by the Black Lake like he usually did when the voices in his head got too loud. Normally, no one else came out here to bother him, but it appeared that today was unlucky.

“Mattheo?” Oh, it was you who was coming to bother him. Guess his day wasn’t so unlucky, after all.

Taking a seat beside him with your back resting against the large tree behind you, you turn your head to look at him and place a kiss on his cheek.

“Did you just get bored or did something happen that made you feel the need to come out here?” You ask, looking down to watch as he mindlessly intertwines your fingers with his.

“How’d you even know I was here?”

“Answer my question.”

”Fine. Both.” He answers, his voice sounding strained as if he’d had the most tiring day of his life.

“You know I’m here to listen, right?” Trying to add to the reassurance, you give his hand a little squeeze. He sighs.

“I don’t wanna burden you. You’re always listening to my fucking problems.”

You can almost physically feel your heart clench at his words. Your sweet boy could never be a burden to you and frankly, it hurt to know that he thought of himself in that way.

“Talk to me.” Your tone is soft but there's something in your voice that makes it clear you aren’t leaving until he tells you everything.

“I just had a really fucking bad day.” He admits in a dismissive voice, as if it’s no big deal, like you shouldn’t worry about him. “And when I was in Potions, some people started talking about what they’re gonna do after they graduate.”

Your brows furrow and you nod in understanding as you let that sink in. It’s never been a secret that Mattheo didn’t exactly know what he was going to do after school ended, but you didn’t realize how badly that fact got to his head.

“That bothered you?” The answer to that question is obvious but still, there was an underlying need to ask it.

“Yes!” He snaps, his eyes burning with uncertainty and he takes a breath to calm himself before continuing. “It was all ‘I’m gonna be a Ministry worker,’ or ‘I’m gonna be an auror,’ or ‘teacher’ or whatever and I just… God, Y/n, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

You wanted nothing more than to help him, but you simply couldn’t. It’s not like anything you could say would miraculously make him realize what he wants to do for the rest of his life.

“Everything is so… dull and monochromatic. I don’t want to live in a world where I work 9 to 5 everyday in a cubicle. I just…. I hate it here.”

The mere possibility of living such a tight scheduled, boring, small life suffocated him every minute of everyday. He wanted more. He wanted to see the world, he wanted to be creative, he wanted to bring his dreams to fruition. He refused to become part of the system.

He was an artist at heart. Not many people knew that about him, but you did. He was lucky enough to be born with the ability to extract inspiration from anything in his sights. You, his friends, a song, an animal, architecture. Shit, even a random stranger he meets on the street could get the gears in his beautifully intricate mind to start turning.

Mattheo couldn't go ten minutes without feeling the urge to dump his thoughts onto a blank canvas. Talking wasn’t enough, he needed to create, he needed to use his hands.

His innovation is one of his best traits, one of your favorite things about him, and the idea of him ever giving it up was truly devastating. Taking a good while to think of what to say, you fidget around with his fingers in your hand.

“There’s so much out there, Mattheo. You don't need to conform to what the world wants you to do. I mean come on, you’ve never been one to follow the rules anyway.” You tell him.

“What am I gonna do?” He murmurs as he looks out at the lake, his voice filled with a deep sense of yearning.

“I don’t know. But I’ll be here to help you figure it out. I’ll be here with you for the rest of your life, if you’ll have me.” You whisper as he leans his head on your shoulder, his curls tickling the crook of your neck.

He scoffs, tightening his grip on your hand and snuggling his head deeper into your neck. “Are you stupid? Why would that even be a question? No dreams are worth living out if you’re not in them.”

“Good. ‘Cause you’re not getting rid of me.” You lean your head onto his. “I hate it here too but… It’s not so bad when you’re with me. Can I see what you were drawing?”

With an embarrassed blush flushing his cheeks, he hands you his sketchbook and you open up to the most recent page to find an extremely detailed illustration of… you.

© lushleona 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

the tortured poets department is really just on repeat 24/7. dare i say… her saddest album? anyways, i love the headcanon that mattheo loves to draw so i thought this would be sweet <3

[artsyivy]

So, I’m making my own pj masks au and I have already like a summary of the au so I decided to make some character design/fan art because I can 🐀✨ (I made drawings in my sketchbook🤓)

This au is basiclly like the original show but if instead of the pj getting their powers since they were little they got them in their teen years, I’m so original I know 😛, (It's sarcasm but just let me be happy 🐒).

I don’t want to explain the au right now because I’m tierd and because it’s still is progress but anyway, here I have the first character design of my au and i decided to start with one of my favorite characters… Octobella 🗣️🗣️🗣️ (Just for u to know, my artstyle is a bit messy 🥹)

So this is like her octopus from or how ever u want to call it. I was going for like something similar to her original design and gave her some more jewelry because queen loves crystals!!! Love my sea witch 🐙✨

Next is her human form??? I’m still figuring things out…

Yes I have her headcanons because it would make my life easier. Well, Her name is Isabella because when I was doing reaserch o found out that “Bella” means “beautiful” or something like that and I found it quite fitting for her. Her last name is Havström because I found out that It’s a swedish surname that means “sea ​​current” (please correct me if I’m wrong because I’m not familiar with it) She is swede because aperantly sea witches are very popular in Norse mythology. In the au, Bella comes frome a large line of powerfull sea witches and they are known for their potions and crystals, she can change her appearance at will between her “human form” and octopus form. In short, she is interested in the pj masks because they get their powers from a crystal and she LOVES crystals.

I made her a short queen in her senior year of high school, (she is older that the pj masks since they are in their junior year). Queen dyies her hair blond 👀.

In my au, Bella is part of a really wealthy family from Sweden but moved to the states arround middle school because her family’s business started growing very well in the states ,(yes, my au is based in the states even though the pj masks is from france but oh well). I imagine that she meet Greg before the other pj masks, they were neighbors in a quite a wealthy neighborhood, Greg went to the same middle school as Amaya and Connor but Bella’s parents and his parents were friends and they saw each other very often. At one point, Bella and Greg where good friends but when Greg started high school, Bella changed schools to go to the same school as Greg and she made his life miserable when she was a sophomore and he was a freshmen, but when she was in her junior year she went to study abroad and greg was in peace (at least until she came back). There is gonna be an episode arround season 2 that shows when Bella comes back from studying abroad (I want to make her apear untill season 2 so this is like spoiler and I’m sorry 😔, and yes, I’m planning the au as if it was a series ☝️🤓).

And to finish this, u might already have noticed that Dylan (Armadylan) is in the corner with Bella, so in a part of the au they are like a couple but like a toxic kind of one because Dylan genuinely likes Bella but she only uses him, I’m planning that she wants to use him to do some kind of spell that would put Dylan in danger but I can’t say much now ,I don’t want to give a lot of detail because this post is already really long and I’m too tired but I promise that in a future post I will explain about it !!!

This post only had like the main idea of what I want to do with Octobella in the au but in future posts I’ll go with much more detail 😨.

Omg, if ur still here, Tysm!! and I hope u liked it !!!

Why did I made it so long 😭😭😭

🐀✨

Here is the full picture if u were wondering. ✨

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 29 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

-You dare not put it down on the big tablet on your easel where John will see, but you can’t stop yourself from drawing it out in your smaller sketchbook-journal that is easier to squirrel away under clutter, putting down marks like you mean to exorcise her from your memory. You draw her like a ghost in her field of happy white flowers, and write in the margins in your looping script, I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make him forgive you. You want me to save him but I don’t know how. I don’t fucking know how.

Maybe she’ll actually hear your plea and do something useful about it, like haunt John’s dreams instead of yours.

Maybe you’re losing your damn mind. 

You find that either way, you’re not brave enough to mention her to your captor again.

She becomes an obsession, and you keep drawing her in your little sketchbook. You’ve only ever seen one picture of her. It was in the den, but has since disappeared. Still, you feel you know the lines of her face, the brightness of her eyes. You go back to your old fixation with the ladies of Mucha, sketching her out as the Lady of the Daisies with flowing auburn hair surrounded by her stylized flowers and flowing lines.

You strive to cover your true fixation by putting down anything as quickly as you can on the easel, knowing your captor will be by for inspection. You draw sunflowers, your favorite summer bloom, something fun but you can do with your eyes closed with colorful, juicy strokes of oil pastels. You hope to keep John off the scent of the book that holds your heartfelt neuroses that you bury under piles of all your new art supplies and anything else you can find.

It was stupid, of course, to think you could really hide anything from him.

One day you find him in the chair with his legs crossed, perusing your sketch journal with one of those magnificent thunderheads of a frown.

You are certain you are fucked, when he asks, “Is this your idea of a joke?”

Trembling as you imagine what he’s going to do to you for this infraction, you answer truthfully, “No.”

He closes the book with a snap, crossing the floor to stand before you, his powerful body moving deceptively slow, the way a tiger appears slothful in the jungle.

You know he can snap you up with one bite.

You cannot stop shaking, as he peers down that straight nose at you, pinning you with black eyes that somehow burn. He does not touch you, but God. He sees everything. You just know that he sees everything, and you find you are terrified of how he’ll react.  

“Have you been snooping through my things?”

“No.” The irony of him holding your sketch diary is not lost on you, but wisely you hold your tongue.

“How did you know what she looked like?”

“You had a picture out of her, ages ago.” At least, it felt like a like a lifetime ago.

“How did you know about the daisies?”

Now you know he’s going to flip his shit. It sounds fucking absurd, even to you. Your voice can barely rasp past what feels like dried twigs in your throat to whisper, “I saw them in a dream.”

You expect him to scoff and call you a liar. But he just searches your face, his eyes a little too wild for your liking. Here we go. He’d been damn near stable the past few days, but surely this will set him off.

You close your eyes, unable to watch the unfolding of your doom. This is it. He’s going to lock you up forever. You’ll never see the light of day again. The trembling in your frame kicks up to ten, and you hug yourself just to have something to hold on to.

When his next question comes, he could push you over with a feather.

“What does she say?”

You shake your head, realizing your cheeks are wet with tears.

“Nothing. She just…offers me the flower.” Going for broke you add, “She looks so sad.”

It is the sound of tearing paper that opens your eyes; with horror you find John making confetti of your art nouveau sketch that took hours to do. However, any protest dies on your lips—if destroying the drawing appeases him, maybe he won’t take it out on you.

Without another word, just a hard look, he stalks from the room.

Only when the sound of his footsteps fade down the hall do you let out the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your knees quivering like leaves in a storm.

However, you are not foolish enough to believe you’re in the clear just yet.

-Later, there is no dinner. You find the kitchen cold and empty. Not sure what to make of this, you graze in the fridge, before returning to your bedroom. Not sure where John has gotten off to, you shower, then go to bed, finding yourself lying awake in the dark without him beside you, almost itchy without his steady presence in the evening at your side.

Part of it might be that you fear something is brewing, and you can’t stand the waiting…but part of it might simply be that you miss him, as fucked up as that is.

In the end, against your better judgement, you go looking.

You search the house, until the only room that is left is the garage. Silently you open the door, slipping through without a sound. You too are learning how to move quiet as a wraith. The smell of rubber and oil assaults your nostrils. Classic rock is playing low on the radio. In the far bay, the hood of the Mustang is open, and John is bent over inside, wrenching on something and muttering to himself. There is a partially empty bottle of Blanton’s Bourbon on the workbench behind him, and an empty glass.

Unable to stop yourself from committing what perhaps might prove to be suicide, you creep to the other side of the Land Rover, using it as cover as you eavesdrop on this man grumbling to the ghost of his deceased wife.  

“What do you want from me? I loved you. I loved you with every fucking fiber of my being, but you left me. I died with you the day you left me, and she is the only thing that makes me feel alive again. I need her, and she never would have come to me on her own. She never would have stayed. She never would have stayed.”

He says this to himself over and over, and it wrenches your heart, because you know it isn’t true.

You think you manage to creep back out again without him noticing, Led Zeppelin on the radio disguising the sound of the door.

When at last he comes to bed and wraps you in his arms, holding you too hard for comfort, you feign sleep, smelling the bourbon fumes on his breath. You can’t help but tense, wondering if he will forget his promise this deep in his cups.

But he just sighs into your hair, crushing you as he pulls you even closer, and you don’t know why it breaks your heart all over again.

[aventurineswife]

College AU

Reader, Kaveh and Alhaitham are roommates in the same apartment and reader sometimes has the moment where they just sit/stand across the room from Kaveh while he is busy with something and yknow stare at him with that lovestruck look cuz they pining hard on that beautiful, amazing, gorgeous bbg.

And Alhaitham had caught on the fact that reader had been crushing on Kaveh for months (a very massive crush) and he just bluntly tells them one day to just say it. And reader freaks out a bit like "Whaaa? Pffft noooo, I dont...dont see him like that, ahahahaha, pls dont spill the beans...."

The rest is up to you 🤭

“If Only You Knew” | Part 1

Summary: You share an apartment with Kaveh, the charming and passionate architect, and Alhaitham, his blunt and logical friend. You've developed a massive crush on Kaveh, and sometimes, you just can’t help but stare at him with lovestruck admiration. Alhaitham, having caught onto your feelings, encourages you to confess, but you brush it off, panicking at the thought of Kaveh finding out. Though you remain the quiet admirer for now, Alhaitham’s words linger, and maybe someday, you’ll gather the courage to reveal the truth.

Tags: College AU, Modern AU, Fluff, Unrequited (but Mutual) Pining, Roommates, Love Confessions (eventual), Slow Burn, Alhaitham Being Observant, Kaveh x Reader, Humor, Light Angst, Crushes

Warnings: Mild language, secondhand embarrassment, unrequited pining (for now), Alhaitham’s blunt honesty

A/N: OMG ITS MY BEAUTIFUL ARCHITECT WIFE KAVEHHH 😍🤭💖 and his roomate... 😐

Part 2

You sat on the edge of the couch, textbook open on your lap, but your attention was decidedly not on the words. Instead, your gaze was fixed on Kaveh, who was sitting at the dining table, his messy sketchbooks and architectural plans spread out around him like the aftermath of a storm. He was fully engrossed, his blond hair falling into his eyes as he leaned over a drawing with that intense, focused look you’d come to adore.

For a moment, you just watched him. His hand moved in practiced strokes, a small smile appearing every so often, as if he was admiring his own work. You didn’t blame him; everything he created was beautiful, a reflection of the way he saw the world. You loved watching his passion, how he became so absorbed in it. Maybe one day, you'd tell him how he looked like an artwork himself, surrounded by ideas that only he could bring to life. For now, though, you’d just stare across the room, hoping he wouldn’t notice the soft, lovesick expression you probably wore.

Unfortunately, someone did notice.

"You're staring again," came a low, matter-of-fact voice from beside you.

You jumped, realizing that Alhaitham had somehow materialized in the living room without you noticing. His usual unreadable expression was tinged with a faint smirk, like he was privy to some secret.

"I—uh—what?" you stammered, trying to act casual as you quickly turned back to your textbook. "I was just...thinking. About, uh, architecture! Yeah. Architecture is...fascinating."

Alhaitham didn’t look convinced. He simply raised an eyebrow, glanced over at Kaveh, who was still oblivious, and then back at you. "You know, you could just tell him," he said bluntly. "Your crush on him isn’t exactly subtle."

Heat flooded your face. "Whaaa? Pffft, nooo, I don’t...I don’t see him like that," you protested, sounding embarrassingly unconvincing even to yourself. "I just...he’s an inspiring person. A friend (okay Adrien-). I admire his...dedication and stuff."

Alhaitham stared at you, unimpressed. "I see," he replied, deadpan. "Admiration. Is that why you’ve been looking at him like he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen for the past six months?"

You buried your face in your hands. "Alhaitham, please, don’t spill the beans..." you whispered, mortified. If Kaveh found out...you didn’t even want to think about it. You were sure he’d laugh it off or worse, get awkward about it. The thought alone was enough to make you want to disappear.

Alhaitham sighed, sitting down next to you. "You know, you might be surprised. Kaveh isn’t as dense as you think," he said, voice softening just a little. "You’re giving him too little credit. Besides, the worst he’ll do is make an emotional speech about unrequited love and how tragic it is."

You could almost imagine it. Kaveh, in all his dramatic glory, would probably get poetic about it, turn it into some grand tale of forbidden romance. You chuckled, even as the nerves twisted your stomach.

But then Kaveh’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Hey, what’s so funny?”

You looked up, startled to see him looking at you, curiosity lighting up his bright red eyes. The blush that had only barely started to fade returned with a vengeance. "Oh! Uh...just something silly." you mumbled, trying desperately to avoid Alhaitham’s knowing gaze.

Kaveh chuckled, his attention back on his sketches. “Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one around here with a sense of humor. Alhaitham is no fun.”

“Thank you.” Alhaitham said dryly, glancing at you with a small smile.

You spent the rest of the evening nervously trying to play it cool, but every so often, Alhaitham’s words would echo in your mind, making your heart beat just a little faster. Maybe one day, you’d find the courage to tell Kaveh how you really felt. For now, though, you were content to stay right here, as his silent, hopeless admirer.

Honestly this just reminded me of MLB 💀

I should really go study for my exams and finish my homeworks...😔😔

And now I want to write something suggestive but idk what 😪👁️👁️so send in your requests with what and who you want to do your fantasy with

[car-o-line]

Hey there!! I hope ur doing well :3

May I req Toya, Akito and VBS Miku (separately) with a reader who likes to draw them a lot? Like to the point they have a whole seperate sketch book dedicated to drawings of them ^^

Have a nice day and remember to take care of ur self!!!!!!

ur so kind what the flippy flap- honestly thank u for ur kindness it literally makes my day!! I swear I turn into a literal iPad kid whenever I play pjsk it’s not even funny😭

Toya, Akito, and VBS Miku with an artist reader who draws them a lot

VBS Miku:

She always knew you liked drawing, you drew all the time. There almost wasn’t a time where she didn’t see you draw.

You often went to Sekai to get inspiration for your art, coincidentally she’d always be in the area when you’d started sketching.

Sometime later she gave into her previous curiosity and straight up asked you what you were drawing.

You stared at her with hesitant(or what she could only assume), but soon got over it and shyly turned your sketch book around to show her what you drew.

It was a simple sketch of her chatting with Meiko while she was sipping on her coffee, she almost thought it was the finished draft because of the detail. The hanging zipper from her jacket, the reflection of the sun in Meiko’s sun glasses, and the shadows of a bickering Len and Rin in the background.

“Whoa Y/n, this is incredible. Didn’t know you admire me so much!”

She spoke in a teasing tone, she started to flipping through past pages and saw just how many pictures you drew of her. Of course, it wasn’t only her, pictures of Meiko, Len, Rin, Kaito, and Luka were littered throughout the sketch book. But none had appeared as much as she had.

There was a warm feeling that spread through her heart as she stared at the many sketches, for some reason she felt loved in a sense. She did before of course, but that made her feel all the more loved.

She quickly pulled you in for a tight hug, just for a moment before realizing what she did and gently let you go.

After that she’d randomly start posing whenever you entered Sekai, just to give you ideas for your next drawing.

Shinonome Akito:

Being the noisy prick he is he’d find your sketches of him quite easily.

He knew you draw, he’s even taken the liberty of calling you the groups “Ena.”(bc she draws and like ykyk😭)

So on that one fateful day, you just were sketching the said noisy prick, he was in the midst of singing but suddenly saw how you subtly kept eyeing him then returning back to your drawing.

Literally had the audacity to stop practicing and ran straight towards you to see what you were up to.

“Hey Y/n! Whatcha keep staring at me for- oh? Damn…got my good angle and everything.”

He grabbed the book from the table and started flipping through it despite your efforts to take it back.

Started to actually rate each of them through 1-10 on how good his outfit was that day.

After his searching he proudly slammed the search down on the table and ruffled your head aggressively kindly.

He told you next time you draw him and he wasn’t wearing a good outfit to just come up with one and pretend he’s wearing that.

Aoyagi Toya:

Didn’t find out until you accidentally left your sketchbook out on the bar counter.

Listen he’s a man of respect so he’s not like a certain ginger who just digs through your belongings.

He was watching the An and Kohane practice for an upcoming concert for the 5 of you, still being aware that you were in the same vicinity as him. He asked you why you weren’t practicing with them but you just said it was too early to sing and continue to doodle in your sketchbook.

He’s always wondered what you drew in there, but he never asked because he doesn’t want you to get embarrassed or something.

But suddenly you just told him that you had to use the restroom and ran off…with your sketchbook open.

Now I know I said he’s a man of respect and won’t dig through your belongings but the page was literally right in front of him. He could see it as a whole. The drawing was a man, a man with a jacket, oh wait that looks like him.

Never confronted you about it, when you got back from the restroom he just snapped his head the opposite direction of the sketch book.

You still don’t know that he saw it, but that night he definitely kicked his feet and giggled like a girl(istg)

[knight-a3]

Hazbin Sketchbook Tour Part 8

Masterpost

Maybe I should've included these two in the last part, but oh well.

Design notes under the cut, because I have reasons for the design choices I made.

Edit - Part 8 decided to post before part 7, and I'm not really sure why.

I skipped some of my preliminary sketches where I tried a slightly more accurate snake face shape. I didn't like how it looked so I just reverted back to his canon face shape.

Overall, Pentious really just needed to be simplified. His canon design looked like a slug covered in eyes. So I took most of the eyes away and removed the long stripes. Then altered the body to flow more naturally into the snake tail. He doesn't actually have much in the way of shoulders, but he pads out his jacket to look like he does.

Snake fangs don't stick out of the mouth while the mouth is closed. So his fangs only appear when his mouth is opened. Instead his mouth is specially shaped for his tongue to stick out. Having him default to sticking his tongue out and holding his hands up like Trex arms felt necessary and I am committing to it.

I did a little research into hooded snakes, and the hood is literally just the snake flattening it's neck to look bigger. So I wanted to incorporate that. But I also liked how the animation of his hair/hood looked and wanted to keep that. So I had the hair be like fringes that come off the hood(which connects to his neck just before the collar of his shirt), then assured myself that he's not literally a snake, but a demon with features resembling a snake. It's close enough.

For his clothing, I wanted to stick to a late Victorian-esque style. But I was still committed to removing most of the bowties from everyone. But I also wanted more variety than just neckties. Cravats/Ascots were decently popular at the time, so I went with that. I gave him a pocket watch, which is in his vest pocket. If it's ever not there, then I probably forgot to draw it.

Top hats were, I believe, less common than styles like bowler hats, but the top hat just gives the steampunk vibe better. And a bowler hat looked wrong on Pentious, so he gets to keep the top hat. But the hat's eye had to go, it was too cluttered. Instead, his goggles get to express the emotions that the eye would have.

One day, I'll work on color palettes for everyone. I'm just busy right now.

[n0odlz]

EC Relationship Chart 😼

Plus my hc's so I can probably draw them later😁💞💞

How they'd react to the FREAK of Mya

Mya: "I'm gonna touch you"

Jerry: "Fucking weirdo" 😰

Pete: "Not if I touch you first" 😈

Josh: *Repulsive expression* 😦

Bill: "Keep your bitch germs away from me" 😦

How they found Mya

Jerry- Jerry was looking around the library to check out the first Harry Potter book yet again. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone.. A girl. She seemed to be drawing, but drawing what? He shook his head and decided to mind his business. Even if he DID decide to approach her, she'd most likely be repulsed by just his appearance alone. A few days pass and he's already finished the book, so he decided to check out the next one. Yet again, he spots the same girl in her Batman shirt and short, kinky hair with rectangular glasses as well as too many accessories to count. Each and every time he came back to the library, all he would see was that same girl drawing in her sketchbook. By the time he had to check out the last book, he built up the courage to actually come up to her.

Pete: What the hell was a lady doing at Joe's? It was just so...strange..and just out of the ordinary. Pete just rolled his eyes and decided on minding his business, "because girls can only bring trouble." All of a sudden, he heard some commotion going on and being the curious little guy he was, he decided to check it out. Concern only rose when he heard the noises coming from the horror section and he immediately jogged over there. Once he arrived, he saw that same girl arguing with a guy.. Not over some weird shirt, not over a dumb poster. Over a limited edition Michael Myers vinyl figure. He watched as she argued and clawed at the boy who was definitely fighting back just as hard. Insults spewed at each other with the shuffling and huffing of them pushing each other against the shelves. He watched in shock.. Well, not really. He was more entertained over being shocked. His excitement heightened once he witnessed her unnaturally long nails draw blood from the boys wrist in turn making him yelp in pain drawing the attention of everyone else in the shop.

Josh: The Eltingville club was on an outing to their local mall. Mainly to cause ruckus and mayhem, but to also have fun. One place they decided to head to was the movies, only Josh had to use the bathroom so that's exactly what he did. He found the restroom and quickly did his business, leaving without washing his hands of course. He was headed back to the theater section until he spotted a girl. Yeah, of course there's a girl in the mall.. But why was she in such attire? A tacky Jimmy Neutron shirt with biker shorts, white leg warmers and some beat up black and red converse, purposely mismatched probably trying to piss someone off. Josh could only stand in stare in not only disgust but admiration...But only because she was into Jimmy Neutron!

Bill: My GOD! Where could he start? First off, Jane had her loud, stupid friends over during the only time he could sleep in without being yelled at by his mom. He tried getting dressed but half his clothes were dirty (as if that actually prevented him from wearing them anyway), and to top it off, a fucking foid in the local movie rental store. And no, she wasn't just there for anything.. Not just any movie.. But she was here to grab.. No. STEAL the newest release, "The Batman". He'd be DAMNED if he let a FEMALE not only enter his sacred nerd space but also steal his sacred nerd movie! He first bumped into her in the "new releases" aisle, trying his best not to quiz her on everything she knows and he was doing so well till they reached for the exact. Same. Movie.

"Excuse me Foid, I think you meant to go in the 'chick flick' section. This section is for REAL Dark Knight fans."

"ACTUALLY, I came here first and I touched it first, so I'm gonna be the one to rent the damn movie"

Unamused and unimpressed, she snatched the movie and was starting to walk away until she felt a firm tug on her arm. It was that nasty, brunette incel with his disgustingly dirty Batman shirt. It was unfortunate that they were practically matching that day with their shirts, it only deepened her animosity towards him. His firm tug on her wrist and constant insults only led her into a fit of rage, causing her to turn around and immediately start yelling and choking him. "Females are always violent ."