#you just draw his smile so great i am holding your art to my chest and weeping

[ynackerman9499]

Hello! This is me! ��/𝕟 𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕟! This is my tumblr in case you don't know me i have a youtube channel which I upload texting stories videos to it! And this is my first post here in tumblr (original)

Some male Hashiras + kagaya reaction to you sacrificing yourself for them

⚠ Warning : spoiler in kyojuro and kagaya, take of death, blood, injuries, crying, some of them are really short

Giyu Tomioka

You and Giyuu were fighting against 2 demons who used a blood demon art

You killed one and Giyuu killed the other one

Or so you both thought...

"You did well giyuu_san!" You said smilling putting your sword in place

While giyuu just nodded humming as a silent 'thank you'

This only made you smile even wider. You've been friends with giyuu with great amount of time now

You both actually gets along very well Despite your different personalities

So you got used to his comforting quiet gesture

"All right! Let's head back n-"

You suddenly stopped sensing that something is wrong While giyuu looked at you wondering why you fell silent so suddenly

"Wh-"

You breathed in sharply, catching a glint in the air watching it whizz towards Giyuu.

"not on my watch!"

You yelled, quickly drawing your sword breaking the unknown object in half.

Giyuu's eyebrow twitched, taking his sword out of its sheath.

"giyuu, there!" You shouted, pointing to the direction of the demon that was currently perched on one of the trees.

The two of you gave each other a knowing nod, rushing towards the trees and jumped landing on one of the branches,

"come back here you coward!" You barked, skillfully jumping from tree to tree, following after the demon.

The demon hissed, sending metal shards towards you and Giyuu, which the two of you dodged with ease

"breath of ice..." you mumbled taking a deep breath

"dance of frozen crystals!"

Streams of sparkling diamond-like figures flowed out your sword as you jumped upwards, holding your katana over your head as you swung it effectively cutting half of it's body;

sadly, not his neck, as he covered it with a steel-like substance.

"Y/n!"

Giyuu called out, causing you to look back at him wondering why did he sound so worried

You saw he was looking horrified looking at your chest rather than your face

'why did he sound so-'

You were caught out of your thoughts by yourself coughing something liquid out of your mouth

You looked down at your chest, a large sharp metal shard piercing through the middle of your chest

"uh.. F-fuck.." you muttered stumbling back and falling against a tree vomiting even more blood feeling it a bit hard to breathe

"y/n! No!" giyuu shrieked running at your slumbering and bloody figure against the tree

"giyuu.. The d.. emon" You mumbled, coughing out a worrisome anmountof blood, the crimson liquid spilling out of your lips in mouthfuls.

"i cant leave you..." he whispered as of scared of starling you

"i cant you are in_" "... Dying"

You corrected him. Mastering the last energy you had to cup his face with your bloody hand while lying in his embrace

"i am.. Dying, Giyuu..."

"no.. No you are not.. You can slow the ble-" "my lungs are... damaged giyuu"

Tears burned his eyes, hugging you close to his chest and placed his hand over your cheek

"i.. Love you... Giyuu... So... Much.. " you confessed as you started to lose consciousness and struggling even more to keep your eyes open

You took a deep breath but sadly... It didn't come out again...

"y/n.. Y/n... Hey.." giyuu said with shaky voice as a couple of tears escaped his eyes

"hey...don't do this to me, love... I–i love you too... Why did you do this... I–i don't deserve this..."he said as he closed your lifeless eyes with his fingers

"i am sorry i am too useless to be able to protect you..." he was now on full mode sobbing

Oh how cruel is it that you didn't even hear the person you love saying thing you wanted to hear from him the most...

Obanai Iguro

No...

No no no no...

That wasn't supposed to happen...

The hit was meant for him...

It was meant for him damn it!

Why did you have to take it for him

He doesn't deserve it

He doesn't deserve to live

Why would he live while you are here dying in his arms gasping and wheezing for air

He is enraged

His fear tends to come out as anger

So while you are literally dying he is shouting at you for how stupid you are, how foolish to waste your precious live over his useless one

His shouting you mutter out an Inaudible : 'sorry... '

Just then the anger turns into tears

"you idiot..." he wailed... Actually wailed.. Something you never thought you'd see, not that you wanted to in the first place

It was supposed to be him...

"don't you dare apologise..." he hugged you even tighter feeling you fading away from him as you tried to breath but it only come out as a horrible choking sound as you choked on your own blood

His cheek rested on top of your head

"o-oba... nai.. " you said chocking in the middle of word as the hole in your chest began seeping even more blood

"g–give them.. H–hell for m–me... Yeah?..."

Oh he would...

He would make them pay for taking you away from him

For making the only person who kept him moving forward...

Is now cold and limb in his arms...

Sanemi shinazugawa

Fuck!

Shit! Shit! Shit! Fuck!

He physically can't handle what he is looking at

As he refused to stop saving you even after you already stopped breathing

"shit! Shit!" he pressed harsher on the wound, the blood was slowing but not because of his relentless attempt...

You were gone... Not even being able to get a word out because of how harshly he was crying

For some reason... Even in your final moments you found it kind of comforting that he was try his best to save you

You felt your heart break looking at him from the other side hugging your cold, lifeless body... Trying to squeeze some warmth into it even though he knows its useless

Kyojuro Rengoku

You coughed out blood as akaza hand went through your stomach

"Y/N! NO!"

You took the hit for kyojuro

I mean... How could you not... You just couldn't let someone like him die

You just couldn't...

Gripping your sword harder, you slashed it against his neck making his eye widen

'she got in my way! And she still has the strength!

Akaza thought as he was amazed at how you still has the strength to even breathe

'Kyojuro, im going to die. I know. We had a life planned in front of us, but..l couldn't let you die. I just can't'

You thought as The demon tried to punch your face, but you stopped it with your other hand

"Y/N!!"

'you won't get away... Akaza!'

Looking behind the demon, but still applying force on the neck, you looked behind to see Rengoku with the boy from before charging at you with their swords.

A smile got onto your face.

'I wont ever let go off the sword ..Until I cut his head off!'

"INOSUKE MOVE! MOVE FOR Y/N-SAN!"

The boar now charged at you with speed His attack cut the demons arms, your sword still attached to his neck.

He was running away, clearly.

The boy threw his sword at the demon,.

stabbing him through the chest. Followed by Screaming of how he was a coward by running away and that both Rengoku and you were stronger than him.

You felt two gentle pair of hands gripping your back, drops of water, or tears, to your cheek as kyojuro took you in his embrace trying to stop the bleeding even though he knows it's a fatal wound

"Y/n.. No. No..please don't leave me! Please! I beg you! I will go down on my knees if it have to!"

"kyo... It's okay..." You say voice barely a whisper as you gathered all the strength you had trying to put your hand on kyojuro's cheek.

He quickly took your bloody hand in his and put it over his cheek

"no no... The hit was meant for me to take... Why did you have to get in the middle... Why.."

"i just couldn't.. Let–" vomiting blood "y-you... Die"

You said panting feeling like you can't breathe anymore...

Kyojuro the brust out sobbing burying his face in your neck as your body laid lifeless in his arms

It was supposed to be him dammit!

He was supposed to be the one protecting you!

Not the other way around!

On the other side tanjiro watching the scene feeling his heart break over and over again

Another love story between two lovers was ruined by those disgusting Creatures

Tengen uzui

after a long and hard battle you had ended up dangling off the side of a cliff barely holding onto an also seriously injured tengen.

He could feel your fingers slipping from his.

you were both tired and injured it was a tough battle and despite the demons head being cut off you had taken some heavy blows and now you were dangling off the side of a cliff, barely conscious as tengen held onto your hand with his

"dont worry y/n! ill pul you up Soon!"

you could see him struggling to hold your hand and knew that if he held on any longer he might go down with you

watching him struggle above you made your heart ache as you couldnt do anything to help

"Ten.."

the both of you made eye contact with each other

"thank you for being with me... I love you so much"

his eyebrows twitched at your words

"why does it sound like youre saying goodbye? y/n. You better hold into my hand!"

his jaw was clenched as he spoke to you

you couldnt leave him

if only he had killed that demon sooner

if only he could have protected you

in this moment he hated the gentle smile that was on your face

because to him it meant he had failed

"we both know we'll both fall if you dont let go, neither of us have enough strength left to do anything."

"its okay ten, im ready. i love you and I'll always be watching over you. live well"

he could feel your fingers one by one letting go of his hand and he tried as hard as possible to not let go

"y/n please! I.. I can't do this without you... "

you just shook your head

"im sorry ten but you have to, i know you can. you're going to do great things, with or without me."

"always remember that i love you... And i'll always be watching you"

With that, the last grip he had on you failed

the serene smile on your face was the last thing he saw as you fell to your probable death,

shattering his heart

he screamed your name on the top of his lungs as your hands disconnected followed by painful sobs

Not again...

First his siblings now you..

He lost so many loved ones

of course he knew that he was too injured to pull you up and the most he could have done was just hold onto you until help came,

If help came...

he hated this,

he hated himself

what was the point of being strong when he couldnt even save the one person he loved most in this entire world

"Live well" it was one of the last things you told him hed try his best to because you asked him of it but to him living well meant being by your side which was something he couldnt do anymore.

Muichiro Tokito

poor baby doesn't really know what to do

he's kneeling beside you with a worried look

he's sweating and his hands are clammy

he remains silent for the most part

"Y/n?"

He is right next to you, hand nervously taking your own

"Don't worry."

you give him a weak smile as scary as it was, just his presence was enough.

"|-what do I do?"

The fear in his face made your heart clench.

"Just stay with me. You dont need to do a thing..."

You squeezed his hand with the last bit of strength

you had, smiling softly

"Be careful okay? There are still a lot of demons left"

You didn't fear death,

but you did fear what would happen to those you

loved once it got to you.

Kagaya ubuyashiki

This took place before the explosion in the final battle era

Your husband's hand is cold in yours. You squeeze his

fingers and watch the moonlight bleed out the color of

his skin into silver.

"Are you well, love?" you ask quietly. A washbowl rests to your side, the cloth draped over the side dripping droplets of water down the floor. You take it and wrangle the water with one hand as best as you can,

laying it atop his forehead after. Kagaya closes his eyes and smiles beatifically. It looks painful.

"I will be fine," he says. A mere whisper; it runs wild in the echoes of the night. "| am certain... After tonight, everything will be fine again." You hum thoughtfully. Your heart turns like a clock,

mechanical, a slave to fate. You dare not tell him anything.

"I wonder. . " Kagaya starts. "How does the sky look tonight, Y/N?"

You looked up at the sky as the clouds moved to reveal the beautiful moon

"it's beautiful..." you said as he leaned into your hand as you caressed his cheeks

"he is here..."

A long shadow blocks the moonlight. You look up.

Plum red eyes stare back.

"It's finally nice to meet you, Kibutsuji Muzan," Kagaya says casually.

A chuckle flits in your ear, honey-thick and suave.

Muzan's jacket rests precariously on his shoulders,

and the wind picks up, as if trying to steal it away. The sleeves whip around him uselessly.

"Well;" he says. "You sure look terrible, Ubuyashiki."

If you do not look too closely, you can still delude

yourself into dreaming that this is a normal family.

Your twins have not stopped playing, and their

laughter mingles with the song.

*after the speech because i cant recall it 💀*

"Kibutsuji" You incline your head, a mockery of respect. "You may have prepared for everything.. But there is one thing you didn't prepared for.."

"and what would that may be?"

"this–" you pulled out teh explosion monitor and jumped on kagaya and just before it explored a room open under kagaya's bed and you both fell into a room underground where your kids were waiting for you to come and there was a secret door which led to outside

But it was quite the fall, but you shielded kagaya's body with yours as you he fell on top of you

"Uhmm... " Kagaya groaned from the pain of the impact but more at the though that you were hurt from the fall and his weight together

"it's okay... It's okay..." you said as you cradled kagaya's fragile body

"i just need you to hold on for me... Can you do that please?"

The explosion was loud on top of you but what was more terrifying was the piece of wood of the selling above you that was about to fall

So you quickly pushed kagaya out of the way just as the piece of wood fell on your lower body completely breaking it

"y/n! " Kagaya yelled as best as he could as he heard your crying of pain

"i am fine! I am fine!" You shouted as you tried to stop the tears from dropping from the pain

"kiriya! Listen! Take your father and run out of here!"

"b–but mo–" "no buts! This piece of seilling completely crushed my lower par! You won't be able to get it out! Even if you did i'd be just a burden! I won't be able to run! No go! Go!"

Kiriya quickly carried his father on his shoulder as best as he could

"no... Y/n... If we die... we die together.. That's a promise..."

"well.. Look like i have a change of plans, sorry love"

You said as you smiled sadly at him even though he can't see it

*time skip*

"CAW! CAW! KIBUTSUJI MUZAN IS DEFEATED! KIBUTSUJI MUZAN IS DEFEATED! THE FINAL BATTLE IS OVER! CAW! CAW!"

Kagaya opened his eyes at the sound of the noisy crow.. And for the first time in years...

He sees the sky clearly as the curse marks started to fade from his body...

He quickly tried to ran into the place where his estate is supposed to be with only one though in mind...

'y/n...'

He opened his eyes clearly for the first time in years and the first face he wanted to look at was yours

"oyakata_sama! Wait! You are not fully recovered yet!"

The kakushi tried to warn him but he just didn't care

He wanted to see you, to touch you, to tell you how much you mean to him even though words cannot describe, to make sure you are alright

But what he saw made him stop and his blood run cold...

The estate.. His home... Your home.. Is now crumbled to pieces with you under all that

he quickly took off and tried to dig into the rubble in hopes maybe.. Just maybe.. You are still alive...

"master..."

The kakushis and the remaining of the hashiras felt thier heart break looking at thier master like this...

Nevertheless, they started to help thier master find his wife.. I mean.. You were like a mother and a big sister to them all...

"I found something!" one of the kakushi shouted as he saw your bloody hand sticking out of the rubble

They quickly ran to where he was and started digging even more, just as they reached your head they all stopped and stepped back for thier master to take a look at you...

"oh my dear..."

Kagaya quietly knelt down where your bloody upper body only was visible

He caressed your bloody

cheek just as you did with him a few hours ago...

Oh how beautiful you looked... Even if you were cold and pale with your lips starting to get blue..

He missed you so much that he almost forgot the way you looked...

You looked even more beautiful than he remembered even with the black circles under your eyes and the few wrinkles that appeared on your face and the grey hairs despite how young you are...

"oh love... How many times did i tell not to worry to much about me..." Kagaya whispered as he caressed your cold skin with a few tears falling from his eyes "like this you will age before time..."

He hugged you one last time before the kakushis free your body completely from the rubble and take you to bury your beautiful body

Today the world won peace.. But he lost his...

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA OMG?????? WHAT WHAT WHAT????

i'm sorry i'm so sorry but HOW. DID I MISS THIS???? WHY WHY DID I NOT SEE THIS BEFORE omg i'm am head in hands so devastated but gosh this is so well done and pretty iqshohohoho<efq kotikaaaa how do you draw sO GOOD!!!!!! <33333

Colors of LOVE time!!!

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It's been so long since I drew this page and finally I can show it to you because I finally made a next one! Happy October to all of you! I'm so hyped for this inktober, but I honestly don't know how much I will be able to do. I have a convention in the end of the month and also my energy levels are much lower than they used to be, but for now I will set a goal of a one page in three days! It took me two to make this one, so hopefully with breaks I will be able to do a lot!

• Support me on Patreon! •

Just in case you didn’t know - this story is inspired by @zu-is-here , @help-im-a-gay-fish @yuriyuruandyuraart and some other people, and is about what if all characters we know are just actors playing their roles in some kind of TV shows. The names are the same, but personality can be different.

[theloveliestembrace]

Let it happen. | CL

Charles Leclerc/Reader

f1 masterlist

crossposted to ao3

Summary: The five times you meet Charles Leclerc. (The four times it doesn’t work out, the one time it might,)

Warnings: Non-explicit (but definitely inappropriate) teacher-student relationship

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Reincarnation au

W/C: 2.7k

-

A/N: What’s good people, I’m back again. This fic was very cinematic in my head (it still is), so I hope the writing captures that. Enjoy~

-

The first time you meet Charles Leclerc, he’s a barista at the coffeehouse down the road from your interning job. It’s a brief stint in the industry as you wait for a university acceptance letter, so you don’t expect to stay for long. 

He’s sweet, beaming at you from over the counter nearly everyday, remembering your order before you’ve even asked for his name. 

“Charles,” he says, sweetly accented, “my name is Charles Leclerc.” 

That day, the flowing script of your name on the takeaway cup is accompanied with a ‘have dinner with me?’ and a smiley face. You picture him, eyebrows scrunched and eyes squinted in concentration, trying to write neatly on the curved surface, and smile. 

As it turns out, Charles Leclerc is also waiting for a university acceptance letter, to a prestigious place in the United Kingdom for the study of Liberal Arts. He laughs awkwardly as he confesses, “My English is not so good yet, so I am worried they won’t find me so elegant.” 

You bat it off as nonsense, pulling him in for a chaste kiss, whispering sincerely against his lips. “They’ll be foolish not to accept you, cheri.”

He’s a sweet relief from the bustle of your internship, where you’re surrounded by presumptuous old men and women who expect their coffee orders and bottles of perrier on their desk before eight. Your work in the fashion industry is not as glamorous a job as made out in the novels. The twelve centimeter heels you’re forced into daily pinch at your toes, and all your coworkers are size-zero hyenas, vying for a position. It takes all your energy to keep up. 

Just the sight of him, though, waving cheerily in the morning as you run in for coffee pickup, hands in his pockets as he waits for you to get off work, the soft kisses when he walks you home. It’s easy to get lost in this, lost in him , fingers slotted between yours and a glass of wine shared between interlocked fingers.  It’s a romance out of a metropolitan chick flick, something about finding love in the middle of modern day bustle, finding quiet in the loud city. 

Everything falls apart when you get your acceptance letter. You haven’t talked about the inexorability of the end, not really. Sometimes Charles will bring it up half-heartedly, and so will you, but the inertia to dealing with your very real future is too great, and you both end up kissing on Charles’ sofa instead of facing the truth. 

It culminates in one big fight, your fingernails pressed to draw blood, Charles bracing himself against the wall to prevent himself from losing his temper. 

And it goes like every other fight in the movies, things like i was always going to go anyway and why don’t you just fucking go then, if you have nothing to stay for , and don’t hold me back just because you don’t have the certainty of getting into your course, Charles spinning around and saying i already got in, i’m hesitating because of you and the pressure in your chest growing so large it’s all you can do to stop your tears from running. 

The movies lied to you. This is the part where Charles apologises and you hug and make up and you stay for each other. That’s the love story. 

Instead, you say, go then, if staying for me burdens you so . And he goes, your apartment door slamming behind him. 

You spend days wallowing in self-pity, avoiding the coffeehouse, running through the motions, thinking about the last ten months of your life, and make the decision when your hand reaches for a coffee cup that isn’t there. 

You��ll stay, for Charles, because you love him, even if it isn’t like the movies. Because it isn’t like the movies, and you’ll love him even when the post-credits have rolled. 

It is this that makes you run to the coffeehouse the next morning, forgoing an umbrella in your haste, soaking your blouse straight through. You yank the door open, waiting for the head of curls at the counter to look up so you can beg for a chance. Just one.

Instead, the older lady who owns the place, looks up and smiles sadly at you. “I’m sorry, kid. He flew off to the UK yesterday, he said you never called.” 

And again, this doesn’t happen in the movies. The main character doesn’t step back out into the rain alone, heels soaked against the pavement, nor do they spend the next week waiting for the love of their life to call. 

You hit reply on the acceptance email, and change your number to a local one when you land in America. 

Somewhere on another continent, a call doesn’t get connected.

-

On the sixteenth of October, the people of Monaco are blessed with an announcement. A prince is born, the news reports. 

Charles, they named him. Charles Leclerc. 

In another ward down the hallway, another woman gives birth to a girl. The royal family hasn’t realised it yet, but down the hallway, is their future pr manager. 

Your first day on the job is fraught with just about every roadblock you could face. 

At four in the morning, one of your neighbour’s ridiculous scented candles tips over and sets enough things on fire to trip the fire alarm. Management ushers every single person in the vicinity out of the apartment building, where you stand shivering in your bathrobe. 

A few hours later, your coffee machine breaks down before your espresso even finishes running. 

Then, five minutes after you leave the apartment to catch your Uber, your heel breaks, so you’re forced to change your shoes and foot the late arrival fee on your car. 

When you finally find the meeting room fifteen minutes after you were supposed to reach, you're very much on the verge of tears. 

You’re met with a frowning Charles Leclerc, whose expression instantly evaporates into fondness when he recognises who’s at the door. He stands to bring you into a hug, as if you’d been friends since you were children. (You had been, of course, but you didn’t forget that he was a literal prince. Hugs are not commonplace.)

It’s an odd feeling, standing in front of the boy you’d known from birth, tasked with covering up his scandals and manufacturing relationships to keep him in the public eye.

It’s even odder to fall in love with him all over again, especially while you’re both poring over staged Instagram posts of him and Monaco’s richest bachelorettes. But Charles is so— good, easy to fall in love with, like those princes from storybooks. He laughs at exactly the right moments, cracks jokes that have you gasping for breath, charms you so thoroughly it’s almost embarrassing. 

It falls into place like poetry, too many moments without supervision, secret smiles over the table, quiet mornings in the palace, hidden in his room. You pick up the closeness of your youth near flawlessly. Falling in love has never been this easy. 

(It’ll never be this easy again.)

The end comes knocking in the form of his mother. Marriage. You almost choke on the enormity of it, caught in the noose of your own stupidity. Because that is your job, isn’t it? The prince is almost thirty, you are almost thirty, and this has always been the final point, of your job, of his scripted relationships. 

You don’t even fight, which is kind of the worst part. A choice is presented to Charles, and he chooses.

It’s a special kind of cruelty, to stay. To sit with the photographers and videographers and event crew and wedding planner, poring over fabrics and angles, as if it’s your fucking honour to plan what’s set to be the greatest union in Monaco for the next decade. 

You were wrong. The worst part is standing at the fringes, in your blue dress, watching the love of your life slide a ring onto another finger and speak the vows that were meant for youyouyou . The worst part is knowing the photos will be beautiful, because you planned them yourself. 

The worst part is knowing there is no universe where he chooses you.  

-

Your new French Literature professor is… really fucking hot. You’re not just saying this because he’s a decade older than you, or because he’s at least three decades younger than the guy who used to teach the class. He’s just, objectively of course, a really attractive man. 

The way his accent rolls off his tongue when he says “Charles, my name is Charles Leclerc.” definitely doesn’t help. In your periphery, you see the girl seated next to you furiously typing on her phone, with caps and exclamation marks and sweating emojis. You can’t even blame her. 

And it’s almost criminally obvious, the way he looks at you, eyes darting to your open polo, the way he lingers on the syllables of your name when he calls on you to answer in class. 

It’s subtle enough to not warrant any accusations of misconduct, but not subtle enough to avoid the envious stares of the girls (and boys) in your class. You’re unbothered, of course, given that he hasn’t actually made a move, but also the fact that he wears his wedding ring all the time.

And if you start wearing tighter shirts and shorter skirts to class, just to see his breath hitch when you uncross your legs just so, well that’s nobody’s business but your own. 

It’s almost cliche, the way your little game unfolds. You make sure to book the latest possible consultation slots with him, in a cute ensemble and flawless makeup, toting a copy of Les Miserables as if you’re actually struggling with the material. 

It’s fun, to rile him up, watch his tongue slide against his lower lip as he looks at you from across the desk. You don’t typically make a habit of seducing professors, especially the married ones, but you figure it’ll probably make a great story for your grandkids, or something. He holds out much longer than you thought, so much so that the illusion of needing aid in your best subject starts to grate on you. Still, the sight of his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves, or the line of his throat when he sips water during lectures keeps you hooked. 

When he finally bends you over his desk, you’re almost disappointed that the game has ended. The imprint of his wedding ring stays on your waist for days. Your friend tuts nervously when you return back late, murmurs something about morals and regretting your decisions and something else you tune out. 

Un brin de folie egaye la vie, right? Some madness will brighten your life. You continue ignoring her.

It’s only after months of your routine that you can form the all-important question, perched on his lap in his (locked) office, “Why cheat on your wife?” And the room is instantly suffused with silence. You expect him to tell you to get out or something of the sort, but instead he hums thoughtfully, shifting you further onto his thighs. 

He’s silent for a few seconds, running fingers through your hair, “Why do we do anything?” You snort at the obvious deflection, raising an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. 

“On n’aime que ce qu’on possède pas tout entier. Proust says we love only what we do not have entirely.” You giggle a little at that, “you love me because you cannot have me?” He sighs against your cheek, “something like that, yes.”

In the end, it ends much cleaner than affairs like this tend to. You graduate top of the class, watch Charles and his beautiful wife at the ceremony, and laugh a little meanly at how oblivious her smile is. How he watches you, still, as you give the valedictorian speech, the smirk on his face as you thank your professors with false fervour. 

And then, one last time for the road, in the handicap bathroom where the bustle of the hall isn’t quite muted, breaths mingling hot in the stale air. A kiss, almost chaste, and you leave. 

Your grandkids howl with laughter at the story, nearly seventy years down the road. You smile, think about green eyes and rolled up sleeves. Another life, maybe. 

-

You’re still not used to the wag lifestyle. It’s one thing to be recognised in Monaco, another to be Il Predestinato’s girlfriend. It’s almost obscene, the red that greets you down every hallway, the way you bite your tongue and watch the team fuck him over every weekend. The way the crowds chant his name; Charles, they scream, Charles Leclerc. 

It’s not like you haven’t earned a place in the paddock. You’ve done the work, the pr activities, the carefully curated soft launches, the jet lag, the helmet kisses and the careful, careful styling. You’ll always be silent and pretty, always smiling and skinny and happy for him, existing to prove something. 

The point is, it isn’t that you don’t love Charles anymore. It isn’t that he’s neglectful and distant (he is), or that you’re unhappy with the constant scrutiny and ever changing time zones (you are). You can swallow these things, breathe deep and let it settle. 

Mangia questa minestra o saltar questa finestra; eat the soup or jump out of the window. Accept things for what they are, don’t hurt over things that cannot be changed. 

And it really does feel like nothing will ever change, watching the man you love turn into a beating husk, consumed with his want. A championship, a victory, draped in enough red to drown you both, a hundred years of history. Nothing will change, you will always be the girlfriend, the girl in-the-pictures. You can feel the shadow of Charles’ name as heavily as he feels Ferrari’s. That will never change.    

The championship is a hollow victory, when it comes. You and Charles have devolved across the year into a state of a perpetual tense silence, intercut only with the curl of his fingers around your waist when the cameras come flashing, and drawn out, passive aggressive conversations.

You begin to fly out less and less, blame it on the job you pretend to hate for Charles’ sake. Slowly, you learn to be on your own, find your way around loneliness, spaces within yourself previously occupied with your boyfriend. You toss about the idea of him cheating on you while you miss his races, and find the thought less impossible and less painful each time. 

By the time you see him again in Abu Dhabi, the Monacan flag wrapped around his shoulders, fingers pointed to the sky, you only feel affection for the man you would’ve given everything up for a year ago. The knowledge squeezes painfully in your chest. 

You reach for him in the cooldown room, wince at how unfamiliar his hands are to you now, look him in the eyes, “It’s been over for a long time, hasn’t it, cheri?” Tears rise unbidden within you when he nods, eyes wet. You clasp his hands tighter, relish the feeling of his fingers against yours one more time, “I want you to remember the best parts of us,” you sniffle lightly, attempt a smile, “not the end. I want you to remember that I am always proud of you.”

The room is quiet. He leans against your shoulder, for a moment you are both twenty-one again, guileless. The enormity of what you are losing has settled in your bones. 

The soup is unassuming on the table. You choose the free fall from the window. 

-

The new doctor is cute, in a puppyish sort of way. Charles watches the way you interact with all your new coworkers, smiling and shaking hands, the way you laugh at a joke Max just made. 

You come up in front of him, and falter, tilting your head like a startled animal. “Have we met?” The deja vu hits him so hard his head spins, shaking his head at your question anyway. 

He kisses your outstretched hand, soft under his lips, revels briefly in your furious blushing. His mother likes to tell him; doctors only date other doctors. He intends to test the theory.

“My name is Charles,” he says, “Charles Leclerc.”

[st4rgzer]

Heyyy hope your doing well with the Taylor Swift and Spenser Reid thing!!!!

I was thinking about how the trend on tiktok with how the girlfriend and boyfriend swap back and forth a painting and paint them. And thought how cute that would be with Benoftheweek!

Maybe some kisses and lots of playful banter??? A gender neutral reader or a female reader would be great! Thanks so much!! Keep up the great work!

art piece (benoftheweek)

summary: you try the painting each other trend with your bf!

genre: fluff fluff fluff

cw!: -

a/n: okay i am SO sorry, i had only realized you were talking about another painting trend when i finished writing this😭 dont worry, i’ll write the right request later, sorry!

you giggled as you watched ben’s face scrunched with a confused expression as he mixed colors on the canvas. you had proposed the idea when the video came on your feed, immediately sending it to him and pleading for you two to do the silly trend circulating tiktok. he obliged without hesitation.

“this isn’t fair, you have such an advantage!” he groaned, looking skeptically at his painting, trying to find an angle that made just a bit of sense.

you laughed mischievously, knowing that you chose this activity solely because you had the upper hand. “not my fault! sorry you have poor eye to hand coordination” you mumbled with a grin. he gasped and clutched his chest in an offended manner.

“that is!- fine. i’ll show you how much of an artist i can be.” he declared. turning his attention back to his painting, concentrated entirely on making sure he wins.

a few minutes later, you announced that you had finished with your painting.

“i’m done!” you held your painting up next to ben and smiled, knowing victory was soon to be declared.

ben didn’t respond, instead, he continued meticulously picking paint and holding it up next to your features, putting his thumb up to measure your proportions…

“aaand…done!” he dragged on, reviewing his painting with a grin.

“mhm, should we reveal them now?” you asked, he nodded.

“i’ll go first” you stated, he rolled his eyes playfully in response. he muttered an “of course” under his breath, teasingly.

he flipped your painting and revealed a spot on recreation of his face, done in under 30 minutes. his mouth was left agape, stunned at the art piece before him. i mean, he knew you were good but this had only further proved it to him.

“it’s decent.” he said, neglecting to look at you in the face, trying to disguise the fact that he had been left with his mouth opened for a good 15 seconds at the utter shock of your skills.

you snorted, “decent, sure” you rolled your eyes as you crossed your arms. you obviously knew that he knew that you were a very talented artist, and he was lucky to have such a creative partner, but it was fun to watch him pretend.

“okay okay now mine” he said excitedly. you turned the painting towards you, covering your mouth with your hand upon contemplation.

“oh my god.” everything was all over the place, you hair was spikes, your eyes were giant in comparison to your little face, the neck was way too long, and the colors formed a muddy mix almost everywhere.

“this is amazing ben! i think you’ve won!” you say smiling, holding in the laughter.

“duh, i told you” he acted like a little kid showing his babysitter his drawing. but soon enough the both of you burst with laughter, giggling about the painting for at least 15 minutes.

“okay you win, can we just go lay down now? painting is really draining” he said exaggeratedly. you nodded and looked back at the mess of brushes, pallets, and splotches of colors on the table. then you looked back at him.

“tomorrow.” you both said in unison, breaking out in laughter once again before heading to his room, laying in bed and making fun of his painting again. this went on for a few minutes before peppering him with kisses, apologizing for bullying his “awesome” art piece. you both fell asleep shortly after, resting your head on his chest, intertwined together.

taglist: @iha8you @1horrormoviewhore1

[indigomarina]

Hazbin OC x Canon Week Day 7 - Free Day (RadioStar)

For @hazbinocxcanon

Levity is sitting on the balcony of the hotel, staring out at the hellish cityscape with a pensive expression. Her thoughts are a tangled mess of confusion and hurt, still reeling from Alastor's overheard words and Vaggie's betrayal. She sighs heavily, resting her chin on her palm.

"¿Qué voy a hacer? I thought I knew where I stood with everyone, but now…" Levity muttered.

A familiar static crackle fills the air. Levity tenses, not turning around even as she feels Alastor's presence behind her. "Levity, darling? Might I have a moment of your time?" Alastor asked softly. Levity shrugged, still not facing him. "Free country, Bambi. Or free Hell, I guess. Do what you want." Alastor moves to stand beside her, leaning against the railing. He manifests a bouquet of deep purple roses, holding them out to her. Alastor cleared his throat, "I… wanted to apologize, my dear. For the callous words you overheard the other day." he apologized. Levity finally looks at him, brow raised. "Oh? The great Radio Demon, apologizing? Has the world ended already and this is my dream before I'm reincarnated?" she asked. Alastor chuckled wryly. "Not just yet, I'm afraid." He sobered, "But I am serious, Levity. What I said… it was cruel and untrue. A pitiful attempt to maintain my reputation as an unfeeling overlord." Levity takes the roses, fingers brushing his. She brings them to her nose, inhaling their sweet scent. "You really hurt me, Al. Made me feel like I was just… just another toy for you to play with until you got bored." she said softly. Alastor cupped her cheek, turning her to face him fully. "Never, birdie. You are so much more than that. More than I ever could have anticipated or hoped for." he said. Levity searches his eyes, a fragile hope blooming in her chest. "Then… what am I to you, Alastor? Really?" Levity asked. Alastor's smile turned softer, "You are my songbird. My muse. The flame to my moth, eternally drawing me in. He leaned closer. "You are everything, my songbird. And I am a fool for ever letting you doubt that." he confessed. Levity's breath hitches, a pretty blush staining her cheeks. She sets the roses down and wraps her arms around Alastor's waist.

"Careful, Bambi. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually like me." Levity joked, smiling shyly. "Might even like you back." Alastor pulled her flush against him. "My darling, I more than like you. I am completely, hopelessly enamored with you. Have been for longer than I care to admit." Levity giggles, "Who would've thought? The big bad Radio Demon, falling for little ol' me." she said, nuzzling his chest. "I guess miracles do happen, even in Hell." Alastor chuckles warmly. "With you, my dear, anything seems possible." He presses a kiss to her forehead. "I am sorry for ever making you feel less than treasured. It won't happen again." he reassured. Levity smiles brilliantly, earlier hurt soothed by his sincerity. "See that it doesn't, Bambi. I'm liable to set your fluffy tail on fire if you break my heart again." Alastor laughs, hugging her tighter. Levity melts into his embrace, a happy sigh escaping her lips. There in his arms, with the scent of roses and jambalaya spices surrounding her, she finally feels like everything will be okay. "For what it's worth… I forgive you, Al. And I'm sorry too, for shutting you out. Guess we both kinda suck at this whole 'feelings' thing, huh?" Levity said. Alastor hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps. But we can learn together, birdie." He grins mischievously. "I've been told I'm an excellent student when properly motivated." Levity smirked, fingers playing with the hair at his nape. "Mm, is that so? Well then, consider me your eager tutor, Bambi. I'll make sure you're muy bien educado in the art of l'amour~" she said flirtatiously. Alastor's eyes darken, static purring from his chest. He leans down, breath ghosting over her lips- Suddenly, a loud crash sounds from inside, followed by Charlie's frantic shouting. Levity and Alastor sigh in unison, moment broken. "It seems our lesson will have to wait, songbird. Duty calls." Alastor grumbled. Levity pecks his lips sweetly, "Don't worry, ciervito. We'll have plenty of time for private tutoring later~" She winks and sashays back inside, leaving a grinning Alastor to follow, shaking his head fondly. Apology accepted and feelings affirmed, they were ready to face whatever challenges awaited them next. Together.

[cleake]

HP Characters Reacting To You Drawing Them

Warning: I didn't read the books, these are my headcanons and personal ideas for the characters. It's just for fun. :)

Harry:

-"Oh! Brilliant! Yeah, sure." -He is a bit shy, but flattered, very flattered -He sits in front of you, with a nervous smile, sometimes adjusting his glasses or hair -You assure him that he looks great and he relaxes a bit, sitting more comfortably -While you work he asks from time to time some questions about your drawing journey and listens closely to your answers -He thinks about how you're going to draw his scar, are you going to make it a key thing, or represent him in another way? -When you finish and show him your work he's astonished by your talent -"Wow! This is really good! I can keep it? Oh! Thanks!"

Ron:

-"You want to draw me? I don't think I'm that special." -He's a bit hesitant at first, he feels like he doesn't deserve attention, since he is not "The Chosen One" -But you make him believe otherwise -When sat down Ron is stiff, looking away from you, smiling nervously -You tell him that he looks great and he smiles a bit more confident -He suggests ideas on how you can present him, and he comes up with some sick propositions -Once you're finished he's so happy that he has something made by someone only for him -"Bloody hell, it's fantastic! You need to show your skill more often."

Hermione:

-"Draw me? Well if it makes you happy." -She pretends that it's nothing, she may look annoyed, but inside she cares -She fixes her hair or clothes when you aren't looking -She sits properly, legs together, hands on her lap, head slightly tilted, and a soft smile on her lips -She is mostly silent but asks you questions about what you are doing at a certain moment, she's curious -She's patient, giving you time to make your art perfect, she knows how hard it can be -She's very supportive when she sees your finished work -"This is lovely!"

Fred:

-"Oh yeah? So my beauty captured you this much?" -He's so happy about it but can help not to tease you -"Are you interested in a more intimate portrait?" -He sits in a confident way, taking a lot of space -He gives you ideas for the drawing, like how he could look good on a broom, or fighting You-Know-Who -After he's done with his jokes he lets you work in silence, just sometimes giggling to himself because of your focused expression -When you sometimes look up at him, he sends you a quick wink -He's very happy when you finish the drawing, he'll show it to his friends -"Thank you, dear, we can repeat this if you want."

George:

-"You got the right twin? Because I am not sharing this position." -He's more mature about this than his twin, but he has it in his nature to make some not-in-place comments -He gives you control, you decide how he sits or holds his hands -He's intrigued by how you work, but stays silent, just looking at you -He hums quietly, gently moving his head, when you tell him to stop moving he winks at you with a smirk, but completes your order -He's moved when he sees your done work, he feels appreciated for him -"Thank you, it's beautiful."

Ginny:

-"That's nice of you." -She doesn't ask a lot of questions, just lets you do your work -She's happy to pose for you, it makes her feel seen -She smiles when you accidentally make a silly face but doesn't point it out -When you're finished she takes a while to admire your work -"It's amazing, thank you."

Luna:

-"I would love to, sitting can be fun too." -She's very calm, listens to your instructions, and is very patient -She asks you how you got to draw, or what inspires you to create, she's nice to have conversations with -She has her glasses on her nose, sitting with her knees to her chest -When you're finished she's very happy -"Oh, it's magnificent. I am so happy to keep it."

Neville:

-"Me? Are you sure?" -He's very self-conscious, and thinks you're doing it out of pity, but you assure him it's not like that -He's very nervous, he doesn't know what to do with his hands, you have to guide him a little bit -He thinks he looks bad at every angle, but you tell him that everything is perfect and that makes him feel a bit more confident -He is so grateful for this art piece, he keeps it close to him at all times -"Wow, that is so pretty, thank you Y/N."

Draco:

-"Why? For what?" -He doesn't feel comfortable with this and is suspicious you have bad intentions -But his pride wins over him and he lets you draw him -He sits proudly with a serious look on his face -He says nothing, just watches you, expecting your work will be not as high as his expectations -But he's shocked when he sees your done work -He keeps it in his room, away from others -"Well that's not as bad as I thought it will be."

Tom:

-"I can agree to that." -He sees this as an opportunity to capture his image for future -He wears his best suit, rings on his fingers, and in his hand a dark book -He sits with his head high, one leg on the other, leaning on the armchair -He doesn't talk but nods his head in approval when you stop drawing for a moment -He's very satisfied with the result and keeps the drawing well hidden -"That is good, thank you for your time."

[witch-hazels-musings]

It’s 🍪!

You have this ‘My Sunshine’ (?) fic where the reader is an absolute ball of sunshine and I LOVE it! Could you do a part two with Zhongli, Childe and Albedo please?

Mwah!

My Sunshine

( what an incredible choice of characters! Thank you for adding to one of my favorite fics!! ) 

Warning��-> SFW, Fluff

Character X GN Reader | Anthology 

Includes: Albedo, Childe, Zhongli 

Albedo 

It was the way you greeted the world around you - with pleasant smiles, patient hands, caring and compassionate eyes. You saw the world for what it could be, the beauty of it and while Albedo searched for the answer in the universe, you already seemed to have found them 

He noticed you on his wanderings through the city. His hands were already moving to draw your expressions in a hope to capture everything that he possibly could - how could he capture the intensity of the sun itself, of a flower basking in the afternoon glow, or a firefly so vibrant that it burned orange and beautiful 

You were bouncing on your toes, smiling kindly at the people who walked by while you patiently waited for anyone to stop by. Not many people purchased flowers every single day, but you found it wasn’t hard to proposition people with your generous smile and pin-point compliments. 

“My! I have never seen something so beautiful in all my life.” You began, bending to rest your hands on your knees while catching the attention of a small young girl who had been glancing at the array of flowers at your side. She looked at you confused, a bit nervous but didn’t back away. 

Reaching for a small white flower, you trimmed the leaves and hummed a little tune before turning back to her. “A lovely flower like you must attract so much goodness. Even this daisy is impressed by your radiance!" She giggled and you continued, "Would you do me a favor?” You smiled at her, eyes showing only the purest of shine. The little girl nodded her head and you began again, “Could you carry this flower and help it grow? If it's you, I'm sure it'll turn just as beautiful?” 

The little girl wrapped her small fingers around the stem, her smile and giggle so powerful that Albedo was sure you cast a magic spell because as he watched her gallop away back to her parents, the flowers near you began to glisten and the sketch on his page came to life. 

He was unsure how to make a connection with you, so more often than not he would find himself purchasing flowers he didn’t really have the necessity for - but perhaps if he gathered enough up, he’d have a bouquet glorious enough to equal your soul 

“Mr. Albedo, pleasure seeing you again.” You brushed off your apron and turned to him. Your eyes closing and head tilting, a standard greeting of yours. “I have some rather rare flowers in stock today if you’d like to take a look.” 

“I am actually here to inquire if you had any Asters; the research institute has just run out.” 

“Hmm, let me check for you.” You bowed slightly before disappearing behind the many stalls and carriers of your wares. He scanned the flowers as he waited for your return. Gloved fingers inspecting the petals of flowers and, in his wandering thoughts, he began to investigate which one reminded him the most of you. “Mr. Albedo, I am sorry, it seems we are fresh out.” 

“I see …” 

“Ah! However, I needed to gather several other plants today. If you come back tomorrow I will set them aside for you.” You waved at the other worker as if to inform them of your intentions and quickly reached for the basket near the stall. 

“Actually, would it be too much of a bother if I were to travel with you?” 

You paused, staring at him with eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. What was this feeling in his chest, it hurt. “I would never pass up an opportunity to share in your company! What a splendid day this is turning out to be.” 

“Thank you, I will keep out of your way.” 

“Not too much I hope. So, Mr. Albedo, are you ready?” You turned to head toward the front gate and he followed after you. 

“Yes, and please, just Albedo is fine.” 

“Alrighty then, Albedo.” Ah, yes, that’s why his heart hurt. 

There you were, the wind wrapping around you as you stood in a field of flowers - the reflection of light difficult to pinpoint for as bright as the sun shined down onto the plane below, you were just as intense and, in fact, you may be the most luminous creature to ever exist -- how could he possibly reach something like you 

Childe

His world had never been bright -- from the snowy landscape that threatened every day to freeze the warm hearts that beat on its surface, to the dark void that he fought through as an adolescent, to the harsh and demanding ladder he climbed in service to his cause -- he’d never known the light … his had been seized so long ago 

So when he found a flicking candle, a small flame in his dark corridor, he walked to it - ran for it - and to see the glory reflected on the other side was something he fixated on until he could hold the candle safe in his arms 

He clenched his jaw and sighed. These boring briefings were never something he cared to participate in. He was more for action rather than words, so instead of listening to the updates from the short, purple-haired harbinger, he instead gazed out the open window at the city below. 

Liyue had shifted from a temporary destination into a permanent one as the tasks and duties continued to lengthen his stay. At least he didn’t mind the city, not like some of the other places he’d stay at. Just as he was about to drift back to the boring discussion, he heard a voice drift up to him. A lively, giddy voice that stole all of his attention and focus, but as soon as you entered into view his minimal interest piqued into desperation. 

“Wait up! You can’t tell me that this isn’t a beautiful day, just take it all in!” You spread your arms wide and spun with so much energy that the inertia made you stumble, luckily you caught yourself before running into some poor passerby. Childe smiled and rested his chin on his palm as he looked down at the loveliness that was your everything. 

You laughed, and the way your hands flew to your lips to cover the sound made him jealous of those fingers. You spoke, words falling off of your tongue like sugar and he grew antsy at the thought of not tasting it. You existed, and he needed a piece of it. 

Waving to his subordinate, he spoke in a hushed whisper, and while the meeting continued to drone on, he made his first step at capturing a star. 

The more information he gathered, the more interactions he had with you - the more he fell into your luster, the richer his feelings grew for you 

His actions were that of a child just looking for a comforting glow in their endless darkness, hands cupped to keep it alive, breathing held for fear of accidentally blowing it out - stay, please stay 

He called your name, the sound of his voice dissipating in the open space as he searched for any sign of you. 

“Hey there!” You called out to him, and when he looked up toward your voice, he smiled. Your legs dangled off the tree limb, your hands wrapping around the bark as you balanced there. 

“How is the view?” He asked, crossing his arms and staring at you from below. How did you get up there, he wondered. 

“Beautiful, I can see so much from up here. It’s like a whole different perspective.” You breathed in deeply and lifted your arms to reach for the sky above you. “How about you join me?” 

“I’m not sure I can, I don’t even know how you got up there.” 

“Sheer will and determination!” Giggling, he thought maybe you were actually a mythical creature in the fairytales he used to read as a kid. There was no way you could live in this world and be so positive, it had to be you were something beyond this world. “I’ll come down to you.” Twisting, you wiggled onto your stomach before letting yourself drop onto the ground below. It was further than you thought and as soon as your feet hit the earth, your body became off balance and tumbled backward. 

Childe easily caught you, his sturdy chest supporting you and arms extended so your hands could have something to grab onto. 

“Ooh, that was exhilarating.” Tilting your head, you turned to look at him and for a moment he felt his lips scream for yours. He wanted to let you go, but how could you when you fit so perfectly in his arms. “Childe?” 

“You’re something else.” This was dangerous, you were dangerous, and now that he knew what it was like to feel the brightness of the light, he would never let the dark creep back in. 

He needed you - it was apparent - and he hoped one day you’d realize you needed him too. A light like yours truly needed to shine in the darkness of places, so choose his, please choose his 

Zhongli 

There is no one in this world that would understand luster better than he - no one who could see the shine inside a being as clearly as one with eyes who’ve witnessed the birth and eventual death of the universe. The great Morax, the ruthless Rex Lapis, the gentle and patient Zhongli are one and the same, and the visions they’ve witnessed cannot be forgotten 

So, to see a person with purity so refined, that even the dullest observers could clearly recognize, he found it nearly impossible to look away 

He heard tell of a new performer joining the Pearl, someone who had shown great elegance and glorious promise at wowing the crowds. As a man who fancied the arts of all kinds, he was intrigued by the rumors and whispers. So, when the schedule showed the name of this new performer, he made his way to the boat drifting on the sea. 

His lips tasted the sweet flavor of tea but his eyes soaked in the delectable movements of your body. The graceful bow of your spin, the bending and twisting of your limbs as you moved just enough to tell your story on the swaying stage. He felt the history in your dance, the pride in your fluttering fan as you moved it across your face, the snap of truth as you forced it up toward the sky. He was transfixed, as he was sure all were. 

When you finished, you began to greet the many interested patrons eager to hear the sound of your voice. There was no way he could have known how transfixing you would be when he heard it. 

“What a stunning performance.” Zhongli mused, his head bowing, a mirror of your own gesture. 

“That is great praise from someone such as yourself.” You smiled and he was reminded of glaze lilies. 

“Pray tell, what was the inspiration for your dance?” 

“Ah, an insightful question, not unexpected I must say.” You laughed and moved your hands to your chest, elegant fingers resting over your heart as you answered his question. “The light of a soul has so much insight, don’t you think? If the soul is radiant, the vessel's beauty is so easily seen, and if there is beauty shining so brightly that it can communicate out to those who look, it may shift just the tides of the future.” You laughed again, a bit more unreserved than the last, and somehow more telling to your honesty. “I’m sorry, I hope that answered your question.” 

“Splendidly, and then some.” He found himself transfixed, captivated by a spirit shining before him. 

Spending time with you was as refreshing as standing in a mountain stream, as filling as a warm meal, as bright as the basking stars that littered the sky above and reflected in your eyes even in darkness 

“Zhongli, hello again.” He wandered into the garden, the gentle bubbling of the water as it fell along the rocks provided a lovely background to your visage. Carefully, you rested your fingers against the pages of your book as you looked up at him. The shadows of the shifting trees let highlights of the sun dance across your face and he couldn’t help but capture this image in his mind. 

“Good afternoon, you seem to be enjoying the day.” 

“As I always am. Nature has provided such elegant and lovely conditions that it would be a waste to not thank it, don’t you agree?” 

“Wholeheartedly.” He smiled, his hands gripping tighter around each other as they rested against the small of his back. It was incredible how nervous you made him; for a man who was a powerful as the mountains that looked down over the city, you made him feel like a tiny pebble in the stream begging to be touched by you. “May I join you?” 

“Absolutely, anything in this world can be improved by good company, and yours is always my favorite.”

“As yours is mine.” He sat on the stone bench next to you, his hands resting on his lap as he looked out across the scenery. You moved closer to him, your arms touching as you shared in the company of each other and, while his eyes drifted to your face, he watched how your smile and good nature made the flowers bloom. 

You were a compliment to his life. A perfect addition to the drift of time and as he looked at the future that stretched before him, he found your red wrapping perfectly around his amber 

--

tag list

@star-gods @mercurysmaiden @dourpeep @clemmywrites @pepperoncinipizza @handswritteeen @lucifucker @beelsdessert @odafashioned @coolcats09 @ninqat @musekala @sufzku @mooshymello @heavenlyang @plenilunegazes @glazelilyy @justyoureverydayqueer @idunkar @solowmomo @twokissesforamelia @the-mermaid-of-mondstadt @fuwon @angel-melt @lucacandy @shesleire @marianadi @zentoruu @smol-knife @nightlywallows @aoirohi @nitorious-ghost @mguerra11 @anatthesavage @maiiikoo @actstfbla @youaskedfurret @nonniechan @tempehlust @zenith-impact @plumpkie @jaggedsi @salty-salty @onlyhereforinteractivestories @gultonluvv @shy-specter @liebestraumss @jaemjenjam @softlybeloved @anatthesavage @mkazuyuh @excitedlysuffering @kaidou-pie @yujiia @cytomegalia @natxxu @ilyshelb @fvushiguros @nua-fromliyue @yoshikuno @kaidou-pie @anonymousficreader @cyphermagic @chichikoi

[cryopathiic-a]

❝ — Moshi mosh, hi, yes, I would like to order your, uh- ❞ Leaning closer to the menu, squinting over the words pinned down by a lavender claw; ❝ — it says here it's called the 'Soul Search Journey Blaster' ? ❞ Prismatic hues slip to the creaking door and Dōma shifts to lean back on the whimsically large bed, a palm supporting his weight, the other taut on the receiver. ❝ Mhm! Oh no, skip the snacks, please, I've got my- ❞ A thick brow quirks when looking to the shadow that towers from back there - where his master admires their 'tan'.

❝ - I've got my girlfriend here with me and she's dieting. You know how girls are with these things! ❞ A chuckle, mirrored on the other end of the line. ❝ Could be the most beautiful woman in the whole entire world, she'll still find something that needs fixing, right? Hah hah! ❞ The joke hit a little too close to home, though. And the ancient overlord would have found him casually chatting up the hookah rental service employee, one leg crossed over the other, head canting with a smile.

❝ Sure sure, mhm, it's for 205... put it on the tab, okay? Thank you for everything, have a great night, my friend! ❞And just like that the phone and turned around; a waft of shower gel crinkling their nostril. Well at least the hotel had a good taste in flavors. The bed sunk in under her weight and Dōma quickly hopped atop the mattress and shuffled closer on all fours.

❝ Well in that case, you're in luck. Because I— ❞ A hand presses to his chest, exposed as the shirt he has been donning at some point was buttoned down further. ❝ - am an expert in shiatsu; for oni, too. ❞ Because naturally, he had evolved the art. Anything that tasted good, sounded good, felt good; Dōma was always quick to take interest in. But hey, that hedonistic nature had its perks.

Long legs came to straddle his master's lying frame, sitting on their lower back with a devious smirk- his fingers had tickled the air for a moment, before rolling his sleeves up and diving right into the work. First, a press of cool thumbs around the spine, feeling up and outwards to draw the focus there, in the middle of the back and expand it, like lotus leaves part when the flower truly blossoms.

Though he is quick to note the change in color. And, with it... a thin speckle of skin protruding from the rest. Up close, that does not look like a 'tan' at all. That looks... moreso like a sunburn. But who's going to tell her that. Poor Master Muzan had been so excited to sunbathe... Dōma's lips purse; and he is glad that she is not facing him at that moment to see that expression.

❝ Hm. Let's see... if I do this- ❞ He mumbles, softly, but moreso to himself. A cold palm presses flat against the middle of her back and the skin almost sizzles under his frigid touch. ❝ And then like that... Oh, your back holds so much tension. It's like you've been carrying a lot of weight... ❞ He rolls the thicker part of his palm around, looking for knots to smooth over, then pressure points to stimulate as well; those often differ for the oni, whose bodies are pliable like clay. Especially Master's. He ought to admit, it was a little more complicated than most.

❝ How does that feel? ❞ He asks, whilst testing a circular motion around the base of her neck. His free palm comes to carefully push raven locks out of his way, before daring to pull the towel a little lower for more purchase. ❝ Would you prefer it harder, or more gently? ❞

[autumnleaves1991-blog]

Could I have 13 and 70 from the smut list with King Arthur?

A/N: Yes, yes, you can. :D Also took some inspiration from the live-action Cinderella movie. Thank you for reading, reblogging, commenting, and liking. 

Pairing: King Arthur x F! Reader 

Warnings: 18 + only for smut, p in v 

Masterlist 

Prompts: “Your parents would be royally disappointed if they saw what you have on right now. Even more disappointed at what I’m thinking about doing to you.”& “I know all of your weaknesses.”

You fidgeted in your pretty gown for the eighth time in the last ten minutes, and your mother was less than pleased. “Stop moving, ungrateful child, this is your chance to impress the King! A chance for us to rise among the nobles!” she hisses at you, pulling your shoulders back. A ball in King Arthur’s court, wearing a corset that did little to help in the way of breathing, and your overbearing mother is breathing down your neck. Your sister beside you covered her giggles with a cough as you rolled your eyes. 

“Oh, Lady Charlotte!” Mother smiles and thankfully leaves you for a moment alone. You take a deep breath and lower your shoulders, eyes scanning the room for exits. 

“She will catch you, you know,” your sister giggles again, “and drag you right back.” 

“I feel more like a prized bird on display than a woman,” you scoff, “does she honestly believe that the King is going to look at me in this ridiculous get-up and fall madly in love? We are peasants; how did we even get invited to this?  Besides, I haven’t even seen this King before; what if he’s some hideous brute? Maybe that’s why they haven’t commissioned any portraits of him.” 

“I’ve heard he’s quite handsome and young.” 

“The average life span of a person is only fifty or so years, so how young can he be, twelve?” you groan at seeing the large plume of your mother’s hat coming back your way. “I need to get out of here before mother sells me to the highest coin.” 

“Quickly then,” she shoos, “I know why you don’t want to meet the King; he’ll never compare with your handsome stranger.” She grins mischievously at you, and you hold your breath waiting for the fallout. 

“How did you know about that?” 

“Sister, darling, you are not very good at hiding your feelings.” You glare at her, and she giggles, “I also saw the two of you by the creek when I was out fetching berries last week. He’s quite handsome.” 

“There you are!” Mother returns and puts her hands on your shoulders, pretending to show affection. “The King is coming,” she whispers with a grin and moves to stand between the two of you. You look over at your sister and give her your best pleading face, mouthing the words, ‘please don’t tell’ she smiles and nods with a wordless ‘promise.’ 

The trumpets sound loud, and a man stands forward to announce the King. People sitting rise to their feet, girls around you giggle like children, several pushing up their chests, biting their lips, or pinching their cheeks for some extra color. You stand there with a lump in your throat, trying to swallow around it. 

When the King makes his entrance, the crown glistening off the top of his head, your mouth slowly falls open on a gasp. “Art?” you whisper, your mother shushing you; you can feel your sister’s eyes burn into the side of your face. Everyone around you bows and curtsies low in honor, but your body has frozen, your limbs no longer working. 

“Curtsy,” your mother grabs your hand and pulls you down with a hiss, and you gasp, nearly falling to the floor with force. The noise draws his attention, and when the crowd rises, his eyes are staring intensely into yours. Those eyes you love, Art the apprentice, is the King of England. “He’s staring at you,” you can hear the glee in your mother’s voice, but all you feel is dread. 

The music begins to play, and several Lord’s come up to him showing their offspring off like a cow at the market. And for a moment, his eyes leave yours, and you bolt. “Where are you going?” your mother moves to grab you, but your sister intervenes; God bless her. You walk as quickly as your skirts will allow towards the door to the gardens, and when you are on the threshold, an arm comes out to stop you. 

“Wait, milady,” you freeze, half wanting to rip your arm from his grasp and slap him across the face for his misdirection, the other half wanting to turn and get lost in the deep blue of his eyes. “My love,” he whispers only for you to hear, “let me explain.” The second half wins, and you turn slowly, noticing the entire ballroom is watching the scene with rapt interest. His eyes, as blue as the sky reflecting off the sea, have you unraveling before him. “Dance with me?” he straightens to his full height, letting go of your arm and holding out a hand, “please.” 

Your hand trembles as you bring it up and place it in his. The warmth that is usually so comforting seems to set your skin ablaze as you follow him to the middle of the ballroom. The music is slow, and you follow the steps with him in a carefully orchestrated dance. “Talk,” you whisper, “why did you lie to me?” 

“I didn’t lie,” he grins, “not exactly; I am still learning my trade, just like an apprentice.” 

You know all the eyes are on you, and you smile when he gives you a turn, stepping hard on his foot when you come around. He grunts but doesn’t stop the dance, continuing each step. “That wasn’t very nice,” he smiles and says under his breath. “Did you forget love? I know all your weaknesses.” His words light the fire in your belly, and you see the mischief in his eyes as the dance comes to a close. 

“Would you join me for a stroll in the gardens, Milady?” he asks loud enough for everyone to hear. 

“Your Majesty?” Sir Bedivere strides over quickly, “there are many ladies who wish to dance with you, my King; you wouldn’t want to insult them.” 

“I need to make sure to give each of the ladies my adequate attention. Isn’t that what you told me, Sir Bedivere?” he grins as the other man nods with a thin line of his lips. “I won’t be alone, don’t worry, Sir Tristan will be my guard.” He looks over at the Knight, who has several ladies of his own to tend to, who nods with great reluctance. “See?” he claps the older man on the shoulder and offers you his elbow. “Milady?” 

You don’t have much choice, taking his elbow and following him over the threshold and into the gardens. Sir Tristan follows several steps behind, and you walk into the sprawling greenery. When you are about halfway in, he turns with a whistle, “Oi, Wet Stick, bugger off for a bit; we need to have a chat.” 

“You know this bird, boss?” he asks with a raise of his brow. 

“Yeah, she’s the one I asked you to bring the invitation to,” you look up at him, alarmed. 

“You invited us? Well, aren’t you just full of surprises,” you huff and walk further into the orchard part of the gardens, far from the prying eyes of the partygoers. 

“Shit,” he follows quickly behind, and you hear Wet Stick snigger and walk off in the other direction. “Wait, darling, please.” 

You whirl around with a finger pushing into his chest, “What game are you trying to play? Find some pretty peasant girl, make her fall in love with you, and then embarrass her in front of all the Nobility in England. Was that your game?” You walk away from him and pace back and forth, “I can’t believe I was so naive to think you cared.” 

“I do!” he reaches for you and holds you by the shoulders to face him, “I do care, love. I didn’t want you to love me because I was a King, I wanted you to love me! Arthur, the man, not the crown. I never lied to you,” you glare at him with a hand gesturing to the crown on top of his head, “okay I neglected one small detail.” 

“One,” you huff out a laugh pushing away his hands, “one small detail?! Arthur, you’re the fucking King of England! I’m only a poor seamstress, with an insufferable widowed mother, who only dreams of becoming a part of the upper class!” You feel the tears swell in your eyes as the truth all comes crashing down on your shoulders; the man you’ve been in love with for months is unreachable; theres’ no way he can marry you. 

“Listen to me,” he reaches for you again and takes three enormous strides pushing your back up against one of the apple trees. “Look at me.” 

Your mind won’t slow down, “what was your goal with having us come tonight? So you could shame me? Show off to the nobility that you are one with the people? Do you fuck every peasant girl you meet?” 

“Listen to me!” he shakes your shoulders, and your eyes widen, looking up to see him. “Listen to me,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to your own, “there was no game. I saw you in the market ten months ago when I was in the city.” 

“Ten months ago? I’ve only known you for six….”

“I didn’t know how to approach you; I couldn’t just go up to you and say hello I’m the King of bloody England, fancy a pint?” You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, his curving up at the edges. “So I dressed in my old clothes, snuck out of the palace, and started slowly talking to you. Then we went for a walk, and I couldn’t stay away. You’ve bewitched me, love. My love for you is more powerful than the magic of the Mage.” 

“Honest?” you ask quietly with trepidation, “do you mean that Art?” He smiles at the nickname he gave you, leaning down to kiss your lips softly. 

“Promise, love. It’s only ever and will only ever be you.” He runs his hand against your cheek, and you lean into his touch, letting yourself breathe for the first time all evening. 

“I love you too, Arthur; I’m in love with you.” His eyes soften as he gazes down at you. 

“We have to go back soon,” he whispers, kissing you softly, “but do you think we got time for?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and you smack his arm with a laugh. 

“Is that all you think about?” 

He grins and takes a step back, “turn around,” he whispers with a wink. You turn around slowly, gasping when your hands are pressed further into the tree trunk. “Quiet love, don’t want anyone to hear us do we?” 

He moves quickly, unlacing the top of your corset and peeling the back open, letting it fall to the ground, your breasts sagging with the relief of being free. He palms your breasts, placing rough, scratchy kisses over your exposed shoulders. His hands come around to his waist, and he pushes up several layers of your skirts, reaching for your pulsing heat. He turns you around, and you reach your hands quickly down to palm him through his leather breeches. 

Your hands falter on the fabric, and you look down with wide eyes, “I-I made these,” your voice shakes, “they were commissioned a few weeks ago.” You look up to meet his warm eyes as he nods. 

“I wanted to support you, and you are the best seamstress in the city. Only the best for the King,” he murmurs, almost shy.

“Well then, my King,” his eyes darken, “I will need to show my appreciation.” You tug open the breeches, and he slips them down his thighs, lifting your skirts the rest of the way. 

He fumbles with the layers, and you giggle at the annoyed look on his face. “I swear, when we marry, I demand you just walk around naked at all times. These skirts are ridiculous.” 

You don’t have time to respond, the words caught in your throat, as he lifts you and slides inside with ease. “Fuck, always so wet for me, love,” his hips snap inside you, and his mouth tangles with yours, swallowing your moans. 

“Arthur,” you moan, feeling him stretch you on his majestic royal cock. This is not the first time you’ve fucked, having given Art the apprentice your virginity in the woods several months ago, but this was the first time you’ve fucked Arthur, the king, and he didn’t disappoint. 

“That’s it, love, let me hear you, but only me, don’t want any of them damn nobles to know I already made my choice. That I already fell in love months ago with a beautiful seamstress in the market.” He grunts, and your cunt flutters around his cock with every word. The love between you flowing over with each thrust of his hips. 

“I- ah, I love you, Arthur,” you whimper against his neck, slick with sweat. The air is thick tonight, the incoming storm leaving the air thick and dripping. 

He pulls back to look at you, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips, “I love you, you’re my Queen, always have been.”

You buck your hips against him, cumming with a silent cry, head thrown back in ecstasy. He thrusts three more times, and then you feel him cumming deep inside you, thick and warm it dribbles down the inside of your thighs. He’d never done that before, always pulling out at the last moment. You open your eyes and look at him; his pupils are wide, almost black as he stares at you.

“Now they can’t say anything,” he mumbles, and you furrow your brow. “You may be carrying a little Prince or Princess now; I have to marry you.” 

You grin at what he’s done, his cock still buried inside you. “You’re naughty,” you giggle. 

“I’m naughty?” He asks with a smirk, “your parents would be royally disappointed if they saw what you have on right now. Even more so at what I’m thinking about doing to you.” 

“And what’s that?” You shift your hips, and his eyes widen as you tighten around his cock. 

His eyes soften, and he cups your cheek gently, bringing your lips softly to his own. The rub of his beard is rough on your cheek as he moves to your ear, “I’m going to end this party early and show you. I already made my choice a long time ago. But, are you ready?” He pulls back, looking deep into your eyes, “Can you stand by my side and love Arthur the King, as much as you love Art, the apprentice?” 

Your heart catches in your throat, blood roaring in your ears at his words; you lean into his hand warmly and on your cheek and close your eyes. Opening them slowly and looking into the sea of blue, “I love you, all sides of you, that doesn’t change because of a shiny crown and a title.” 

He slowly pulls out, and you whimper as he lowers you back to the ground, pulling down your skirts and fixing your corset. You both work in silence to be presentable again, his eyes bright as he smiles at you, “Then, let’s go,” he murmurs, reaching for your hand, “I think it’s time to announce our engagement.” He snickers as you walk along beside him back towards the party. 

“What are you laughing at?” you chuckle, watching his eyes filled with mirth. 

“Your mother is going to faint,” he laughs beside you. 

You groan and roll your eyes with a laugh, “Good, maybe she will be quiet for a few moments.” 

He booms out a laugh and pulls you close, kissing the top of your head, “oh my love, our life will never be boring.” 

Taglist: @lunarthoughts @jedi-mando @idreamofboobear @aerolanya @rebelliouscat @veracruz-djarin @marvelprincess1994 @thirstworldproblemss @spacelatinoss  @martellthemandalor @kesskirata @waatermelon-sugaar @jitterbugs927 @helga1031  @greeneyedblondie44 @mamacitapascal @oldstuffnewstuff @yespolkadotkitty @heythere-mel @justanotherblonde23 @artsymaddie @anetteaneta @aellynera @lucifer- @houseofthirst @phoenixhalliwell @chicken-ona-stick @agirllovespancakes @ghostwiththemostbitch @the-purity-pen @paintballkid711 @wasicskosgirl @fantasticcopeaglepasta @sarahjkl82-blog @boxdyeblonde @rosiefridayrogersunday @yeah-seems-legit  @mimimi-stuff  @ladyblogger-margie @memyselfandellasworld @peterhollandkait @itspdameronthings @emmy626 @luv-nd-serenity @randomness501  @littlebopper96 @alexmarie29 @hell-is-my-second-home666 @thisshipwillsail316 @madslorian @no-droids-on-sunday @glixxr @sfr99 @pedro-pastel @we-can-be-himbos  @sleep-tight1 @sarhabee @its--fandom--darling @im-an-adult-ish @princess76179 @demoncrypt1066 @the-dendrophile-bookworm @amneris21 @deliciouslydisturbed365 @princessxkenobi @Kirstg42 @flaireandsynch @rayslittlekitten 

[yandere-toons]

Hey since you’re doing Psychonauts, could you do a Nick Johnsmith X reader, please?(I am completely aware of this dude’s ulterior motives in the game, I just love his voice actor so much!)

Yandere Gristol Malik | Nick Johnsmith (Platonic Scenario - "The Last Carriage Out of Grulovia")

Warnings: unresolved trauma, famine, body decomposition, drowning, bloody violence, psychological manipulation, toxic mindsets.

A.N. - One of my favourite stories I've ever written.

The tweets of songbirds were muffled by the thick glass of the expansive windows allowing the red light of dawn to pour into the halls of the royal palace.

Many portraits of Gzar Theodore Malik and his family hung on the walls in place of other art, each one a splash of dark and gloomy colours that portrayed little happiness in their blank stares.

Maids worked on their knees to scrub the floorboards and rugs before royal boots stepped on them, and butlers walked up and down the corridors with fresh trays of breakfast still steaming.

“Great Gzar, if I may be allowed to rest.”

Theodore turned back and gazed at you through squinted eyes, drawing his hand to his chest as if even considering the request was shameful.

The crown, which sat upon his skull as if moulded to it, was a hill of red larger than he was wide that spiralled into the arms of various candles and dangling jewels. It looked like a chandelier that should have been hanging from wires on the ceiling, and the question of how his neck supported it was one you often pondered.

The creak of a door opening resounded from down the hall.

The thwacks of boots on the floorboards evolved into the soft thuds of heels on the rug, and a pair of hands seized your own with an impatient tug.

“I require more caviar!” A youthful and spirited voice erupted at your side, brimming with a confidence that demanded attention. Gristol Malik sported an indifferent if not slightly annoyed look as he neglected to acknowledge his father or the previous conversation.

As the Gzar hummed in amusement and started to walk away, you leaned over and bent your knees slightly to lessen the strain of resisting the boy. “There are many servants in the palace.”

His father took confident strides in the opposite direction when Gristol tightened his hold on you and pulled once again. “I wish for you to retrieve it. As your prince, I command it!”

The high-pitched barks of Spotty yipped and squeaked in a distant room, and the noise grew louder with the opening of a nearby door.

Gzarina Rokel Malik entered the hall in a series of controlled steps as if she planned each one before taking it, hands clasped in front of her waist and head angled towards the ceiling. The frill of her rose-pink dress and bejewelled crown, as they shook in a smooth rhythm, caught the eye of Gristol.

Taking a long moment to study the interaction between you and her son, Rokel mustered a posh smile and stood straighter with a quiet inhale. “Gristol, isn't it time for your horseback riding lessons?”

* * *

The common land of Grulovia was populated with shacks, dilapidated homes that had succumbed to the erosion of time and were barely livable, and a few too many citizens clad in rags. Their clothes had become oversized due to a lack of full stomachs most nights, and they devoted much of their remaining energy to carving and painting signs that begged for change.

Gristol may as well have been in a world of his own as he trotted along a dirt road on his pony, never looking at the people his father claimed to serve until a large rock landed in his path.

It was as if a blockage in his ears had been cleared, for as the prince watched the stone tear a line in the dirt, the buzz in the back of his head swelled to thundering footsteps and howls of anger.

On the horizon was a mob of fire, metal, and the silhouettes of peasants charging forward. In the hands of the mob were pitchforks and torches, the flames waving back and forth with a furious intensity and casting an uncomfortable heat upon the boy.

More rocks slammed into the ground near the hooves of the pony, and the animal reared its front legs to whinny. It fought the bit in its mouth and the bridle on its snout, causing the leather straps to chafe Gristol's palms. “Don't you know who I am? I'm telling my father!” he shouted at the mob, only to have his voice suffocated in the outcry of the people.

As he turned to leave, a searing pain struck his cheek and knocked him to the ground. Dirt, a fetid substance foreign to the boy, stained his pristine uniform and took the shine out of the gold buttons. The neigh of his mount echoed in the smoky air, but his attention was drawn to the bright liquid seeping from his skin like water from a river.

It glistened with the rosy glow of crimson and reeked of copper, dripping onto his quivering fingers and coating them in a damp warmth.

The heart in his chest thrummed against his ribcage at an increasing rate that surged to the palpitations of an animal breaking out of a cage. Any control over the situation that Gristol pretended to have was torn from him at that moment, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead while searching for his horse to escape.

The hoofbeats of the pony fleeing caused the prince to extend a hand and demand its return, the hooves flinging earth at him and retreating over the hill.

Gristol pulled his face out of the mud with a desperate cry, and when he flipped onto his back to crawl in the direction his frantic mind assumed led to the castle, he saw only monsters who wished to inflict a type of harm on him that he could not understand.

Their humanity had been stripped away to reveal gnashing teeth, pounding fists, and wild eyes devoid of mercy.

He breathed so fast that his lungs began to contract in painful spasms, and the sensation of a crushing weight lying on his chest drained his legs of their strength and filled his head with dizzy panic. Even his arms started to fail him, wobbling and threatening to plunge his body into the dirt without a chance of lifting himself out of it.

Just as the sun was fading into the bared teeth and torches of the peasants, a wall of water crashed upon the rear of the crowd and swept it into the air.

Screams of terror replaced the gales of rage, and the waves swelled and stooped to clutch more in a fluid embrace and toss them out of his sight.

Fearing the rough touch of hands seeking to show him no remorse, Gristol tucked his knees into his stomach and wrapped his arms around his face. The noises swirling around him continued for most of a minute as his whimpers were overshadowed by the deluge and shrieks.

After the land collapsed into a peace rife with waterlogged corpses and the silent echoes of agony, a pair of footsteps approached the boy. He shivered with bursts of intermittent sobs, which turned to shouts and squirming when two arms heaved him against a lean chest.

A deep but feminine voice tinged with a Slavic accent whispered, “Easy, little Gzesarevich.”

* * *

The wind pushed the woman's brown headscarf over most of her face and lifted the hem of her blue kaftan, but she remained in the doorway as she ushered the boy inside. “The little Gzesarevich found himself in a mob.”

Tears of different sizes gushed from his eyes at different times as if he was unsure of whether to let them fall or suppress them.

At the arrival of his father, Gristol flung himself against the man and clutched handfuls of his regalia.

The rich blue fabric, a work of tireless hours by someone whom the Gzar had never met, became stained with dark splotches of tears and blood as both substances jumped from his son's face to the uniform.

Theodore looked down at the boy in surprise and conjured the barest hint of pity before the distraught sounds, muffled by his clothes but still piercing, and the damage to his outfit drew his lips into a repulsed grimace.

The Gzar crinkled his eyes and held his arms away from his body.

Rokel darted into the anteroom with clumps of her dress raised in her hands for better mobility, and a dark look of anger crossed her face when Theodore shoved Gristol off him like a man brushing the dirt off his coat.

The boy stumbled aside as his father marched to the psychic in the doorway, his hand in the air and a finger pointed at the outside world.

“Get back out there!” he shouted as though it were the last thing he would ever say. “Rid my land of those peasants!” His limbs shook in fear, and Maligula whirled to the village with a typhoon forming at the doorstep of the palace.

Droplets of water sprayed his long face before the guards closed the door, leading Theodore to recoil and wince as if he had been struck.

Rokel searched for her son, only to find him stamping his muddy shoe on the rug and clomping down the hall.

You had only seen the prince shed real tears twice in your many years of service to the Maliks, once at this moment and once when he had awoken to an empty bowl and convinced himself that caviar no longer existed.

The part of you that stored his caviar on bags of ice so it would not lose its taste and took his dirty plate away at the end of dinner, the servant, was tugged by the impulse to swipe a stick of cotton candy and give it to the crying boy.

The part of you that cursed his father's rule was glad to watch the royal family be slapped in the face by their failing country.

Even more, the selfish part of you inferred that bringing one of his most desirable snacks would earn some degree of favour if the heir or the Gzar decided to go on a termination spree for revenge.

As you emerged from his bedroom with a creak of the door and a ball of cotton candy in your hand, Gristol paused a short distance from the same door. His puffy eyes recognized the pink material spilling out of the white cone, and after a moment of surprise and tears drying, he rushed to claim the dessert.

The familiar splash of sweetness eased his shudders. It blanketed his hand with a pale fluff that smelt of candy delight, allowing him to forget his skin had been covered in his blood a few minutes earlier. “Come, servant. I shall enjoy the cotton candy in my chambers.”

The prince pushed his hand into yours and steered you back into the room. His voice had calmed from the weeping, but it was strained with a thin layer of sadness.

Once the sugary meal was devoured, he ordered you to retrieve a batch of caviar.

Gristol was sitting on his plush bed when you returned, its length and width stretching far more than was necessary to cradle the boy. The bedposts were tapered to spearheads, which sloped down to where his legs dangled from the side of the mattress.

The jewel-encrusted gold bowl resting on the palm of his right hand shimmered like a horde of precious diamonds, and the mother-of-pearl spoon in his left hand glittered like a star in the night sky. The spoon was balancing on his thumb and the crevice between his index finger and middle finger, bobbing with idle anticipation as he narrowed his eyes at you.

After a minute spent wondering if it was a test of some kind and debating whether it would be seen as improper or not, you met his gaze when he refused to turn his eye elsewhere.

“Servant,” he addressed you in the same graceless way as always, “are you loyal to me?” There was a genuine curiosity to his words, and the fork hovered just shy of his lips.

The bruise on his cheek, a darker shade of purple, seemed as vivid as the moment the rock left the grip of the peasant and split his skin into a bloody contusion. “You would never stone me, never spit in my face?” Gristol plopped the lump of caviar into his mouth, savouring the buttery flavour without breaking eye contact and swallowing before finishing his thought. “Never betray me?”

Recalling the sight of a maid no more esteemed or regal than yourself being tossed into the mud for speaking out of turn, you bowed your head. “Of course not, Gzesarevich.”

She had been doomed to starve along with the rest of the population simply because she voiced an idea at a time when the Gzar happened to be in a foul mood.

If the prince recognized the superficiality of your promise, he did not show it.

“Good,” he muttered through a spoonful of caviar. When the utensil was removed from his mouth and plunged into the bowl once again, his voice became much clearer. “And, 'Gzesarevich'?”

Gristol twirled a few pieces of caviar on the edge of his fork, and he turned to you after watching the motion for a few seconds. “I'm going to be Gzar one day.”

The sunshine streaming through the long windows caught the tip of the utensil before it was stuffed between his teeth. “Call me 'Gzar' from now on. I'll need you prepared for when you're serving me on the throne.”

The fact that he had planned your future and decided the extent of your life with such careless ease as if you were a number on a spreadsheet almost made you forget he was a child.

Apprehension flooded your mind as you imagined the confusion at dinners when the young Malik asked for a refill or said anything to you that demanded a greeting. The inevitable assumption that you were either stupid for mistaking the titles or disrespecting Theodore would be the end of your employment and life.

“Gzar is your father's title.”

Gristol pulled the fork out of his mouth with a delighted hum. “Ah! So you're already familiar with it. Splendid!”

* * *

When the storm of liquid slammed into the windows and crowded around them, it rose to such impossible heights that much of the sunlight was eclipsed. The chamber was drowned in the shadows of the tide, which danced and writhed with furious strength and cast the walls in periodic spots of light.

A darkness fell upon the jewels that once glittered like snowflakes in the night of a full moon, and despite the stone barrier separating the flood from the room, it seemed as though your lungs were unable to find air.

The waves beat against the glass as if there were hundreds of fists pounding to batter the majestic halls of the estate and plunge them into a watery grave.

A hiss echoed in the bedroom as a crack darted across the middle of a window in a jagged shape that was not unlike the claw of a beast, and it twisted and swerved in many directions with such intractable speed that streaks of water began to shoot onto the carpet. The fractured glass was lighter in colour and seemingly thicker, appearing to protrude from the rest of the window.

Gristol opened his mouth to release a frightened gasp, his eyes widening in search of an explanation for the attack. He retreated from the portion of the carpet stained with the dark texture of water and backed towards you.

The silken fabric of his royal garb brushed your skin, and you looked down to see the prince grasping at your hand. “Where is my father?” he asked, tugging your arm as if doing so would provide a quicker answer.

You glanced between the roaring water and the boy with confusion on your lips. When the cracks grew until the windows resembled a mosaic, you clutched the doorknob to the ornate slab of wood preventing you from leaving and yanked it open.

Rokel stood on the other side of the door with her hand raised to do the same, the look of surprise on her face turning to relief after she spotted Gristol.

The sound of rushing water flooded your ears, but the corridor had gained only a narrow flush of water around the carpet and rugs.

Over the sloshing of the tide, a yell was heard from the end of the hall. “Gzarina!” A guard was waving his arm beside a hidden passage, a chunk of the stone protruding from the wall and swaying into the corridor to form an entrance.

The round texture of a tunnel strewn with cobwebs and dirt glistened in the final streaks of sunlight that broke through the water. 

Rokel grasped the hand of her son and darted towards the solder, and as Gristol lurched forward in an unprepared stagger, he clutched your hand. A living chain was established between the three of you as the cold liquid pooled at your feet, draining into your shoes and chilling your skin.

Each step required more strength than the last until it was as if you were trudging in the bowels of a marsh.

The guard hauled the door back as far as the decrepit hinges would move, and the shaking of his limbs coincided with the howl of pain forcing his mouth open.

As Rokel lifted the soggy hem of her dress and stepped into the dark tunnel, Gristol hesitated at the edge of the entrance with a curled lip and crinkled eyes. He yelped when his mother tugged him over the frame of the door and planted boots that had scarcely touched anything more than tile into the dirt.

Water had begun to spill into the passage and be absorbed by the old earth, hitting the legs of the guard as his footing slipped a bit.

The jingling of loose gold, overpowering the distant cries of peasants, echoed in the corridor as Theodore sprinted in the direction of the tunnel with arms full of coins and jewels.

You were placing your foot in the dirt when he rammed his elbow into your chest and knocked you aside to clear his path to the escape route.

The hold Gristol had on you was severed in a desperate instant, and his attempts to look back and find you were thwarted by his father screaming for the door to be sealed.

Rokel refused to stop running or let go of her son for even a second, not sparing her husband a glance as he rushed ahead. Coins and small jewels bounced out of his grip with each slam of his boots against the ground.

When the guard collapsed onto his knees and swung the door shut with a rumbling thud, darkness enveloped the passageway except for the dim light of the moon glowing at the end.

The crashes of waves and the yells of peasants continued to explode on the opposite side of the door, growing fainter and overshadowed by the sight of a carriage waiting for the royal family on the cobblestone road.

The driver waved his hat at their approaching shapes. “My Gzar!”

Theodore rushed to dump his gold and jewels in the bottom of the cart, beginning to climb inside before the shocked voice of his son gave him pause.

“You took your gold and not them?” The prince stood a little ways from the carriage with a look of frightened confusion like a cat who had just been shaved. The accusatory edge of his tone met his inability to understand the need for this swift departure, his eyes twitching as if seeing a different, far more pathetic man than the one he called his father.

“I'm securing our future.” Gusts of air whipped the Gzar and pulled the cape and medals he treasured like breath. Theodore grasped the shoulders of his son and, with a yell of strain, he lifted him off the ground. “Now, get in the carriage, boy!”

He tossed Gristol into the arms of his mother, who set him on the corner seat and took the opposite corner for herself.

Theodore hopped into the middle seat and commanded the driver to spur the horses. The rattles of the carriage's wheels zoomed across the cobblestone, and the sound of screams carried on the wind.

When the Gzar shoved you, the back of your head collided with a thin rug that did little to separate the hard floorboards from your skull. Pain bloomed and ran across your brain in a series of throbs and tingles as if insects were scampering along and biting your nerves.

The tall ceiling staring down at you was a blur of meaningless shapes and colours, and the rising water lapped its frigid tongue against your neck.

Silhouettes of various sizes darted into view and hovered around you, their heads turning back and forth to report any injuries and trade observations. Multiple pairs of hands seized your arms and heaved you to your feet in a flurry of water droplets cascading down your back and side.

The faces, once blobs of indistinguishable features, sharpened into looks of concern and alarm as the rush of adrenaline that came with standing so quickly reduced the pain.

The chef, a muscular woman who still bore the smears and crumbs of a recent pie, inserted herself under your left arm, and one of the butlers whose suit was covered in dark stains inserted himself under your right arm.

As the duo guided you farther away from the main entrance and towards the servant quarters, a crew of maids were opening another tunnel in the kitchen.

The sous-chef waited near the secret door with the small figure of Spotty wrapped in his arms like rope, the dog flattening its ears and whimpering at the strips of water trickling into the room.

When the group emerged from the end of the passage, the clop of hooves was heard galloping into the night as servants who had found their way outside raided the stables.

The land was consumed by a moving shadow, for the tower of water had risen over the top of the palace like a great beast opening its mouth to bite down. It plummeted towards the ground with the force of a thousand winds, drawing screams and cries from the lips of all who beheld it.

An explosion of bright light preceded a thunderous crash.

The wave spread outwards instead of forwards with the birth of a transparent shield, which pulsed and shimmered like a ripple on the surface of a pond.

A middle-aged man with a white beard and hair stood in front of you, and he pressed a finger to his temple while extending his other hand to the water.

The liquid spilled over the magical barrier with unending strength to form a bowl-like shape.

With veins bulging in his forehead, the stranger clenched his teeth and fought to steady his wobbling arm. “We'll get you folks out of here! Just hold on!”

* * *

The Lady Luctopus Casino was true to its name, sporting a building in the shape of a gigantic octopus that rose so high above the waves it poked the clouds.

The babble of water as the ocean licked the rocky beach was overpowered by the joyful shouts of winners and the mournful wails of losers.

Atop the head of the octopus sat a luxurious crown, which glowed like a lighthouse to wayward boats in the fog.

Its tentacles were lined with neon suction cups and provided the foundation for various penthouses and balconies, structures that housed martini bars and dozens of people looking for wealth and thrills.

The sharp aromas of wine, margaritas, and pastries swirled around the establishment in an atmosphere of intoxication and indulgence.

These odours wrinkled the nose of Gristol Malik, who wished to save his ears from the assault of enthusiastic shouts but found his arms entangled in those of his mother.

As the shadow of the metallic beast passed over him, Gristol thought, if he turned his head the right way and imagined so, he could see the tentacles moving up and down like the spokes of a Ferris wheel. The carnival seemed like a far more enjoyable destination for the prince, but any words of protest he offered were lost in the shuffles of cards and the jingles of chips.

His father had not deigned to look his way since the royal family stepped out of the carriage, not that Gristol was eager to speak with the man who had uprooted his life.

Rokel let go of her son and put some distance between the two of them once there were many eyes ready to pry and observe.

The interior of the suite Theodore rented after dumping a handful of gems onto the counter and making the concierge struggle to breathe for a minute was even colder, holding a bed with a canopy and other furniture imported from distant countries that did little to impress Gristol.

It had not been more than a few days in the casino when the Gzar tumbled into his bed and lacked the strength to get out of it, and it was then that the prince broke the silence.

Theodore brushed his palm across his chest as the congestion travelled from his lungs to his throat in the harshest cough his frail body could muster, which jerked his head up and down before it dissolved into a weak sputter.

Gristol eyed the man from his bedside and studied his pain with disaffection, resting a hand on the edge of the mattress. “Father, do you remember that servant I used to play with?” His voice was a persuasive blend of curious and expectant.

The Gzar propped his head on the pillow to look at his son, and his mouth hung slightly open with drooping eyelids. “No.” The word came out as little more than a mumble sliding off the tip of a haggard tongue.

Not displaying the least bit of surprise, the prince maintained his clear and innocent tone. “I remember them.” A pinch of malice leaked into his words like the drip of an oozing faucet. “They were kinder to me than you ever were.”

Theodore closed his eyes for a slow blink, opening them with the same dazed expression he had worn for hours as if oblivious to the statement. He watched in sickened apathy as Gristol pressed his hands against the sheets to stand on his toes and leaned his upper body over the bed.

Rokel blew her nose into a handkerchief, and she turned away to weep as if she were alone in the room.

The prince, his mouth beside his father's ear, lowered his voice to a whisper and condensed years of unrestrained spite into a single breath. “You left them to die. I wish you had drowned instead.”

A croaky breath escaped the Gzar as his eyes widened. His heartbeat fizzled like a candle doused in water, and his final gust of air struggled to pass his lips.

When Gristol retreated to his original position, he embraced a twinge of satisfaction at seeing the life in the man fade into nothing.

* * *

After the door to the Levitation Lounge opened, you looked away from your conversation with Sasha Nein at the sound of papers fluttering like tiny wings.

The new mailman, Nick Johnsmith, stood in the doorway with the look of a man slapped and his arms positioned to embrace the letters that now swayed in the air beside him.

The impulse to clean a mess whenever you saw one - an echo of the hours spent helping maids and butlers wipe stains to avoid being fired or executed - nearly pulled you out of the seat, but you told yourself this environment was not so unforgiving.

Despite multiple Psychonauts levitating to the aid of Nick and asking if he was feeling well, Nick looked nowhere but at you. His appearance was fuzzy at a distance, and he gave you no opportunity to move closer.

The mailman dismissed the concerns of his coworkers with a few timely laughs and assurances of his health, joking about “first-week jitters” and handing a variety of envelopes to each Psychonaut.

It was not until later in the same month that he forged a letter addressed to you.

The tired hinges on the door squeaked shut behind you, muffling the shrill mutters floating through the laboratory. A compact list was held in your hand, and your eyes coasted from one line to the next before you squinted in disbelief. “What is he having me pump into this doctor?”

The roll of wheels across the tile floors drew your gaze to Nick, who was driving his cart to you with unblinking eyes and tenacious momentum.

When he reached you, the mailman clicked his heels together and closed his eyes with a look of innocent glee. “Message for you!” chirped Nick, one hand behind his back and the other raising an envelope beside his head.

You lost the first words on your tongue before they were spoken, for as he lingered at the edge of the door, the buttery scent wafting into the air after each breath he took reminded you of fish eggs on a mother-of-pearl spoon. “Have you heard about the caviar surprises in the vents? Someone's been eating it like catnip.”

Nick tilted his head and squinted, nodding slowly as if you had spoken in code. “Yes, someone has been.” He watched for any subtle movements - a nod, a twitch of the eye that vaguely resembled a wink, a repetitive tap of the finger - that he could interpret as support for his budding hope.

When motion in your peripheral vision caused you to glance in his direction out of instinct, the mailman seemed as though he was given new life and approached in joyful haste.

“What do you think of cotton candy?” It was a simple and anodyne question, yet the intense focus of his eyes on you added to it a special significance.

You flirted with a few different responses, only to discard each one as a revelation took hold of your mind like puzzle pieces connecting.

“After all this time, you awaited my arrival.” Nick stood as close as possible without bumping into you, and his look of excitement did not falter even as you turned a suspicious eye on him.

“Pardon me?” Your full attention shifted from the list to the mailman.

He shook his head. “There's no need. You were loyal from the start.”

Nick raised his hands to yours and guided them downwards, removing the paper from your immediate vision. His purple skin, coupled with his yellow, cat-like eyes and the way his hands fit into yours like those of a child, kindled a sense of familiarity in you that was both troubling and intriguing.

As the contentment radiating from Nick brought you inexplicable relief as if an unknown danger had been evaded, a Brazilian-accented voice called from down the hall.

“Darling!” It was followed by the clicks of high heels, and a slender woman in a turquoise shawl and striped skirt emerged from the opposite end of the corridor. Milla Vodello gazed between the two of you with calm happiness that betrayed nothing else. “Sasha and I are eating lunch in the lounge. Would you care to join us?”

An absentminded nod given after a few moments of collecting your thoughts was your answer, which prompted the psychic to address the mailman. “Nick, darling, how about you?”

The man rolled his shoulders and offered a laugh of fake anxiety. “That sounds delicious, but unfortunately, I already ate!” You went to move, but the hands grasping your forearms did not.

Milla squeezed her palms together for a silent clap. “I'll tell Sasha you're coming! Or would you like to tell him yourself?”

Your gaze drifted between Nick and the Psychonaut, noticing the glimpse of rage that flashed across his face like a momentary glint of steel.

A light shake gripped his body that worsened and endured for several seconds before he released you and stepped back. “Forgive my indelicacy.” The chuckle that sailed from his lips was full of nervous energy, ending as Nick curled a hand in front of his chin and placed the other hand on his hip. “The day has been long for all of us.”

He waved at Milla with a calculated friendliness learned from the days of rehearsal, but when it came time to wave at you, his arm wagged at a far brisker and more determined pace.

Once you were out of earshot, his smile disappeared in a cold second. He lowered his arm, and the pleasant aura that had radiated from him like a warm blanket after a stressful day sank to one of dissatisfaction. “I understand now why you hold your tongue.”

Nick turned to his mail cart and cast a final glance down the hall. “I shall break you of the Psychonaut's chains.”

* * *

A void surrounded the dinner table, plunging the area into a bottomless black that swallowed all light and teased the threat of falling without an end. It was diminished by the sways of the candelabra positioned on the centre of the table, which illuminated the fine mahogany texture.

The chair upon which Gristol sat was throne-like and encrusted with an assortment of rubies, emeralds, and other gemstones that Razputin could not hope to identify.

The chair taken by the psychic was much simpler and less imposing, for it was embroidered with only the images of jewels. He confirmed the deceit of the photorealistic patchwork once he lowered himself onto it, finding the comfort of a soft cushion rather than the sharp pain of rocks digging into his spine and legs.

The silence was broken every minute by a clock chime, its hand moving to the next half hour with each stroke of the mechanical timer. An incessant tick-tocking filled the space like an earwig tunnelling through the brain, unreachable and maddening.

The prince gradually sank further into his chair, sliding his upper teeth against his lower teeth and curling his fingers into a tight fist. A quiver was visible in his body as though there was a fury desperate to escape.

As Razputin swayed his head to peer into various corners of the darkness through his red-tinted goggles, he kicked his legs under the table and drew his lips into an unimpressed frown. “Is something supposed to happen?”

The question was directed more at himself and Lili than any of the mental projections that could have been lurking in the shadows, but Gristol faced him as if he had laughed at a funeral.

He composed himself just as quickly and tempered his look of hostility into one of calm irritation. “My servant will be along shortly with the feast.” Despite his downcast gaze and the suffocating aura of displeasure radiating from his end of the table, the prince spoke with unshakable certainty.

Razputin looked around once again and smelt the air, finding no aroma of steam and bread wafting out of a kitchen or a singular door from which to enter with trays of food. “Gristol, there’s no one else here.”

The head of Gristol snapped towards the young psychic, and the prince raised a hand to brush his cape off his knee. He draped his right leg over his left leg and pressed his fist against his cheek, leaning on the table and using his other hand to tap the wooden surface. “It would appear something is keeping them,” admitted Gristol as if hearing that truth on his lips made his stomach churn.

Once another examination of the pseudo dinner scene yielded nothing but darkness, Razputin pulled his goggles from his eyes to his forehead. “If you're just going to sit there, I have something to say.”

Gristol twirled a fork and looked askance at him with overflowing disdain.

The psychic fought to keep his visage free of any distress that would gleam like an open wound, but he could not deny the quiver of uncertainty that shook his voice. “Would you mind explaining what I saw on the way in here?”

Gristol tapped the rear of the fork against the tablecloth and acquired a look of mischievous pleasure. “I don't know what you saw.”

His eyes were narrowed into a look that taunted and belittled the Psychonaut, but when Razputin merely deepened his frown into a scowl, the prince relaxed his gaze and set the fork next to the spoon.

He crossed his arms and looked away, turning slightly and narrowing his eyes. “If that green peasant dies, good riddance.”

Razputin clenched his teeth in a snarl and pointed a finger at the prince. “Damnit, Gristol! This isn't about your revenge quest. This is a man's life on the line!”

His expression filling with indignant surprise, Gristol lowered his fists to his side and spun his head back towards the young Psychonaut. “It has everything to do with me! That rube forfeited his right to draw breath after—”

He was not given the luxury of completing his testament to how he was wronged, for Razputin predicted that his words held no truth. “After what? After he had a pleasant conversation with a coworker?”

The prince turned his head with a scoff. “I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

The Psychonaut gritted his teeth, tensing his shoulders and squeezing the edge of the table. “That you're a deranged little weirdo with way too much time on your hands?”

Halfway through the insult, Gristol took the appearance of a man screaming on the inside.

“They served me—" he slammed his fist into the table and produced a cacophony of rattling silverware “—before anyone else!”

The forks, spoons, and knives seemed to jump and shudder as if they, too, were frightened by the outburst.

Gristol pushed his chair back and stood with a loud creak, leaning towards Razputin and placing his palms on the table like an emperor overseeing the war strategy.

“And if that scum dares give them another order in my presence—” he stopped as a cold malevolence, like a scheme realized, fell over his anger and shrouded it in a fantasy unfurling its wings in the theatre behind his eyes.

The prince lifted his hand and admired his pristine cuticles, but he soon looked askance at the young psychic with an airy voice that teased amusement.  “Well, if I was still in Grulovia, I would have him executed for treason.”

Razputin saw the sincerity in his yellow gaze, the dim glow of candlelight fluttering across his lavender skin and giving him an almost luminous quality.

As the frigid whip of fear struck the calm of his stomach, the Psychonaut narrowed his eyes and heaved himself from his seat. “They don't live to serve you!”

Gristol arched his fingers like a cat hissing, digging his nails into the wood and peeling the uppermost layer of the mahogany in jagged strips. The splinters were a paler shade of brown that accumulated beside the divots.

“Yes, they do!” His voice teetered on the brink of an enraged whisper, but the final word boomed with such impossible strength that the room was shaken as if a giant had shouted it from the sky.

The young psychic recoiled just as the nasal tone of Lili overtook his comms, a brief moment of static preceding the young girl's thinly veiled discomfort. “Raz, what's going on? That annoying ride-thing went dark.”

The halls were filled with children's choirs singing in reverse, their pitch corrupted into spurts of discordant chanting that rose and fell like the theme of a nightmare.

Straightening his back and assuming his best imitation of royal poise, the prince turned his nose up and gazed at Razputin as if he were an insect. “They served me faithfully for years. Not my father, not my mother, not Maligula.”

He held a hand to his chest. “Me!”

Razputin shook his head, unwilling to hide the snarl that crept onto his face. “They didn't have a choice! Your father would have killed them or thrown them to the streets if they disobeyed.”

Gristol sneered at the thought. “I would never have allowed it. Besides, they were free to walk out the door at any time. It wasn't locked!”

The surface of the table began to peel and curl into lumps of wood shavings. The wax of the candles started to melt as if dunked in lava, and the flickers of the flames were extinguished in a sudden gust of wind that howled like a ghostly whisper.

When the clumps of hot wax splattered on the rotting table, the back legs of Razputin's chair snapped and threw him against an invisible floor. Pain gushed in the rear of his skull and compelled him to stick a hand on the area.

“Raz,” came the slow voice of Lili, “what's wrong with the people?”

From behind the psychic appeared a ragged figure, the sag of its detached jaw and the wrinkles contorting its face failing to hide the Grulovian colours of its unkempt uniform.

The eyes shone with an eggshell white devoid of pupils and irises, and they gazed at Razputin with no discernible emotion. When the zombified soldier tilted its head to examine him closer, its neck almost popped out of alignment with its spinal cord.

The Psychonaut hollered and squirmed as the creature slapped a rigid hand onto the top of his head and hoisted him into the air.

“Hey! Put me down!” Hearing this plea, the agitated voice of Lili clamoured in his ear for details about his situation. Razputin kicked the flat spot where the soldier's nose used to be, but it merely twitched in response.

The roar of Gristol thundered in the void. “You are no longer welcome here. Soldiers, throw him out!” He pointed a finger at the psychic and swung it towards the endless mass of darkness as if there was more to this slice of his world than a decaying dinner table.

Razputin narrowed his eyes to slits and bared his teeth in a silent growl, exposing his palm to the zombified creature's face. A blast of fire erupted from his hand, and the soldier was propelled into the far distance in scorched pieces.

Rapid squeals like a stuck pig emitted from the corpse.

Doors materialized on all sides of the table, and from them burst dozens of soldiers and peasants. Their corpses were bloated, some missing limbs and chunks of flesh. Many dragged a limp foot behind them, while others waved torches in an unsung chant.

The lyrics to the Grulovian anthem playing on repeat in Gristol's mind were whispered on their cracked lips.

Landing with grace, the Psychonaut turned around and faced the prince in his last demand for reasoning. “If your servant could see what you're doing, they would be mortified!”

The chaos of the mind lulled to an ominous pause.

Gristol widened his eyes and opened his mouth slightly, the twinkle of surprise on his face that gave Razputin a moment of hope washing away in the birth of a sinister rage. “Get out.” He slammed the sides of his fists onto the table each time he yelled the words, “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

He swept his arms across the furniture and knocked the silverware to the ground, and the desperation in his movements brought the mobs to a standstill.

Decomposed heads swivelled on loose necks to the prince, their groans quieting to idle shifts in their jaws.

“What are you doing? Seize that welp, and rid me of his ungrateful presence!”

Gristol's mask of confidence slipped further off his face as the soldiers and peasants began to form a half-circle around him.

“Did you not hear me?”

The aggressive yet lopsided thrusts of their legs and the gurgling in their throats sparked a dreadful fear, one familiar to the sense that overwhelmed his boyhood self.

“I am your Gzar! You will obey me!”

The clock fell from its perch on an unseen wall and shattered onto the floor in a mess of serrated glass, tolling like a church bell.

Gristol jumped at the noise and flinched away from the destruction.

More doors spawned on either side of the preexisting ones, and additional hordes of peasants and guards stampeded through them.

As he retreated deeper into the void, a hand as cold as the Siberian winter fell upon his shoulder. It lowered each finger individually and dug its sharp nails into his uniform.

Gristol stiffened as if on reflex, and the involuntary tension in his muscles only constricted him tighter when he looked up.

The hand was attached to a pencil-thin arm, which led to an unnaturally tall silhouette with a prominent resemblance to his father.

The shadow of an extravagant crown, the same as the one on Gristol's head, hid in the darkness, untouched by the light but shining with a distinct outline.

“Father?” questioned the prince, his voice strangled by panic and on the cusp of breaking.

The eyes of the figure were black and soulless like the depths of a cave that had never seen daylight, and the teeth in its lipless mouth were sharp and crooked as if struck by a hammer.

Without moving any other body part, the hand slid from his collarbone to his chest. Gristol managed the beginning of a scream before he was yanked into the darkness and vanished from Razputin's sight.

“Gristol!” yelled the psychic, but with the prince gone, the mobs of reanimated corpses turned to the Psychonaut once again.

“Oh, no,” he mumbled. Razputin pushed his goggles over his eyes and spun on his heels to scramble in the opposite direction, having mere seconds to judge every door he passed and bet his life on which one would deliver him to safety.

“Lili,” he shouted into the earpiece, “where are you? We have to get out of this mind now!”

* * *

The spherical walls of the Psychoisolation cell were a nearly transparent wave of pulsating magenta, the rich shades of purple and red like strawberry jam fading into a hazy mist around the centre as if it were underwater.

The dual antennae of an old television set, the green leaves of a house plant, and the dark brown wood of two bookcases were visible beyond the psychic shield.

Razputin eyed the pale imitation of normalcy left behind by Compton Boole after the man had locked himself inside and spent weeks dangling on the edge of overwhelming panic, assuming that Gristol had far less respect for anything that was not his royal palace.

The soles of his shoes clanked along the metallic floor, and just as the Psychonaut was nearing the cell, a pair of yellow eyes moved in front of the slot in the door.

“Have they asked for me?” The question flowed so readily from his mouth that it seemed he had been holding it on his lips and waiting to spring at the first opportunity like a predator lying in ambush.

Razputin did not waste a second in responding. “Nope, they haven't said a thing about you.”

Gristol toiled in silence for a moment, his eyes widening and his breath wavering as the illusion he clung to like the last scrap of food in famine was threatened. His pupils dilated in anger, and the truth of this momentary shake in his conviction was drowned in the lie poisoning his mind.

“You can't deceive me.”

There existed a scathing kind of malice in his glare as if the suggestion of otherwise was insulting.

“I know them better than you could ever dream, psychic.” The prince hissed the word “psychic” like a snake twirling its forked tongue, prompting Raz to withdraw from the door and pull his lips into a frown.

The young Psychonaut considered these words before his shoulders slumped in disappointment, and he shook his head with a quiet sigh. “I hope you find peace, Gristol.”

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

[daily-dose-of-imagines]

ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴀɴ ᴀʀᴄʜᴏɴ | ɢᴇɴꜱʜɪɴ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ ; ᴢʜᴏɴɢʟɪ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴏɴᴇ - ꜱʜᴏᴛ

Ayo ayo!! It’s been a second hasn’t it? I’m so sorry it’s been a second since I’ve last posted and I do apologize about that ;; I’ve been in a massive writer’s block but also a drawing mood lololol I finally had the feeling to write after drawing a jealous / possessive dragon Zhongli, thus spurring on with where I am now. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I did with writing it!

Art: @ko-ffeine​

>> Admin Ko

“What does today’s commission entail for us?”

Soothing and melodic, the former geo archon’s voice swam into her ears as she briefly glanced back at her companion. It was one of those rare moments gifted to her that she was able to complete some commissions for the adventurer’s guild. After all, being a traveling librarian who focused more on knowledge than combat was much more of her strong suit. 

“It should be something simple. Nothing too hard from what I could gather.” 

A gentle smile was given to the tall male as honey amber hues gazed gently upon her form. Respectable and always the gentlemen, Zhongli stood tall and proud beside the adventuring librarian as the pair leisurely explored the plains of Liyue for the commission spot. When he had first met her, the funeral associate couldn’t help but become enamored by her curious filled eyes. The way she always happened to sought him out for knowledge and genuine respectable curiosity for the information he was able to procure for her.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind, adeptis or not, that the former archon had become extremely fond of the librarian. Some may even compare it to that of a dragon guarding their beloved treasure. 

“Then I believe if we are to finish this in a timely manner, we could finish our discussion about the historical sights you happened to last visit.” 

Upon seeing her (e/c) shimmer with absolute delight brought a sense of peace into Zhongli’s heart as he couldn’t help but fondly pat her head as she flushed at the endearing action. 

Yet the feeling subsided as they neared the commission sight. Immediately her heart plummeted as she felt the color drain from her face at the familiar sight of an unwanted individual. One that she, disappointedly had the honor of meeting whilst adventuring with Xingqui. 

Having sensed her distress, the male stepped forth almost protectively before her as sweet amber hues turned molten with unbridled rage as he kept his stony gaze on the figure before the pair. 

“There seems to be….a tale of strife here. Do tell me what has happened little one…”

“I…It-’s nothing, c’mon. I think Kathryn won’t be mad if we skip this commission.”

“Did they touch you, Little One?”

“Zhongli….”

“Did those disgusting sewer rats touch you?”

She flinched, the sheer anger that enraptured his words had her gulping as she lightly tugged on his sleeve, her voice soft and desperate to not further escalate the situation as she pleaded with the former archon.

“Please…let’s just go…”

“….Very well.”

Sensing the urgency in her voice, the former god conceded as he turned to face her. The anger in his eyes forcibly subsiding as he hurriedly guided her away before the treasure hoarders could notice. Yet unknown to the librarian, Zhongli had made sure to etch the man’s face into his memory. After all, there was information that had to be gathered. 

Upon the return to the colorful and bustling Oceanside city, (y/n) couldn’t help but breath a sigh of relief. Besides the one commission, everything else had ended rather well. With Zhongli’s strong shield and her own combat style, the commissions ended fairly quickly. 

“Thank you again for your help Mr. Zhongli.”

“Nonsense. I take great pleasure in accompanying you wherever you need it, Little One.” 

The pet name brought a sense of fondness to her heart as she hurriedly turned her gaze away from the liquid honey being poured into her very being as she coughed lightly to distract the male from her reddening cheeks. 

“I really appreciate it…well, I’ll be off then.”

“Hm, returning to Mondstat?”

“That’s correct. It’s been a nice couple of weeks out here in Liyue and I’ve definitely learned a lot from everyone here, but I do need to return to my duties as Lisa’s assistant.”

“I see, well I wish you safe travels back. I do hope that you’ll return soon though. Or else I’ll have to visit the land of the free myself. I do have some acquaintances there after all.”

A light laugh escaped her as she playfully nudged the other. A roll of her (e/c) hues showing nothing but an annoyed fondness as she lightly shook her head.

“Goodness, if I wasn’t so busy I’d think that you’re trying everything in your power to stay by my side Mr. Zhongli.”

“And if I was?”

She waited. A building heat in her veins as she awaited for the handsome man to reply with a joke. Instead of that, she was met with an all serious expression— save for the sweet affection dripping from his amber hues as he brought a hand up to lightly ruffle her hair. Immediately stammering out a flurry of words and rushed goodbyes, the librarian hurriedly bowed before scampering off towards one of the teleportation stations. All the whilst ignoring the fond look and deep chuckle that reverberated from Zhongli’s chest as he watched her scurry off.

Once out of sight, the former archon’s expression went from fond to unbridled anger. The atmosphere around Liyue hurriedly reflecting that of the former archon as darkness enveloped the usually bright lands as Zhongli made his way towards the adventurer’s guide. There, Katheryne easily supplied the terrifying male with the information he desired. Already knowing fully well what was to become of the treasure hoarders that dared to touch his treasure. 

»»————-　　————-««

It had been a week since her return to Mondstat, and if (y/n) was being honest with herself the amount of work thrown upon her had her quickly forgetting the distasteful incident she had faced weeks prior to her return. The disgusting feeling of hands and detestable warm puffs of air against her skin. The mere thought of it alone sent shivers down her spine as she shook off the feeling of disgust as she went about her duties. 

“Now…if I’m correct the next thing on the list is to just give reminders to those who borrowed Ms. Lisa’s books…—ow!”

Yet before she could even begin her search for the current occupants of the various tomes of knowledge a familiar figure loomed before her, causing the librarian to bump straight into a firm chest. Before she could even begin her apologies the stench of blood overwhelmed her as she stumbled backwards to meet familiar golden orbs.

“Ah, I do apologize little one, I hadn’t meant to surprise you…”

“…Zhongli?” 

Finally getting a good look at the former archon she couldn’t help but gasp as she surged forward. His usually crisp and clean outfit was marred in blood and tears, yet in her fervent search for nonexistent wounds, she failed to notice the look of adoration that graced his features. Hesitantly, he peeled off his gloves before a large warm hand found it’s way into her hair as he gently petted her unruly locks to hopefully soothe her anxiety riddled form.

“Fret not little one, I merely disposed of some trash on my way to visit you.”

“…t…rash?”

Confused (e/c) orbs met his own as his hand dropped from the top of her head to lovingly cup her cheek.

“Yes. The trash that dared to create discomfort for you when you and Xingqui had stumbled across in your journey.”

The statement itself brought a sense of dread into her heart as she gulped, knowing fully well how insanely powerful the male was, god or not. 

“D…Did you kill him?”

“No. Though I wish I did, remember our contract little one? I will not break it. Though I do admit, an acquaintance of mine is….educating him as we speak. I merely just gave it a stern talking to.”

Heaving a sigh of relief, (y/n) couldn’t help but slump against the blood muddled archon as she lightly swatted at his chest. The horrors of what could’ve become of the treasure hoarder now long gone— though of course that didn’t keep her from hoping that Zhongli’s ‘acquaintance’ would be merciful. 

“….Thank you, but you didn’t have to Zhongli—-”

“I wanted to. No one should ever make you feel uncomfortable, Little one. As long as I am by your side, this will no longer happen. I promise.”

With a small smile, Zhongli shifted his hand down to hold her own as he lightly kissed the back of it.

“Now, will you please show me your favorite places here in the city of freedom?

[devildomimagines]

The Demon Brothers’ Badness Levels

100% inspired by Lilo & Stitch when Lilo is telling Stitch how bad he is. I put way too much effort into this for the crack that it is lol. With the images it ended up being long but I had fun with it so I hope you can laugh at my crude drawings and enjoy the other brothers under the read more!

Belphegor

“It’s unusually high for a demon your size.”

He was barely keeping his eyes open, “Ok.”

“No, it’s not ok Belphie!” You moved to his bed and held his hand in concern.

He looked up at you confused why you cared so much but realized that at least it was care related to him.

He didn’t know what to say at first so he just squeezed your hand back. Belphie looked back at your picture “I don’t know if I can change that much.”

“It’s ok! Just a little change is good, I’ll help if you give it an honest try.”

He debated it, “Ok, I’ll try-”

You smiled brightly.

“After a nap,” he finished and promptly fell asleep.

You sighed, what did you expect? When you went to get up from his bed, you were pulled back. Belphie was still holding your hand. 

Beelzebub

“Beel, you’re really good. That’s unexpected for a demon.”

He smiled in his seat as he continued snacking.

“It would be nice if you talked more but-”

“I can talk more if you want,” Beel interrupted.

You winced, “It’s ok, I was just going to say, your mouth is always full so I don’t mind.”

“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled, swallowed and then asked, “Are you going to take points away for that?”

With his guilty puppy dog eyes, you’d have to be a monster to say yes.

“Of course not Beel,” You rubbed his head and he leaned into your touch with a warm smile.

He’s good, I don’t know what you expected from me lol.

Asmodeus

“Asmo, I would say you’re half bad.”

“Only the lower half?” Asmo waggled his eyebrows at you.

“It’s just an example!” But you still blushed.

“That’s ok, I don’t mind being naughty~”

“Asmo!” You groaned and facepalmed, “this is why!”

He giggled as he took the picture to look closer, “Wow MC, you even got the stitching on my pants right.”

“It’s probably missing some things, I just drew it from memory.”

“Oh? Does that mean you remember my pants the most?” Asmo teased.

“N-no! Asmo-”

“I’m just teasing MC,” Asmo laughed as he brought you into a hug, “but you could have told me you wanted me to be sweeter to you.”

At this point, if you can’t beat him, might as well join him. You swatted at his chest at faux irritation.

Satan

Before you even colored the figure in he asked, “Is that how you see me?” Satan held up the paper to compare himself to the drawing.

“I-I’m not an artist! That’s all I could manage… wait! That’s not what this is about!” You were blushing as you grabbed the paper back from him.

As you colored the sheet, Satan watched intently, you colored about half the drawing before he said, “Am I that bad to you?”

You looked up to see him rubbing his chin in thought. “This isn’t towards me, just in general.” 

That obviously relieved some thoughts as he shifted to smiling, “I wonder what this would look like if it was how I treat you?”

“Maybe the same if you keep teasing me!” You moved to take the paper but he slapped his hand down on it.

“I want to keep it,” he blushed as you looked at him, “for reference.”

“Are you going to do better?”

“I’ll try,” he offered.

“Fine, and if you need help, you know where to find me.” Conversations with Satan always felt like he had the upper hand so for once you left while you were on the high ground.

Leviathan

“You’re not very bad Levi, good for you!”

He blushed under your praise first then realized, “Wait, you gave Beel a good score. What’s with that?”

“Don’t you think he’s good?”

“I guess,” he frowned. 

“Are you jealous?” you teased.

“Of course! It’s my nature to be! I’m just a gross otaku, I can’t compare to my brothers,” he crossed his arms and pouted.

You half-smiled as you pat his head, “I gave you a bad rating because you always put yourself down. It makes me sad when you’re so negative about your own capabilities.”

And he was back to blushing.

“Besides that, I think you’re a good guy Levi, much more than you give yourself credit for or show others.”

Mammon

“Hey, why’s only the head colored?” Mammon pointed at the drawing.

By now, news of your assessments have reached the older brothers and Mammon was kind of looking forward to it.

“Because your badness is in your head,” You poked him in the temple as he was focused on the image.

“What? Like I’m imagining it?”

“No, you have to think before you act! If you just gave yourself a moment to think about things, you’d probably not be in trouble so often. Your impulsiveness is often your downfall.”

“I like to think of it as my instinct and it’s great!” He defended.

You rolled your eyes, “how many times has Lucifer punished you this month?”

“He punishes me for everything! Ya can’t base it off that!”

“Ok…” you thought for a moment, “If you go a whole month without punishment, I’ll change it to good.”

He did actually think about this and a familiar glint came to his eye, “You’re on.”

Lucifer

He heard about you doing this to the brothers and before you could color his level. Lucifer took the crayon and wrote the NO himself.

You pouted up at him, “You didn’t even know what I was going to put! For that,” you colored the bad box.

“Were you going to mark that I was good?” Lucifer teased.

“N-no!”

“Oh, so I’m bad?” he continued to tease as he leaned in closer.

“Yes! Very!” his proximity was making your heart race, “The worst!” You turned around and practically ran out of the room.

“Somehow, I don’t believe you, MC,” he commented to himself as he picked up the paper.

The simple drawing made him smile. It reminded him of when his brothers would draw pictures when they were younger.

That gave him a wicked idea.

The next day…

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes as you made your way downstairs to the kitchen. 

Being as it was the weekend, everyone was on their own for breakfast and lunch.

You did not expect to see everyone gathered around the fridge.

Before you could see what the commotion was you heard Levi say, “LMFAO Mammon’s!” Satan agreed, “It’s fitting.”

You nudged Beel’s side and he made way for you, “Good Morning MC.”

“Morning,” when you made it to the front you saw what everyone was looking at, your drawings of the brothers were hanging on the fridge like a kindergartener’s art.

Your face flamed in an instant. “What-” your first instinct was to pull all the papers off but try as you might, the papers wouldn’t budge.

“They’re charmed to stay put,” Lucifer smirked.

“Take them down!” 

“But MC,” Asmo chimed in, “They’re all so cute and I feel like they belong together, like a set!”

“But,” you looked around at the crowd of demons, “but,” the words died on your tongue.

“What’s the problem MC?” Mammon wrapped around an arm around your shoulder.

You cover your face, “It’s embarrassing!”

The brothers laughed and you couldn’t help laughing yourself.

[ren-therose]

Mornings Like These

Dad!Peter Parker X Mom!Reader

Summary: Peter and you are parents, raising your kids out of your home and the rebuilt Avengers Headquarters. Needless to say, your kids came with some...unique quirks.

WC: 1.3k words

Warning: Minor FATWS spoiler, Mentions sex, but mostly just cute kids and fluffy parent content

A/N: So, I am a nanny, if you can't tell by my depth of detail. The family I currently am working for has a baby and a elementary kid, and they are both SUPER CRAZY. So much energy, so much love, and a little mischief. The baby is crazy strong and a busy bee, while the brother is non-stop moving. I love my kids so much, and they were my inspiration for this.

Big, chocolate eyes were looking up as you, while you wiggle your fingers. Two small hands reached out to your index fingers, gripping on tightly as you smiled down at the baby laying below you. He was wearing a red Spider-man onesie, no doubt one of many your team had gifted you. You probably had at least 12 Spider-man related onesies, but you didn't mind. Benji held quite a resemblance to his father. His hair was a little lighter, but his curls were quite prominent on the back of his head. His eyes, so big and warm, reminded you so much of your husbands, the way his lashes would flutter when he sleeps.

But the thing that he really resembled was how strong this baby was. A lot of people don't realize how strong babies are, ultimately underestimating them. You were right not underestimate his strength, except he is no ordinary baby. As he laid on his changing table, gripping your finger, the two of you faced off before the daily struggle you would both face.

It started with poking him all over, getting him to relax. He loved it when you played with his feet, nibbling all over his toes and up to his chucky thighs. You would blow on his tummy, making him laugh and grab your hair. When you were loose from his grip, you would then carefully unsnap his onesie, trying to be discreet with your actual intention. He continued to wiggle his way out, which ultimately helped in your favor. Now was the difficult, free of his restraints, he started rolling around, not unlike an alligator, as he attempted to make his escape. When you turned to grab a new diaper, he made his move, practically launching himself off the table. Quick reflexes wasn't your superpower, in fact, you didn't even have one. Your dad thought it was funny calling himself a mechanic, but you soon inherited his title. But when you became a parent, some type of spider-sense developed in you too, and you became even more inept with catching babies and hurtling objects.

Speaking of spidey-senses, Peter suddenly appeared in the doorway, his own brown curls slightly matted to his face, as though he had just been running.

"Did you catch him?" he panted, looking frantically for the baby. You turned around, revealing that the baby was holding onto your arm like a sloth. He was smiling like he had just succeeded in a heist, which in a way, he did- he stole our hearts (cheesy but true). Peter laughed as he walked over to the dangling baby, grabbing him and the diaper from your hands. "I am so sorry, I was trying to get the spider monkey off the walls and ready for daycare." He glanced back at you to see your response. You quirked your brow up, leaning your head to the side. "Dressed?"

Peter turned back to Benji, pulling his onesie back on the happy baby and holding him out to you. "No, but I got this one changed!"

You groaned, wishing that Peter wouldn't always be so sweet on the kids, but you knew that even you weren't immune from their love and charm.

"Toni! Get your butt in here NOW!" You yelled, marching down the hall to the other room. As you were walking, you felt someone drop behind you. Turning around, you saw your oldest smiling at you with a toothless grin. "Hi mommy."

"Girl, if you don't get into your clothes now, we are going to have a problem," you say cooly, ruffling your daughters hair as she ran past into her room.

"Daddy said that I could go with him to the tech lab today!" Toni beamed, but the look you had on your face was not one of excitement. Turning around, you caught Peter trying to sneak by you with the baby, but you had already caught up to him.

"What did you tell Toni about going to the tech lab?" you hissed. Peter jokingly covered the babies ears, whispering back "I couldn't think of anything else! She wouldn't get down."

You scooped Benji from his arms, strumming your finger back and forth across his tummy, eliciting a laugh from the baby. Kissing his chubby cheeks, you sighed as you used your other hand to pull Peter in by the collar of his shirt.

"You are gonna fix this problem, because I checked our schedule and we will have about an hour of free time at work, but if you take her to the tech lab, she won't leave us alone," you defended, leaning into his lips. His hand met your back as he kissed you with a little more force than usual. Times of passion and heated kisses grew slim, but were a special task when given the chance.

"Fine. But only because office sex sounds great," he grumbles against your ear, before smacking your ass and walking away. You yelp as you turn watch him enter Toni's room, hearing her squeal as he picks her up and starts tickling her.

"That wasn't the offer!" you call out, hearing him playfully roar at Toni.

You roll your eyes, happy that he was so good with handling both of the kids. You kissed benji once more on his squishy cheeks, going into the kitchen, thinking about the rest of your day.

Baby on your hip, you started brewing coffee and making everyone's breakfast. Everyone had a pretty set breakfast when it came to their weekday routine. You would make coffee and bagels for you and Peter while the baby stayed on your hip. As the bagels toasted, you would get out the cereal and milk for Toni to pour herself. Then you would strap the baby in their high chair with a bottle of milk, while you did up the bagels. Setting the bagels down on the counter, you would go back to the coffee maker, pouring sugar and creamer in mugs with the coffee (Peter never grew out of his love for sweet coffee). By the time the coffee hit the counter where three chairs were placed, set for two adults and one kid, they were filled by you, your husband and your daughter. You on the edge with the baby, feeding him squeeze pouches, soft bars and yogurt (he was a hungry baby), while you leaned over to read Peters latest file. As your head rested on his arm, he kisses the top of your head before taking a sip of the coffee you made. When you looked over at Toni, she was coloring a Captain America picture, while eating her cereal.

"Baby, who is that for?"

"It's for Uncle Sam! Look, I made him brown!"

You almost spit out your coffee, and Peter choked on his bagel. You both turned to look at the coloring page and stifled a laugh. It was indeed Captain America, but it was of Steve, not Sam. Well, it would have been of Steve if she hadn't colored him with a brown crayon.

You went over and ruffled her again, the curls frizzing out a little more. Plopping a kiss on her forehead while you squished her face, you smiled at her art.

"You know, that might actually be Uncle Steve."

"You know, the one I defeated when I met your mom for the first time," Peter interjected. You shot him a warning look as he stuck his tongue out at you. You looked through the book, trying to find Sam as Captain America, he was towards the back of the book, probably because of his rebranding. It had only been a decade or so that he was Cap, while Steve was Cap for 80 years or something.

Pointing to the page, you said "Do you want to color this one for him too?"

Toni nodded eagerly as she began drawing again. As you walked back over to your seat, you stopped behind Peter and wrapped your arms around his chest. He rested his head against your chest as your hair fell around his face.

"We are so showing Sam when we get to work," Peter snickered.

"Bucky might pee himself," you laugh.

[j3ssisam3ss]

Childhood Friends - Fluff

For @animebookworm16

It got kind of long and I’m not really sure it still counts as fluff, but here’s my piece for @maribat-angst-fluff-april, prompt 25, Childhood Friends.

Damian Al Ghul-Wayne was five years old the first time he met a girl his age. And in typical League of Assassins style, he went for efficiency by meeting ten at once.

“These are your betrothed,” Talia told him. “All but one will be dead by your twelfth birthday. You will marry the sole survivor on your eighteenth birthday and produce an Heir to carry on the great legacy of the League of Assassins.”

Nine of the girls heard the words without so much as a flinch. The last stared in shock at Talia, then broke into tears.

“Quiet, Marinette,” Talia hissed.

“No,” she yelled defiantly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I want my mama!”

Talia backhanded her and she fell to the floor with a yelp.

Damian surveyed the girl – Marinette – with distaste.

“Mother, surely you don’t consider this sniveling coward worthy to compete for my hand?”

“Her mother, Sabine Cheng, was our best assassin for years before she turned traitor. I suppose she’s lost her touch if she raised such a weak daughter.” Talia shrugged elegantly. “No matter, if she turns out to be useless, we’ll ship her mutilated corpse back to Sabine as a reminder of what happens when you cross the League.”

She waved the girls away. “To your training now.”

Damian watched as Marinette sniffled and followed the other girls out the door.

She won’t last a week.

He had no idea how wrong he was.

.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was five years old the first time she won a fight. And in typical Dupain-Cheng fashion, she did so in the most unpredictable way possible.

“You’re going down, pigtails,” shouted a pretty brunette, charging at Marinette with a sword that was as tall as she was.

With a startled shriek, Marinette darted away. She hated how behind she was here. Back home, she was good at everything – reading circle, art class, tussles when the teacher’s back was turned. Here, it felt like she was constantly playing catch-up.

Not to mention, the constant threat of death was not fun.

Skidding around a corner of the labyrinth arena, she tripped over a protruding stone and fell to the ground. The brunette grinned viciously, advancing towards her.

Marinette smiled nervously. “Can’t we talk this out?”

“Not a chance, shortie,” said the brunette.

Marinette glanced around frantically.

I don’t want to die!

She reached for a rock, a stick, anything that could help her fight, but came up with only a handful of sand. With a pleading glance heavenward, she flung it into the brunette’s face and lurched to her feet, grinning when the girl had to stop to get the grit out of her eyes.

Taking off into the labyrinth of passages, she nearly stumbled again, this time over a nearly buried metal object.

She shifted away the dirt surrounding it and smirked. “Finally, a weapon I know how to use.”

Ten minutes later, the watching League members straightened in surprise as the smallest and weakest of Damian’s betrotheds utterly decimated her opponent.

With a frying pan.

.

“What are you doing here?”

The two children spoke in unison, glaring daggers at one another.

“I always come here,” Marinette said. “It’s my drawing spot.”

“The vents are my domain, Dupain-Cheng,” Damian said. “Get out.”

Two years’ worth of resentment and anger simmered beneath Marinette’s skin.

 Drawing is the last thing I have of home. I won’t let him take it from me.

“No.”

Damian looked thunderstruck and Marinette couldn’t keep the smirk off her face.

“I am Heir to the Demon! You will obey me!”

“You may be Heir to the Demon, but right now you’re also a kid skipping classes,” Marinette argued. “And if you make me leave, I’ll tell Talia exactly where you go when you’re not in class.”

Ha, take that, you tyrant!

Damian froze. Marinette watched as emotions overtook his face – anger, resentment, then acceptance.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Marinette smiled and returned to her sketchbook – which wasn’t really a sketchbook, just some loose papers she’d tucked into her history book.

A few minutes later, Damian peered over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing,” she said, holding out a few of her older sketches, the ones she wouldn’t mind losing if Damian decided to rip them. “There’s your mother fighting, cook making soup, the sunset from this other spot in the vents – actually, that one’s pretty bad because I didn’t have any colors.”

Damian stared at the drawing of his mother.

“I’m keeping this,” he announced.

Well, at least he didn’t tear it up.

The next week, when Marinette arrived at her drawing spot, Damian was already there. With an annoyed grunt, he shoved a sketchbook and colored pencils into her hands.

Marinette looked between him and the supplies in confusion. “What’s this for?”

“Teach me how to draw.”

Marinette bit her lip, looking longingly at the colored pencils. Then, she pushed them back towards Damian.

“I want you to give me weapons training. As often as I teach you drawing.”

I may be naturally talented at combat, but the other girls have been training their entire lives. I need to catch up.

Damian eyed her suspiciously. “That’s against the rules.”

“So? Are you scared?”

“Never.”

“Then it’s a deal?”

“It’s a deal.”

.

Damian lunged, making a displeased noise when his quarry danced out of his reach.

“You’re slow today, Dami,” Marinette teased. “Losing your touch?”

Marinette was no longer the scared little girl she’d been at five, or even at seven. She’d thrown herself into her training with single-minded determination and two years of training with Talia by day and Damian by night had made her a formidable – and snarky – combatant.

“Never,” Damian replied. His next attack nearly threw her off-balance.

With a grunt, Marinette recovered her footing and countered with a flurry of blows that would have left a lesser opponent dizzy.

Damian smirked, parrying each attack easily. “Completely mediocre. Should I tell my mother that her protégé is slipping?”

Although he’d never admit it, Damian was proud of her. She’d gone from being the worst of the League’s trainees to the only one able to keep up with him in a fight.

“Me? Slipping? Not a chance.” Marinette flipped backwards, knocking his weapon away. “Hey, Damian?”

“Yes, Marinette?” He scooped up his katana, readying himself for her next move.

“The floor is lava.”

With a startled intake of air, he leaped onto the nearest table.

“Really?” he asked, half annoyed, half amused.

Marinette giggled, peering down at him from her spot in the ceiling rafters. “I thought we could use an extra challenge.”

Damian glanced up at her. “You just like having the high ground.”

“Technically speaking, it’s the high rafter,” she pointed out.

“Either way, it won’t prevent me from defeating you,” Damian said, pulling himself into the rafters.

At that moment, the door opened and they both immediately went still.

“Damian? Are you here?”

Marinette raised an eyebrow at him. “Skipping again?” she mouthed.

Damian shrugged in response.

Rolling her eyes, Marinette gestured to the vents behind him. “I’ll meet you in the lower training rooms to finish our bout.”

“Marinette!” The teacher startled as she caught a glimpse of the pigtailed girl. “What are you doing up there?”

Effortlessly, the girl swung down from the ceiling, drawing the teacher’s attention away from Damian’s hiding place.

“Just improving my arm strength, Mistress Eva.” As she distracted his teacher with false information about his whereabouts, Damian climbed into the vents.

Marinette makes a surprisingly tolerable ally.

.

It didn’t seem to matter how many people Marinette killed; it never got easier. Surrounded by the bodies of Deathstroke’s traitors, she retched.

She was alone. Somehow, in the midst of the fight, she’d gotten separated from the rest of the League’s loyalists.

I need to get moving. I’m an easy target right now.

With a shuddering breath, she climbed to her feet and made her way out of the compound and into the shadows. It was there, staring at the ruins of the League’s strongest base, that the realization hit her.

“I’m free,” Marinette whispered, tears trickling down her face.

The Head of the Demon was dead, his followers scattered.

“I can finally go home.”

She ignored the voice in her mind that said her home was here, with the League, with Damian. She ignored the tightness in her chest at the thought of never seeing Damian again. She ignored the fear that he might already be dead.

The League kidnapped me. Talia abused me. Even if I managed to be happy here, I owe the Al Ghuls nothing. A vow of loyalty made under duress is no vow at all.

Her hands curled into fists.

And if they come for me again, I’ll be ready.

.

Damian scowled as their plane descended into Gotham.

“This is imbecilic. I should be assisting you in decimating our enemies, not hiding like a frightened child.”

“Damian,” his mother’s voice was cold. “This is not up for negotiation. You will stay here and train with your father.”

“Yes, Mother,” he replied bitterly. A moment passed, then he tilted his head in thought. “But what of my betrothed? If she is to be my equal, should she not train with me?”

Talia studied him carefully. “You use the singular of betrothed,” she noted. “Despite the fact that three remain alive. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me which one you consider your wife-to-be?”

“Tt. Your protégé, the Cheng girl, is the only one that even approaches competent. You know this.”

“I also know that you trained her separately – against my orders,” Talia said.

Damian nearly flinched. “And yet you didn’t stop me.”

“I wonder if that was a mistake,” his mother said. “You feel more for her than you should.”

“She is an effective ally. That is all.”

“Then you won’t mind being separated from her for a while.”

“Not at all, Mother,” Damian lied.

.

“Marinette? Is that you?” Her mother looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

Marinette smiled. “Hello, Mama.”

Sabine reached out a shaking hand to cup her face. “How are you here? We saw you die.”

“Sabine, do you know where – ” Tom dropped the pan of croissants. “Marinette?”

He jumped over the counter and raced to her. Marinette took a step back before her mind caught up with her body.

This is Papa, you idiot. He’s not a threat.

She threw herself into his arms, shoving away her fears.

Twisting to face her mother, she said, “I don’t know how my death was faked, but I never died. The League kidnapped me.”

Tom’s arms tightened around her.

“The League?” Sabine’s face went pale. “What did they want with you?”

“The usual,” Marinette said with a shrug. “Revenge on you for leaving and a capable assassin and potential wife for Damian if I turned out to be any good.”

“Who’s Damian?” Tom asked with a frown.

Marinette grinned. “Oh, Damian’s great! He’s the Heir to the League, but he’s actually pretty okay for an assassin. He helped me get good enough to survive. You know, after I blackmailed and bribed him.”

“What?”

.

Meeting his father did not go the way Damian had imagined.

Talia always spoke of Bruce Wayne’s great intellect, his strength in combat, his determination in all things. She never mentioned his brainless playboy act, his absurd prohibition of killing, or his habit of taking in strays. Damian wasn’t sure which one was most offensive, but he was incredibly disappointed in his father regardless.

He had to reassess after he saw Batman at work. When not purposely acting like a buffoon, Bruce Wayne was everything his mother had described and more, entirely deserving of Damian’s respect.

He set out to prove himself in his father’s eyes. It didn’t go well. Whatever he did, it was the wrong thing. In any fight with the imposter sons, Damian was punished – even if he won. Assisting his father with Wayne Enterprises was met with an eye-roll and a request to stay away from Bruce’s office.

It should have made Damian angry but instead it hurt and Damian did not understand why.

And then his father was gone. Richard Grayson became Batman.

Damian became Robin. Finally.

And yet the triumph felt hollow.

Not to mention, it came with strings attached: ‘Murder is bad.’ ‘Justice, not vengeance.’ ‘Robin doesn’t kill.’ ‘Protect rather than avenge.’

Grayson’s teachings were imbecilic. And yet he had to follow them. His mother had yet to finish with the traitors.

He wondered where Marinette was, if she was undergoing similar training, if she fought the way he did to reign in the bloodlust. Considering how she had to hide her dislike of killing, how she helped heal her competitors, he thought probably not.

Slowly, things got easier. Grayson became tolerable. Damian learned to suppress the instinct, the muscle memory that said ‘kill or be killed.’ He found an adoration for animals and learned to deal with his classmates. He finally began to understand why Grayson and his father valued life so highly. His father came back and he chose to deny the League. Wayne Manor became home.

On days when he struggled, he retreated to his room and the comfort of his sketchbook. And if a certain blue-eyed girl made an appearance every few pages, well, who would know but him?

.

Returning home did not go the way Marinette had imagined.

She knew it wouldn’t be sunshine and roses, of course. But she hadn’t expected the magnitude of the changes in her home, or in herself.

School was laughably easy. Marinette had the equivalent of several college degrees. Finding x and learning how to spell ‘earthquake’ was a waste of her time. Instead, she spent class drawing and coming up with increasingly complex plans for fighting off the League should they try to kidnap her again.

She kept herself closed off from her classmates – she didn’t know how she’d ever called them friends. They were neutral parties at best – not one ever stood up for her against Chloe. Her parents encouraged them to give her classmates a chance, but the League had trained her well. Misplaced trust could kill. And Marinette had fought long enough for survival to know that dropping your guard was a death knell.

She hated hurting her parents though.

Though they tried to hide it, she saw the pain cross their faces when she flinched away from hugs. When she moved like an assassin rather than a child. When she gave away her stuffed animals. When she skipped family game night and spent her time training.

She hated hurting her parents. So she changed.

Marinette locked away her lethal grace, faking clumsiness and turning it into an art form. She hid her weapons, training only when her parents were asleep. She returned to family game nights; she initiated hugs. At school, she became bubbly and friendly again, though she trusted no one.

More than anything, she tried to atone. She sought out those in need and tried to help – whether by providing food, babysitting, or making them warm clothing. She discovered an interest in fashion design, but mostly stuck to making the essentials for those in need. She met a tiny floating bug named Tikki and became a superhero.

On days when she struggled, she retreated to her room and the comfort of her sketchbook. And if green eyes and a cocky smirk featured prominently in the book, well, who would know but her?

.

Damian frowned as he followed his brother into Wayne Enterprises.

"I don't understand why it's so important for me to be here."

"C'mon, Baby Bird!" Dick said. "You said you wanted to be more involved in the company!"

"I meant the business side of things," Damian said. "I have no interest in showing around a gaggle of unruly teenagers."

"You're a teenager too," Dick pointed out. "It'll be fun!"

Damian sniffed. "I'm an adult. And fun, really? Surely you don't truly believe that?"

Dick sighed. "Just give it a chance, okay? They seem like really great kids."

They walked into the lobby and Damian stopped short, eyes catching on long black hair and brilliant blue eyes.

"Marinette?"

.

In truth, Marinette wasn't all that excited about the Wayne Enterprises tour. The architecture was interesting, sure, but her class had a habit of making themselves a target and Bruce Wayne's patronage was not helping.

She gave it three days, at most, before they got in trouble with Gotham's Rouges.

Which meant she was on 'keep the class from dying' duty. Joy.

She kept her eyes and ears peeled, which meant that she heard the faint whisper of her name from an unfamiliar voice.

"Marinette?"

Forest-green eyes filled with far too much emotion had her breath catching in her throat.

"Damian?"

With obvious effort, the League's Heir pulled himself together. "Fancy meeting you here, Dupain-Cheng."

His voice. Oh, kwami, it should be illegal to look AND sound that good. Nope. Nope. Not doing this. He's an assassin, get your act together, Marinette.

"Al-Ghul." She was proud that her voice betrayed nothing. "I have to admit, I'm surprised to see you here. This doesn't seem like your scene."

She reached out for a handshake and was taken off guard when Damian kissed her hand instead. She blushed.

"It's Wayne now," Damian said. "I'm... no longer associated with the Al-Ghuls. Or their business."

He's not an assassin anymore? Yes! I knew you were a good person deep, deep down, Dami!

"Really? I broke ties with them several years ago myself."

See that, Damian? We're both good people. Good people that would be great toget - no! Bad Marinette!

Damian grinned. "In that case, I look forward to reconnecting. Perhaps after the tour?"

Oh, kwami, I'm doomed.

"I'd like that."

.

"What was that?" Dick asked in a low voice. "I've never seen you open up to someone so quickly."

With difficulty, Damian tore his gaze from Marinette.

Stars, she grew up gorgeous.

Damian smirked. "Don't be ridiculous, Grayson. I met Marinette over a decade ago."

I wonder, does she still consider our betrothal valid?

"Wait, so she's an assassin?" Grayson blanched. "Who is she here to kill? Who do I have to protect? Ugh! Why can't you ever have normal friends?"

"Relax," Damian chided. "She's an ex-assassin. Like me."

"That does not make me feel better. Who is she to you?"

Damian hummed in thought, running through years of teasing, fighting, and spending time together. "She was my first friend."

And maybe now something more.

[lillianastras]

“Hit Me With Your Best Shot” -- The Darkling x Reader

Pairing: The Darkling x Reader (no surprise here)

Warnings: none, I think

Summary: The Darkling and his second spar in the morning, after he starts to doubt her abilities have worsened over time.

A/N: I feel so great that I actually used my own experience in martial arts for writing this. Also, I’m so empowered by all the great feedback I’m getting from you guys. If anyone has requests, please send those my way!

“Rule number one,” he says, “Only take a break after saying you need a break. Otherwise I won’t know and will wipe the ground with you.” Her eyebrows shoot up and he has to fight a smile, glad he caused the reaction. “Rule number two,” he continues, hands behind his back, his wrists wrapped in cloths, to numb the harshness of his blows. “No Small Science. Whatever you do to me, you do it with your own two hands.” “That was just plain filthy.”

This time Aleksander grits his teeth, not appreciating the interruption. She is standing in the middle of the training grounds, arms crossed in front of her chest, the same irritated expression on her face since she had woken up. He could tell she was looking around, looking for an opportunity, an excuse to leave. Yet, there is little chance that anyone else is up this early, except by the pair of guards by the gate.

“The Drüsskele attacks are getting more aggressive than ever,” he hisses , trying his best not to raise his voice at her. “You need to know how to defend yourself when they hold your hands apart.”  It’s not happening again, he thinks. The years have passed, but even time didn’t manage to blur the memory of Luda bleeding out on the ground. “I know how to defend myself!” She hisses back, and the Darkling gives her a cold stare.

“Ivan said he managed to tackle you to the ground several times yesterday.”

Her lips curl in disdain, but not for Ivan, he knows. She likes the Heartrender probably as much as he does, which came as a surprise at the start. He is rude and harsh, but even he manages to crack the occasional smile to two in her presence. That’s just how she is.

No, he thinks, the grimace just proves the truth in his words. Her skills had deteriorated, and she needs to get herself together. For her own good.

“Ivan is bigger than me,” she mumbles, but her eyes are staring at the ground. Even she realises this is a poor excuse, if any excuse at all. 

“They are always going to be bigger than you. And I might not be there to have your back at all times.” It might not matter, he thinks bitterly, and his hands ball into fists, even if I am.

“Alright.” The easy agreement comes as a surprise, although easy might be an understatement. She gave her best efforts to keep him in bed this morning with gentle caresses, suggestive whispers and kisses down his neck. But still, he had dragged her outside as quickly as he could and she was sour ever since.  “Let’s see if you get to wipe the ground with me.” She adds and he knows he managed to annoy her.

She takes her battle stance, her guard up and the Darkling sighs, eyes turning to look around. The sun is starting to rise higher in the sky and he realises he has little time left, just because no, Aleksander, you cannot ruin my reputation by throwing me around in front of everyone. Soon, people would start waking up, ready to start the day and they would have to leave training for tomorrow, when he would have to bring himself to say no to her advances again and… No. They have to start today.

She raises her eyebrow at him, challenge barely veiled, and he takes a deep breath, letting the thrill of the upcoming fight wash over him.

His first punch is not that fast, he knows, and she manages to dodge it with ease. Her elbow slams in his chest in return and was most probably going do force the air from his lungs if he hadn’t tensed. He is forced a step back. When he looks at her, there’s a small cold smirk growing on her face. She isn’t that out of practise after all. The Darkling squints his eyes and starts to pay more attention.

This time she doesn’t wait for him to charge, and when she aims her foot for between his legs, he knows he had touched a nerve. He blocks the kick with his forearm, but he doesn’t bother stop the grin that is slowly stretching on his face. Quick as a cat, he closes the distance between them, taking a tight hold of her wrists, their faces so close she could head-butt him in the nose if she wanted to.

“Is that why you’re so irritable all morning,” he asks, letting out a quiet grunt when she stomps on his foot, but he doesn’t let go. “Because I wouldn’t sleep with you?” This time he manages to move his foot in time and she groans as she misses. “For real?”

“No,” she answers quickly, too quickly, and he grins even wider, because her reaction is so petty, that he can’t really help himself. “You’re putting way too much faith in your ability to —” 

He doesn’t let her finish and puts his foot behind hers, giving her a harsh push. She looses her balance and falls ass first on the muddy ground, shock written on her beautiful face.

He grins down at her, reaching out a hand to help her up. She finally comes back to her senses and looks around, her pants and shirt far from clean, mud covering her hands. She grits her teeth and whispers something under her breath, and Aleksander recognises Ivan’s name, followed by a string of curses. She then glares up at him and stands up on her own, ignoring his open hand. 

“Again,” she demands, squinting her eyes against the reddish strays of the morning sun. The Darkling attacks again, this time not holding back as much as the first time. 

He doesn’t realise how much time passes, punches delivered and blocked from both of them, until they are both panting messes, sweat dripping from their foreheads and sticking strands of hair to their skin. Aleksander allowed himself a moment of distraction, glancing around the training grounds. The palace was slowly coming back to life, voices heard from inside and the occasional kefta-clad figure running around the place.

“Scared someone will see that you’re getting your ass kicked?” Her guard is up and he can’t see the shit-eating grin that is plastered on her face, but he can practically hear it. It’s amazing what an hour of good sparring can do for one’s mood.

“You wish,” he calls back. “Final round?”

“I thought you’ll never ask.”

A smile creeps its way on the Darkling’s face. He takes slow, careful steps to the side, circling her, and her eyes follow him, not even blinking. Yet she is too focused on his movements that she doesn’t notice him close the distance at all. Just like he intends. 

She is so surprised by the sudden attack, that she barely fights back when he grabs her wrist and gives her a harsh tug. He bends it behind her back in a swift motion, enough to trap it between his body and hers. 

His free hand goes straight for her throat, fully pressing her back against him.

She tries to wriggle out of his grasp, but he presses her forearm slightly upwards and she hisses in pain, giving the hand that is wrapped around her throat a few quick taps, to let him know she surrenders. He stops the pressure on her arm, but doesn’t let go just yet. He leans in, his breath tickling her ear. “Not too bad,” he whispers, and he has to remind himself that they are out in public, “but you still have much to learn.”

She finally releases her, and grins when she turns around and her eyes are a little hazy. She takes a deep breath and when her gaze finds his, she shakes her head at his smirk, her hand rubbing her wrist to dissolve any pain.

“Careful General,” she lowers her voice to a whisper and theatrically looks around, as if to make sure no one is listening. “Someone might actually see you smile.” She sighs. “Can we call this a draw?”

He outright laughs at her audacity. “A draw? You didn’t win even one round!”

“I disagree.” She shakes her head and gives him a cocky raise of her eyebrow and a wave of her hand.“Plus that last one was hardly fair.”

His gaze hardens. Even though the last round really was more playful than aggressive, he had managed to disarm her and have the upper hand after all. If it wasn’t his hand around her throat, she’d be dead. She needed the practice.

As though she reads his mind, she rolls her eyes. “I won’t admit that you were right.”

He snorts a humourless laugh. He doesn’t really expect her to.  “But we continue tomorrow.” It’s neither a request, nor a question. It’s an order from a General to his warrior.

She sighs and he knows she’s about to murmur some complaint. Shockingly, gives in with a shake of her head and after a long observation of her clothes, ruined from the mud, she mutters a quiet. “You’re the boss.”

He grins. “I’m the boss.”

[nctsworld]

sketches

✩‌ renjun ‌x‌ ‌reader‌ ‌|‌ tutor!renjun | college au | fluff | ‌1k

SUMMARY‌ ‌⇾‌ in which your art tutor gathers up the courage to ask you out. WARNINGS‌ ‌⇾‌ an almost-kiss, hyuck is a kissblocker, swearing RATING‌ ‌⇾‌ teen+ FOR ⇾‌ anonymous

AUTHOR’S NOTE ⇾‌ yeah im taking 20 years to finish my bday celebration, no one look at me pls n ty

Sitting at the top of a grassy hill that overlooks much of campus, you embrace the light spring breeze and warm sun as you sketch the scenery in front of you. 

Beside you, your art tutor—donning his thin-framed glasses, a loose white t-shirt, and light blue ankle jeans—is also sketching, albeit clutching his book tightly towards his chest, as he always does.

Today’s the last day of his tutoring since the semester is ending soon. On the upside, Renjun’s been a great help over the last few months and you’ve improved immensely. On the flipside, your success signified that you didn’t need him anymore.

But if you could be honest, you didn’t want sessions to end for more selfish reasons. To be in his comfortable presence, to be able to laugh with him, to be graced with his beauty...

You don’t know Renjun too well, but you yearn to.

Unfortunately, you don’t have any other reason to see Renjun outside of tutoring. He is nearing his graduation, while you’re in your second year. If you didn’t decide to minor in Art the last minute, you wouldn’t have met him in the first place.

Well, the best thing you could do is simply savour the time you have with him now.

“What are you sketching today?” you ask casually, like you often do.

And he answers nonchalantly, as he often does:

“The usual, you know”—he shrugs—“whatever I find beautiful.”

You’re too focused on your sketchbook to notice him quickly glancing over at you, smiling to himself. His eyes fall back onto his artwork. “How are you doing?”

You pause and squint at your work so far. “Something’s off... I think it’s my shading?”

Your tutor carefully shuts his sketchbook and places it face down onto the grass before he moves closer towards you. For a few moments, Renjun scans your work that’s leaning against your thighs with a cute tilt of his head.

“May I?” he asks, holding out his hand.

Instinctively, you gesture your pencil for him to draw onto your work. Instead, to your surprise, his hand wraps around the back of yours. Without a word, he shades in a handful of areas darker and defines some of the lines more. 

As he does so, you hold your breath. Although you can’t look at him, your eyes still waver; you’re completely unable to focus on your art at hand.

When he’s finished, you hear a small gulp. Peering over your shoulder, you note how Renjun’s blatantly avoiding eye contact.

“Do you think it looks better now?” he squeaks in a whisper. 

It takes a bit, but his luminous eyes ultimately meet with yours—the same pair that you’ve constantly get lost in when he speaks, and it’s no different this time around. 

The wind blows slightly stronger against your back, giving you the push to inch nearer. While your eyes flutter to a close, you swear you see his form and kissable lips approach you too.

“Renjun!” A sudden voice calls out nearby.

Simultaneously, you both pull back and face the source of the shout, who is currently waving frantically. The stranger steps closer and stands on a lower angle of the hill.

“Oh, shit.” The young man brings a fist to his mouth, then whispers, “Am I interrupting?”

Your gorgeous tutor shuffles away from you, but still sits in your proximity. He runs his fingers through his hair.

“Not at all, Hyuck,” he replies behind a forced smile, pushing his glasses up. “What’s up?”

Renjun’s presumed friend shrugs, sinking his fists into the pockets of his trackpants. “Nothing, just wanted to say hi.” He faces your direction and gives you a small wave. “Hi, I’m Donghyuck.”

You flash him the same and introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you, Donghyuck.”

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Donghyuck admits. He points a thumb at your tutor. “He talks a lot about you. He says you’re so amazing and so beau-”

“Okay!” Renjun suddenly cuts him off, rushing to stand up and hurries over to his friend, already pushing him away. “Time to get going, you’re officially interrupting.”

You giggle as Donghyuck groans in disagreement, but not forgetting to yell a good-bye at you.

The sun dips deeper into the horizon, but not quite fully, when the tutoring is officially over. After you two pack your things up and you give him your final thank you’s for being your tutor, there’s a long beat before Renjun speaks up.

“Since this is our last session...” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you wanna hang out with me sometime?”

Renjun cautiously looks up, fearful to see how you’re looking at him. He’s ecstatic to witness you beaming back at him, as bright as the yellow and orange hues glowing around you.

“Like a date?” you ask curiously.

“It doesn’t have to be a date, we could just hang out.”

With a smirk, you challenge playfully, “So, you’re saying you don’t want to date me?”

“No, no!” he half-shouts in clarification. He coughs, lowering his voice. “I mean, I’m down to go on a date, if you’re down to, but it’s also fine if we just hang out as—”

His eyebrows perk up as you abruptly kiss his cheek in a soft peck, resting your fingers on his shoulder.

Retreating back in front of the now jaw dangling man, you proclaim, “I’d love to go out with you, Renjun.”

He blinks himself back to reality, stammering, “Yeah?”

“Text me,” you say, nodding and beginning to walk away, “and we’ll figure it out, okay?”

In disbelief, Renjun is glued to the top of the hill with a huge grin on his face. He watches you from behind for a few seconds until he grips onto one of the straps of his backpack and wills himself to leave in the opposite direction.

“Renjun!” you holler from almost the bottom of the hill. He turns back around to catch you smiling still.

“Maybe when we go out, you can share some of the sketches you’re always drawing of me?”

It doesn’t take long for his whole face to heat up. Embarrassed, he rubs one side of his face and nods shyly with his mouth pouting to one side.