#why did I draw this above anything else I could be working on

[hellsvestibule]

Tristan put that fowl thing away. Oh. hi Lancelot. Nice Cock!

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

BLOCK ME OUT

rafe cameron x fem!reader

SUMMARY: haunted by her ex’s cruel words, y/n wishes she could block herself out. but rafe sees her differently—like she hung the stars in the sky.

based on this ask !! thank you for this anon, apologies that it’s taken so long, but i hope it’s what you asked for and you enjoy it :) <3

(check out my other rafe cameron & drew starkey works here !!)

WARNINGS: appearance insecurities, angsty with a soft ending, soft!rafe, rafe thinking violent thoughts (nothing unusual😝), past emotionally/verbally abusive relationship (reader’s ex), crying, cursing, allusions to sex. (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 2k

THIRD PERSON +

Y/N stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, eyes tracing the features she had long since memorised yet never quite accepted. The fluorescent light above cast harsh shadows, making every perceived flaw stand out even more—the uneven texture of her skin, the way her cheeks seemed too full in certain angles but too hollow in others, the faint blemishes she could never quite cover no matter how much makeup she wore. Her fingers ghosted over her jawline, then moved to her lips, hesitating as if debating whether they were too thin or too full.

She sighed, dropping her hand and looking away. It didn’t matter. It never did.

“Y/N?”

Rafe’s voice echoed from the hallway, warm and familiar. He must have noticed how long she had been in here. She took a breath and composed herself before stepping out, her lips pulling into a small, forced smile.

“Hey,” she said casually.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her with that soft yet unreadable expression he sometimes had when he thought she wasn’t looking. His blue eyes flickered over her face, taking in every detail as if memorising it. She knew he was about to say something—probably a compliment, because he always did. And just like always, she prepared to ignore it.

“You look beautiful,” Rafe murmured, almost absentmindedly, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

Y/N scoffed quietly, shaking her head as she crossed the room. “No, I don’t.”

Rafe frowned slightly, his brows drawing together in concern, but he didn’t argue. He never did. Instead, he just watched as she climbed into bed beside him, her body curling up instinctively, as if trying to take up less space. He noticed that too.

It had started small, the little deflections. The way she would dismiss any compliment he gave her with a wave of her hand or a disbelieving laugh. At first, he assumed she was just being humble, but the more time he spent with her, the more he realized it was something else.

Something deeper.

A wound that hadn’t healed.

Rafe didn’t push. He didn’t ask. But he noticed.

Like the way her smile always faltered for just a second when someone called her pretty, as if the word physically pained her. Or how she always changed the subject when he told her she was beautiful, shifting the conversation so quickly it was almost seamless. If he wasn’t paying such close attention, he might’ve missed it.

But he was always paying attention.

Y/N knew she should appreciate Rafe’s compliments, knew that he wasn’t just saying them to be nice. But she couldn’t make herself believe them. Not after everything.

Not after him.

Her ex’s voice still lingered in the back of her mind like a ghost, whispering cruel words she could never quite erase.

“You really think you’re all that? God, Y/N, you’re so damn insecure it’s pathetic.”

“I don’t know why you even bother with makeup—it doesn’t help.”

“No one’s looking at you the way you think they are. You’re just… average.”

She had spent so much time believing those words, internalising them, letting them take root deep inside her until they became an unshakable truth. And now, even though he was gone, even though she had someone like Rafe in her life—someone who looked at her like she was the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen—she still couldn’t silence that voice.

Rafe had never once made her feel anything less than wanted. He never criticised, never made offhanded comments that chipped away at her self-worth. But that didn’t mean she knew how to accept kindness when it was given to her.

She felt his fingers brush lightly against her arm, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“You tired?” he asked, voice low and gentle.

She nodded, grateful for the easy out. “Yeah. Just a long day.”

Rafe didn’t question it. He just reached over and pulled the blanket up over her, as if shielding her from whatever weight she was carrying. And maybe in his own way, he was.

She turned onto her side, facing away from him, but she could still feel his gaze on her, feel the warmth of his presence beside her.

For a moment, she let herself pretend that it was enough.

—

The night had started out perfectly.

Dinner was casual, nothing extravagant—just the two of them at his place, sitting across from each other, laughing between bites of food. It had been easy. Light. Y/N had almost felt normal, like the weight of her insecurities wasn’t pressing so hard against her ribs.

Rafe had been extra touchy that evening—his fingers brushing hers when he handed her a glass of wine, his palm resting at the small of her back as they moved through the house. Small touches, each one sending a shiver down her spine.

And now, here they were.

Y/N lay beneath him, the world shrinking to just the two of them, just the warmth of his body and the way his lips moved against hers like he couldn’t get enough. His hands skimmed her sides, slow and teasing, as if memorising every inch of her.

The air in the room had thickened, charged with something electric.

She should’ve been lost in it.

But she wasn’t.

Because the moment his fingers hooked under the hem of her shirt, inching it up over her ribs, that voice came creeping back.

“You think he really wants to see you?”

“You think he won’t notice how bad you look from this angle?”

“God, Y/N, you’re so damn insecure, it’s pathetic.”

She tensed.

Rafe noticed immediately.

His lips paused against her neck, and she felt his breath, felt the slight hesitation in his movements. “You okay?” he murmured, voice laced with concern.

Y/N forced a nod, forcing herself to push through it. Don’t ruin this. Don’t overthink it. Just let him love you.

But then his hands moved again, slipping beneath the fabric, and panic surged through her like a tidal wave.

Suddenly, she wasn’t here anymore. She was back in that old apartment, standing under fluorescent lighting as her ex tilted his head and examined her with a critical gaze.

“Your stomach isn’t as flat as you think.”

“I mean, yeah, you look good from the right angle, but not always.”

“Don’t get mad. I’m just being honest.”

Her breath hitched. The room felt smaller. Her chest ached.

She didn’t even realise she was shaking until Rafe pulled back, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Y/N?” His voice was softer now, laced with something she couldn’t place. “Talk to me, baby.”

But she couldn’t.

Because she was already spiralling.

She shoved at his chest lightly, needing space, needing air. And Rafe—sweet, perceptive Rafe—moved immediately, sitting back on his heels, giving her exactly what she needed. But even with the distance, she couldn’t breathe right.

“I—I can’t do this,” she choked out, her throat tightening. “I just—I don’t—”

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision. She felt pathetic, completely unravelling in front of him over something so stupid.

But Rafe didn’t move, didn’t rush her. He just watched her, eyes scanning her face like he was trying to piece together what had broken.

She ran a shaky hand through her hair, her breaths coming faster. “I just—” Her voice cracked, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t feel good enough for you.”

The confession slipped out before she could stop it, and suddenly, the dam broke.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands, ashamed of how easily she was falling apart.

“Y/N…”

She felt the mattress dip as Rafe moved closer, but he didn’t touch her. He just waited.

Waited for her to speak.

Waited for her to let him in.

She sniffled, wiping at her tears, but more came. “I—I don’t get how you could look at me like you do,” she whispered. “I don’t get how you could actually—” She sucked in a shaky breath. “How you could actually want this.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed, confusion and pain flashing across his face. “What are you talking about?”

She let out a wet, bitter laugh. “I see myself, Rafe. I see what I look like from different angles. I know what people see.”

Rafe was shaking his head before she even finished speaking. “You don’t know what I see.”

She swallowed hard. “I just—” Her voice trembled. “I worry that… that you’re not actually attracted to me. That you just think you are.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick.

And then, softly, carefully, Rafe asked, “Why do you think that?”

She exhaled shakily, dropping her gaze.

She didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want to open that box. But he deserved to know.

“My ex,” she finally whispered. “He��� he made sure I knew what was wrong with me. All the time.”

Rafe went rigid.

She saw it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. He inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to stay calm, but she could see the fire behind his eyes.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low and steady, like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. “Tell me what he said to you.”

Her throat felt tight, but she forced the words out. “He told me I wasn’t as pretty as I thought. That my body wasn’t as nice as I thought. That I only looked good from certain angles.” Her voice cracked. “And I believed him.”

Rafe exhaled sharply, looking away, his hands gripping the sheets like he was barely holding himself together. She could see the anger simmering beneath his skin, the way he wanted to break something, to scream, to hurt the person who had done this to her.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned back to her, and when he spoke again, his voice was full of something even stronger than rage.

Love.

“Y/N,” he said, his tone soft but firm. “I need you to listen to me.”

She swallowed hard, nodding weakly.

He cupped her face gently, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. And not just from certain angles. Always.”

She tried to look away, but he didn’t let her.

“You think I don’t notice the way you brush off my compliments? The way you never believe me when I tell you how fucking perfect you are?” His voice wavered slightly, but he kept going. “It kills me, Y/N. It kills me that someone made you feel like this. That someone convinced you that you weren’t enough.”

More tears welled in her eyes. “Rafe…”

“No.” His voice was raw now, his emotions spilling over. “You are everything to me. Everything. And I don’t just want you—I crave you. Every part of you. Every inch of you. I don’t care what angle, what lighting, what bullshit insecurity you think you have—I love all of it. Because it’s you.”

Her lip trembled. “But what if—”

“No what-ifs,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “You are enough. You are more than enough.”

She broke.

Sobs wracked her body, and Rafe pulled her into his arms, holding her like he would never let go. He whispered into her hair, his voice soothing and warm, telling her over and over again how perfect she was, how much he loved her, how much she meant to him.

And for the first time in a long time, she wanted to believe him.

Because when Rafe Cameron looked at her, he didn’t see flaws. He didn’t see imperfections.

He saw the stars.

And maybe, just maybe, she could learn to see them too.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was such a cute and emotional one :’) i had this written up before i went away but finally got to editing it, just spending eh next couple days editing and posting the requests in my drafts !!

i hope this is what you asked for anon !! and as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated :) don’t hesitate to request <3

[tswwwit]

Here's a thing!

Containing: Bill as a widower, a surprise reincarnation, and dire threats of matrimony.

Despite how things turned out, Dipper has no regrets.

Okay. There is one: Getting caught in the first place. 

But other than that, he’s lived his life the way he wanted to. Everyone told him joining the resistance was a terrible idea. That he had a bright future ahead of him, that he was smart, to not throw it all away for a useless, impossible task. 

Like he could ever do anything else. 

Even at the end of things, Dipper’s proud of what he accomplished. He helped so many people. He picked his fights carefully and mostly had them work out in his favor. He did the best he could, pushed himself to the very limits of his abilities, and it worked so well.

Bright future his ass. Fighting got him further than anything could. When you think of what he’s done. Where he’s clawed back territory. Who he’s saved-

A pang goes through his chest. Dipper ducks his head, hissing against the gag between his teeth.

Okay, second regret: Not saving more people. And not avenging others. Three regrets isn’t so bad. Right?

God, what else could he have managed, if he hadn’t been stupid. If he hadn’t slipped up this one time, if he could have escaped. If he could have- 

“NEXT!” 

Bill Cipher’s voice rings through the room. Two claps punctuate the statement, and the line moves forward. 

Claws dig into Dipper arm, tighter than before. While they still don’t break the skin, the way he’s dragged forward has him hissing again. His skinned knees burn as they slide against stone, and the pain reminds him not to let up his guard.

Not here, in the Fearamid. There’s no worse place. 

In a way, he’s kind of lucky. The massive pyramid that makes up Bill Cipher’s headquarters and fortress has never before breached. No member of the resistance has made it into the command base of the terrible demon who rules the west coast. 

Dipper never thought he’d end up here, ever. The closest he’d imagined was in vague daydreams. The impossible kind where he had amazing powers, spouted cool one-liners, and could smash through the entire awful fortress to kick Bill Cipher right in his angles. 

“Ugh.” Bill’s groan resonates through the room. “Why the hell would I need gold? Real crappy offering.” Another clap, then, “NEXT!”

Being tribute wasn’t exactly on Dipper’s bucket list.

So here he is. Dragged along by his captors to be one more present for the Nightmare King himself. 

Demons try to slake their master’s insatiable greed with an endless parade of presents. The raiding never ends. The looting, the theft, the bribes - everything, everywhere gets poured into the coffers of this monster. Nothing is enough for him. It never will be. 

So it’s pretty weird that Dipper’s here. By himself. 

A hundred humans at once might provoke a passing interest. A few tons of liquor or - apparently not gold, no wonder that assassination attempt failed - could also catch his eye. Only the most elaborate, creative gifts might gain a bit of his favor, which is hard to get on a good day. 

One human who really made Bill’s day worse, though? That might get a second look. Dipper didn’t think he was that big of a deal, but it would be kinda cool. 

Or he wasn’t, and his captors will twist him into a new flesh configuration once they reach the front of the line, like performance art. Or he has been a pain, and when Bill finally gets his hands on him and can do whatever he wants to him, he’ll do unthinkably horrible -

No. Dipper can’t think like that, not now or ever. Fear won’t help. It never helps. 

Terror one of Bill’s tools. He thrives on mortals cowering before him, and Dipper won’t do that. 

He shakes his head to clear it, and gets the hood shoved further down for his efforts. The thin string around his neck draws tighter as a demon adjusts the cloth. Then it plucks at it, in an apparent attempt to make its captive look more ‘presentable’. 

“You sure it’s-” One of the demons mutters above him. Another pluck at his hood pulls it upwards, and he hears a smack.

“Shh! Don’t show everyone ‘til we take credit,” insists the leader. Tension makes his voice rough. “You saw it. Just like in the pictures. Boss’ll love it.”

Sounds like they’re trying to reassure themselves rather than actually thinking this will go well. Dipper snorts. Amusement on the gallows.

All four demons shush him. He can practically picture them holding fingers to their mouths in unison, hissing at their captive. It makes him snort again, and a hand shoves his head down.

Shushed, of all things. The sheer absurdity makes him want to laugh.

Being captured was bad enough. All his hypervigilance turned out useless when it really counted. Everything he’d taken notes on, the plans, the studies - none of those mattered when he was dangling by his ankle from a snare in the woods like a helpless animal. 

But the way he was taken captive? That was notable. A realization that only hit once he was stuffed into a box and had nothing to do except think - but an important one.

For one, most demonic traps leave their victims in multiple pieces. And for another, he wasn’t devoured afterwards. There was an odd amount of caution involved in his handling for a human with so little magic. Almost like they were frightened of doing it wrong.

And after that, he should have been smacked around and beaten for his defiance. Hell knows he didn’t take this bullshit lying down. But instead of ending up with open wounds and a broken jaw, there’s a bag over his head and rough cloth gag to shut him up.

In fact, aside from a few bruises and scrapes, Dipper’s perfectly fine. By all demonic standards, his entire kidnapping makes no sense.

Unless you know what Bill Cipher likes to do to humans.

Dipper tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. He hadn’t wanted to think of it. Now the idea won’t stop popping up, cold grey swimming through his thoughts. 

There aren’t many pictures of Bill’s ‘sculpture’ garden. Most aerial shots just get the gist of it, a field spotted grey against green. Stone hands reaching for the sky or clutching their faces, thousands of bodies screaming for their life or hunkered down to the ground -

Swallowing again doesn’t help. His mouth is too dry, even when the gag is damp between his teeth.

Soon he’ll be one of the thousands of ornaments Bill makes of human lives, instead of killing them nice and clean. Another trophy. 

Maybe it won’t hurt? Dipper hopes it doesn’t hurt. He hopes that that’s what he’s here for, rather than anything more creative. But it’s the only fate that makes sense. 

A bit of cold comfort, then. He might not be mutilated. If he’s ‘just like the picture’ - whatever that means - then Bill will want him to stay exactly as he is.

It sounds absurd. But who knows? Odds are Bill Cipher has a type, and Dipper will make an exceptionally pleasant sight once he’s permanently a part of his estate. Maybe he’s got a thing for rebellious, fashionless nerds having the worst day of their life. Whatever goes on in that triangular brain is too weird for Dipper to fathom.

He hopes that being a statue is peaceful. Or at least not too painful. That it happens in a flash, like he’s seen in video. And if he’s lucky, the company he’ll keep for the next… forever might include his -

“Bo-ring,” Bill interrupts the next offering before the demon gets three words into their speech. “I’d say do better next time, but guess what?”

Two claps this time. Something explodes with a splatter, close enough that Dipper and his kidnapping coterie all flinch back.

“There won’t be another.” Bill finishes. He pauses for laughter at his dry semi-joke, then claps once more. “NEXT!” 

The line of supplicants moves forward. Dipper’s knees skid across the floor as he’s dragged forward, sliding to a stop as his captors pause in their line. 

They must be pretty far at the front by now. The group of demons in front of Dipper’s speaks excitedly to an unresponsive audience. He swears he hears a yawn. 

Impressing Bill Cipher is difficult at the best of times. Doing it with one single human seems reckless even by Dipper’s limited knowledge, but excited murmurs keep darting over his head. 

Either they know something he doesn’t, or there’s another factor in play. And hell, considering the tributes Dipper’s overheard, they could hardly do worse. Nothing’s impressed Bill so far. At best he’s waved off their offerings to be piled up with all the, quote, ‘other crap’. 

The latest batch doesn’t fare any better than the previous one. Like last time, Bill groans and something goes ‘splat’. A sprinkle of unknown fluid hits Dipper’s knees, soaking into his jeans. 

“Ugh,” Bill groans, low and extended. It seems like it’ll go on forever, until he hears, “NEXT!”

Dipper’s shoulders tense. His jaw clenches, arms and legs pressing against their bindings. None of which stops him from being pulled along in his kidnapper’s wake. 

This is it, then. Facing the lord of dreams himself, eye to… cloth, Dipper doubts he’s going to get a real look at him. 

Which might be for the best. Word is that Bill can manage terrible things to the human psyche, given the chance. Dipper’s very human, and he doesn’t have enough magic to defend himself even if anyone knew how to manage it.

So maybe it’s okay that he’s a little terrified, because it’s natural. And even more importantly,  Bill won’t see it. 

“My lord,” The demon that captured Dipper speaks in a gravelly voice. He’s a green-gray lizard creature, with several eyes, and his sheer amount of muscles belies a sharper mind than usual. Anyone who fought him might have made that mistake. “I found you somethin’ really cool.”

He sounds strangely excited about presenting a single mortal to his king. A hint of pride, maybe, that he kept it so intact? It could be difficult for demons, because Dipper’s sure never heard of it before.

His thoughts are interrupted by a slow push, sliding him forward across stone. Careful force, that lets him keep his balance instead of planting on his face. At least he’ll face his fate upright.

One more tribute. Sitting in front of a king, in a crowd of monsters, Dipper has his pride. And he will not bow. 

And the response from Bill Cipher is… probably not what the leader wanted. 

Dipper hears another groan, followed by a heavy sigh. “Wow. A human. Never seen one of those before.”

Ah, great. Sarcasm. Bill Cipher sounds as impressed with Dipper as he was with the dozen tributes before him - bored, tired, blase. 

Dipper straightens his back, oddly offended. Wait, he doesn’t suck as tribute, right? Part of his pride hinged on his captor not being an idiot. It made losing less embarrassing.

“Ugh. Seriously getting tired of this crap.” Bill’s voice has a tinge of annoyance to it. Kind of a whine, even. “Like I don’t have enough in the rock garden already. The shine rubbed off that apple a while ago.”

“Er,” The lizard demon hesitates. “Uh, well. Nah, see, there’s-”

“Eh, whatever.” With another sigh, Bill snaps his fingers. “Alright, one statue, coming u-”

“Wait!” 

The crowd hushes. A few gasps, a couple whispers at the sheer audacity. Even Dipper twists to look at his captor in sheer surprise. A useless gesture, he still has a hood over his freakin’ face. But, like. What? 

That gruff voice burst out so quickly that it sounded almost defensive, and - what the hell is going on?

The too-busy hall has gone eerily quiet. Even the mad Nightmare King doesn’t speak, probably surprised at this act of open defiance.

“I- sorry, sorry, my lord. But, like, you’re gonna really like this one.” The demon continues, rapid like he’s on the verge of panic. But insistent, too. A tense excitement runs through his words. “You gotta take a look.” 

Dipper blinks in a fruitless attempt to clear his eyes. Stupid fabric over his face. He’s flying blind here.

He wishes he could see everyone’s reactions. Mortals bore Bill at best. Aside from making them into decorations, he barely bothers interacting directly. One young human shouldn’t make a demon yell at Bill Cipher. He shouldn’t matter, or be important, or even register as anything. What the hell?

The crowd stays deathly silent. Bill doesn’t speak. A slow tapping of fingers thuds like a drum in the quiet, a slow contemplative beat.

The Lord of Nightmares holds his own counsel as he judges this outburst. Weighing his options.

“Huh,” Bill says, a second after Dipper thought everything would explode - “Got a lotta confidence in your prize, I see! Guess that’s kinda interesting.” His voice grows louder as he approaches, but there aren’t any footsteps. This monster floats. “Whatcha got there?”

“Well, he was runnin’ about messing up some stuff, and, well, we saw him and - y’know.” The lead demon continues babbling, voice rising to a squeak. Bill must have closed the distance, meeting him eye to multiple eyes. “And! And we made sure not to leave a mark or anything, we was real careful.” A beat of pause; presumably Bill giving him an askance look. “Aside from tying ‘em up, yeah? He woulda run off otherwise.”

“Huh.” Bill says, again. More thoughtful now.

The same thing Dipper might have said, if he wasn’t gagged. True, he hasn’t been beaten up for fun, or toyed with, or devoured. But he’d guessed it was to leave him a more presentable statue. 

Said Nightmare King must be very close by now, intrigued by the semi-sales pitch - or maybe because there’s a secret. Dipper can feel warmth in front of him, radiating from an unseen source. 

Another drumming, fingers on metal. Then, with a hint of a shrug. “Alright. Show me.”

The hood whips off, and Dipper gets a dizzying look at a massive room, black stone bricks and red lines, demons everywhere. Adjusting to the light takes a second, until his eyes land on the shape in front of him.

Dipper blinks a few times - then glares at this jackass.

Bill Cipher, King of Nightmares, conqueror of half the country and weird goddamn asshole, blinks right back.

Dipper’s seen this monster before, though not in person. Cipher’s always on the news. Appearing on TV and in print, whenever he conquers another piece of territory. His pictures are in magazines, photographs in articles, he has a few intimidating ad spots online - he’s everywhere, even on some forms of cash. It’s impossible to avoid this stupid shape.

And wow, none of that is photoshopped, huh. Turns out Bill’s exactly as weird as advertised. Polygonal and golden. Noodly limbs, top hat, everything.

A total, monstrous asshole.

Dipper strains at his bindings, rising up on his knees. Unfortunately, the gag’s still in place, so instead of cursing this jackass out like he wants to, it’s all muffled shouting. 

Bill Cipher goes perfectly still. He hovers in place, a motionless midair shape.

His single eye has a split pupil, and it meets Dipper’s own without moving. Or blinking, either, even though it’s been long enough that Dipper gave up trying to match it.

He’s just. Staring.

Which is… honestly getting eerie. The motionless focus, the impenetrable gaze. Not intimidating, of course. But weird.

Dipper drops back with a huff. Great. He’s having zero effect on this guy. Not even annoyance, and he hoped there’d be some. 

As a last ‘fuck you’, he lifts his bound hands in Bill’s direction, and flips him off.

Bill’s pupil narrows to a single thin line. He makes a strange, back-of-the-throat sound without any visible neck. Like he’s choking.

“So, uh,” The lizard demon rubs at the back of his neck. Greenish sweat pours down his scales, and he wipes it on his tunic in short swipes. “Do you-”

“Shut up and gimme.” Bill interrupts. He darts forward in a blink of motion, making grabby hands in the direction of Dipper’s face. “Gimme gimme gimme!”

Neither Dipper nor his captor have time to react. Bill simply seizes him by the shoulders, hauling him away from his captors and onto his feet so fast his shoes leave streaks on the floor.

“Mh!” Dipper yells against his gag, stumbling to catch his balance. It isn’t the most eloquent protest, but he hopes the ‘you jerk’ gets across anyway.

While Bill’s hands are relatively small, they’re impossibly strong. His grip on Dipper’s biceps feels close to bruising, slightly shaking in its intensity.

Bill tugs him closer. The bizarre pupil flashes through a series of shapes too rapid to parse. A second later it flips horizontal, sweeping a beam of light up and down Dipper, head to toe. 

While it doesn’t feel like anything, Dipper does his best to wriggle away. He hopes it messes with whatever scan this bastard’s doing. He hopes it’s as annoying as this demon is. A kick aimed at one of Bill’s floating legs didn't land, but it was worth a shot.

Bill ignores his struggles. He laughs at the kicks, which deserves more kicking. He wraps those horrible noodle arms around Dipper's biceps like ropes and giggles when Dipper growls at him, flickering side-to-side in weird, glitchy glee. 

The sound of his stupid laughter makes Dipper want to fight him all the harder - useless, of course, those arms only look noodly. They’re super-magically powered. But that doesn’t mean he won’t try. 

“Oh.” Bill says, lower than before. He draws Dipper close, bringing him almost within headbutting range. “Oh, now this is beautiful.”

“Mh?” Dipper tries to glare to poor effect. Confusion and anger keep jockeying for space in his head, and he’s pretty sure it shows. 

And Bill starts laughing, high and loud and wild. He’s glowing now, surface lit from within with a bright golden light.

“Well! Gotta say this is interesting!” Bill pushes him back slightly, at a human-ish arm’s length. Though he still keeps a solid grip on Dipper’s arms , squeezing tight. “But man, this wrapping’s crap! What happened to ribbons on presents, guys?” His eye rolls. “Lemme fix that.”

With that said, he grows a third arm from one of his sides and snaps his fingers.

The cloth of Dipper’s gag parts like it was clipped with scissors. The bindings on his wrists cleave open, the chains on his ankles explode off his socks, and it’s only because Bill’s still holding him upright that Dipper doesn’t fall over out of sheer surprise. 

He wipes at his mouth - spitting out threads in the process, he’d really been trying to chew through the gag - and coughs. With his wrists untied, he can flex his fingers and drop his arms to his sides, hands clenched into fists. 

Because now he’s… free-ish. For some reason. With Bill holding onto him there’s zero chance of getting away, but still. 

Dipper works his jaw a little, to loosen it. Rubs his wrists to ease the low ache. There’s a huge crowd of demons in this immense hall, so. No escape routes, not when the place is packed with monsters like a can of sardines. 

Eventually he has to admit he’s wasting time. The big problem is right in front of him, if he can just. Face it. 

Taking a deep breath, he turns his head to look at the worst creature in the entire goddamn world.

Bill’s lower eyelid has risen up in a curve, kind of like a smile. Still laser-focused on Dipper’s face, boring into him as if he could see into his soul. Or maybe plotting a laser course through his prefrontal cortex. 

But there isn’t any mockery. No taunting or yelling or stupid puns. None of the typical theatrics that you’d see on a news report. Just… more staring.

Dipper clears his throat. He tugs at the collar of his shirt. 

The whole room has gone so, so quiet. He didn’t think it could get quieter than before, but that was people glancing at each other, waiting for a chance to leave the crime scene. A hush littered with bits of gossip and gasps, warnings passing between the crowd. 

This silence is an indrawn breath. Held in anticipation. 

So. Here he is. In front of the greatest, most powerful monster in history, and instead of being a cool dramatic confrontation, with like. Action, or a witty back-and-forth - it’s just awkward. 

“Well, sapling?” Bill prompts, eye narrowing. He releases Dipper’s arms only to point directly at his face. Like he's accusing him of something. “Got anything to say for yourself?”

Dipper breathes in deep. 

Okay, then. Space to talk? A chance to say whatever he wants?

Yeah. That he can work with.

“Fuck you, Bill.” He spits out the words, putting all the hate in his heart into the venom of his tone. He steps forward, getting right in this asshole’s… face? Surface? Whatever. “I hope you die. In a fire. And that your ugly-ass pyramid falls on you, and you get crushed in the rubble, and - and that your exoskeleton gets melted down for scrap, because you just suck that much.”

Bill… says nothing. No magic twists Dipper into a terrible shape. No pain jolts through his body.

And when Dipper dares to look him in the eye, his face reflects back from the infinite depths of Bill’s pupil, blown wide from the tiny slit of seconds ago. By this point it’s nearly a circle. Which is weird, and kind of intimidating - 

But he’s not made of rock yet. Bill hasn’t retaliated, probably because he’s too stunned to react. And fuck him. 

“And another thing,” Dipper continues, less steadily now. He didn’t have a speech prepared. But since he’s not dead, hell, might as well make the most of it. “You’re dumb as hell, and I hate you. So much. You’re the worst thing that could ever happen to m-”

Something goes ‘splat’ just beside him, making him flinch. Another wet sound lands nearby, followed by another, and another. A slow patter that builds in pace, rapid and thick. 

Dipper stares in horror as literal, throbbing hearts pop up and circle around Bill Cipher’s top hat, spinning in a rapid circle. As more manifest, old ones fall to the floor like the world’s worst rainstorm, spattering red across the stone. Even his pupil is that same friggin’ organ now, pumping away in silhouette. 

“Aha. Ha ha!” Bill’s voice raises in pitch with his laughter, and his fingers wiggle in anticipatory glee, just before his arms extend and coil around Dipper’s body, pinning his arms to his sides. “HA HA HA HA HA!”

Dipper opens his mouth to protest. Rather pointless in retrospect, though he does get out a “Hey!” as he’s lifted off the ground.

That stupid heart-rain has stopped, at least. Now it’s just Bill, glowing incredibly bright and giggling like the complete madman he is. 

Dipper kicks out in protest, swearing and struggling. Bill’s dumb noodle arms have some give to them, but they’re wrapped tight enough that it doesn’t matter.

“YOU!” Bill’s voice was already loud, but now it resonates. Filling the hall with a boom, ringing against the walls. His eye has blown out to a circle again, and in the depths a few strange, starlike dots glimmer. “Of course it’s YOU! Nothing was gonna keep you away, was it? And now you’re back!”

This is the point where Dipper would protest again. Or threaten, or question or - something. 

But it’s pretty hard to get words out when an insane demon is spinning you around like a carnival ride, complete with fireworks overhead. 

Below him the crowd cheers, a raucous chorus. He could swear more demons are pouring in by the second into an already packed hall. Lights are going off and on in a strobe, with the pop of fireworks ringing overhead. Music blares from one corner, then another as stereo sound kicks on.

Between the explosions, the lightshow, the noise - Dipper would try to figure out what the hell is going on, if he weren’t trying not to be sick from the spinning.

Bill doesn’t seem to notice any of this, focused on the human he’s captured. Eventually he slows, letting Dipper touch solid ground again Dipper with a glimmer in his eye that instantly makes him wary. Something is up, and he doesn’t know -

“I know just what to do with you, kid.” Bill says, eye narrowing. Two hands come up and cup Dipper’s cheeks, strangely warm - “C’mere!”

Watching Bill’s eyeball drop back into its socket, and the huge, sharp teeth emerge from the mouth where his eye should be, Dipper knows immediately that this. This is how he’s going to die.

Then the eyelids purse into lips, and Bill hauls him in face-first. 

“Mmmmwha!” A long, exaggerated sound. Pretty dramatic, really. Bill draws back, eye smiling at Dipper as he squeezes his cheeks with both hands. “Oh man! You have no idea how long I’ve waited for that!” 

“Whuh.” Dipper says, intelligently.

Bill cackles, chucking Dipper under the chin, then tickling it with a couple fingers. “Ha! Did one little smooch rock your world?” His eye wiggles, with horrible, terrible implications. “Don’t worry, there’s way more where that came from!”

Dipper reels from the sensation of having his whole face - not eaten, or rearranged, but - His legs totter, but the arms around him keep him upright.

A million questions whirl around. None of them have answers. They simply spin and spin and spin until Dipper’s brain feels blank, like - 

Oh. Okay. 

Intellectually, Dipper knew that Bill could break minds. He just thought it’d be more gory and torturous. For some reason. 

“And as for you-” Bill turns towards the cluster of demons that brought Dipper here, to this weirdo showcase. Under his gaze, even the most terrible monsters cluster together with nervous smiles. “Who’s in charge of your little outfit?”

Tentatively, arm shaking, the leader raises a hand. Bill’s eye snaps to it and he floats in, right in front of the lizard demon’s sweating, scaly face. 

Then his lower eyelid rises in that strange emulation of a smile, and he gives him an incredibly hard high-five. 

“Alright everyone, listen up!” Bill proclaims, turning towards the crowd. Grabbing the lead captor’s wrist, he raises it up like a winning prizefighter. “These guys get free drinks for the next two millennia!”

 A cheer rises up from the crowd. The lizard demon’s mouth purses in a ‘o’ of delight, hands fluttering at his cheeks like a human winning a gameshow.  Dipper spends a moment staring at the frankly bizarre site of a group of demons clutching each other like giddy highschoolers, bouncing in a circle.

“You heard it here first, guys! The boy is back!” Bill shouts. He whirls in a full circle, nearly giving Dipper a heart attack. It feels like any moment he’s going to fall, even when he’s wrapped up - “And you know what that means?”

Gasps bubble up from the gathered demons. A susurrus of voices starts, fluttering back and forth in the crowd.

‘Party’, is whispered from one corner. Another careful voice ventures to ask, ‘Party?’.  The word repeats, flickering in and out of hearing as it spreads through the crowd. Off in the back a single voice lets out a loud ‘Wooo!’

“That’s right!” Bill is so, so loud, and so, so pleased. He holds Dipper overhead, bouncing him up and down. “Iiiiit’s PARTY TIME!”

An explosion of confetti covers the room. A disco ball drops from the ceiling, music bursts from unseen speakers, and Bill sets his captive down on the floor next to him. His arms uncoil, spinning Dipper around like a top until he thinks he’ll fall-

As the room reels around him, Dipper reaches out for the closest solid surface, leaning on it until the room stops whirling around him. 

If the surface happens to be the worst asshole ever, well. He didn’t have any other options. 

“Hell, free drinks for everyone tonight!” Bill shouts, to a huge, monstrous cheer from the crowd. Part of the room has transformed into a long bar, and a good third of the demons are already rushing towards it. “Get while the getting’s good, guys!”

Watching the stampede, Dipper’s too surprised to move, until the demon under his elbow does it for him. 

“Stick close, sapling. These guys can get pretty rowdy!” Bill says. His metallic surface is warm, not quite hot to the touch. The corner pressing into Dipper’s side, though, that’s annoying. “Don’t want you getting lost again.” 

A tight belt wraps around his waist and makes him startle - but it’s just Bill again. A small black hand pats his stomach twice before taking hold of his shirt.

And Dipper’s standing here, not dead. Not a statue, not an experiment. Kind of an offering, maybe, but a weird one. He’s just…

Standing beside Bill goddamn Cipher, unharmed by the most unhinged creature in the universe. And why the fuck is that? 

An explanation has to be nearby. A reason. For everything. 

Why he’s here. Why he got this reaction. Why this Bill is so not like the Bill on the news, and maybe even why demons are chanting ‘chug chug chug!’ to a monster bodysurfing the crowd, drinking from a bottle the size of his arm. 

Dipper feels a glass pressed into his hand, cold with a slender stem. He holds it absentmindedly, glancing around the room and the raucous party kicking up, trying to find sense in the nonsensical.

The hall is huge, so. Fits a party atmosphere, he guesses. Bill himself has one ropy arm warped around his waist, with a grip on his shirt so tight he’s pretty sure it’d tear if he took off running. Behind them is the dais where Bill reigned over the tributes, making each and every decision from his throne - 

Dipper does a double-take, glancing back over his shoulder.

A second throne sits next to Bill’s on the dais. Way harder to spot, though; it lies in shadow, unlike the brightly lit rest of the room. The dark grey blends with the shaded light until it nearly matches the black walls. A seat too small for any human-sized person, and too human-shaped for any different kind of person. Instead of either, a painting rests on the seat. 

Easing out of Bill’s grasp is impossible, but with effort Dipper manages to twist around for a better look. 

The painting is set in a gilded frame with elaborate designs - mostly triangle based, no surprise there - but the picture itself is of a human. 

Sitting in the smaller throne is a portrait of a young man. Messy brown hair and a lean build, wearing casual clothes and a faint half smile. His head tilts towards the viewer, as if they just caught his attention. His expression looks like he heard a dumb joke and is ready to retort, amusement shining in his dark brown eyes. Beneath his bangs a series dots and lines in pink stands out, like a strangely shaped… birthmark.

Dipper’s hand flies to his chest. His heart feels like it’s stopped for a second. 

No, wait. That can’t-

He whips around, getting a ‘hey!’ from Bill who nearly spills his martini at the motion. Dipper smacks him out of the way, his hat is blocking the view.

Now that he’s spotted them, they’re impossible to miss. One portrait hangs out to the left of the throne, sleepy-eyed and cowlicked hair blinking in the viewer's direction. On the right a shirtless human lounges on a couch, jeans slightly undone. Another hangs from the ceiling of all things, glaring down at Bill’s throne from above like an annoyed god.

Shit. The pictures. 

They all look exactly like Dipper. 

“Geez, aren’t you squirmy? Ha! Figures!” Bill says, floating closer. When one of his arms loops around Dipper’s neck and he tousles his hair, it meets a man gone still as a statue. “You’re always a pain in the angles! It’s adorable!” 

“What the fuck is this.” Dipper can’t even make it a question. His voice is too tense to rise at the end. 

Bill’s eye swivels from his face, to the portraits, then back again. It rolls in its socket so far back it comes around again. “You. Duh.”

“How-” No, that’s not the right question. “What- Wh- huh?” 

Not his best showing. Words aren’t working right; they fail him along with his usually organized thoughts. Dipper can’t concentrate. His mind filled with too much weird and why and - in an insane section of his brain - an incredulous, really, Bill?

“Oh, that.” Bill says, flicking away dismissively. He gestures over the portraits, the party, and then at himself. His arm makes another loop around Dipper’s neck, loosely draped. “What’s to wonder about? It’s simple!”

“Is it.” Dipper says, flat. He stares forward, even as the arm snakes around and around his torso in two loose loops.

“Absolutely!” Bill’s voice drops as he closes in. Not quiet, but muted enough to not be heard over the party crowd. “See, you got away from me once, kid. And fair enough, that’s what mortals do!” The stem of the martini glass shatters in his grasp, and he drops the remains with a casual flick. “They die on ya!” 

Dipper glances at the portrait on the throne, then back to Bill. Tries to swallow, though his mouth feels dry with a sudden, looming realization.

“But there’s no escape this time. Never again.” Bill's eye narrows, so close to Dipper's face it's nearly touching. “Prepare for happily ever after.”

[thewertsearch]

JOHN: are you sure you can't make it go any faster? JOHN: i mean, not to sound too demanding, but… JOHN: didn't you say you can teleport stuff? JOHN: why not teleport us there? JADE: i cant! JADE: not here, at least

I thought as much. Jade's powers probably don't work in the Furthest Ring, because if they did, she could have brought Rose, Dave and the trolls to this Prospitian ship during Cascade. Her teleportation is probably limited to contiguous areas of conventional space, and the Hussieverse is anything but conventional.

JADE: becs powers draw from the green sun JADE: and the green sun presides over our universe JADE: many universes actually! and the sessions that created them, as well as the sessions created within them JADE: including the trolls universe and their session JADE: think of it like a giant solar system, but instead of planets revolving around the sun, there are many universes

Back when Rose was outlining the Tumor plan to Dave, I referred to the Green Sun as a core of reality - and it seems that's even more true than I thought.

In addition to powering the First Guardians' magic, the Sun also serves as the metaphysical nexus point of all Sburb-generated universes, as well as their associated sessions. Since we've never been given any reason to believe that non-Sburb universes exist, the Sun appears to 'preside' over all possible universes.

It almost sounds like the Sun is reality - and its creation was masterminded by Doc Scratch. The more you think about it, the worse it gets.

JADE: so, bec was able to teleport anywhere in the universe he wanted in an instant, much faster than light JADE: jack was able to do this too, within our session, and then when i inherited those powers from jadesprite, so could i JADE: but we could only teleport locally JADE: which means, bec could jump to anywhere in our universe, but not to another universe, or into a session JADE: and jack could jump to anywhere in our session, but not outside it

In other words, First Guardians can only teleport to locations they could physically travel to, from their current position.

During Cascade, for example, Jade could teleport to anywhere in her session, but it was impossible for her to reach other sessions, because those sessions didn't have a consistent physical location relative to her own. Similarly, Bec could teleport from Earth to anywhere else in his universe, but not into sessionspace, for the same reason an observer on Earth couldn't point towards a Sburb session. They're on different planes entirely.

tl;dr: to reach a given location via Space, Jade needs a well-defined direction to move in...

...and since moving to another session involves Furthest Ring travel, no such direction exists.

JADE: we cant even jump to the green sun itself, even though we sort of serve as a gateway to it, and all its energy

This, I believe, is the one notable exception to the rule above.

No matter where they currently are, a First Guardian can always open a portal to the Green Sun.

It doesn't sound like they can enter this portal themselves, though. Well, I suppose that makes sense - after all, they are the portal, and you can't move through your own body.

Could Jade reach into that portal, and fetch someone from the Sun, though? I suppose if that was possible, Jack would've just pulled Aradia right back out again, so I think the portal is completely inaccessible to the Guardian who embodies it.

JADE: and once we leave the suns domain, our travel is limited by the speed of light, like everyone else! JADE: for example, the furthest ring is not in the suns domain JADE: it is more like the suns medium, allowing it to exist

The Sun's domain includes, at minimum, every Sburb session in existence, alongside every universe they've produced. The Ring, however, can't be a domain, because it's not really part of conventional reality.

Yes, it may be the scaffolding on which reality is built, but the scaffolding is not part of the building.

[moonlight-joy]

A Writer’s Muse

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary:  At a masquerade ball, you share a kiss with a stranger. The next day, Benedict won’t stop teasing you about your secret rendezvous, unaware that it was actually him.

Pairing: Reader/Benedict Bridgerton

You had always known that Benedict Bridgerton was an artist.

You had seen him sketch at balls, in the gardens, during long afternoons in the Bridgerton drawing room. His fingers, always smudged with charcoal, moved effortlessly across the page, capturing the world with an ease that left you breathless.

But never—not once—had you realized you were his favorite subject.

And you would never have known… had you not found his sketchbook.

It had been left on a table in the Bridgerton library, tucked between the pages of an open book. You hadn’t meant to pry. Truly, you hadn’t.

But when you saw your face staring back at you from the pages, drawn with such detail, such tenderness—

Your breath caught.

There were dozens of sketches.

Some were simple—a quick charcoal outline of your profile, the curve of your lips when you smiled. Others were far more detailed—the way your hands rested in your lap, the way your eyes softened when you looked at something you loved.

And then—there were the ones that made your heart ache.

A drawing of you sitting beneath the large oak tree in the Bridgerton gardens, your dress flowing around you like water, your expression serene.

Another of you reading by candlelight, your face bathed in a soft glow, lips parted ever so slightly in thought.

One of you sleeping.

Your chest tightened.

This was not the work of a man who had simply sketched a friend.

This was the work of someone who had memorized every piece of you.

Someone who had studied the curve of your cheek, the shape of your hands, the way your mouth quirked when you were lost in thought.

Someone who—

"You weren’t supposed to see that."

You gasped, snapping the sketchbook shut as Benedict’s voice filled the room.

He stood in the doorway, his expression frozen between panic and something else—something vulnerable.

Your heart stammered in your chest.

“I—” You swallowed hard, holding up the book. “I didn’t mean to—”

Benedict strode forward, reaching for it. But you stepped back, clutching it tightly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. “Because I knew this would happen.”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Benedict exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark curls. “I knew you’d look at me differently.”

Your fingers curled around the book. “Benedict…”

“Please,” he murmured, voice raw, “just forget you saw it.”

Forget?

How could he ask that?

How could he expect you to unsee the way he had drawn you—not as just anyone, but as someone who mattered?

You lifted the book, flipping to a sketch—a particularly detailed one of you laughing, your head thrown back, joy captured perfectly in every line.

“This is not something I can forget,” you said softly.

Benedict swallowed. “Then what do you want me to say?”

You met his gaze, searching. “The truth.”

Silence.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his body taut with tension.

And then—

“The truth?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded.

He took a slow, measured breath.

“The truth is,” he murmured, stepping closer, “I have been drawing you for years.”

Your heart pounded.

“The truth is,” he continued, his voice rough with emotion, “I never meant for you to see them because—because if you did, you’d know.”

“Know what?” you whispered.

Benedict exhaled, his gaze dark and unreadable.

“That I love you.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

Benedict ran a frustrated hand through his hair, laughing bitterly. “You see? This is why I never said anything. Because now, you’re looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.”

You shook your head. “No.”

His brow furrowed. “No?”

You stepped forward, closing the space between you. “I’m looking at you like—like I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

Benedict stilled.

“I’m looking at you like I can’t believe it took me this long to realize,” you whispered. “That I love you too.”

His breath caught.

Then—before you could second-guess yourself—

You kissed him.

The moment your lips met, it was as if the world had been waiting for this exact moment.

Benedict inhaled sharply, his hands finding your waist, pulling you close as he kissed you back with a desperation that stole your breath.

It wasn’t hurried.

It wasn’t frantic.

It was slow, reverent—like he was memorizing every second, every feeling.

When you finally pulled away, Benedict pressed his forehead against yours, his breath uneven.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You smiled, brushing your fingers against his cheek.

“I love you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, his expression one of pure relief.

And then, with a soft chuckle, he murmured—

“Well, I suppose I shall have to sketch this moment next.”

You laughed, pressing another kiss to his lips.

“Only if you let me keep the sketchbook.”

Benedict smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

But then, before you could reply, he took the book from your hands, flipping to an empty page.

And right there, in that very moment, he sketched something new—

Not a portrait of longing.

Not an image of unspoken love.

But the two of you together, hands intertwined, a love no longer hidden between the pages of a book.

And as he looked at you, his muse, his heart—

He knew he would never stop drawing you.

Because you were his greatest masterpiece.

Please support my work with like and comment

[wannaeatramyeon]

DG x Reader: Manager and their Idol

8.5k. G/N. Soft, colleagues to lover (guess I love this trope). Masterlists

You had imagined life as a K-Pop idol manager to be much more glamorous.

You pity your young naive self. The one that envisaged schmoozing with stars and rubbing elbows with the movers and shakers, and instead set you on this horrid, lacklustre path.

What you didn't expect was the amount of time playing driver. Carting that stupid pink haired brat around. Waiting on him hand and foot during shoots and interviews, and being at his beck and call.

You have saved his ass more times than you can recall, ran through scripts with him, practised his stupid dances and moves alongside, protected him from unhinged fans and reporters and scavengers.

And yet you can count on one hand the amount of times he has thanked you.

Actually no, it didn't require any hands because he has thanked you exactly zero times for all your early mornings and late nights and for going above and beyond your duty.

Out of desperation, you had asked your boss if you could manage someone else and the request was declined.

"DG has taken a liking to you," she said, tone impressed as if that was something you should be proud of.

"Great," your smile comes out as more of a grimace.

And goddamn, this agency was so stupidly prestigious and the benefits and perks here really are second to none. Just why did Diego fucking Kang have to be their top idol.

.

.

The first time you crossed the threshold into his building, greeting the reception security guard and entering his penthouse keycode like you had been let in on the world's greatest secret, you had tiptoed around like a child in a museum. After all, this was DG's residence. The DG!

You had ooh-ed and aah-ed at every little thing. 

Taking delight in seeing his interior design of choice, the type of candy that he snacks on, the shampoo and conditioner he uses, the way he organises his desk. This is the chair DG sits on to eat. This is the sofa DG lounges on to watch TV. This is the bed he sleeps in, the bath he uses, the toilet he-

Any wide eyed innocence and awe evaporated after your first week working together.

Today, you stab in the entry code and let the door shut with a bang. 

You set his now cold coffee order on the kitchen counter and rifle with practised fingers through his unopened mail to see if there is anything you should draw his immediate attention to. You pick up his discarded clothes from the floor (and for fuck's sake, this suit jacket was on loan) and make your way to his bedroom where tufts of pink hair peeks out from under the cover.

"Good morning," you announce, locating the remote to open the blinds and letting in some sunlight.

Bedsheets rustle behind you.

"Good morning Diego," you repeat and give one warning, "I hope you're decent." With that, you throw the covers back to find the scantily dressed idol glaring up at you.

You remember the days when this sight would have made you weak at the knees. Seeing him half naked, in the flesh, freshly woken up with bedhead and half lidded eyes. It's what most of Korea dreams of, including yourself once upon a time.

Now all you feel is extreme irritation.

"Good morning," you say for the third time, plastering on a saccharine smile that you know DG sees clearly through because it is insincere as hell to anyone with half a brain cell. You let the fakeness shine through anyway.

For a split second, DG frowns as his eyes drop to your lips and then he pretends everything is good. Smiling back prettily, sharp canines on show and stretching. Lifting his arms overhead, showing a good stretch of pecs and abs and the line of muscle in a V pointing like an arrow straight down to his-

You roll your eyes.

"You're late." You throw the covers back over him and stride back towards the door. "We should have left half an hour ago." You leave out the part where you had been waiting downstairs in the car and after an hour of no show and no anything, you stomped your way up to his home.

DG, sensing your mood, adds oil to the fire with a smirk, "Why didn't you wake me then?"

If that idiot bothered to look at his phone, he would see a number of missed calls and unread messages from you.

Whatever.

"Hurry up."

.

.

DG has come across many people like yourself over the years. All cute and bright eyed, way too soft.

He never gave you any special treatment, for better or worse, and assumed that you would eventually burn out or give up and move on to something more worthwhile.

Unfortunately, in a rare turn of events, he had miscalculated.

Of course most people would be starstruck, it's only natural. But he mistook your sincerity and kind smile for ignorance and missed your sharp, observing gaze, and astute mind.

He's impressed, and he really can't remember the last time he was impressed.

In a matter of days of working together, you had managed to cut through the bullshit and within the month got him more compliant and docile than anyone else ever has.

Which should be a huge fucking problem, and raising red flags all over DG's mind.

...Except-

What's really troubling him right now, as he sulks in the passenger seat and you in the driver's, is that you have developed some sort of resistance to his charms.

Maybe a part of him does actually miss the you who he formed the first impression of. Who looked at him in wonder, with the same admiration that everyone else did.

Now that he knows you, he hates that he had thought that initial admiration was insignificant and worthless.

.

.

DG has a stash of candy in the car.

Or more accurately, you keep a stash of candy next to him to a) Shut him up and b) Keep him tolerable.

If DG wasn't so aloof, the fact that he has an incurable sweet tooth (and probably cavities to prove it) would have made headlines as a cute K-Pop fact and likely garnered sponsorship and advertising deals with all sorts of confectionary brands.

You had only found out during your adventures as his manager, rifling through his kitchen drawers trying to find his goddamn phone that he misplaced and you stumbled upon his stash of candy.

It really was a disgusting amount, something you'd expect a gaggle of grade schoolers at Halloween to hoard, not Diego goddamn Kang.

And then you also found out if he's not quiet and haughty in the car, making the atmosphere awkward, he likes to comment on your driving.

Who even sits in the passenger seat next to their 'chauffeur' anyway? He complains about you braking too suddenly and not accelerating fast enough. How you drive like an 80 year old with cataracts, and you're too slow when the light changes to green.

The turn in your relationship happened when you snapped at him to shut the fuck up after losing the final shred of your sanity on a three hour drive.

DG, to your dismay, didn’t miraculously lose his hearing and turns to you as you silently berate yourself for voicing the quiet thoughts out loud.

Although, you're in the deep end now. You're gonna get fired anyway, so if he says anything else you might as well give him a flick on the forehead or a pinch or maybe a punch to the face-

Instead, he laughs.

It's nothing like the laugh you have heard on TV and in interviews. The rehearsed and manicured 'haha' or cool chuckle that suits his shiny persona. It's kinda goofy and a lot endearing.

What's even more endearing is the way he does actually shut the fuck up for the rest of the journey. You like him a lot more after that.

So. You digress.

The candy is a way to keep the sweet toothed maniac quiet. Even if it doesn't work, at least it's harder to make out what insults he's slinging with a lollipop rattling around his mouth.

However, he has never ever shared any with you. Any of the candy that you stock, and pay for.

(That you technically claim back on company expenses, but you're trying to be self righteous here.)

Ever.

In all the months of working with him, he gobbles away happily even if your stomach is growling and you refuse to take any yourself out of principle.

Until-

"Here."

"Huh?"

Taking advantage of your response and open mouth, DG leans into your personal space and feeds you some chewy strawberry something or another (which coincidentally are his least favourite), fingers lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second.

Three things happen in quick succession.

The burst of sugar hits your tongue.

You nearly choke.

You narrowly avoid swerving.

"Careful now," DG grins when you get the car and yourself under control, and glance at him with a scowl.

Good. That proves you're not completely immune to his charms.

.

.

That bastard has now taken it upon himself to feed you candy at every opportunity.

You wonder if he's doing some sort of Pavlov experiment. The sweetness trying to erase any sourness you feel towards him.

It sort of works, and you consider biting his fingers off one of these days.

You hear the crinkling of wrappers, one for him that he pops into his mouth, and one for you that he gives without asking.

You angle your head towards him, and his fingers graze your lips every time.

Neither of you comment on the change but the intimacy drives you a little crazy.

.

.

And DG too.

Because intimacy works both ways and damnit his little gesture to keep the pretty blush on your face has backfired.

The only form of intimacy he knows comes from discreet hookups and low key links. Not someone who is around day in, day out. Or anyone that goes deeper than one night stands and booty calls.

You're there, you're always there. Of course you are, you're his manager.

But today, he feels under the microscope with you standing a couple metres away and keen eyes watching the camera monitor.

It's a no nothing day. Standard schedule where he shoots a fragrance commercial and he exits a pool all wet and sultry, white t-shirt clinging to his muscled body.

Then another scene where he writhes around slightly on a sunbed and eye-fucks the camera.

How it sells a fragrance, he never knows. The mystery of showbiz.

"Cut! More powder!" The director shouts out, the crew springing into action and DG knows exactly why.

He feels strangely embarrassed and flustered, which has manifested into his cheeks being flushed, and god he can't even remember the last time he has been like this.

It’s out of character and he needs to get his head together.

As the make up artist hurriedly dabs on some foundation, you make your way over to him.

"Are you sick?" you ask, concerned and reaching out to feel his forehead with the back of your hand.

"I'm fine," He says, turning away from your attentiveness and staring at a point in the distance.

.

.

With most people, if DG wants them out of sight, they stay out of sight.

But as his manager, and a very competent one at that, it’s harder to get you to leave.

Not that DG wants you to either, don’t get him wrong. 

The only constants he has around him are people who want something from him. And yes, he knows you’re only in his company because you work with him. However, he really can’t doubt the concern he always sees in your eyes. The compassion and empathy even when he makes you want to scream and tear your hair out.

His standoffish demeanour is not new to anyone. It’s part of his appeal to be quite honest. 

Yet he feels bad over the next couple weeks as he turns it up to eleven and tries to create some distance. He registers the hurt on your face as he is extra short with his answers and behaviour.

.

.

Pandering to overinflated celebrity egos and the insane Korean work ethic often leads to after hour shoots and dinner delayed until past midnight.

Honestly, this wreaks havoc on your sleep schedule and your skin.

"Here." You retrieve DG's takeout from the paper bag.

A double portion of delicious fried chicken with a side of kimchi and pickles. It's a change of pace from what most idols order, yet he doesn't give two shits about calories or sodium intake and to add insult to injury, somehow manages to keep his trim figure.

You lament your soggy salad sitting at the bottom. As if it’s not sad enough right now - once you arrive home, the lettuce will be wilting and room temperature and you will eat it in your dimly lit apartment with nothing to keep you company except the sound of the TV.

DG notices you turning to leave his penthouse, and his mouth moves before his brain can.

"Aren't you staying?"

"What?" You double take at the question.

DG's company is usually worse than your lonely meal for one. 

He’s annoying and you frequently want to slap him, but how he has been with you lately has been troubling and you actually feel a sense of relief at his offer.

(You had wondered if you might have been getting sacked up until this moment.)

Nevertheless, in all your time working alongside, you have never had a proper meal one on one together. Nothing more than you driving with one hand and the other hastily shoving a burger into your mouth as he looks on in disgust.

You would have dwelled on this more, wondering what's changed, what’s happened, but then-

"I'll share." DG nudges the box towards you, and the delicious scent of deep fried, battered goodness wafts along with it it

All your misgivings and your salad is forgotten.

.

.

Almost.

No, you were wrong.

Eating with DG, without any distractions such as traffic to navigate or other boisterous colleagues around, is unnerving. Disarming.

His haughtiness remains, but how haughty can someone be when munching on a drumstick.

All frostiness from the past weeks melts away as you both eat your way through his chicken.

He’s talking more tonight than you have heard in a while.

You find him funny, and really quite bitchy. Which you did know all along except it's much funnier now his slanderous comments aren't directed at you.

And has he always looked at you with such a piercing gaze? So intensely focused on what you have to say. Even if you're just complaining about your boss, blurring your lines of professionalism, he gives you his full attention.

You really can't remember the last time you have been in each other's company like this. 

You loathe to admit that even with what an asshole he is, DG's shine hasn’t dulled enough for you that you don't understand the appeal.

.

.

Leaning forward, DG whispers into your ear.

To anyone else, it looks like an over-affectionate idol with their manager. If they could hear his words, "I'm going to kill you," they would think otherwise.

Ok, so this one is your fault.

The good times have to come to an end and maybe you should have been more careful with his pride and joy - some ridiculously overpriced and over-specced vehicle.

Taking advantage of the clear blue Seoul skies, the pink haired menace was the one who drove you today in his fancy imported sports car, but the speed limits and the rest of the traffic was not on his side.

Already running late, even for him, he parked somewhere convenient and illegal then passed you the keys, leaving you stranded on the sidewalk, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, as he strode off to meet his music producer and choreographer and left you to park his baby elsewhere.

Why he entrusted you with it, you're not sure.

You would have done it anyway though, because when else are you going to have an opportunity to drive a supercar, if your boss didn't call at that moment. Questioning your expenses and DG's schedule and confusing you about the fitting at a fashion house and hair styling appointment that you knew like the back of your hand but when someone is so confidently incorrect, you start to doubt yourself.

By the time you got off the phone after pacing up and down the street and checking and double checking DG's timetable, you finally make your way back to the car-

And see it in the middle of being compounded.

You had begged and pleaded with the two men who were having none of it and you left, tail between your legs, to beg and plead with the other man who you knew would also have none of it.

Damn, you hate it when you prove yourself right in these instances.

You know DG won't really kill you, but he will likely make your life hell for the next couple weeks.

.

.

A normal person being pissed off at you would probably result in the silent treatment until tempers cool down.

DG does the opposite. Sort of.

He takes pleasure in making things as awkward for you as possible, until you're squirming in your seat trying to stay professional, thinking about your job and your rent and your bills; or torn between wanting the ground to swallow you up.

Around other people, your boss, your colleagues, his colleagues, he sidles up to you all smiles and soft looks. Slips purposely into banmal, and then oopsy, pretends that he didn't mean to be so informal with you around others.

Gossip soon stirs about your and DG's close relationship, if there's something else going on. Only you can see the mischief in his eyes and the malice in his smile and you think about yanking him by the ear and demanding to know what he is playing at.

Alone, he denies any sort of miscreant behaviour. Barely listening to you complaining and snapping at him. Ending with him outright ignoring you and you fume even harder.

This time, you're not sure the punishment even fits the crime. 

Any guilt soon dissipates when his car is returned in perfect condition within a couple days but his performance lasts for weeks.

.

.

Teasing you has always been fun for DG - when your cheeks dust angrily with pink and your eyes burn with fire.

The equivalent of a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails in the school yard.

.

.

Meetings with HNH Group usually do not involve you. If it does, at most you are waiting in the car.

Luckily, there are also an assortment of cafes and restaurants within a stone's throw and it gives you some time to debrief and catch a breather from following DG's hectic schedule.

The downside is you're never sure if a two hour meeting will be condensed to fifteen minutes or if a quick catch up with Charles Choi and other Executives turns into an all nighter.

There's been days where you have ordered a meal, then had to abandon it with a sigh and a longing look as you spot DG striding out of the building looking pissed off that you're not already there, or stayed in the vehicle with the engine running and your stomach rumbling as short appointments overshoot.

Maybe this is another consequence from DG being petty and irate with you for getting his car towed - you're left snoozing at the steering wheel of your runaround, the idol standard-issue luxury minivan, waiting for his return.

It's far too late in the evening for anywhere to be open, only the fluorescent lights of convenience stores and glare of the HNH logo illuminates the streets.

DG opens the sliding door, climbs into the back and slams it hard enough to jerk you awake and rattle the entire van.

He’s sitting by himself in the back, which is odd enough in itself.

As you blink away the dregs of sleep, in the rearview mirror, you notice the stiffness in his shoulders and the tightness in his jaw. His eyes stare vacantly out the window. DG is clearly upset about something, enough to crack through his aloof veneer.

"Are you ok?" You don't get a response, not even a passing glance.

Obviously something has gone wrong with the HNH Group meeting and the stress has manifested.

You wrack your brains thinking of something that might cheer up this asshole and you think of the only thing that improves your mood when you're on the verge of a breakdown.

(Usually due to the aforementioned asshole in your current presence). 

"Tteokbokki and beer?" You offer. It’s past your bedtime but a sulky DG for the rest of the week will also ruin your week too.

DG briefly looks at you before going back to staring at the window. It’s not a no.

You don’t get home until past 4am that night. 

At your favourite late night hole-in-the-wall, you eat far more tteokbokki than DG. On second thoughts, you don’t remember him eating any at all. You’re talking and downing beers to fill the silence, trying to perk up this silly celebrity. Loose lipped and spilling far more details than you would if you were sober, with him seated opposite and sipping on a soda. 

As the night ticks along, he thaws and a small smile settles on his face watching you gesticulate and ramble about your life.

You don’t get home until past 4am that night-

With DG driving, piggybacking you up to your apartment, and tucking you into bed.

.

.

DG can’t stop thinking of the weight of you on his back, arms slung over his shoulders, legs at his waist and his hands gripping your thighs.

You slurring drunkenly into his ear as he climbs the stairs in your building. It’s mostly nonsense. He can’t make out your words but remembers your breath tickling his skin.

And when he wraps your duvet around you, the brief moment of lucidity in your eyes as you look at him, softer than you ever have, you tell him, “Thanks Diego.”

Diego.

.

.

Nothing changes between the two of you after this. Not really.

You still find him an enormous thorn in your side. Incredibly stuck up and haughty and you continue to want to throttle him on a weekly basis but you are immensely grateful for him not leaving you a passed out heap on the sidewalk.

You’re in the middle of chastising him once again, dragging him out of bed as he is running late and being an absolute dick about it. Taking it easy as if he has all the time in the world. 

Well of course he does. He’s not the one that will be getting an earful from your boss or on the receiving end of the production crew’s complaints, as if trying to manhandle and cart this manchild around is easy.

“Diego Kang, I swear to fucking god-”

"James." He says, interrupting you as he picks out and pulls an eye-wateringly expensive jumper over his head.

"What?"

"Call me James when it's just us.” He checks out his outfit in the mirror, seemingly satisfied with it, before moving onto his hair. “James Lee. That's my real name."

DG, or James Lee, keeps his eyes on his reflection. Inspecting his non-existent roots, styling his fringe to make it fall just so and applying a liberal amount of hair product.

Nonchalant and casual even as he offers something desperately personal about himself.

"James," you say, trying out the sound for yourself. A name that seems at odds with his loud K-Pop shell but you imagine a time before the fame and the celebrity and the pink hair and it somehow fits.

"James," you repeat, and receive a small smile in return. Then it drops as you add, “If you don’t get your ass in the car in the next five minutes I will kill you.”

.

.

“James,” you think to yourself before you drift off to sleep that night. 

How peculiar.

“James, James, James.”

.

.

Celebrities these days are multi-hyphenates.

DG is an Idol-CEO-Actor, or at least trying to add the last one onto his resume. On looks alone, he would have already gotten his foot through the door. Add on his reputation and popularity, he is drowning in offers.

What you personally dislike more with K-dramas scenes though, is how long things take. How much it revolves around other actors and their managers whereas DG being in the studio or filming a music video is pretty much all him.

This K-drama is supposed to be the next big thing. 

With the biggest names attached, including DG who is making a cameo. The cameo that was also scheduled to be filmed five hours ago but you have both just been lurking in his dressing room since.

Along with some measly snacks and refreshments, which the crew has been kind enough to provide. 

However, the snacks are all but gone (thanks to you) and the refreshments are dwindling and there is no end in sight.

DG, or James, as you have started to call him in your head, is on his phone. He’s always on his phone. Scrolling through news articles, responding to important emails and messages.

There’s only so much news or celebrity gossip you can take. You have exhausted your own social media feeds and you have spent far too much money on your gacha games and the guilt has set in.

You twiddle your thumbs on the sofa next to him as he takes no notice of your presence and you decide to rest your eyes. 

Why not anyway? DG doesn’t need anything right now, work won’t be interrupting you, and there’s nothing for you to do. Just for a minute or five. Until someone from the production team knocks on the door and announces that it’s time for his scene.

DG side-eyes you when he notices your breath start to slow and deepen. Falling asleep on the job, really?

Then you let out a snore before smacking your lips together a couple times and he holds back a snort. He reasons that he should let you have some time to rest. After all, you’re the one that drives him around, his life is in your hands everyday and tiredness kills.

He’s on his phone for a few more minutes, reading through more emails on PTJ Entertainment and out of the corner of his eye he notices you drooping.

Body slowly slumping to slouch over him, until your head makes contact with his shoulder and you’re snoozing happily on your newfound pillow.

It’s equal parts inappropriate and cute.

Ugh, DG is 99% sure you’re drooling on him and the wardrobe department isn’t going to be happy when he returns the outfit.

Either way, that’s not going to be his problem. He adjusts minutely, makes it just a touch more comfortable for you and continues to scroll.

.

.

You wake up to a wetness by your mouth, and to your horror, DG smirking down at you.

.

.

Despite none of this being your fault, you apologise to everyone about having to reschedule DG’s music video shoot due to the previous day’s K-drama delays.

To your relief, the music video goes swimmingly and without a hitch, and the production is wrapped up on time. 

You’ll happily bet that his new song will go straight to No.1. If not, then at least the sensual music video will guarantee DG remains top of mind for weeks. 

You’re updating your boss and even she seems to be pleased.

"This is just work." DG interrupts as you're mid call.

You look up at him, brows furrowed.

Holding your hand to your phone to mute the speaker, you whisper, "I know."

"Good," and he walks away leaving you as confused as ever.

It's not the first time you have seen him shoot an MV, which thank the heavens is so much more efficient than bloody k-dramas, and also not the first time that there's been scenes that emulate an intimate moment. Lips nearly brushing together. Hands roaming bodies under fake rain.

Even if DG notices that you're watching the scene, eyes glazed over and bored, he still felt the urge to explain to you that there's nothing between you and the leading lady in the video.

Once out of sight of everyone, he facepalms himself for his ridiculousness.

.

.

You’re right, and you absolutely love it when you’re right.

The song goes straight to No.1 and holds that position for weeks, fending off competition from boy bands and girl groups and other solo artists. Apparently it’s going to be the song of the summer.

The music video also breaks records for being the most watched within 24 hours.

DG only reviews it once for post-production checks and finds it just fine.

There’s something he can’t quite put his finger on that seems off with it.

He wonders what it would look like if it was you starring opposite him.

.

.

“Where on earth is he?” You grit your teeth and grip harder onto the umbrella that is threatening to be swept away by the wind.

And another thing with being DG’s manager: it’s fine if he’s late but not if it’s you.

(Although to be fair, this instance of him being late is likely due to this particular music producer he’s meeting with enjoying the sound of his own voice.)

You were running late exactly one time in the past, during the first couple days of managing him, when the skies opened and drenched the earth. 

Heavens forbid DG’s perfect, beautiful, flawless hair is ruined by the rain. 

It’s not like he looked like a drowned rat. The paparazzi caught him in a wet t-shirt, fabric clinging to his abs and his pink hair slicked back stylishly. Even the goddamn raindrops were running fashionably down his high cheekbones and dripping off his pout.

For the next week, the tabloids and internet forums went wild with how hot he looked. 

(Who knows, maybe that was the inspiration for his fragrance commercial.)

Nevertheless, DG was displeased and it made its way back to your boss how displeased he was.

Ever since, you have been the unfortunate soul waiting in all manners of weather for him. Rain storms, blistering sun, freezing snow.

Today, it’s your favourite. Rain. You shiver against the elements trying to take shelter under the building entrance canopy, the wind whipping the downpour every which way and you’re getting soaked regardless of how you angle your umbrella.

“Hurry up, DG.”

You check the time over and over. He would be early to his next appointment if he exited the building now. 

…On time.

…On time if the traffic was in your favour.

…Late, but not terribly so.

…Fashionably late.

… Late enough to piss everyone off in the room.

Shit. Just as you begin to fret, wondering if something has happened to him-

Clicks and flashes from cameras alert you to his royal highness finally making an appearance, ready to exit the studio and making his way over to the car.

He materialises by your side, and you mutter a familiar phrase to him. 

“You’re late.” 

It’s a mantra you’re tired of repeating, but he relishes if the amused grin is any indication.

Without a word, he takes off his trench coat and drapes it around your shoulders. His right hand covers yours over the umbrella handle, left wrapping around your waist as he guides you through the throng of reporters and fans.

“What are you doing?” You hiss under your breath. 

You can imagine the optics now from the papers and your boss. It looks… Well. Not terrible but not the best.

“You’re soaked,” is all DG provides, accompanied with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. 

He opens the driver’s door for you before he climbs into the passenger’s side.

.

.

Thank goodness for your gift of the gab.

He’s being a gentleman, you tell everyone that would listen. Isn’t this what Korea wants? An idol with manners and who looks after everyone? Is empathetic and caring?

Think how well it would resonate with the female demographic, who wants a boyfriend like this! The older boomer demographic, who thinks none of the young ‘uns have any manners anymore!

Your boss isn’t convinced until the advertising offers for umbrella companies roll in.

.

.

Truth be told, DG doesn’t know what possessed him to do that. Especially in front of cameras.

Though, it’s not like he could just let you get even more drenched could he? You’re standing there, looking pitiful and he was just going to let you hold the umbrella over him when he should be the one taking care of you-

Hold on.

DG frowns at himself.

Damn.

.

.

James Lee has never looked after anyone besides himself. You need to look after yourself if you are to survive this dog eat dog world. To make it atop the Pre-Generation, the First Generation and now the Second.

He had unfathomably high expectations of himself (that he managed to achieve) and low expectations for relationships (that hadn’t been proven wrong yet).

People have flitted in and out of the chapters of his life, no-one staying around for long. Definitely no-one staying around long enough to know him, for him to grow comfortable with. 

Perhaps it has been the forced closeness that has caused him to let his guard down. Cabin fever, in a sense.

But James Lee, Diego Kang, has himself also been around long enough to know there’s more to you and he wants more of you.

.

.

Finding reasons to spend time together isn’t difficult. Actually, finding reasons to spend time apart would be much harder.

You both get on with your jobs and your duties, even as the closeness grows day by day.

And every time when you’re alone and you call him James, his heart grows fonder.

.

.

Out of all the seats available in his apartment, James lounges next to you, long legs draping over yours.

It's another night in together.

These seem to be happening with increasing frequency. DG at least used to keep up appearances, networking with his fellow celebrities.

Parties where you used to look at him with distaste as starlets surrounded him, award shows that he couldn't care less about as you hung around in the background.

Now he prefers to stay in with you, using work as a thin excuse. Studying lyrics that he has already memorised, going over dances that are long ingrained in him.

"You're not going to her party?" You ask, you were sure this fan-favourite and DG were an item or had history. At the very least, the who's who of the industry always attended her gatherings.

"No," his eyes continue roving over the lines.

Then when you thought the conversation was done, he looks over the top of his paper, eyes sparkling with playfulness, "I prefer being here with you."

Oh. Your breath catches in your throat.

You think you might never breathe normally again.

.

.

No, that’s a lie. Any opportunities for rose-tinted glasses has long passed by. You both know each other too well for that.

You breathe perfectly fine. Actually, this morning you are taking deep breaths to try and centre yourself. 

It’s not working. 

“You’re always fucking late,” you snap, giving in to your anger.

Sometimes you think it is your fault for not watching over DG 24/7. That instead of going back home, you should just live with him so you can shake him awake when he is supposed to get up instead of when he wants to.

And does it hurt him to look the least bit contrite at making your life a misery? 

Why does he have to look so smug with a lollipop stick hanging out his mouth? Seriously, between all the rushing around this morning, when did he find time to look for goddamn candy?

“For fuck’s sake, James.” You’re speed walking towards his front door, looking at the Maps app on your phone and miss his smile at you snarling his name. 

You’re already running behind and every route to the recording studio is red due to roadworks or an accident or just plain ol’ congestion. “Shit!”

Your finger jabs at the elevator button multiple times.

“It’s not going to get there any quicker if you do that,” DG speaks lowly into your ear and you get the urge to pinch him.

Instead of prodding some more at the button, you turn around and prod him in the chest.

“You’re going to get me fired one of these days,” You growl. “It’s fine for you, Diego goddamn Kang, the star who is pretty much untouchable. I’m not. I’m replaceable. There’s a million people who would take my job-”

DG snatches your hand, holds it still. “You’re not replaceable.” Then adds with an infuriating grin, “So what if we’re late.”

The minivan is skipped, and his answer to your problem is his other pride and joy. A motorbike that looks far too aggressive and a complete death trap.

“I’m not getting on that,” you say as DG hands you leathers that materialised from god-knows-where and a spare helmet.

“Fine,” he says, shrugging and throwing a leg over. “I don’t think your boss will be happy.”

“Fuck!”

.

.

If this was any other situation, you would be acutely aware of yourself pressed up against DG’s back. Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

Except all you can focus on is that you’re going to fucking die. You think you might be screaming.

“Stop screaming!” His disembodied voice calls out. Oh. Turns out you are.

For some reason, DG had thought the helmets with built in speakers and mic would be better for communication. Fun, even. Frankly, you’re just giving him a headache.

(Not to mention the fact that he bought a spare helmet at all. And leathers that he thought would be exactly your size.

He had never rode with anyone before and you certainly had never expressed any interest. Yet he passed by a motorcycle store when he had rare time to spare, and visited on a whim.

If he dwelled on this anymore, DG is sure his headache would turn into a full blown migraine.)

Later that night, when the ringing in his ears finally subside, he will still think about the way you held him.

.

.

When public opinion is on your side, then that’s fantastic. Amazing. You tend to get away with all sorts of things.

When it’s not, the truth can become muddied and there’s mental gymnastics from all sides painting you as the villain.

Fortunately, public opinion generally works in DG’s favour, especially in the case of his stalker who got sentenced for more jail time than if she was harassing a normal person, but not long enough to account for all the distress she has caused.

Such is the criminal justice system.

Her date of release looms large and near. DG, despite his talent and fighting prowess, realises certain traumas can’t be erased.

He grows on edge. Skittish. Snaps at any and everything. It’s noted by journalists. Other managers gives you questioning looks

You don’t miss his change in demeanour. To you, the reason behind it is obvious. 

You’ve heard about this case, everyone has. It dominated headlines for almost a month: the crazy sasaeng fan who believed herself to be DG’s girlfriend before moving onto another poor soul and was finally arrested.

As he spirals, nothing you do or say to him manages to get more than a nod or a frown. You try to offer that she had fixated on someone else before she was arrested, hoping that was a small consolation to him. And though he managed a weak smile, the black cloud still hangs over him.

In the end, you pack your bags and arrive at DG’s one evening. Instead of letting yourself in like you usually would, you ring the buzzer, smile into the door camera and tell him “It’s me!”

The door swings open to reveal DG looking perplexed (and worse for wear). Head tilting, curious and inquisitive when he sees your suitcase and carrier bags full of snacks.

“I’m staying for a while.”

“According to who?”

You barge past him anyway with a grin.

.

.

The date of his stalker’s release arrives and passes without drama.

You miss your home comforts but it makes you happy to see DG’s mood genuinely improve as the days go on.

The luxurious oversized mattress, fancy spa shower, and jacuzzi bathtub also helps to make your stay a bit more bearable.

Not to mention each morning DG actually cooks breakfast for you. Turns out he’s not bad at all at playing a househusband, and it’s also maddening how he manages to get up each day before you when he hasn’t got any place to be.

“Thanks James,” you say, when he presents you with a home cooked meal and his smile grows a bit more each day.

.

.

Peace doesn’t last.

Blurry photos of you both leaving and entering DG’s apartment at all hours of the day and night make the front page of certain news sites.

Headlines scream with leading questions. 

“Relationship beyond Manager and Idol?”

“How a Manager seduced their Idol.” 

“Who is this mystery person that has tamed DG?”

Why anyone deemed it newsworthy is beyond you. You’ve been to his apartment a million times. 

Yes, you suppose the closeness of DG and yourself in the photos can look a little suspect. 

In this particular one, it looks like you have your hand caressing his chest when in actual fact you were shoving him away for a dismissive comment he made.

And the other photo, of his hand on your wrist, was actually him dragging you away when he spotted a herd of fans in the distance.

More pictures unveil themselves.

A snapshot of you driving and DG feeding you candy.

You and DG, whispering intimately in your ear as his supercar is being towed away in the background.

You red faced and drunk as DG piggybacks you outside your building.

His jacket wrapped around you, hand on your waist and angling the umbrella over you.

Him smiling down at you (ok, you admit that you didn’t realise how soft that looks to other people.)

Finally an exceptionally pixelated image of you both on his bike, that could be anyone really.

Unfortunately, your opinion is in the minority as the articles are inundated with comments and furious, tearful fans shrieking that their idol is betraying them. 

Simply unhinged.

.

.

The speculation grows. You’re damned if you do deny anything, damned if you don’t. Your talent agency puts out an official statement.

To your ire, the statement is ‘no comment’ rather than anything more definitive. You glare at James when you find out, suspecting he has something to do with this.

He gives you a shrug, and a familiar look of mischief.

To his credit, he doesn’t leave you completely to fend for yourself. You stay off social media for your sanity, and when the paparazzi hounds you, he's the one with his arm around you, cutting a path through the crowd and shielding you.

It adds fuel to the fire. Does nothing to help your case. 

Still, you can’t help feeling safe and secure with his hand guiding you - holding onto your waist, round your shoulder, or simply - 

Your hand in his.

.

.

Outside of the conference room, where DG is wrapping up a press release for his newest album and nothing else, a reporter slinks out and approaches you.

You’re used to being on the other side of the conversation. Part of the staff, herding DG through camera flashes and questions being thrown at him though there was always some sort of camaraderie. Both parties just trying to do their job with deadlines and targets to hit.

This time you just feel a weariness as you see this person making a beeline towards you.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” They say, holding out their hand for a shake which you take with reluctance.

“Hi.”

A voice recorder is thrusted into your face, and you automatically take a step back. “Hope you don’t mind, but I just have a couple questions for you.”

“Um...”

“There’s been lots of sightings of you and DG together-”

You open your mouth to argue-

“Can you confirm your relationship with him?”

A vacant smile settles onto your face. It’s a practised expression where you follow all the cues to be polite and professional even as internally you wish to be anywhere but here. “I’m his manager.”

“Are you two together? Romantically?”

“I’m his manager.” You repeat through gritted teeth, and you’re surprised to hear your voice calm and collected.

“Is that a no? Or-”

“What even is this question?” You scoff, ignoring the way your cheeks heat, and refusing to partake in this circus a moment longer. “This is over.”

You manage to at least catch them looking apologetic, before you stride off into a corner to take a deep breath.

.

.

DG, much more adept and experienced at fending off questions, had finished the conference early and caught the entire exchange, watching you both with a bemused look.

Walking towards you with quiet, measured footsteps, his hand settles onto your lower back as he murmurs your name.

He bites back a laugh at your small, startled jolt.

DG tilts his head to signal ‘this way’. You give him a look but follow him regardless. Trailing behind, moving far away from other prying eyes. 

Up a flight of stairs, through multiple fire doors, turning left then right then another right then maybe a left. It doesn’t matter. You’re hopefully lost and decide to just put your faith in this wretched idol.

He finally seems to find what he’s looking for as he reaches an empty corridor; stopping mid-step and you collide into his back.

“Ack!” You exclaim, hitting the solid wall of muscle.

He lets out a huff of laughter and whirls around to face you, noting how cute your look of surprise is.

How strange though, that this is his current position. But is it really unexpected that the person that has been by his side for months has finally worked their way into his heart and has somehow learned to read him when no-one else could?

If he really thinks about it, yes actually, it is unexpected. No-one else has managed to grow close to him before. As James Lee, as Diego Kang. Birds of a feather or opposites attract or everything in between, no-one has got him like you do. 

There’s still so much more to tell and show you but… First things first.

Fidgeting, you shift your weight from one foot to another, growing self-conscious waiting for DG to talk, only to find him staring intently at your face. Impatient, you give in and speak first.

“What is it?”

“...”

“Diego-”

“James.” He cuts in abruptly, “It’s just us right now. Please.”

You blink in shock at the please and correct yourself at his insistence, lowering your voice so it doesn’t echo down the empty hallway. “James, are you ok?”

“Better than ever,” he says, a smirk now pulling at his lips.

You register his change in mood and narrow your eyes, wondering where this is going. “Why are we here?”

“When the reporter asked if we were together, you said you’re my manager.”

“I am your manager.”

“But you are interested in me.”

It’s not a question. DG, no James, says it like a fact and there’s no doubt in your mind or his. You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. Open it once more-

What.

You feel some cogs in your brain misfiring and all you can manage is a feeble, “Huh?”

“You told them you’re my manager, but didn’t say no to being with me.”

“...”

“So. What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“Us.”

“You like me. Tell me that I’m wrong.”

You take a step back. “...”

Another step. “...”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

And your back hits the wall with an oomph.

DG slaps his hand on the wall beside your head, bends at the waist and leans his weight forward until he’s eye level with you. “Tell me and I promise I’ll stop.”

“...”

You’re cornered and he searches your face for a response.“Y/N?”

“...”

Fuck. Fuck!

How on earth are you supposed to respond when he looks at you like this. When his face is millimetres from yours and his breath is on your skin and his dark eyes pierces into your soul, pupils blown deliciously wide.

With his stupid pink hair and his fringe flopping, framing his face and his high cheekbones.

The stupid canines of his poking out that gives him so much character and is so hot it hurts when he flashes it accompanied with an arched brow and an arrogant smile.

His stupid pout and his stupid lips, that you know is constantly moisturised with a fancy overpriced lip balm to make it look kissable for the cameras.

And Jesus Christ, you hate to admit it but they do. They 100% do because somewhere in the back of your brain you always knew they look kissable but it has been often clouded by just simply how annoying and bratty you found him.

Except right now you don’t find him annoying or bratty at all.

Even as he’s confessing his feelings with complete confidence, no unease, no anxiety or doubts, because he always had a way of worming under your skin and he knows exactly how to push your buttons.

Damn it all.

“Kiss me,” you tell James, and he isn’t surprised at all by your reaction, face lighting up at your confirmation.

He shifts. 

Hand coming up to cup your cheek. He rubs his thumb twice over your skin, savouring you any way he can before tilting your face towards his. His lips at first brushes against your forehead. Leaves a trail down your nose, peppers both cheeks and then your chin. 

He draws back once, takes in your sweet face and gives you a smile so soft it makes your heart hurt.

Then finally, after wanting this for so long, presses his lips against yours.

Diego Kang, James Lee, tastes like candy and sugar.

[getaapologist]

The Geta x Servant!Reader lore just keeps getting better and better 😍😭 If it ever strikes your fancy, I would love to see what happens if someone else (a bold servant or a drunk senator perhaps) tried to put their hands on her. Or literally anything else you want to write because I will continue eating it up and enjoying every moment of it!

More servant!reader because why not? We all deserve happiness.

[ Prior entry in the servant!reader blurb saga here ]

Loud, boisterous laughter. Soft music filtering in, a cool evening that drew the guests out into the gardens. 

The stars were bright pinpricks of light above, the sky clear.

Large hands gripped your calves, your ankles, your legs strewn across Geta’s lap. He was deep in conversation with a senator, who thought the wine and merriment might make Geta more amenable to whatever his desires were.

Or perhaps, having you in his lap would do the trick. 

If there was any discomfort in your legs, it would have been worked out quickly as Geta kneaded your muscles. 

“Emperor?” you whispered, not wanting to interrupt him, but greatly desiring one of the sweet cakes back in the main room.

He didn’t take his eyes off the Senator, but gave your ankle a squeeze, as if he sensed you wished to get up. His touch returned the shackle, but it was no longer a burden or a restraint. It was a soft band of silk, a tether, a way back to him. 

His hands left your legs and he glanced over as you slid off his lap, his eyes raking over you. “Do not be long, little lamb.”

The grass was cold beneath your bare feet, and the stone floor was even colder still. Geta had stolen your sandals earlier, deft fingers pulling at the thin leather cords keeping them on.

Still, your destination was just ahead, the table piled high with sweets and other things. You took your time, adding things to a small plate that you enjoyed, but also things you knew Geta particularly liked, just in case he wanted something. 

“I have not seen you at these gatherings before, for I would surely remember you.” The voice carried a smile with it, and you looked up, laying eyes on a man you did not recognize, clad in the white robes of a senator. “What is your name?” 

The smell of the bitter wine on his breath was unavoidable. You could see the slight sway in his posture as he stood, emboldened by the alcohol.

You knew better, you knew this was a situation you wanted to avoid. You missed the protective aura that Geta provided. You felt untouchable when with him. You wished you could tug on that tether, bring Geta over. But in lieu of that, you tried to remain polite as you dismissed his interest. “I must go, excuse me.”

A firm, unrelenting grip wrapped around your upper arm, stopping you, pulling you back to where he stood, his brows drawn together in barely veiled frustration.

“You refuse to answer me?”

“You really shouldn’t do that,” Caracalla warned, his voice lilting as an amused grin spread across his face. "That's his favorite." He approached the table, loading up a small plate of his own as if this confrontation were not occurring.

You could not ask Caracalla to intervene, You did not enjoy the same latitude with him as you did with his brother. You could only bring your arms up to try to shield yourself from the man’s prying eyes.

The hand at your arm tightened its grip, yanking you forward. The plate in your hands fell to the floor with a loud clatter, drawing all attention to where you stood.

Embarrassment and fear filled you, remnants of your former work not feeling so distant now as you looked down at the mess on the floor. You longed to scoop it up, lamenting the wasted sweet cakes.

“You will unhand her, senator!” Geta spoke, his voice laden with fury.

Before the man could, his hand was wrenched away from you, his breath leaving his lungs in a forceful huff as he was pushed up against a nearby column. Your skin burned painfully where the man’s hand had been. 

Caracalla leaned against the table nearby, watching with great amusement.

Geta raged, the halls echoing with his threats. His face and throat were bright red, neck flexing, veins prominent. You overheard something about being fed to lions before you needed a distraction from the attention.

Discomfort overwhelming, you knelt down to the floor, scooping the ruined cakes onto the empty plate in an effort to forestall the tears. The cakes were so destroyed, they were in small pieces, your hands growing quite messy as you attempted to clean them up.

“Leave it,” Geta whispered, his large hands stilling yours. The sticky sweet mess did not bother him, his large brown eyes worried. As he saw your expression, he moved his palms to your cheeks, urging you to look at him.

Shame burned through you, as if this was all your fault. “I am sorry, Emperor.”

Geta shook his head, anger in his expression, though it was not directed at you. “No, little lamb,” he whispered. “This is not your fault.” His tenderness was almost shocking after the volley of verbal abuse he’d just spewed at the senator. 

Geta stood, orders leaving his reddened throat. The senator was cast out, never to be invited again. The mess was cleaned up, a fresh plate laden with more sweets sent to his chambers. He even managed to ignore Caracalla’s derisive chuckling as he used a wet cloth to clean the both of your fingers.

“Cheer up, little lamb,” he smiled softly, nudging your chin with his knuckle. His large chestnut eyes watched you, eventually falling to the arm where the man had grabbed you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, reaching for his wrist. His eyes flitted down to the point of contact before meeting yours again, something else in his gaze.

He seemed to hesitate, something unexpected causing him to falter for a moment. And only a moment. Hunger surfaced in his eyes, his desire to smooth things over, to get you to forget about the handsy senator surely at the forefront of his mind. “Come, let me feed you all the cake you care to enjoy, mea mellitula.”

A/N: 'mea mellitula' is roughly my honey. Maybe we forgot about the finger incident, but clearly Geta didn't.

[ next entry in the servant!reader universe here ]

[fixyourwritinghabits]

How to Handle Critique

I’ve got to admit, I wish I was one of those beatific saints that could take critique with a grateful smile. Instead, I am constantly suppressing a horrible little gremlin at the back of my head hissing at anything from legit plot critiques to grammar corrections. I’m well aware I used that comma wrong, GOD.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m very good at suppressing that gremlin, but the little bastard is still there. He exists because even though your brain knows critique can help, it also knows you worked damn hard on the thing being critiqued, and goddamnit, isn’t that enough???

Anyway, here are some tips on getting that gremlin to shut the hell up.

It is okay to be upset. You worked really hard on this thing, and now someone’s gone and pointed out all the things that suck about it. You cannot control how you feel about one thing or another, but you can allow yourself to feel that way and let it pass through you. Let your critique partner you’re taking time to reflect on it, and go for a walk. Do something else. Let those feelings pass through you before you get back to the page.

Give yourself time. Don’t feel like you need to correct things right away (unless they are minimal grammar tweaks). Some pieces of feedback might take awhile to sink in, especially when you’ve got a whole novel to wrestle through. Set it aside, think about something else for a week or so, and get back to it when you’ve reset.

Get a second opinion and/or ducky friend. It can be very hard to tell the difference between good and bad feedback sometimes. Someone who means very well could give feedback that just doesn’t work for you, and someone who doesn’t give two shits could have spotted that fatal flaw right away. You can bring in a real third party or just make use of the old rubber duck technique, where you talk through the issue with a friend or a Naruto poster telling you to Believe it. Working it out out-loud is a really effective technique to figure out what needs fixing and what doesn’t.

Guide critique-givers toward the feedback you want. I, a person who prefers straightforward fantasy and sci-fi, cannot give the fine-tooth points on how a romance novel should work. However, I can give feedback on what works for me and what doesn’t story-wise. Giving your beta reader or critique partner a list of questions to look for will help avoid vague feedback based on how they don’t like the genre. There are many ways to do this, but consider using the following as a base to tailor your own questions:

Did you get a good sense of the setting? Did the worldbuilding make sense to you?

Was this story clear? Where there any parts that seemed confusing?

What characters did you like and why? What characters didn’t you like?

Did any parts of the story feel slow or repetitive?

Did the beginning draw you in? Did the middle keep you engaged? Did the ending feel satisfying?

If you were to write [insert plot point here], what would you do differently?

Again, all of the above questions are up for debate depending on your goal, but we are rarely taught how to give good feedback, and a guided feedback session would work better for you than a free-for-all.

Figure out what kind of advice doesn’t work for you. It is really hard to give good feedback sometimes, even with guided questions. It can also be really hard to figure out why some feedback doesn’t click with you, and that’s a matter of digging deep to figure out what you really want. You may lean toward characters who are horrible fuck-ups, but your partner prefers more steady characters who always strive to do the right thing. Your characters, therefore, may never click with this person, no matter how much they want to help you. And that’s okay! Figuring out where your critique partner is coming from can help you figure out what parts of their feedback isn’t working for you. Sometimes the only thing you can do is thank them and move on, but you might also want to guide them to focus more on the plot or the worldbuilding when looking at your work.

And last, don’t focus on grammar. It’s great if they point that out, but if you end up changing everything, trying to fix that first is a waste of your time. Grammar tweaks last, plot points first.

And, I dunno, give yourself a treat to get that horrible little mind gremlin something else to focus on. Sometimes patting those bad feelings on the head and sending them away can help way more than ignoring them.

[loz-furbies]

Zelda ages based on when their games came out. Welcome to the team EoW Zelda!

Characters and design thoughts under cut:

For starters, I did a similar Zelda piece a few years ago and ran into the problem that I can't really draw anything else than anime teen girls, which is kind of a problem in a drawing where half the characters are above 20 and their age differences are the whole point. And in addition almost everyone is supposed to be royalty with very similar clothes too. But in my defense, in general it can be pretty hard to tell the ages of 25 to 40 year old anime women anyway.

I needed a reference for the body proportions in order to even get started, so I quickly thought "who is an anime woman who doesn't look like a teenager", and used Yor's character sheet for assistance. The younger characters' proportions are a little inconsistent, since I couldn't choose if I would look at realistic growth chart or go with the anime look (where teens and children are often shorter than they would be in real life) so the result is this weird hybrid.

Four Swords (December 2, 2022) & Four Swords Adventures (March 18, 2004) - Chronologically they are different Zeldas even though they use the same promo art/character design, so I used the promo art design for the original FS Zelda and drew the FSA Zelda based on her sprite. There's not much to these designs, they have very little going on in terms of story or personality to use as inspiration and their character design doesn't offer much anything original when compared to the other more well known Zeldas either. Their only distinct element is the big red hair bow, but I thought it would look too childish when they're supposed to be in their twenties here.

Minish Cap (November 4, 2004) - There's not a lot MC Zelda that I could use for inspiration. But then I remembered that a while ago I wrote about how the pointy hat Queen Ambi wears should be used more often, so I thought I should put my money where my mouth is and draw it here, since Zelda does wear a red cap for a couple seconds in MC. In general the MC Zelda and both FS Zeldas are at a little awkward age for this picture, since they're too old for youthful child designs but not really old enough for more mature queenly designs either.

Skyward Sword (November 18, 2011) - Her design is based on her concept design, which I assume is meant to be her casual look and not the ceremonial costume she wears in the game.

Ocarina of Time (November 21, 1998) - I decided that age-wise she makes the cut of when I start using updos. Why do the Zeldas have such similar canon hairstyles anyway, it was surprisingly boring to work with them. Still not sure about the curls though, my fancy dress design artbook that I used for inspiration had so many cute curly hairstyles but I couldn't really use any here because I worried the characters would become unrecognisable. But since OoT Zelda had some curls in her "sideburns" she fell victim here.

Hyrule Warriors (August 14, 2014) - HW Zelda has a distinct enough design from the other Zeldas that it gives a lot of elements to work with, though her age here limits it a little since she's too young for bikini armour. Also because HW is a spin off, I also considered including the Cadence of Hyrule Zelda, but that led to the realisation that it would have opened the doors to CDI Zelda as well. Which I guess would have been fine, but this is already a pretty wide drawing full of adults, so while a Cadence of Hyrule Zelda would have been easy to fit on the front row, I couldn't justify adding even more adults just for the CDI games. So only HW is included because I've played it and actually like it.

Zelda 1 (February 21, 1986) - The original Zelda is at an age where it's a little awkward how there's little difference between her (38 years old) and OoT Zelda (25). But I couldn't think of any anime that would help me as reference here, and I don't think she's old enough to have that "this character is getting old" wrinkle under her eye (you know the one).

Echoes of Wisdom (September 26, 2024) - I think she looks a bit too old here to be a zero-days-old newborn but work with me here.

Breath of the Wild (March 3, 2017) - She's actually at the age where her mum died, poor girl. She's very refreshing to work with since her look is so different from the other Zeldas.

A Link to the Past (November 21, 1991) & A Link between Worlds (November 22, 2013) - Originally I also had the Oracles Zelda in this since she does have a unique design, but then again I consider the Oracles Link to be the same as in aLttP which ought to apply to Zelda as well, plus the design isn't unique in any interesting way and is just a combination of the OoT & aLttP designs, so in the end I just gave the Oracles Zelda sprite's hair buns to aLbW Zelda. Overall having to use the essentially same design for both aLttP and aLbW Zelda wasn't much fun, especially when neither really offers anything notable in terms of story or personality, but at least they're pretty far apart when it comes to age.

Twilight Princess (November 19, 2006) - I haven't played her game so I don't know a lot about her (other than reading the manga which didn't give me anything to work with either) and she's also close to her canon age (?) here so she ended up looking pretty similar to her canon design.

Spirit Tracks (December 7, 2009) - This was a tough one because technically ST Zelda does have a lot of elements to her story and character that could work for a redesign, but not really for the purposes of this picture. Anything train related is more of Link's thing, and anything ghost related doesn't really fit either since she's not supposed to be a ghost at this age. And as for the Phantom, I got the impression that while she learned to appreciate it, she didn't exactly like using it, and that personality-wise she would prefer not to go on another similar adventure. So In the end I just replaced the regular armour parts many Zeldas have in their designs with the Phantom armour and used the ghost palette for the rest of her look, and I kind of like the result. Her personality looks a little out of character though but I couldn't resist the opportunity to draw this with Grandma Tetra.

Wind Waker (December 13, 2002) - I haven't played WW so I'm not sure how accurate this is, but drawing her with the pirate design definitely added some much needed variety to this picture. I really like her twirly hairstyle in canon, but I also really wanted to draw her with short hair, so it had to go. Maybe ST Zelda can style her hair in a twirl when she gets older to compensate?

The Adventure of Link (January 14, 1987) - Really don't know what happened here, not particularly happy with the end result. I prefer to draw the Zelda 2 Zelda with her sprite design because just reusing the OG Zelda design is boring, but I really should have kept it closer to that since now she's practically unrecognisable.

[bridgeicesbeforeroadif]

Bridge Ices Before Road!

Links: DEMO-PATREON-FORUM

Updated 10/29/24

~Summary~

Was there anything that could get between you and a gold medal?

Well, yes. A lot of things. There’s your family, including your annoying younger sibling. Moving back home with them will be tough, but it allows you to focus on your gains. There are competitions to win, and you have to stay in peak condition all the while. You also have your mother breathing down your neck to make sure nothing jeopardizes your chances at success. Your father is more hands-off. He almost always has half of his mind on work, even when he’s at home.

Your coach will guide you through the ups and downs of skating, as they’ve never let you down before. They remind you of your father a bit, never able to fully turn off part of their brain that thinks about work. You hope they remember to relax, and let you do the same.

Your childhood friend-turned-rival is always one step ahead of you these days. They beat you out as part of the top couple in the pairs free skate last year, and since then you haven’t been able to top their performances. You used to be friends, but now there was a fire in their eyes when they looked at you. Will you be able to mend this friendship?

Even worse, you run into an old bully of yours (that you might secretly have had a crush on since forever ago) who has just been appointed the captain of the local hockey team. He plays at your local rink now, and that means you’ll be seeing each other more than you’d like.

You find a friend in a fellow skater who becomes something of a pen-pal to you. They reach out over social media, and there’s an instant connection. They’re a total sweetheart, and you can’t wait to meet them at the first event.

 Finding your place again in your old hometown might sound tough, but nothing is tougher than being an Olympic athlete. You have to juggle training along with all that, but you try not to let it get you down. After all, skating is your passion!

Don't let the creepy figure outside your bedroom at night get you down. If you ignore it, it will be fine. It was just your imagination... right? Draw the curtains, drink some warm milk, and put on some music to drown out the haunting song whistled into the gaps in your windows. Tonight, you escape into your dreams knowing all the exits are locked up tight and there's no way in. It's all in your head.

But remember, escaping isn’t always an option.

~Features~

Customize your MC! Name, sexuality, appearance, hair, eyes, clothing, and more! (MC is genderlocked female)

Find friendship or romance in the least likely places! Each route has its own ups and downs with tailored story-telling.

Get stalked by a really big fan. No, I mean like a REALLY big fan. They know things about you that no one else does! Will you get away? Or will you be unable to stop their villainous plot?

Win (or lose) against the best skaters in the country– and the world!

~Romance Options~

Dallas Doverman

 male/6’0/20yo

 The hockey team captain. He bullied you in elementary and middle school. You can select whether or not you had a crush on him. They certainly had one on you, and that’s why they picked on you so much, not that you knew. Nowadays, instead of helping his dad around at the skate rental and pulling your pigtails, he plays ice hockey with the big boys. He was the youngest on the team, but still made captain in such a short time.

Dallas is tall and broad. His straight black hair is longer on top and rests above his ears, trimmed short on the sides. He’s grown a lot and lost that old baby fat that clung to his cheeks. A dark beard forms on his face, but doesn’t fully block out his skin.

Vincenzo/Valentina Ciolfi

 selectable m or f/5’8 or 5’5/18yo

 They were once your friend. Then, you went to Boxcroft and they didn’t. It was a shock to everyone, V included.  They swore to get better and become your superior someday. You hadn’t expected it to affect your relationship, but it did. You drifted apart, their hostility ever-growing and there was nothing you could do about it. 

With dewy, caramel skin and shoulder-length golden brown and almost blonde locs kept in a low ponytail, V just screams “over it.” They did not care enough to do anything to their hair or pick out a nice outfit. They do that for competitions, and that’s enough.

Argo/Allegra Papandreou

 Selectable m or f/5’10 or 5’6/28yo

 Your coach. They were just like you, hailed as a prodigy until they graduated school, then they stopped being a rising star and became a plateauing one. You followed their career almost religiously, and always wondered what changed. They only started coaching for you. Before that, they worked in accounting, the business for which they got their degree. You couldn’t believe that was what happened to the Starchild of Skating in the 2010’s. They saw real talent in you at a young age and changed career paths. You hope you weren’t a mistake.

Dark brown hair falls in waves over Argo’s ears. Anita wears hers long, down to her waist. They are leanly muscled, but toned all over. Even after years of being out of the game, they had not let their body grow flabby or let it fall out of use. They look as ripped as they did in their teens when they stole the show at Nationals when they were your age.

Bernhard Wagner

 male/6’5/20yo

 Someone that will eventually face you at the Olympics, you think. He’s friendlier than a competitor has any right to be and reached out to you in your private messages on Blipsta. He always speaks in a really cute way, with all kinds of emojis. He complimented your technique and you got to talking. He made it so easy to open up to him.

You don’t know what Bernhard looks like, not really. He did tell you that he’s tall and has blonde hair, but you kind of expected that. You guess you just have to wait to meet him.

[krirebr]

In LBAL when Bambi starts settling and coming into the ~loving Curtis’s job of it all ~ will Curtis give her a new nickname?

Oh, I love this question! And I had some thoughts. I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Mob enforcer!Curtis Everett x female reader (from Luck Be a Lady)

Word Count: ~650

Dividers by @thecutestgrotto

Warnings: Mob AU, references to smut, references to violence, references to criminal activity, light angst All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

You're at the club the first time it occurs to you. You've actually gotten Curtis out on the dance floor, a rare break from holding court with Andy in the VIP section. He's got a beer in one hand, the other snaked around your pelvis from behind, holding you tight as he grinds against your back. "Bambi," he growls into your ear.

You pause your movement as the thought hits you, just for a moment. Bambi. That babe in the woods. Is that really who you are anymore? You look around at the club that's become a second home, the now-familiar guards that pepper the perimeter, the VIP section up above that houses the most feared man on the coast, a man that some days you would go as far as to call a friend. You see the world so much more clearly now. You understand how it all works. The person you were the first time he called you that feels so far away.

But then Curtis's hand drifts a little lower. His grinds become a little firmer. His breathing gets a little heavier. All thoughts about anything but how his body feels against yours fly out of your head.

The next time you think of it, you're kneeling on the bathroom floor in the home you share with Curtis, bandaging up his hand as he sits on the closed toilet seat. He'd split his knuckles open on some thug's cheekbone earlier in the night. He's debriefing with Andy on speaker phone, strategizing next steps. Neither of them are concerned about how much you might overhear. Some scared little Bambi wouldn't do this, would she?

You're collapsed on the bed, Curtis breathing heavily above you, holding himself up only enough to make sure you aren't crushed, as you both come down from your orgasms. He tucks his head into your neck and breathes out, "Bambi," into your skin.

It's only because your brain hasn't fully come back online yet that you ask, "Why do you still call me that?"

He pauses his nuzzling and slowly draws back so he can look you in the eye. "Huh?"

"Bambi. Why do you–" You take a breath. You don't know why you're suddenly so emotional, but this feels important. "Is that how you still see me? You said, that first night, that I was just getting my legs under me. Haven't I done that now? Haven't I shown you? I belong here now, don't I? Haven't I proven that?"

He looks down at you, confused. "What else am I supposed to call you?"

"I don't know, my actual name, maybe?"

He immediately scowls at that and you let out an irritated huff in response. He isn't taking you seriously.

But he clearly sees your annoyance and sobers. He's quiet as he searches your face, gathers his words. "Bambi," he starts, "is what I named you. I did it to show everyone, including you, that you were mine. I did it to show you that you do belong here, with me, wherever I am. It's not something for you to outgrow, or to prove. It's my name for you, because you're mine, only mine. You'll never belong to anyone else, be called anything else. Just my Bambi. Forever."

He carefully leans down to place the gentlest kiss on your forehead, then shifts his weight onto one forearm so that he can use his other hand to stroke your cheek. The look in his eyes is so serious that you don't dare doubt him. As always, it takes your breath away. It isn't just the words he said, but the ones he didn't, too. This name, the act of giving it to you, was a promise, not just that you'd always belong to him, but that he'd belong to you, too. How could you ever want to be called something else?

Tag list

@stargazingfangirl18 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv @texmexdarling @ladyvenera @roxyfan14-blog @darkserenity24 @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @ronearoundblindly @brandycranby @midnightramyeoncravings @steviebbboi @missaprilt23 @retroqt @travelingmypassion

[faitomato]

in honor of me quitting my job as a cake decorator of 5 years, a list of memorable highlights and repeat events

been asked to draw: dicks (no)

boobs (no) (at least 4x)

SO MANY extravagant cakes that are covered in fondant (which we did not work with) that would easily cost hundreds of dollars, and then the client getting miffed when i say it’s either impossible or will cost them hundreds of dollars

cakes with the ugliest color scheme you can imagine and i am forced to use it anyway

2 tier cake with jungle animals drawn on the SIDES all the way around, that my manager took when i was clearly trying to refuse the order because i had been there for maybe 6 months and was not confident. surprise surprise the client wanted it gussied up more upon arrival because she was expecting an extravagant cake like the ones described above

people being pissy about the kit up charge

many many times of people wanting drawings and then getting pissy when i told them it was also an up charge

that time a woman clearly set up her order to be “wrong” (and called before picking it up with the question of “is there anything i don’t want on it?” ????) and instantly asked for something for free when she saw that it was “wrong.” and then looked SO affronted when i said no that i had to get my asst. manager to deal with her

a woman calling about “wedding cookies” getting upset that we didn’t have them, and going “well now i know you’re not a real bakery.” i barely held myself back from replying “maam this is a grocery store”

the most exasperated and annoyed man in the world: “CHOCOLATE. ECLAIRS??” and nothing else

the mexican man who wanted a “3 milks cake” and looked so broken and confused when i finally realized he wanted Tres Leches, and i could figure that out but not when it was in english. rip sir

that woman who went “no no no. i hate buttercream, hate hate HATE IT” like a child when i asked her if i could use choc buttercream instead of the whipped i was out of. you live in my brain maam

her mirrorverse self who was so disgusted with our whipped icing that she told us we should stop stocking it. period. because she didn’t like it.

people not understanding wtf copyright and copyright infringement are

“do you have cookie cakes?” when they’re standing right in front of the rack

“how much is that” when the price is right in front of them both in the case and on a giant screen above my head

“what cake flavor/kind of icing is this?” when there is a sticker for each on the freaking container

“can i have a cake made for an hour from now?” no

people not knowing what freaking colors they’re talking about and getting upset when i didn’t get it right (teal and turquoise are not the same color. you don’t know what indigo is.)

this one is entirely staff related but that time i literally almost broke my own toe when i kicked the freezer door in rage after my coworker let me down (again) by screwing up every order for that morning, most importantly one that was for the deacon of my church. wildly enough he didn’t come back after that

and now. the names and phrases

happy birthday poopoo head (x3)

alexzandrew (made his cake every year. for the record he’s 7 and goes by just alex now. i would too kid)

britten

mei-ling (this is only notable because it was for a freaking shitzu)

lyrch

jerith (yes like the goblin king)

loki (okay marvel fan girl)

congratulations pastor X of X church and happy birthday you are blessed and we love you (this is made up but this lady would order paragraphs like this all the time)

what i swear was half the bible

so many more names that made me want to cry or hold back laughter. mckarty and taylee level stuff but somehow worse

there are many, MANY more but i worked there for 5 years and didn’t write anything down so these are just off the top of my head. and to give you an idea of why i quit, i made 111 of the 124 easter cakes we had to make this season :) just as one example

[pressureplus]

Ok ok hear me out.. what if, you did a part two of “Reflection” but the reader finally gets to read Sebastian’s document? And kinda sees how similar they look. It’s kinda dumb because it wouldn’t really much to write about but it’s just a thought 😭

No no, don't apologize. I can work with anything as long as its got 1 sentence or three descriptive words and a vibe! I can easily make you a part two!

Doppelganger

Pairing: Sebastian Solace x Fem!Reader

Au: Classic

Warnings: N/A

◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟ ◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟

At last you purchased that damn document of his. It had sat on his desk almost teasingly out of your hands. A previous attempt to grab it had ended with his hand pressed over the classified file and a smile. His words spoken slow, as though you were stupid, as he explained that you certainly didn’t have enough for that. Now you could finally touch it all you want. A part of you was feeling a bit sassy when you snatched it right off his desk proudly. The thousand data pieces you just sold to him being shuffled away. You ignored that, for the most part, more focused on finally getting your hands around the classified information you’d been curious about. Finally popping open the file to see what it is he’s been leaving on his desk, you’re met with tons of information. A few pictures falling out that you don’t quite manage to catch.

You ignore them, taking a seat in Sebastian’s shop as he moves around the room, shuffling different pieces of paperwork and chips into places. His hands reaching up for the vents above his head and tugging out a few spare pieces of equipment. You can hear him opening the packs her wanders around with, attaching things to the straps around his body. You choose to ignore that for now. Instead choosing to read the file in front of you. Your eyes scan over the first line, catching onto three things at once. His technical experiment name, his codename, and finally his legal name. Your eyes scanned each individual word quietly. The shuffling in the background not particularly drawing any of your attention. There’s that shoot to kill statement you’ve heard a thousand times before. You’re starting to understand why he’s so aggressive. You’d be pretty pissed too if you were an experiment gone wrong, especially if you hadn’t even done the crime you were accused of.

At last you shut the file, eyes being drawn back to the images now laying on the ground. You scoop them both up. In your hands is an image of current Sebastian, larger and aggressive. He looks damn near ready to shoot the camera. On the other image…you. No wait, not you? His jawline is a bit sharper and he’s got a scar on his face but he looks so much like you. Honestly, it’s a bit shaking. A mugshot that isn’t yours but looks so much like you. The more you stare at it the more begins to make sense to you. The dots connecting on why his reaction to your face was so aggressive. Why he tends to almost stare a little too long. You thought it was because he found you ugly, or because he was trying to grieve the death of a loved one. In some ways, you suppose, he is. He’ll never have this face again. He’ll never be able to see himself properly in the mirror and he certainly wasn’t the innocent man accused of a crime he didn’t commit anymore. How many people had he killed trying to get what was necessary to escape? How human was he anymore, without his face, without his body. Was it human desperation, or animal?

“You never told me you were so pretty.” You joke as Sebastian jolts. It seems he’d gotten so wrapped up in adjusting things that he hadn’t even realized you were still in here. His eyes flick from your face down to your hands. You turn the picture of him around, pointing at it. This only seems to make him mildly uncomfortable as he looks away with a huff.

“Could you not have opened that anywhere else?”

“Sorry…it’s just…you really are handsome.”

“I was, I guess. That was a long time ago now quite obviously.” He slithers closer, scooping up his file and taking the pictures back. He’s careful to push them back into the titled document before shutting it. Then and only then does he hand the folder back to you.

“You still are, maybe you look a little different now, but you’re still very pretty.”

“That’s not a funny thing to joke about.”

“I’m being serious, Sebastian. You’re pretty with or without a human face. Even if this one isn’t really ideal…I still think you look great.”

“Easy for you to say, you’ve still got yours intact.”

“If it’s too painful to look at, I can fix that by wearing my helmet all the time? I just want you to be comfortable. I want you to know that even if you’re not human anymore that doesn’t make you…a monster.” He hesitates, the words sinking into his skin. He’s quiet for a good while before sighing. His hand coming up to his face to drag downward, a display of his exhaustion.

“Just…get out. Take your folder, your batteries, and go back to getting that crystal.”

[sonnet-of-skalitz]

The Whole World Turns Around Henry (Part IV)

(Henry and women, through Hans Capon's eyes. Just what is it about that blacksmith’s son that drives the noblewomen mad with lust...?)

Hans found Henry in the Ruthard manor courtyard, where he’d expected, feeding that grey mare of his an apple and crooning sweetly at her with his free hand in her mane. She looked freshly groomed, no doubt by Henry’s own hand—didn’t the poor fool know he could browbeat any servant in the palace into doing that kind of dirty work for him now?

The sight made Hans inexplicably sour. When was someone going to feed him an apple and sing him a sweet song while they ran their fingers through his hair? Fuck, it had been too long since he’d visited a bathhouse—a real one, with actual walls, and pretty wenches who’d do anything for a flattering word from the future Lord of Rattay.

“So!” Hans clapped his hands, startling the horse and drawing a disapproving frown from Henry—which he handily ignored. “I hear you and the fair Lady Rosa had quite the adventure. To hear her tell it, the two of you laid bloody siege, fighting back-to-back against the occupying horde.”

“Well, I did have to kill some looters.” Henry responded to his ribbing with a simple sincerity. “Hardly a horde.”

“Ah, well, there you go,” Hans spread his arms. “Perhaps sweet Rosa has been reading too many of those adventurous books of hers and fancied herself the hero. Poor thing.”

“Oh, no, she did help me,” Henry said. “She shot one of them with a crossbow all the way from the window. It was quite impressive.”

“Hm.” Hans’s teasing smile fell away for a moment before lifting right back up. “And then the two of you spent the night together—Henry, you devil.”

Apple all gone, Henry gave the old nag one last pat on the neck and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Nothing happened,” he said.

“Oh, come now.” Hans waved him off. “I understand protecting a lady’s honour from the likes of Dry Devil and those other louts—but you can be honest with your liege lord.”

“Radzig’s my liege lord,” Henry reminded him.

“Well, if you’re going to be all proper about it.” Hans scoffed, though he felt a little chastened. It was so easy to forget that Henry had never officially sworn himself into Hans’s service—more that he had been badgered into it by circumstance and the unstoppable force that was Hans’s uncle.

Was it… Had Hans been naïve all this time, to believe that Henry would choose to remain thus, when given the opportunity to leave? Why had he never given a thought to that?

Feeling sourer than ever, Hans returned to the matter at hand and pressed, “Come on, Hal—the two of you, all alone in this big, lonely castle. You, the gallant protector. Her, the grateful maiden. One bed in a cold room. We both know how this bawdy tale goes.”

“You’re wrong.” Henry shook his head, taking some oil and applying it to his saddle. “I slept in the servants’ quarters.”

Hans peered in close. Bloody hell, but the poor bastard wasn’t lying—truly, nothing had happened.

Feeling suddenly light as a feather, Hans let out a giddy laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, well—chin up, my good fellow. It can’t be the first time you’ve met a woman impervious to your rustic charms.”

“Oh, no—I got the feeling she would’ve gone for it, had I kissed her,” Henry said simply—and from anyone else it would be the most boorish of boasts. From him, though, it sounded frustratingly earnest. “But I didn’t, and she didn’t. So, we didn’t.”

He topped it with a little shrug. Hans wanted to strangle him.

“Christ, that sea monster between your legs is wasted on you,” he said, instead. “Might as well be a eunuch.”

Henry scoffed, though he did so through a smile, and kept working the leather. Hans lingered.

Chewing on a thought, he eventually ventured, “You know that you could trust me, to keep your confidence—if you had bedded a noble lady, no matter how high above your station. Even should the matter produce… consequences. I would not betray you—I’d only hope you’d trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

Hands ceasing their work, Henry looked at him. “What are you getting at?”

“Word is Lady Stephanie of Talmberg is with child,” Hans said.

“Aye.” Henry squinted at him, crossing his arms. “So I’d heard.”

“Anyone with half the sense they were born with—including Divish, himself—knows her husband can’t possibly be the father.” Hans watched him closely.

Henry shrugged. “I don’t see why he couldn’t be.”

“Oh, come off it!” Hans sputtered. “The man’s 8,000 years old!”

 “Stranger things have happened.”

“Why so stiff, hm?” Hans needled him. “Does the topic make you uncomfortable?”

“It does, if you must know.” Henry was frowning now—a real frown, not just the way his face always looked. “Sir Divish has been very kind to me. I don’t enjoy talking about him in this way.”

“His wife was very kind to you too, as I heard it.” Hans refused to let it go. “Gave you lots of… personal attention.”

“I was an injured lad who’d just lost his home,” Henry said through gritted teeth. “She felt pity for me. And, aye, she was lonely.”

“Lonely, eh?” Hans smirked, though there was a roiling in his gut. Well, if that didn’t cinch it. “Look, you might as well know—I’m not the only one talking about this. You’re at the top of a lot of people’s list of suspects.”

“Look, maybe she—” Henry stopped himself and rethought whatever he was about to say. “Whatever Lady Stephanie felt, or wanted, or any of that—it doesn’t matter. I am telling you, the child isn’t mine.”

Hans’s reply was cut off as Henry faced him squarely and took his shoulders in those strong blacksmith’s hands of his.

“Hans,” he said, squeezing, looking him in the eye. “I never touched her.”

Hans found himself swallowing, throat strangely dry. With a nod, he acquiesced, “Alright, Henry. I believe you.”

Slumping a little in relief, Henry gave Hans’s shoulders a pat before releasing them. He smiled, and Hans found himself smiling, too. Business concluded, there was really no reason to dawdle in the courtyard. Hans unhurriedly began to peel himself away.

“Can I really trust you?” Henry’s words stopped him just as he had turned his back. “Would you keep my confidence?”

“Of course,” Hans said, spinning back to face him with sincerity. “Always.”

Henry, who had himself turned back to oiling tack, spoke with his expression hidden from Hans. “There was someone. A noble lady I took to bed. Shagged her good and proper, I did. We went all night.”

“Who was it?” Hans asked, breath caught in his throat.

Slowly, Henry turned his face so Hans could see the serious set of his brow as he confessed, “Your mum.”

There was a beat of silence. Henry’s lips quirked up just the tiniest bit as Hans let out a howl and grabbed him by the hair.

“You impudent little arsehole!” They both laughed as Hans tugged his head. “You’re so revolting, Henry! I should have you stripped naked and flogged!”

“Like mother like son, eh?” Henry only brayed harder as Hans sputtered and pulled him rougher. “Oof! Ow, you’re not as tender as your mother, that’s for sure.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Hans managed through breathless laughter. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re a madman. What if I said I’d had your mother, hm? You’d cry!”

“Ah, what would my mother want with that skinny noble arse?” Henry tried to pry Hans’s fingers loose, then gave up. “She likes beef, not chicken—agh!”

It felt good—Hans knew Henry felt it, too. To laugh. To use the present tense. To smile around the word ‘mother’ once again.

When they both eventually came in from the courtyard, no one even bothered to ask why Henry’s hair had been half pulled out and Hans was wearing a grin that simply wouldn’t shift. Lady Rosa was the only one to spare them more than a glance, her gaze lingering on the ruddy cheer on Henry’s cheeks.

There, you see? She missed the smug look Hans sent her in turn. I suppose you weren’t that good a shot, after all.

[dengswei]

I LOVE this set and i was wondering if you could pls explain how you did the text, including how you added texture to the ripped text and the highlighting/circling/etc of words? thank you for posting your beautiful gifs 😊

thank you!! 🥺 & of course! (photopea tutorial)

the majority of the texture for the ripped paper effect i can't really take credit for it's on the paper it's self all i did was make the paper white (because the texture was yellow) and used curves to darken the texture), i got the texture from one of photopea's templates but it seems their whole template section has changed drastically and no longer has like anything i used to see before ???? so i'll just share both versions here:

(original & my edited version)

for the ripped parts i just played around with this brush set in the plugins

once i decided which of the paper brushes to use i had a new layer and used it where i wanted, so top left in the gif above, i clip masked the paper texture (and the adjustment layers as well) onto it so you get that ripped effect (if you don't like or want to add to that you can always use the brush tool again (or the erasure tool) set as the paper brush to add or remove sections i did this a lot when i realised certain words i wanted to show weren't on there (also changing the size of the paper brush when wanting to add a little bit or take a little bit away was a massive help)

i also always add a drop shadow to my paper textures, the settings i used is mostly the same EXCEPT for the angle for all of the ripped paper (it's also my text drop shadow settings) because depending on how the ripped paper looks you might have to change the angle

also i know in the screenshot below it's on but make sure the use global angle is off if you're going to have multiple different angles of drop shadow in your one gif (so if you want your paper texture on 125° but anything else on 60° the global angle needs to be off but if you want them the same then you can keep that on, which is why it's on for me because the angle is the same for both the text & the ripped paper) (and by text this isn't the text on the ripped paper, there isn't any drop shadow on the text itself there, just to clarify this was for my "ripped paper text tutorial by dengswei" text)

as you can see i also clipped my "handwriting" text to the paper layer this is so it stayed on the paper rather then going onto the gif itself (and it saved the fiddly part of masking it away & it felt more authentic this way too)

i found for me it was easier to seperate the text line by line so i knew exactly which part of the text was on which and if i wanted to change anything either it being a typo, changing the paper texture, or wanting a different word on a different line it was easier that way because it didn't end up messing up all of the text (though you don't have to do it that way, it's just what worked for me here)

font i used was: vag-handwritten (a default photopea font)

all of the next part needs to be above the text on your ripped paper:

for the highlighting, circles, and the lines it's pretty much all the same, i chose the colour which matched the gif (so say purple), for the highlight used the rectangle select & colour fill tools and set that to multiply & then played around with opacity (for most of my highlighting it's set to 50%), for the circles it was the same except the circle shape tool (no fill just stroke) set to purple, set to multiply, with 100% opacity (i found the circles looked better with 100% on some gifs depending on what colour i used), & then duplicated it once or twice and then just moved each circle to where i thought it looked best & the double lines is also the same using the line tool, set to multiply, & playing around with the opacity, & positioning them where i like

for the squiggly lines, the hearts, the 3 small doodle lines at either side of a word, & any other doodles i had on there i doodled them myself with my drawing tablet (you probably don't have to use a drawing tablet i just found it easier that way) using the free pen tool and then did the same thing set it to multiply and played with the opacity

if the colour you choose looks too dark or too light with it set to multiply either try a lighter/darker colour, try out something else like lighten, or screen, or increase/decrease the opacity more (i found i had this issue with the yellow being hard to see on the white paper so i used a darker yellow and kept everything at 100% opacity rather than 50%)

hope that helps! and please if anything is confusing or you want to ask any more don't hesitate to ask i know i ramble on a bit and it can sometimes get a bit confusing 🤣 or if there was anything i missed feel free to ask again 🥰

[stepinthyme]

The Red Means I Love You

Alice Wu Gulliver x Necromancer!Reader

Your girlfriend told you she'd be gone to finish some buisness, and you feel her death happen. You refuse to let her go.

Word Count: 1k

Content: second person, no use of Y/N, ressurection, kissing, fluff, blood and gore, Alice is naked but that is not the focus here. Reader is refered to as "girlfriend" at one point, but otherwise this could be read as gender neutral

A/N: If no one will feed me, I will feed MYSELF. I may cross post this to ao3 in the morning, but I needed to get this out of my head while it was all still fresh. This is very heavily inspired by Marcille's ressurection of Falin from Dungeon Meshi, but fuck it, if Billy's allowed to ressurect Tommy by putting his soul into another kid's dead body, then theres gotta be at least one other person able to do necromancy, and why not do lesbianism. Alice is probably a little ooc but I did this in like an hour, cut me some slack.

Today, running the butcher’s was very slow, predictable for the sleepy little metropolitan area of Eastview and Westview. It was run of the mill and average, what everyone in the town basically forced it to be ever since the scarlet witch scared half the people within a three mile radius.

You were just finishing the last of closing procedures and headed into your apartment above the shop, making a quick dinner and settling in for a simple night watching tv when you could feel it. The moment Alice's life was snuffed out. No, more like drained out of her, in a drawn out action. She had told you she was just going to finish some family related business, that she'd be back before the night was over. She'd be back before you knew it. Kissed you on the cheek and everything like she did when she'd head off to work.

Before you had even really processed anything else, you were already setting up the ritual, drawing out a sigil with chalk, placing candles in the appropriate places, scouring your cabinets for all the assorted offerings needed.

You and Alice had met because you were outcast witches. She had distanced herself from the craft after the death of her mother. And you were known as the disgrace of all green witchcraft. You were an odd duo, but you were happy so long as you were together. She had asked you a few times how you had earned your title, and you always laughed it off.

She was going to finally learn why you were called that very quickly.

You were grateful for your day job as a butcher, as you used magic to carry large cuts of cow and lamb, bones and all from the commerical freezer to the living room. plopping them haphazardly onto the sigil. It wasn't her body, but it would do in a pinch. You would deal with any consequences later. You lit the candles and got onto your knees, placing your hands on the sigil as you began the incantation you had done at least a dozen times. Your voice almost seemed to echo through the room as forbidden magics are called upon.

In a basement a couple miles away, death reaches out for a soul, only to see her violently yanked away from her grasp, disappearing from sight.

You continue to shout as the meat and bone fuse together, almost melting as it reformed itself into a human shape, features slowly refining itself to resemble the soul now bound to it. The last touches are added as your girlfriend, albeit covered in blood and naked, now lies in the middle of the circle. You nearly collapse, but you stare anxiously, hoping, praying, that it worked.

Alice's eyes snap open as she bolts upright, gasping for air. You release a breath you didn't realize you were holding as the tears finally roll down your face and pull her into a tight hug.

“Alice! Alice, I thought I lost you, I..”

You continue to squeeze her, kissing various spots on her face, not caring about the copper taste of the blood. Alice seemed to be finally coming out of shellshock as her hands found their way to tangle in your hair. Her eyes met yours.

“Is… is this real? Am I really here?”

“Yes Alice, you’re really here, I promise. You're here. I'm here.”

Without much warning, you were pulled in for a deep kiss. If you didn't know any better, you'd have thought she hadn't seen you in months with how desperate it was. Your tongues danced with no clear rhythm as you tried to get enough of each other, only stopping when you both needed air. Alice let out a huffy laugh of disbelief.

“How did you… how did you even do this? I was dead. I saw death.”

You glance away, picking at some of the melted wax on one of the candles, suddenly conscious of what you had done, how much of an overreach it might have been.

“It's. A long story, trust me. I understand if you don't want to be around me anymore after this, I just-” Alice gently takes your hands in hers, rubbing circles with her thumbs.

“Hey, hey. It's okay. Look at me?” You meet her gaze once more, her warm eyes looking softly at you.

“It's okay. What happened was weird, yes. But I think quite literally breaking the laws of life and death is maybe the most romantic thing a girlfriend has done for me. Just don't make a habit of it, okay?” You can't help but laugh at that.

“Only if you don't make a habit of it. What even happened?” Alice paused at that.

“It’s also a long story. I’ll tell you after I get cleaned up. You should probably too, considering” she gestures to your now bloodsoaked clothes, and you nod.

“I’ll take care of the cleaning in here while you shower, and I'll meet you in the bedroom later after I get washed up. If you're still awake by then, we can exchange stories. Otherwise that can wait till morning. Alright?” She nods, placing one last kiss to your forehead before attempting to get up and then immediately falling over. You stand up, offering a hand to her.

“Need help?” She takes it, and you help pull her up, resulting in a much more successful attempt to stand than the last one.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one protecting you.” You can't help but giggle at the remark.

“Everyone needs help once and a while. The usual doting can wait for later.”

You walk with her to the bathroom to make sure she doesn't fall again before even making it to the tub, before heading back to dig through the supply closet. You pull out the cleaning supplies and head back to the living room area, and the now giant stain of blood and chalk on your floor. Necromancy is a bitch, but it's all worth it now that you have Alice back with you. Whatever happens next, the two of you can sort it out together.