Tumgik
#I don't go here but I did a little sketch anyway
teleport-warning · 2 years
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Sometimes I draw my friends' blorbos, for a change
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shimmershy · 10 months
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Chara Week Day 5: Ghost
Every time I see that machine in the True Lab, I wonder if it could possibly be Chara's soul in there? Probably unlikely, but not impossible... It's interesting to think about what the implications of that would be.
A version with no text and then a version with just the machine, because I think it looks pretty cool and ominous alone as well.....
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engagemythrusters · 6 months
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not my best work because it's half-scribbled but! Queen Roona on her horsey (a Guarlara)
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espy-heart · 2 years
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been trying to get in the habit of drawing before i go to bed.
i'd put this on my other blog, but i kinda just thought this'll explain why i don't post much anymore.
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hispg · 3 months
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Longing for love
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Pairings: R2! Leon X Fem! Reader
Summary: It's your birthday, and your childhood friend wants to make it special.
Wc: 2.4k
Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, p in v, loss of virginity (both sides), pet names, soft sex, making out, slight oral( f receiving).
An: I know I promised I'd post this last week, but this week I was feeling down about writing anything. Just as I haven't replied to asks or comments, I'll probably reply to them tonight.
I don't know what happened, I had so much to write and ended up writing almost nothing. Anyway, I'll try to finish what I've already got half-written and try to post it over the next few days!
I really hope this bad mood passes soon, and I thank you all for your love. 🫶🏻
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It was a special day, your birthday. You had nothing special planned, nothing other than lying in the comfort of your bed watching some series on your laptop.
Even though you had told your childhood friend, Leon, that you didn't want anything special today, he refused to accept it.
It was your birthday, how could he pass it up? Even though he didn't have the best financial conditions in the world, he spared no expense in giving you a shiny necklace with a heart as a pendant.
If it were up to him, he would give you anything you asked for. Because he thought you deserved all the best the world could offer.
And here he was, spoiling you with sweet, wet kisses, holding you down on the bed while he gave your forehead one last kiss before whispering:
"Are you sure you don't want anything?" You'd lost count of how many times he'd asked you that during the night.
You knew he could get you anything you wanted, all you had to do was ask.
"No, Lee..." You said softly, clutching and snuggling into him.
He nodded, tangling his fingers in your hair and playing with the strands, holding you so close to him that the two of you had your bodies pressed together.
The bed seemed so cozy for both of you, the covers that were wrapped around your bodies as the two of you exchanged these light caresses.
You couldn't have been happier on your birthday, cuddling up to him while the gentle rain fell outside.
Leon felt his heart flutter every time he saw you all dolled up in a light purple dress, looking like a princess. Wearing your prettiest earrings, glossy lips that had left a raspberry taste in his mouth that made him keep licking his lips because of it.
"You know... I saw a dress..." Leon begins, and you already know where this is going to end.
He always says he sees something that reminds him of you, and every time he ends up bringing it as a present for you, with the excuse that you'd look perfect wearing what he's bought.
"Leon, you don't have to..." You whisper, kissing him on the lips.
He closed his eyes with a soft smile, pressing you a little closer against him.
"But I'd love to..." He says with that cocky smile you already know well.
You giggle, kissing his cheeks several times. He always got frustrated and embarrassed when you did this, his cheeks getting hot from the act.
But he'd be lying if he said he didn't love it every time you showered him with kisses. The feel of your lips on his skin was something he would never forget.
Without even realizing it, he gripped your hips a little harder, getting goosebumps when your breasts grazed his chest from how close you were to him.
Once you'd finished what you'd started, the proud smile plastered across your face.
"Why are you blushing?" You asked with mischief and sweetness in your voice, biting your lip as you looked at him.
You watched his lips come together and press, a sketch of a pout there. His eyes locked with yours, his arms wrapped around your waist.
God, how could he resist that? How could he resist you?
He swears he was trying to ignore the situation, trying to ignore the way you were so close to him, your warm body crashing against his.
Maybe he was being daring, but he took the opportunity a step further, placing a light kiss on your neck. Letting his lips linger there for a few moments.
The response that came from you pleased him, he heard your breathing hitch, your chest descend and rise more visibly. He knew you liked it.
"Maybe I want something..." You whispered, looking at him with a certain shyness.
You knew that the two of you had already crossed the line into friendship, not least because you doubted that friends kissed or got that close. But when he looked at you in such a sweet way, something in you melted.
"Say... I can give you anything you want..." He whispers, lightly caressing your cheeks.
You bite your lip, leaning your forehead against his once more, and soon the sweet words are coming from your lips:
"A kiss?" It wasn't the first time you'd kissed, but the way you asked for it this time, so sweetly, the smile was kind of drawn on your face.
Who was Leon to say no?
"Whatever you want, princess." That's all he said before kissing you.
It started in a loving and gentle way, his lips moving against yours in sync, his fingers caressing your waist with affection and delicacy.
Your hands wrapped in his hair as his tongue traced your lower lip, asking for passage into your mouth. And you didn't deny it.
You don't know how it happened, or how a simple make out session turned into languid, sloppy kisses, his hands grabbing every bit of skin he could find, not wasting a single precious second to touch you.
And before you knew it, he was on top of you, his hands slowly coming down to hold your hips. And knowing how far this was going to go, you didn't try to do anything to stop it.
In the blink of an eye he had already taken off your dress, his lips trailing down your neck as he grasped the waistband of your panties, taking no time to remove them at once.
His eyes went wide once you were naked in front of him, his cock aching from the rush of seeing you like this.
"Can I...?" All he wanted was your permission to continue or to stop, it was up to you.
You nodded shyly, letting him do whatever he wanted.
And that was all he needed to continue. He moved his face down to your belly, kissing softly and sweetly across your skin, leaving no part untouched. He was so anxious that he could barely think straight, the only thing he wanted to feel was what it would be like to be inside you.
So he needed to prepare you, right? And once he saw how wet you were already getting with just a few kisses, it wasn't long before he thought of a solution to get you soaking wet.
His hands gripped your thighs, you could tell he was as nervous as you were. The blush on his cheeks, the way he was biting his lower lip to hold back the sounds he might make at the sight of you in this situation.
He'd never seen you naked like this, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't imagined this situation multiple times.
But now that you were here in front of him, it was a completely different story.
Before you could look at him, you felt his warm lips on your thighs, giving you light, wet kisses.
As if he was afraid and apprehensive of making any moves, he had never done that in his life, he was just following what he thought was right, maybe he could call it instinct or something.
His warm, soft lips gave you goose bumps, made your body shudder under his body, you gasped and arched your body gently.
His every touch was capable of making your thoughts go blank and you forget the world around you, as if nothing else mattered. Just the two of you there.
He also couldn't stop salivating once he saw your wet folds, the state he'd managed to leave you in with just a few kisses and caresses. Your throbbing pussy almost begging for him, a sight that sent an electrifying pulse to his hard cock.
You held back from moaning when you felt his hot breath against your sex.
It wasn't long before you were shuddering at his touch, the way he was so delicate as he planted kisses in your folds, he was so tender that it was simply attractive to watch. His blue eyes staring at you, just to make sure you were comfortable with it all, and that you wanted it as much as he did.
As soon as he saw that you were ready for him, he began to undress. In a hurried and clumsy way he took off his clothes, throwing them into a corner of the room.
You were mesmerized by his body, strong and muscular, so defined that you could salivate just looking at it.
Once again he was lying on top of you, his lips pressed to yours in a hot kiss.
You only heard him fisting himself a little, before he began to guide his tip into your entrance. You knew from the kiss he was giving you that he wanted to make you focus only on him, making you as comfortable as possible.
So he slowly entered you, calmly and patiently, all the while asking you if it was okay and if he could continue. The situation was new and strange for both of you, so reluctance was more than normal.
Once he had sunk into you, he could have sworn to God that he was holding back from cumming, the sensation of your warm, wet walls was more than enough to finish him off.
But he held on, held on and tried his best to stop the thoughts of simply exploding inside you here and now.
And he hovered over you, simply rigid on top of you, just as his hard cock didn't move an inch from where it was.
He felt your discomfort, the way you hissed a little when he put it in, and if you were being honest, it stung considerably.
He stood still, that is until you both got used to the foreign feeling.
But even then, he kept giving you soft kisses on the cheek, whispering sweet nothings to help you relax.
"I love you so much..." He whispered sweetly in your ear, giving the area light kisses and licks.
You moaned softly at his touch, instinctively wrapping your legs around his hips, entwining with him in such an erotic and intimate way.
And in yet another of his gestures, he entwined his fingers with yours, squeezing your hand tightly as he gazed at you with those gentle blue eyes.
It was a gaze so tender, so loving, a gaze that was reserved for you, only you.
"You can move..." You say softly, looking at him shyly.
He gets the message, and slowly starts to move, in a shallow and calm way, he had no intention of rushing things.
Not least because he could see how nervous you were, or how much your pussy clenched around him, even though he had stimulated you, had prepared you to loosen up more.
"So tight..." He moans softly, giving your lips a gentle kiss.
The way he was so tender, so tenuous as he thrust into you, he didn't even move much, just enough to cause a little friction.
Not least because he didn't even know what you liked at those times, it was two inexperienced lovers learning at once.
"Lee..." You call softly, gently biting your lower lip as you look at him.
Surely he noticed the way your hips began to move against his, as if your body knew exactly what to do in this situation.
He took this as a green light, and began to pick up the pace, still making a point of giving you kisses and caresses all over your body.
You felt your mind getting so heavy, his cock reaching places so deep, points so sensitive that you couldn't even imagine.
It was all so good, certainly better than you imagined.
In one swift movement he removed one of his hands from yours, moving down your belly until he reached your crotch, where he stopped respectfully. Not wanting to do anything without your permission.
"Is it okay if I....?" He asked, placing his index finger next to your clit.
He wanted to know what you liked, what felt good, and he was going to start here. With your bundle of nerves.
"Y-yes... Please." You asked in a sly voice, and he could even see the pout that formed on your lips.
He smiled against your neck, giving the area a hickey, leaving a small mark. And then there was his thumb, smoothing over your clit, making small, delicate circles on the sensitive flesh, making you roll your eyes and moan louder with each movement.
He eased off when he felt you loosening up more, and with that he understood that he could increase the speed of his hips, and so he did.
Now the dirty, wet sounds echoed through the room, his heavy balls slapping against you and making that characteristic skin-on-skin noise.
But neither of you cared, so lost in that moment that the least of your problems was the profanity that came out of your mouths in the form of words.
Your heavy breaths came together as one, in the purest of synchronies. He was close, and so were you.
But as far as he was involved, your pleasure came first, so he would hold back as long as he could so that you would come first.
"Leon... I think I'm going to cum." You say in a low moan, feeling a new sensation forming in the pit of your stomach.
Your walls squeezing so tightly around him, and him trying his best to hold back. With a strangled groan you felt your hot fluid pouring out of you, your body arching and crashing against his as you came.
It was enough to send him over the edge too, and he almost didn't take his cock out of you, he was so lost in your expression of ecstasy that he forgot he wasn't wearing a condom.
He even thought about cumming in your belly, but was genuinely apprehensive of making a mistake and making a mess. So he pulled out of you, fisting himself and cumming on the sheets. Moaning and grunting as his cum spurted onto the silk sheets.
You were both tired from the recent orgasm, and he took the opportunity to lie on top of you and hold you close.
"On your belly next time?" He asks softly, a shy, mischievous smile appearing on his lips.
You smile, trying to hide the blush on your cheeks with your hands, hugging him as he relaxes on top of you.
"Yes, next time." You whisper, closing your eyes and storing the moment in your memory.
You couldn't have hoped for anyone better to lose your virginity to, and for sure, Leon couldn't have had anyone better either.
You can believe it was your best birthday.
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wri0thesley · 11 months
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SO glad someone else is in the "Just the tip" hole, so here I am like a little kid, cupping my hands for any spare thoughts (preferrably anyone besides Sampo), if you have any to share? 🤲🖤
loni i was going to write a post anyway but being able to reply to asks with my thoughts - proof that there is Demand (tm!) makes me feel SO much better about the brainrot!!! i have many thoughts abt sampo too so i am eagerly awaiting ur drabble, just the tip is really a concept of all time!
ft: gepard, welt, himeko, serval, jing yuan, luocha cw: reader is afab with no pronouns used. public sex (luocha), straps, sex toys (himeko and serval), a little size kink (jing yuan), a little soft dom (welt). not sfw, minors dni.
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Gepard doesn't quite realise how big he is. He's not got all that much experience; he's never really thought about it, far too busy with all of the responsibilities that come hand in hand with being Captain of the Silvermane Guards. So when your eyes widen and your fingers can't quite meet when you wrap them around his length, he lets out a ragged breath and a moan and pushes his cock between your thighs. You have to breathlessly curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and whisper out his name. He's already on the edge just by being close to you. The silky softness of your thighs, the inviting shine of your lips and the way that arousal makes your eyes blow dark and wide - when you whisper softly into his ear; "I don't know if I can take it, Gepard . . . J-just the tip, alright? Go slow--", he worries that he's about to embarrass himself right there and then and come before he's even gotten inside of you.
You whine and whimper as he slowly pushes you open, your wetness smearing all over the ruddy head of his cock. Your fingers tighten in his hair even as a soft strangled noise falls from Gepard's own mouth and he struggles to not ram himself inside of you - you have no idea how good you feel. How hot and tight and wet and perfect the embrace of your walls clinging to him is, even on just the head of his cock.
But he did not get where he is by not having self-control. His muscular arms, corded with scars from practise battles and real battles alike, cage you in on the bed beneath him. He looks at you like someone who cannot believe how lucky he is.
"I'll wait here," he promises you, his voice lust-soaked and cracking with the effort. "As long as you need me to."
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Welt sees how your lip trembles, how you take in a slow, steadying breath, and he cannot help his desire to take care of you a little. To coddle you and fuss over you, to make the most of the age and experience that he has and you do not. So he smiles at you, crow's feet crinkling the edges of his eyes behind his glasses, and traces the pout of your bottom lip with his thumb. His voice is patient and soft when he speaks to you.
"I'll go slowly," he tells you, as he gently slaps his cock against your wet folds where you sit on his desk before him, animation sketches and research papers pushed to one side in favour of the tempting treat that is your body. He has spent so much of his time working - nobody could blame him for taking a break and finding himself again in the silky tightness of someone younger and prettier than he himself is. "Just the tip first."
"Alright, Mr Yang," you breathe to him, your hands locking about his neck, urging him forward. You sigh as the head nudges your clit, as his precome mingles with your own slick arousal. You're a sensitive mess already - Welt is certainly not the kind of man who'd leave a partner unsatisfied, and his fingers and his tongue have already learnt every petal-soft fold of you, every spot that makes you shiver and whimper until you'd had to bite into his shoulder to stop your cries waking up every other crew member of the Express.
Slowly, slowly, carefully, he eases into you. Watches with rapt attention every movement of your body; the stretch of your cunt as it accepts him, until your hips are wriggling and squirming and you're tugging on his shoulders.
"Mr Yang," you're saying to him, your lip trembling, your shoulders racked with gasps. A whine leaks into your tone as he rests the head of his cock inside of you, enjoying the feel of it. Your sex pulses around the modicum of his length inside of you, fluttering, waiting to be fully claimed. "It's -- it's not enough!"
Welt laughs softly and presses a kiss on the top of your head that is almost paternal in its comfort - a reminder that he's old enough to be your father, your grandfather--
His voice is soft with just a hint of admonishment in it.
"You're really going to have to learn some patience."
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Himeko has you wrapped around her little finger, but that doesn't mean that you don't eye the toy that she shows you with a little trepidation. She laughs at you when you do, pulling you into her, kissing you with the taste of coffee on her tongue as she talks you into her bed.
"If you're frightened of it," she's saying, even as your mouth is going dry as you watch her disrobe, "We'll go as slow as you need, darling. We'll start with just the tip."
You lose the ability to speak at the sight of her, auburn curls tumbling down her back and over the milky pale spill of her breasts and shoulders. Bathed in the starlight from her cabin window, she's unearthly, and your entire body sings out with desire for her. She smiles when she sees you looking.
"Always such a flatterer," she teases affectionately, as she wraps the toy carefully around the curve of her hips. It looks just as striking on her as everything else does. "Now, you just lie back. I've done this before. Let Himeko handle it, hmm?"
You're helpless to a command from the beautiful navigator, and you let yourself fall back on the pillows as she walks towards you with all of the elegance of somebody who knows exactly how lovely she is. She gives you a soft smile, her golden eyes gentle in the light, even as she gathers herself onto her knees and her fingers lightly dance over your bare skin. Electric pinpricks of desire radiate from every touch.
"Aren't you beautiful?" She muses to herself, as she wraps her hand around the toy and pumps it a few times - when it comes away, you see there's something thick and clear and viscous dripping from it. She laughs softly again when she sees you looking.
"You're already wet," she whispers to you, in a low, musical voice. "But if you're still nervous . . . well, there's nothing wrong with a little help, is there?"
Her fingers dance over your skin. She knows every part of you intimately by now; the spot on your stomach, the way you whimper when she pinches your nipples, the place on your hips that makes you breathe in a deep sigh and your own lashes flutter. Through her touches, she keeps murmuring soft platitudes to you - how pretty you look like this, for her. What a precious treasure you are. How she can't wait for you to come apart--
And by the time she is sliding the tip of the toy inside of you and you are fair dizzy with want, you can do nothing but whisper out her name. She leaves the tip of the toy inside of you, smiling down, as patient and beautiful and dazzling as ever.
"I told you," she murmurs, as her long fingers return to pluck and play with your nipples, and you get used to the new stretch of having something thicker than Himeko's fingers inside of you. "We'll go as slow as you need. Any new territory worth exploring is worth doing . . ." She leans down, her mouth full and soft and wet as it meets yours and you whine into it. "Thoroughly."
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Serval is a tease. You'd known she was up to something the moment you'd stepped into the workshop and she'd flipped the sign to 'closed' with a feline grin on her face as she'd beckoned you over to her and told you she could really use your help with some new gadget she was tinkering with.
So now, as she has you bent over her workbench with something vibrating pressed in the valley between the folds of your sex, the tip pressed just so - buzzing and tingling - against the swollen pearl of your clit, it's all you can do to keep your fingers tight around the edge of the workbench and your knees locked so you don't collapse.
"Kitten," Serval is purring, her hips slowly rocking back and forth, the phallic toy strapped to her hips rubbing through the wet mess of your cunt. "Don't you like it? I made it thinking of you!"
Your words come out garbled, a mess of moans and sighs. Your own hips thrust back when she pulls away, trying to get her to keep the toy pressed against your clit for long enough for you to get off. Instead, she just laughs, nipping at your bare shoulder.
"You're getting desperate," she teases you, her voice deep and throaty and satisfied. "Beg me, kitten, and we'll see what I can do for you."
"Serval--" Your voice comes out a whine. "Please . . ."
Her clever fingers, calloused palms, slide down your bare skin, leaving electric zaps wherever they touch you. You shudder under her practised touch - you are an instrument, and Serval has already proved she is a master musician.
"Seeing as you asked so nicely," she says to you, and you sense the wicked cat-like grin on her mouth. "How about I give you just the tip?"
"Not enough--"
"You're getting greedy!" The buzzing toy slides a scant inch inside of you without the smallest hint of resistance; you're wet enough from the teasing already. You can feel your own arousal dripping down your thighs, and Serval sighs happily as she dips one of her fingers between your thighs to toy with your clit as the tip of the toy rests inside of you.
"You're lucky you're so cute," she whispers to you. Her finger slides back and forth over your clit, drawing delicate circles - she always knows how to use them. "Come for me on the tip, and I'll fuck you with the rest of it too."
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Jing Yuan's patience has long been mistaken for occasional laziness; but you know better than most that there is nothing of the kind, when it comes to him. And there is certainly nothing of the kind when it comes to trysts like this.
Oh, you and he have gotten used to rushing moments when you can, in between him being needed for meetings and work - but now? In the evening, loose ends tied up, with nothing but one another to spend the night on?
This is a tryst that will last.
Jing Yuan is not lazy - he merely likes to take his time. For a man whose being is tied up in his past warfare, he knows how to handle delicate things like you - but that doesn't mean he's going to rush it. Not when you look so pretty laid out like this for him, clothes rumpled and discarded beneath you, looking up at him with your eyes all soft and wanting and your mouth aching to be kissed.
He hums beneath his breath as he lets his mouth learn the shape of yours; pushes you gently back when you try and kiss deeply into him, to make him hurry up. His cock nudges against your inner thigh and he sighs a slow, indolent sigh of pleasure that makes your heart beat double time in your chest.
"We have all of the time in the world, little bird," he tells you, with an insouciant smile on his face. Your face scrunches, an adorable expression of impatience taking over your features, and he smiles down at you like someone looking at the finest treasure in the world.
"Impatient," he chides you, but there's nothing but warmth in his tone when it comes to you. His hands find your thighs, digging into the soft skin as he parts them. Warm eyes like pools of molten gold find your core, and he sighs as he looks at you. You squirm under his gaze, and as he softly leans down and lets some of his own saliva drip onto your cunt, you whimper at the feel. "This is impatient, too," He says to you, and laughs. "Drooling all over the place. Mm. Is that how much it wants me?"
"I want you," you respond to him, mouth petulant. Jing Yuan shakes his head fondly at you but readjusts himself, hand around his cock to guide it to your sex. He taps the thick head softly against your clit until you squirm, pouting. "Jing Yuan--"
"Ah, I know, I know," he looks down at where the two of you are not yet joined. "I'm always reminded how . . . small you are, when I look down at you like this."
"It will fit," you insist to him, and he raises one eyebrow.
"Oh, I know it will," he tells you, still smiling at you. "But it's a tight one, isn't it?"
"Jing Yuan, you're stalling--!"
He laughs again.
"Ha. My apologies, little bird." Slowly, he guides his cock to your opening - resting it against there, just for a moment. Exactly as he said, he seems so much bigger than you - his tip thick and blunt and rounded, your entrance small even as your hole pulses and oozes slick in preparation for him. "I simply like looking at you."
"There's something you'd like more than just looking," you encourage him, and he shakes his head so that his mane of hair falls over his shoulders.
"You're incorrigible," he tells you - and then he is pushing forth into you, and your mind goes white of anything but the feel of Jing Yuan inside of you, his cock, your cunt, where they meld together and you become one--
Wait.
Why has he stopped?
"Jing Yuan--!"
He swallows your cry of his name with a kiss that is anything but lazy, tongue exploring your mouth, teeth tugging at your bottom lip until you're dizzy with it all. He tastes, just a little, like sweets.
He pulls back just enough to look at you half-lidded, the tip of his cock just stretching you out.
"I'm merely taking my time," he tells you. "Whilst I have it."
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Luocha is mean, you think, even as his words remain unfailingly genteel. Even as his face remains a polite mask, he leaves his cock not-quite inside of you as you tremble against the wall he has you bodily pressed up against.
"Please," you breathe out to him, teary-eyed, lip trembling. "Y-you can't just leave it there--"
He cocks one eyebrow, his face unfairly pretty - unfairly unruffled, even with the tip of his cock buried in you. He's unfailingly still - almost as if the hot tightness of your cunt pulsing around him has no effect on him whatsoever. One long, elegant hand curves around your cheek as a small smile pulls at the corner of his lips.
He's big. You can't help but squirm against the concrete, your cunt wrapped around only the head of his cock but feeling like you've taken far, far more.
"We're in public," he says to you, voice just a little condescending. "If I were to go about this more . . . vigorously, surely you wouldn't want the attention of every person in the vicinity on you?"
Your own need feels like a thrum inside of you. It's hard to think, as Luocha moves his hips the barest fraction and you find yourself whining aloud. Firmly, he moves the hand on your cheek so that it's pressed over your mouth, muffling your noises.
"You can't take more than this," he tells you, voice calm and patient. "Not here. Not now."
You whimper into his gloved palm, tears beading in your eyes like little diamonds. Even that doesn't seem to move him, though he tips his head to one side, vaguely considering. He moves his hand just enough for you to take a breath, and whisper beseechingly;
"I-if not here . . . will you do it somewhere else?"
He laughs only one soft, musical little noise. He leans in close, his breath cool against your neck.
"Mm . . . but when you ask like that--"
You cry out as he pushes another inch of himself into you, eyes widening as the noise breaks the calm, cool air. Luocha pauses.
"Oh dear," he says. "I suppose we'll have to both come quickly then, hmm?"
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greensagephase · 8 months
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Nonviolent Communication - Part One
** BEAUTIFUL fanart for this part can be found here by the lovely @lauraolar14 . I'm not over how soft and beautiful these sketches are  😭 😭 Please show them some love!! Thank you again, @lauraolar14 ❤️**
Miguel O'Hara x FemReader
Summary: You don't show up to a meeting or report for other duties as a Spider Society member because of your period. Your boss shows up to your apartment.
Word Count: 5,144
Warning: A little bit of angst?/Mention of death
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine |
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Part One
You were recruited four months ago into the Spider Society. Ever since the beginning, you couldn’t help but gravitate towards the leader and founder of the society. You learned quickly about his past and the way he carried himself these days.
Miguel O’Hara worked day and night. If he wasn’t in his lab working on something, he was out on missions with a select few members or on his own. There were days that you wouldn’t even see him. You wondered if anyone did on those days. You told yourself to mind your business. It’s not like you were friends and you hardly interacted anyway. You were a member of the Spider Society but one of the newest ones. You weren’t part of the most trusted members for Miguel.
And yet… There was something. You felt a need to look after him. You couldn’t understand it. You wanted to chalk it up to interest. Maybe you found his story interesting. How a man had simply replaced a version of himself in another universe to be a father, only to lose her when that universe collapsed. How heartbroken and guilt-filled he was over it. That had to be it, you told yourself. It was just intrigue. 
You figured that if you just gave in to your interest, it would go away eventually. It would fade away… So, you allowed yourself to be interested. You showed up to meetings earlier than anyone else when Miguel scheduled them. You stopped by the cafeteria to pick up coffee cups beforehand and arrived at the meeting earlier. You came in, looking unbothered and uninterested as you placed the cup of coffee in front of him, greeting him.
“The cafeteria staff gave me another cup, and I didn’t know what to do with it,” you’d say as he looked up with an uninterested look on his face.
You’d walk away and take a seat a few chairs away, picking up the nicely done reports he provided at every meeting. You did this every week with a different excuse each time. You didn’t know if he ever wondered why the cafeteria staff gave you so much coffee since that was usually your excuse. You doubted he even cared; you were just another member.
The first few times, you noticed the cup would sit in the same exact spot you’d leave it. Miguel wouldn’t even acknowledge it after looking up at you. You still brought it each week. After some weeks, he wouldn’t even look up when you placed the cup in front of him on the desk but – he started giving you a small grunt of acknowledgement. You’d walk away with a little grin, quickly putting it away when you sat down on your usual seat so he wouldn’t notice it.
Then about two weeks later, you saw it. As he was going over the reports and listening to Ben Reilly ramble on about his past because of some anomaly he caught that week, he picked up the coffee cup and took a sip. You looked away as you felt his gaze about to turn to you. The reports looked very interesting indeed.
All throughout this, you also started showing up to his lab after he and Jessica requested to see you about a mission. You noticed there was quite a mess of gadgets lying around. You offered to organize it, as it is something you enjoy and are good at. You didn’t even know why you offered but Jessica seemed eager about the idea while Miguel frowned.
“Oh, come on, Miguel. Some organization around here wouldn’t hurt, you know? Look at this mess,” Jessica said looking around, pointing at different areas cluttered with all sorts of tech pieces.
“Fine,” Miguel said as he walked away, apparently done with the conversation.
Jessica beamed at you. She seemed to like you a lot since you did your job well and didn’t get into any drama. You were like the perfect pupil. You nodded at her, with a warm smile.
So that’s how you ended up showing up once a week to Miguel’s lab to do some organizing. You show up and organize as he works on something. Sometimes he is up in the air on his platform, going through monitors. You simply greet him as you arrive before you begin organizing and cleaning. Sometimes there is no response, other times there is just a “hmm”.
These visits have led to Lyla taking a liking to you. She often asks you questions as you work while Miguel is there. You don’t know if he pays attention to what Lyla and you talk about. You honestly doubt he even listens. He is always so engrossed in what he is doing.
Lyla definitely makes the time pass faster. It isn’t like you wanted it to but the silence in the lab is… off sometimes. Lyla asks you all sorts of things like whether you have plans for that weekend, if you enjoy a certain activity because other spider members enjoy it, if you like a certain food, or how missions have gone, etc. It is always something different. You respond to her questions as you work. You are fast and efficient.
You never miss a week, and you are never late as you have made it a habit to show up at the same time. Except this week that is. You started your period and this month is kicking your butt with excruciating cramps and lower back pain. You barely make it to your home after patrolling your city, sliding into bed in pain.
You dig through your nightstand, looking for the specific medicine you take to take care of this even if it makes you extremely drowsy and dizzy. You take it and lie down, hoping it will help right away as you groan in pain. You lie in bed, clutching your stomach. The medicine definitely makes you drowsy and dizzy, but it doesn’t seem to help much with the pain. You pass out a few times but wake up again, the pain too much.
You’re so out of it that you don’t notice the time. You don’t remember the day. You don’t notice the sun out behind your closed blinds. You don’t hear a multidimensional portal open in your small apartment living room. You don’t register the heavy footsteps that move through your apartment. Your eyes are closed, hands clutching your stomach, soft groans escaping your lips. You don’t see the large shadow moving through your room until the last second.
“Go away,” you say weakly, thinking someone has broken into your home.
Despite your pain, despite feeling drowsy and dizzy, your mind still has the time to find this funny. The one day you feel like absolute crap is the day someone decides to break into your apartment. And you’re Spider-Woman! How ironic, you think. Let them take whatever they want, you think, as long as they don’t hurt you.
However, you are surprised when you feel a warm and heavy hand pressed to your forehead.
“No fever,” the voice says stating it as a fact.
You continue to clutch your stomach, eyes closed. Unbeknownst to you as you lay in bed in and out of it, a man is in your apartment. His height towers over you in bed.
Miguel O’Hara is in your apartment… Checking on you. He stares down at you as you lay in bed. He sees you clutching your stomach and as he observes carefully, he sees no injury. There is no sight of blood either. His eyebrows furrow in confusion. You are clearly in pain but why? He turns to your nightstand, noticing the bottle of pills. He inspects it. Painkillers…
His eyebrows furrow further as he realizes what it could be. He walks to your bathroom to confirm. His suspicion is confirmed when he takes a look at your garbage can, spotting the plastic wraps of feminine products. His suspicion is further confirmed when he sees a pack of feminine products on the counter, ready for easy access.
“Coño,” he says quietly as he realizes his suspicion is true.
He walks out of your bathroom, looking at your shape in the bed. You are still clutching your stomach and soft groans escape from your lips ever so often. Miguel remembers the days he used to take care of his wife before everything collapsed. It was a long time since he had even thought about doing that for a woman, but his mind started remembering everything he did to ease his wife’s pain each month. He stood there, thinking before he walked out of your bedroom and into the one room that was the kitchen, the living room, and dining room all at once… New York apartments, Miguel thought, as he took in your apartment.
You were organized and clean, but that didn’t surprise Miguel. You did organize the lab each week with such ease despite Lyla peppering you with questions the entire time. Your apartment was warm with its colors. It gave the impression of someone happy and warm. Miguel noticed a bookshelf in the part of the apartment that plays the living room. It is filled with so many books that you have some stacked horizontally over the vertical ones. An avid reader, Miguel thinks before he heads to your kitchen.
It is clean for the most part except for a plate and a cup. Miguel searches through your kitchen, looking for something specific. He returns to your room, looking through your drawers looking for something else. A few minutes later, he returns to your bedroom. You lay still. Seems that you have passed out at last. With ease, Miguel slides some homemade socks with warm rice under your sweatshirt. He places one on your stomach and the other one on your back.
A satisfied hum escapes your lips, letting Miguel know his idea was somewhat successful despite it being homemade. He gives you one more look before heading out to your living room.
He doesn’t even know why he came. All he knows is that you didn’t show up to organize the lab like you did each week. You didn’t show up to the morning meeting either. Jessica hadn’t heard from you in hours and there was no activity from your gizmo.
A few hours later, you wake up from your slumber. You yawn and stretch your body gently. You lay in bed for a few seconds, realizing your pain is gone. Now you just feel the exhaustion that comes from having a period. You sit up in bed slowly, feeling something on your stomach. You look down. Your sweatshirt is tucked into your shorts on both sides. You untuck it and two socks filled with something slide out. You furrow your eyebrows as you lift them up to inspect closer. You bring them to your nose.
“Rice…” you say, recognizing the specific scent of rice. Your eyebrows furrow but you shrug. You don’t even remember getting up to make these, but you thank yourself for doing it despite being out of it. You get up from bed slowly and check the time. It’s already evening. You decide to take a shower to ease your muscles.
Your shower is hot. You fill the bathroom with fog, but it doesn’t matter. It makes you feel like a million bucks when you get into fresh clothes, all shower and fresh. You head out of your bedroom to get something to drink and that’s when you see it. The lamps in the living room are on, there is music playing from your record player. You look confused as you step out further.
“Mierda,” you hear an annoyed male voice, causing you to jump a little.
You turn to the voice, located in the kitchen and find…
“Miguel?” you say slowly but with confusion as you find him with his back to you.
He stands in front of one of your kitchen cabinets, holding it open. There’s a screwdriver in his hand. He turns around at your voice.
“Y/N… You’re awake,” he says turning fully around now.
You take him in. He’s in his suit as always. You’ve wondered many times if he ever just dresses in casual clothes since he’s always in his suit. He stands tall, of course, and you can’t help but think how he makes your already small kitchen look ten times smaller than it is with him standing there. You rub your eyes, making sure this isn’t just some hallucination.
“Um- you are here,” you say looking at him again.
Miguel nods, turning back around to the cabinet. You watch as he uses the screwdriver. You remember then. Your loose cabinet that has been a pain in the butt for months now. You look around the place. There were some dishes in your sink, or at least you remember there being some but now they’re gone. You notice the trash was taken out. Clean dishes were put away. And to your surprise, there’s food on the stove. There’s also a sweet scent lingering in the air that you cannot pinpoint right now.  
“You feel better?” Miguel asks, with his back still to you as he finishes fixing the cabinet.
“Yes. A lot better, actually…” you say as you cross your arms across your chest, finding this situation so strange.
Miguel turns around to face you now. He looks at you before looking down at the screwdriver in his hand. The screwdriver looks like a toy in his hand, you notice.
“Yeah, well…” Miguel starts, looking up at you again. “Jessica was worried about you. She said you didn’t report to the meeting we had this morning. She asked if you had gone to my lab to organize it and when I told her no, she grew worried something had happened to you since she also noticed no activity from your gizmo. She wanted to come herself and check on you, but the baby kept her busy today. She asked me to come in and check for her.”
I nod, realizing that makes perfect sense. Jessica has grown fond of you after all, you just never realized she was that fond of you.
“Well, thank you for checking in on me for her. I’ll be sure to thank her tomorrow,” you say looking around the kitchen again.
“You probably shouldn’t do that,” Miguel says, putting the screwdriver down on the counter. It looks normal sized again. You raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t like it when people thank for her… caring. If you want to thank her, just get her a coffee and tell her you appreciate her mentorship,” Miguel explains, resting his hands on his hips.
You nod slowly, maybe it was better to just thank her for everything instead of just this act. You sigh.
“I guess you’re right,” you say, scratching your neck softly. “Did she also tell you to fix my cabinet, or did that just bother you so much?”
Miguel’s face remains void of any expression. You wanted to ask about the homemade socks with rice since it became apparent to you that you weren’t responsible for them, but you kept your mouth shut.
“I was looking for – rice when I noticed your loose cabinet and other messed up things around here. You have a shitty landlord or something?” he asks, looking around.
You shrug. “Yeah, but the rent is good.”
“You’re not exactly strapped for cash, are you?”
You shake your head. It was true. You had some money. You could afford to move somewhere else where the landlords were better but…
“Why are you still here then?” Miguel asks.
His question is laced with interest, and you can’t help but think about how this is the longest conversation you’ve had with him since… meeting each other. And even then, that conversation was probably about three minutes long. You avert your gaze from him, looking at the wall nearest to you. Your eyes land on a single picture amongst many.
You lost your Peter three years ago, just like many of your spider colleagues. Losing him has been the hardest thing you have ever experienced. You have been punched till the air was knocked out of you, you have laid in ruble with buildings crushed over you, and you have been on the verge of death many times, but nothing has ever nor will ever compare to the pain and grief of losing Peter.
As you look at the picture of Peter and you, the one you took the first day you moved into this apartment, you think about all the memories in this apartment. It was all the two of you could afford back then but you two loved it. It was your place. It was the first time you were living together, and it didn’t matter much that it was a little rundown. You guys just wanted a place to live together. You two made it what it is now. A warm and happy place where you two could come home after a long day of work. You spent hours thinking of how to decorate it. Choosing the right and most affordable couch, choosing the wallpaper, choosing where the furniture went.
In the end, it had turned into a beautiful apartment. It was a haven for the two of you but what mattered the most was that you shared it with him, your Peter. You sigh, feeling overwhelmed by the loss again. You had moved on, of course. You had to. How else would you live otherwise? And you had promised Peter you would. Your mind is overwhelmed by the sudden memories as he laid in your arms. He had been crushed by ruble during an attack by a villain, his body was weak, his eyes glistened as they looked at you. You remember caressing his face and hair. He loved it when you did that. He always said it was the perfect way to soothe his nerves. The perfect way to get him to relax and nap after a stressful day.
Your own eyes were filled with tears as you saw it. The way his life was slowly leaving his body. What hurt a million times more, if it was even possible to hurt that much, was that you knew he knew. He knew that was it. There was no turning back. There was no miracle. There was no secret medicine or miracle serum that could make him get up and walk away from this unscathed. That was it.
You held him in your arms, rubble all around you. He looked at your eyes, his own hazy, as you caressed his face and hair. He gave you a gentle smile as he reassured you, he was okay.
“You will move on, right, baby?” he asked you, his voice indicating how little time there was left. “You have to… You must promise me you will. This city depends on you.”
You nodded your head and unable to hold them back any longer, your tears spilled down your face. You remember how some of your tears had landed on his pale yet still beautiful face.
“You must promise me, out loud, darling. Please,” he said, struggling more to get his words out.
“I promise. I promise I will try my best…” you said, and he had nodded. He looked satisfied with your response.
“You must continue – you are my hero. You always have been. And you are the love of my life, darling… I only wish we had more time. That I had more time to make you happier… To make you, my wife. Please – promise me you will be open to other loves,” he had gasped out.
You shook your head. That was impossible. How could you fall for someone else when Peter was the love of your life? Peter, noticing your reluctance, lifted his hand weakly to your face. Despite everything, he was still trying to comfort you. You felt something in you break further. He wiped your tears and gave you a weak yet comforting smile.
“Please promise me you will allow yourself to love again… If there is someone out there that makes you feel like that, please promise me you won’t shut them out. Please, love, promise me,” he said, looking at your eyes and cleaning your tears away.
His voice was weaker, and you noticed his chest was beginning to rise slower and slower. The time was running out…
“I promise I will. I will open my heart if someone comes along but I promise I will never stop loving you, Peter,” you had answered, trying to make him happy in his last minutes. He smiled at you, sweetly, and thanked you. You held him close to you, breathing in his scent. You tried to hold on to his warmth desperately. You clung to him, like you could defend him from Death herself. Like you could defy her this one time.
You cried your soul out as his heartbeat ceased to beat. You cried out as his body became limped in your arms. You cried as his chest stopped moving. You cried, cried, and cried as you held him close to you like your tears and grip could bring him back.
You cursed Death.
You often worried about hurting Peter if something happened to you. You never counted on Peter being the one who left too soon.
You inhale shakily. Your vision has become blurred with tears as you continue to stare at the picture on the wall. You turn around, remembering that Miguel is there. You wipe your tears discreetly. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to force it down. Otherwise, the moment you speak, your tears will flow. You clear your throat.
“It doesn’t really bother me – and besides, I spend a lot of time out,” you finally say, sounding somewhat normal now. Though the ache is there, deep in your chest. It’s like someone stabbed you in the heart with a wooden stick and left a small piece of it stuck. It always hurts, it always aches.
Miguel doesn’t reply as you turn back around, feeling more in control of yourself. However, you can see something in his eyes. Perhaps understanding? You guessed he probably knew to some extent what had happened to you. It was a canon event for all spider-people. To lose someone.
“Have you eaten anything?” Miguel asks suddenly, dropping the apartment conversation probably for your own sake.
You shake your head. It was hours since you had eaten something. Since yesterday, really.
“There’s some food here. Let me…” he says trailing off, turning around to get a plate from a cabinet. You can’t help but feel a little surprised at how fast he learned his way around the kitchen. Then again, it’s not that large you realize. You approach the kitchen island and take a seat on one of the two island chairs as Miguel turns around with a plate of pasta. Your eyebrows raise in surprise. It is one of your comfort foods. Miguel slides it over to you, gently. A fork is already on it, ready for you.
You slide the plate closer, the scent of it making your stomach growl instantly. You’re definitely hungry.
“Thank you,” you say before you dig in. You can’t help but smile with satisfaction. It is amazing. “This is really good.”
Miguel doesn’t say anything, just watches you. You eat some more, feeling a bit self-conscious as you feel his gaze on you, but you ignore it. Or try to.
“So, are you a really great cook or is pasta one of the few things you can cook?” you ask, slowing down on your eating, trying to fill in the silence.
Miguel shrugs. “My mother taught me how to cook when I was a teenager. It stuck.”
You nod, still eating. “Great skill to have, really… It helped me and –“ you pause, realizing you were about to mention Peter. You swallow. “It helped Peter and I when we were in college,” you finish, looking down at your plate.
A hint of a smile forms on your face as you remember Peter and you cooking for the week over the weekends. You guys lived separately but shared groceries to help each other out. It saved you guys a lot of time and money and brought the two of you closer.
“It is a great skill to have,” Miguel agrees quietly as you continue to eat, looking down at your plate.
You nod silently as you finish eating. You look up at Miguel, he’s looking down at the counter. His hands are flat against the counter, and he looks lost in his own thoughts. You can’t help but take this time to look at him. The sight of him in your kitchen is really something. You think about how great he is at these things like looking after a woman when they’re on their period or cooking. You want to facepalm yourself as you realize it’s obvious he would be good at these things. He did have a wife and daughter at one point, you remind yourself. You look down at your plate.
“Oh, I made this for you, too,” Miguel says at last, breaking the silence.
You look up curiously, wondering what else he had made. He turns around towards the stove and you watch carefully as he retrieves a mug from one of the cabinets. Again, you feel surprised seeing how he knows exactly where to find what he’s looking for. It disappears from your view in front of him and you hear him pour something. He turns around again, holding one of your mugs. Whatever it is, is hot as you can see steam from the top. He sets the mug down on the counter and slides it over to you. Again, his movements are gentle. You lean forward and reach for it.
“Careful. It’s hot,” he warns, as you pull the mug towards you gently.
The scent fills your nostrils quickly and you recognize the sweet scent that met you earlier when you exited your bedroom. You look up at him.
“Canelita,” you say, grinning.
Miguel nods. “Growing up, my mom said it helped with cramps. It used to help my…” he trails off.
You nod. “Yeah, my grandma used to say that, too.” You pause as you inhale the sweetness of cinnamon. “Thank you…” you reply, with sincerity, still meeting his eyes.
Miguel only nods. You drink the warm liquid, enjoying the warmth that spreads down your throat, chest, and finally your stomach. As it settles in your stomach, you feel warm and cozy.
Miguel clears his throat then and looks down at his gizmo. “Well – I should get going. I have some things to catch up on,” he says turning his attention back to you.
You nod as you place the mug on the counter gently and get up. He walks out of the kitchen portion and heads to the middle of the room. He starts clicking on his gizmo, presumably starting a multidimensional portal. You walk towards him, leaving some distance, of course. He looks up at you as the portal appears in the middle of your apartment behind him.
You clear your throat. “Hey – I just wanted to say thank you… For everything. I know Jessica asked you to check up on me, but you did much more than that. I truly appreciate it,” you say, hoping that you’re fully expressing how grateful you are.
You can’t help but think about how you’d probably still be in bed right now. Miguel nods.
“It’s no problem…” Miguel replies, though he looks like he wants to say more. You watch, waiting but he just stares back with little emotion until he nods at you and turns around. He starts walking into the portal. The bright lights coming from the portal create shadows in your apartment. You watch wordlessly until he looks behind his shoulder. “Don’t forget – don’t mention it to Jessica. She can be weird about being thanked sometimes.”
You nod. “I won’t bring it up, no worries. Thank you again. Enjoy your night!” you call out and he just nods before he disappears into the portal. The portal disappears a few seconds after him, taking away its shadows with it.
You sigh as you stand there for a few more seconds before taking a seat again on the counter island. You drink more canelita, still cherishing the warm feeling. You look at the stove. Everything is in containers and there’s no sight of dirty pans, pots, or utensils.
“Cooked and washed the dishes…” you say to yourself before taking a sip again.
Your attention turns to the cabinet you found him fixing earlier. You get up and walk towards it. You open it with no issue. You think about all the little nicks this kitchen has. Like the drawer that doesn’t come out fully or the other cabinet door that makes a noise every time you open it. Curiosity gets the best of you because before you know it, you are pulling said drawer. Your lips part in surprise as the drawer fully slides out without issues. You check the other cabinet door. No sound.
You sigh as you look around, your eyes landing on the containers. One of them is full of leftover pasta and the other one contains the canelita. Your thoughts are interrupted as you hear your gizmo go off. You turn in the direction it came from, trying to remember where you left it last night. You are usually very careful with it but last night you barely made it through the door.
You find the gizmo on the console table in the living room section of your apartment. You realize there are a few messages from your colleagues like Hobie, Miles, Ben, and Jessica. You quickly reply to the first three who asked about your whereabouts before you move to Jessica’s. You realize she sent multiple messages all ranging from asking how your last mission went to why you weren’t answering to asking if you were okay. The last one makes you stop. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as you read it.
“Okay… You haven’t replied to any of my messages. Do I need to send someone to check on you? You’ve been MIA all day. Let me know you’re okay!!”
You look up towards where the portal was opened just minutes ago. You shake your head and reply to Jessica, notifying her about what happened. You leave out Miguel though. You put away your gizmo in its usual spot and look around your apartment, thinking. The lamps in the living room section are still on, the record player has stopped playing, however.
“Hm.”
---------------------------------------------
Might do part two. If it matters, I listened to "Nonviolent Communication" from the ATSV album as inspiration. Such a lovely song for Miguel, I think.
Translation for italicized words:
Coño - fuck (it varies by country)
Mierda - Shit
Canelita - a tea made out of cinnamon sticks
I love Miguel O'Hara. That's all.
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ddejavvu · 8 months
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PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE can we get reader being harassed by some guy in an alleyway and hotch is walking by with the team (perhaps going to get drinks after wrapping up a case) AND HE LIKE STEPS IN AND THREATENS THE GUY?? MAYBE EVEN FLASHES HIS BADGE OR SM. Basically I'm thirsty for some protective!hotch <3
You're reminded of how unpredictable life can be when you're yanked backwards unexpectedly, tugged into the darkness of a shadowed alley between two buildings. Five seconds before you'd been thinking about dinner, and now you're not sure you'll live to see another meal.
"Cash," The man grunts, his mouth pressed to your ear as his arm cuts tight around your neck, "I need cash."
"My- my bag," You whimper, frozen stiff in fear and rendered useless, "I- I don't have much, but you- you can take it."
He throws you forwards, ripping your bag off of your shoulder in one fluid motion. He rifles through it while you relearn the art of breathing, but before he can pull your measly collection of bills from the inside pocket of your wallet, there's a gun over your shoulder pointed at his head.
For a moment, you're so dazed that you honestly think you might be holding it. But you don't have a gun, and your wrist doesn't have the dark, wiry hair on it that you see beneath a grey sleeve of whoever's got the weapon.
"Drop the purse, and the knife." A voice booms through the alleyway, deep and firm. If it was directed at you, you'd spook like a horse, and your assailant looks properly terrified.
"It's just a little cash, man," Your attacker tries, "I- I know her! She's my girlfriend."
Your savior knows he's lying before you shake your head vigorously, but you do it anyways, because sitting there and doing nothing feels wrong.
"You've already assaulted someone in front of a federal agent, don't make it worse for yourself by lying about it, too. You're lucky I don't have my cuffs with me or I'd haul you into the back of my SUV and take you down to the station right now. Instead, you're going to drop the purse, and the weapon, and run as fast as you can, because the more time you sit there and let me look at you, the better my chances are of describing you to a sketch artist and placing a warrant out for your arrest."
By the middle of the man's speech, your attacker is trembling just as much as you are. He drops your bag and his knife on command, barely avoiding tripping over the edge of the gutter drain as he flees the scene.
As soon as the gun isn't necessary anymore, the man behind you stashes it in a holster, but you can't see, your back feels permanently adhered to the wall you'd backed up against.
"You're okay," The man assures you, and his voice is much more soothing at a softer tone. He bends to gather your purse, tucking a tube of chapstick back into its confines before holding it out as a peace offering to you.
"He's gone," He promises, ducking down where your eyes are stuck to peer worriedly at you. He has a handsome face, but it's pinched in concern, big brown eyes dripping with care, "And I will put that warrant out for his arrest. Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"
"No," You breathe, still pressed to the wall even as you shake your head, "No, he- Thank you, I- I don't know what I would have done without you."
"I usually show up to these things a little late," He grimaces, dropping your purse back down to his side and holding out an empty hand instead, "Can I help you get where you were going?"
"Home." You mutter, "I was- I was going home. After work."
"I can drive you there, if you'd like." He offers, pleased when you reach out with a shaky hand to take his own, "Or we can walk, whichever you prefer. I just want to make sure nothing else happens."
"Um, I- I can pay for a ride. Here," You take your purse back, tugging a bill out that you're lucky to still possess, "If- it's just down the street, if you really don't mind."
"Keep it," He pushes your hand back towards your purse, "I just stopped a guy from taking your money, I'm not gonna do the same. My car's right outside, okay? Let me help you there. And- uh," He rifles through his jacket, "I wasn't lying about being an agent." He showcases a black-covered badge, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner written in bold lettering beneath his name, "You'll be safe with me."
"Okay," You nod, accepting the hand that he holds your arm with to ease you off of the wall and onto your shaky legs, "Uh, thank you, Agent- Hotchner."
"No need." He murmurs, eyes scanning the crowd to make sure there's no sign of your assailant, "Let's just get you home safe, honey."
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reds-skull · 6 months
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Thank youuu
I love them too, I'm thinking of having them as a big brother/little brother duo maybe?? Anyway here's them buying tea for the base like stereotypical Brits
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Ok first time I read this my heart melted because it's so sweet :]
I keep thinking up aus for mw2, but they're all too complicated for a one-off comic, and I just finished a series so I'm not doing another one for the time being. But I had a superpower au for them, that I'm gonna explain under a read more because I know it's gonna be long lmao
But before that thank you for everyone again! I read all your lovely comments and they warm my heart <333
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SO in this au, some people gain powers the first time they die. The powers are based on how they died (also when they die they meet these cool eldritch beings called reapers that have a little chat with them to decide if they're worthy of those powers).
Soap died from an explosion. Got blown out of a building. So his powers are explosion resistance and creation. His fingertips are always on fire because he's practically blowing the air around them all the time.
Gaz fell off a helicopter :( so now he can manipulate gravity, either objects around him or himself. He also floats a few inches off the ground most times.
Price was kinda hard for me to decide but I ended up making him die by abandonment. Now he can telepathically communicate with people.
And Ghost... he died in that coffin. Got pulled out by a reaper and received the powers to control limbo, the space between life and death. He's not authorized to use them unless he's alone, so he gets sent on solo missions only, until Price recruits him to the 141.
That is, until he pairs up with Ghost.
Before being recruited to the 141, Soap mainly defused bombs. Since, even if it's too late, he won't die. Thing is, Soap still gets hurt. His bones get crushed, his heart stops, his limbs get torn apart. He does heal, but the worse the injury, the longer it takes.
That made him kinda depressed. Because he felt like a glorified bomb robot. Except he's cheaper, since it doesn't cost the military any money when he fails to defuse on time.
Ghost isn't immune to bombs. He himself doesn't enter limbo, since that traps anything alive.
He and Soap go on a mission where intel suggests the enemy has rigged various explosives around the intel they need. They split up, Soap goes to defuse them and Ghost slowly makes his way through the facility.
And Ghost does help him. But he treats him like he would a regular, non-powered human. Stops when he's in too much pain, encourages him through it. Does his best to stop the bleeding.
Ghost completes his objective, but Soap gets spotted by an enemy and detonates the bomb he's working on to save himself.
Ghost find Soap after he fails to sitrep, impaled by a rebar. He whimpers and begs Ghost to help him off it, since he can't heal.
Because Ghost sees him as human. He watched as Soap kept trying to make jokes with him, but more importantly, how he treated him no differently from anyone else.
Soap, for his side, isn't used to that... gentleness. And that's how his interest in Ghost begins.
They exfil and return to base. A few months pass, and Ghost keeps an eye on one Soap MacTavish. Looks through his medical records, past missions. Finds out just how much he suffers through.
But Ghost isn't his commending officer, so he can't do anything. Until he's approached by his captain, John Price. He brings up the option of adding a new member to the taskforce. He gives Ghost the candidates he considered, Soap was brought up, Ghost stops him and states that he would agree to a new member if it was Soap.
Now if I had like, better writing abilities I would have absolutely written this as a fic. Butttt I don't and even if I did, I don't have confidence in them so I won't. But this idea is now out there and you can do whatever you want with it.
Also I got like a lot more sketches of this au but I only posted the ones I made for the ask.
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owliellder · 7 months
Text
The Finer Details
Post DI! Leon Kennedy x f! Painter Reader
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MDNI 18+
(Session 1, Session 2, Session 3, Session 4, Session 5, The Reveal)
Description: Leon realizes that retirement is in his best interest now that he's getting older. All of his accomplishments as an agent mean he's truly earned a painting to commemorate..
Warnings: Not Proofread, Age gap! (reader is anywhere between mid-late 20's and Leon is 40), Porn w/ Plot, Use of she/her pronouns, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Alcoholism, mentions of trauma/PTSD/depression, P in V smut (wrap it NEOW), Leon cries during sex 💔
Tags: Older Leon Kennedy, Younger afab!Reader, Leon is SAD but he is your muse, Crying, mentions of Leon masturbating, starts off with Dom! Leon and Sub! Reader, falls into switch territory because that man needs some serious TLC, Praise kink, Hickeys, Handjob, Nipple play, Oral sex (m! and f! receiving), and a heavy dose of Aftercare
Author Note: I wanna say there's some pretty descriptive talk about depression in this chapter, just as a heads up. Anyways, it's my weekend and I'm going to be absolutely zooted every single day so the next chapter will most likely be out Monday morning PST lol.
Cross-posted on AO3
Session 3: Blocking In Color
It was nearly three weeks until you saw Leon again.
You tried to call him a couple days after he'd left that day, a few more times over the following week, but to no avail. The man was unreachable.
Even though you did your best to convince yourself that you just wanted to get his painting started, "It was an important one", you knew that you were really just worried about him.
You've seen this kind of dismay with the other retired agents that've had a portrait painted in the past, but they at least recognized what they'd been through.
Leon hasn't. You could just tell.
Looking over the sketches you made of his face, you couldn't help but wonder what exactly he'd been thinking about the last time he was here. He seemed so bothered, acting like he was hiding it so well, too.
Then again, you did drop a rather large bombshell on the guy while he was in a pretty vulnerable state, but you thought he knew what the portrait he was going to receive was suppose to mean. Again, most of the retired agents you'd seen were similar to Leon in that regard and even they at least had a basic grasp on the finality of it all. So why didn't he?
You nursed your bottom lip, still staring at the sketches laying in front of you while you sat at one of your desks in the corner. You normally don't come to your workspace unless you're actively painting, yet you'd shown up everyday in hopes Leon would randomly pop in. He seemed like the kind of guy to just kind of show up, anyways...
If you had just gotten a picture that day you've could've at least started working out the positioning for his portrait. Unfortunately, he wasn't in any position mentally to put up with anymore of your shenanigans at the time, it seemed.
You really did try your best to get ahold of Leon, eventually giving up a few days ago. You'd already emailed the President, who had been the one to personally commission you unlike with previous ex-agents, letting him know that it's going to be longer than expected. Thankfully he was understanding, knowing rather well how much the whole retirement thing was weighing on Leon.
You'll come back tomorrow and try again. Even the next day, and the day after that if you have to, and so on and so forth.
Guilty. That's all Leon felt right now.
He's been shelled up in his house since the moment he got home after leaving your building, withering away by the minute.
He hadn't showered, barely eaten, only ever really pulling himself from what little comfort his room offered to grab whatever bottle he touched first in the cabinet. Leon didn't care, just as long as it was something.
Chris had been over a couple times after he stopped responding to his messages, doing his best to get him out of the house. Claire had been over a few times more than her brother had, bringing groceries once she'd heard about the sad state Leon was keeping himself in.
It broke both their hearts, but they could only do so much for him. Leon was stubborn, head strong, he wasn't the kind to sway to many forces. He had somehow gaslit himself into thinking he was doing well. "Just peachy", even.
Clearly that wasn't the case, both Chris and Claire could see that. They'd have to be blind not to.
Having been in contact with Leon's government-assigned therapist, Chris tried to set up an at-home meeting for him one day. That turned out to be a disaster seeing as Leon was bordering on blackout drunk and could barely keep his eyes open. Not to mention the vomiting.
Claire even tried to bathe Leon. She only got far enough to wash his hair in his kitchen sink, using his vomit-covered mouth as an excuse to keep him over the sink long enough to shampoo his greasy, stringy hair.
All of it was weighing on him too much. He felt so guilty for making his friends feel like they had to babysit him, ignoring everyone's calls and messages, your calls and messages. That kind of thought process quickly spiraled into him reliving the worst days of his life, having to through suffer so many flashbacks and nightmares, not sleeping because of it. He rarely ever felt safe enough to get under the covers on his bed.
None of this is what he wanted. If it were up to him, he'd start all over; be twenty-one again, work as a cop, maybe get promoted a few times, find a girlfriend, start a family, have a normal life. Why couldn't he have that?
Staying awake night after night, Leon would stare at the ceiling in his bedroom and fantasize about the wonderful life he could've had, the happy memories he could've made. It would make him weep, longing for something that never could've been.
Instead, Leon was stuck with endless images of horror, death, and gore every time he blinked, and oh was he bitter about it all. So bitter, so angry, so...
Feeling sorry for himself was all he could do now. Sure, he killed all those monsters and zombies, saved all those people, not once did he think about himself through the years. Now he had all the time in the world to question and wonder, and having to think about himself and what he wanted most made him feel like a needy, greedy bastard.
But wasn't he allowed to be greedy, if only just a little? He had wants, needs, and though he wanted so desperately to change his past, he knew he couldn't. So, what did he want now? That, he didn't know.
Guilty for feeling this way, guilty for wanting different, guilty for wanting anything good for himself.
It took the better part of those two weeks for Leon to finally muster up some form of energy to stumble into his bathroom and shower one afternoon, dizzy and nauseous. The light emanating from the rest of his house was blinding, not having even bothered to close the shades he had on any of his windows. His room was kept a cave and that's where he stayed.
Leon now found himself sitting down in the shower just like before he'd decided to retire, only this time it was mostly to keep from slipping and dying. The last thing he needed anyone to see was him naked and dead in the shower. Embarrassing.
His thoughts at the moment were shallow, still pretty drunk from his bender, head lulling back and forth a bit as his vision spun. He was finally hungry again, the heat from the shower making that all the more obvious as he grew lightheaded, but he didn't know what he wanted.
After managing to actually crawl his way out of the shower, he dug through the pile of dirty laundry at the end of his bed, finding a pair of boxers that didn't smell too terrible to put on.
Leon used the wall heavily for support to walk out into his kitchen, muttering curses under his breath at just how bright it was. Opening his freezer, he stared at the meal prep containers left by Claire, grabbing one to attempt and read what she'd wrote on the sticky note attached to the lid.
That's right... She made him little meals, even putting them in the freezer so they didn't go bad as fast. All he had to do was put it in the microwave.
Simple enough, he could do that.
The one he chose was meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Just the sound of it had his stomach rumbling and his mind craving the comforting taste of a home cooked meal.
The first few bites in made Leon feel nauseous again, but once those bites hit his stomach the feeling immediately gave way to just how hungry he actually was.
He tried to pace himself, he really did try, yet he managed to devour the food in front of him in a matter of minutes, only pausing every few seconds to breathe. It felt so good, something warm in his stomach. Filling in all the right ways. Once he finished, he pushed the empty container away and just laid his head down sideways on the cool countertop, closing his eyes as he let the food settle.
As much as he wanted to degrade himself for acting this way, reducing himself to such a weird and pathetic state, Leon didn't have the mind to. All he knew right now was that the warmth that the meal Claire made him. Not to sound cliche, but he genuinely believed he could taste the love cooked into it.
For the first time in what was now two and a half weeks, Leon was awake and alert when Chris and Claire came over again. He'd eaten everything Claire made, holding all the now cleaned containers out to her. It was a silent plea for more, and lucky for Leon, she had just made another grocery trip for him.
Unbeknownst to him, Claire had been cooking here at his house. This entire time he thought she'd been bringing the meals over, assumed to be leftovers from cooking for her family. She did confess to hoping the smell of the food cooking would pull him from his room. It didn't, much to her dismay, but now she was just glad he was up and eating again.
As soon as Leon tried to apologize for dragging her away from her family, she was quick to shut him down with that mom stare she'd developed after having her kids. It worked, especially on him.
Chris was busy chatting up Leon while Claire cooked him another set of meals for the next week. It was hard to converse, but Leon did manage to nod and him as the other man talked about some random encounter he had the other day while out driving.
It was strange to feel so lively again. Those thoughts still clung to the back of his mind, though all he could focus on were his friends taking care of him like one of their own. Leon feels like he's been a terrible friend lately, seems as though the siblings standing in his kitchen didn't feel the same. He wasn't showing it, but Leon was definitely holding back a smile.
A couple hours had past, Chris opting to stay with Leon and eat lunch since Claire had to head back and help her husband with something.
The hug Claire gave Leon was phenomenal. After the hug he shared with you he's been craving that physical contact more than ever, so finally getting another good squeeze from a friend was boosting his mood.
Chris and him sat, ate, and talked about whatever came to mind, eventually asking about you.
"How's the painting coming along? Do you like the painter?" He smiled, looking at Leon with wide, curious eyes. That man always had a smile gracing his features.
Leon shrugged, taking a sip from the water he poured himself not too long ago. He was pretty dehydrated after solely drinking alcohol for the past couple weeks. "She's alright. Haven't started the painting yet."
Chris raised an eyebrow, placing his arms on the counter and crossed them as he leaned forward slightly. "Just 'alright'?" he emphasized the word "alright" with air quotes, which caused Leon to scoff.
"What else do you want me to say? I've seen her twice so far and its been fine." Leon lifted his hands up in confusion, palms facing the ceiling as he watched the man sitting next to him rolled his eyes dramatically. "C'mon, she was amazing for Claire and I- Okay, how about this..."
Chris repositioned himself so his entire upper body was facing him now, leaning in a little closer to ask another question. "Do you like the room she works in? Cause I thought it was pretty comfy. When she was focusing on Claire's part of the portrait, I took a nap over on that rug she had. All those pillows mixed with the classical music knocked me the fuck out."
He laughed, shaking his head at memory before looking over at Leon again. "So...? And don't lie to me, I saw that pillow on your couch."
Leon sucked on his teeth and hummed, glancing over his shoulder at his couch. "It's cozy, yeah." He brought his head back forward, patting his hands gently against the counter.
The two chatted for awhile longer before Chris eventually had to leave, giving Leon a firm pat on the shoulder while shaking him a bit. After he left, Leon was left to sit alone and think again, only difference now is he felt better. He was crazy tired, his social battery quickly drained from having his friends around, but he felt good nonetheless.
He wasn't ready at the time, yet after a sober night with solid sleep, Leon woke up the next morning and decided to just text you, hoping you weren't mad at him. Calling would've been too much at that moment, not even have listened to the voicemails you left, or anyone's, for that matter.
His chest felt tight after sending the text, but it was quickly eased about ten minutes later when you responded with nothing but enthusiasm. The smiley face you added at the end of your message made him smile, quickly wiping it away with his hand.
Your next session was arranged two days ahead of time in the late afternoon. Leon wanted to give himself enough time to recollect since he needed to look his best the following weeks. You told him it was time to start with the main painting, which you still needed a picture for.
During that time he finally shaved his stubble, went out and got his hair trimmed, tackled all the laundry he'd neglected, and got his best suit dry cleaned. All thoughts aside, he felt good and wanted to stay this way.
Needless to say, Leon was jittery when he pulled up to your workplace again. He was finally letting himself feel excited again about this painting. If it's anything close to what Chris and Claire's portrait is, then that excitement will only continue to grow the further along you get.
You were already there waiting for him at the door, a gentle smile on your face. That wonderful soft perfume that he missed reaching his nose once more as you lead him up the stairs and through the other door. Chris was right, if he had the opportunity, he'd take a nap on your rug. It looked mighty comfy.
Leon was thankful you didn't ask any questions on his whereabouts, he wasn't ready to talk. You were just as excited as he was about getting the painting started, if not more. Watching you eagerly move back and forth between the larger easel and your desks was a refreshing sight to the man.
You stood at your easel for a couple minutes, just silently looking from the blank canvas to where he was sat. You told him to get into a comfortable position, prompting him rest his right leg on his left knee, leaning back and to the side so he was sitting at a slight angle, arms resting on the chair's armrests.
You stared at him for a few seconds, tilting your head side to side with your eyes squinted. "Let me just-" you spoke in a hushed voice, walking over to Leon before cautiously reaching out to rest one hand on the underside on his chin while the other hovered over the side of his face.
You weren't an idiot, you knew what his absence was from. So you made sure to be careful with him, knowing he was probably still pretty fragile. Only gentle and cautious touches for Mr. Kennedy.
So close yet so far. His skin tingled in your hands wake, and god he hoped you couldn't notice his blush.
You could, but you wouldn't say anything. Besides, you weren't faring well yourself, hands a little shaky as you touched his face.
Leon just let you move his head to whatever position you wanted, his eyes now half-lidded as you had walked back a couple times to get just the right angle. You pulled away for a final time with a small "aha!" and he wished you would hold his head for just a little longer.
The floor where your easel sat was marked with an 'X' made with painter's tape, making it easy for you to stay in the right spot for the photo once you pushed the easel out of the way.
"Don't move." You held your hands up after analyzing his position, quickly hurrying over the corner opposite of your desks to grab a bulky camera that sat atop a tall tripod. You worked as fast as you could, knowing as long as you had a picture with him in this position then this whole process would go so much smoother.
You didn't even have to ask Leon to smile or look up at the camera since he was sitting there with a rather dopey smile, his eyes remaining trained right on yours. Nice and natural. He looked relaxed which is exactly what you wanted.
Just as a precaution, you took multiple pictures, giving him a thumbs up once you figured you'd gotten enough. His head back to rest on the chair at the okay, listening to the sound of you walk over to your laptop after untwisting the camera from the tripod. You printed out 3 copies of the photograph and taped one to a stand you had brought over to sit next to the easel, making sure it sat eye level to you.
The ball was finally rolling, now having what you needed to start with the main sketch. When Leon lifted his head up, he noticed that you were ready, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose while he shifted a little to get back in just the right position.
You twirled your pencil between your fingers before beginning to roughly sketch out the chair, eyebrows furrowing as you focused. Leon could see your expression, how intensely you zoned into your work. It was incredibly admirable and he found himself fully content in just watching you do your thing.
It didn't take long before you had sketched out his general shapes, now walking over to take the sketches you made of his face out of your sketchbook to clip up right next to the reference photo. The more finer details would be added later, but you wanted to get just the basic shapes of his face.
That didn't take long either, because before Leon knew it, you were telling him it was okay to talk. He was pretty animated with his hands when he talked, so you kept him quiet until now.
"Am I easy to draw?" Leon spoke with an almost sultry tone after a few seconds of you telling him he could speak. It threw you off only a bit, carding your fingers through your hair as you took one step back to look at what you had so far.
"I wanna say yes and no." You responded, catching his questioning look from the corner of your eye. "You're easy to sketch out, yes, but your hair is giving me trouble." You could hear a low chuckle rumble from his chest as you stepped back forward. "Hey, you asked." You laughed back.
"I know, I know." He shook his head with a poorly hidden grin, tilting his head down to try and hide it a little better. You immediately pointed your pencil at him, not taking your eyes off the canvas. "I said you could talk, not move." Your sarcastic tone made him chuckle again, slowly lifting his head back up with a sigh.
"Yes, ma'am." You could just hear the smirk in his words, causing you to let out a sigh of your own.
By the time the sun had started to set, you had blocked out all the simple colors for the painting. Right now, it just looked like a very bland and abstract painting. It'll come together, slowly but surely. Trust the process, as people say.
Leon was in awe already, having stood up to look at your progress as you washed your hands over in the small bathroom. Oil paints smeared something fierce and as much as you loved your job, you did not want feel oily at home.
"It already looks stunning." You heard the man say from where he stood in front of the easel. It wasn't quite registering in his brain that it was him on that canvas just yet, but hopefully soon it would.
He wanted to recognize himself in something as wonderful as your art.
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Text
Spilled Ink
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Pairing: Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!reader
Word Count: 7.5k
Summary: Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.
Warnings: Lots of tattoo talk, obviously, which includes needles, tattoo guns, pain, mention of bleeding, etc.; reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent because I said so; yearning; lots of kissing; Marcus Pike being a goddamn menace and he fucking knows it
A/N: @kedsandtubesocks made a post about Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike (original post HERE) and then I wrote 7.5k words in 12 hours, as one does. All credit for the idea goes to the amazing Erika who entrusted me with this idea and THANK GOD SHE DID because I don't think I could have gotten it out of my stupid brain otherwise. Header pics credit go to Erin @perotovar, who made these with Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike in mind and I'm just WOOFWOOFBARKBARKBARKBARKHOWL. Thanks also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who suffers through HOURS of me sending screenshots every time I write anything. Love you <3
Additional Note on Canon: I am pretending that we never got to see Marcus Pike in short sleeves in the show despite it happening twice. He has full sleeves on both his arms in this fic that he covered up during his time working at the FBI. Because sleeves are hot and I said so.
Masterlist
It’s not unusual, these days, to wander down the sidewalk staring at your phone. Some people are texting. Some people are reading the news–because hey, this is D.C. Others, like you on this brisk morning, are watching the little blue dot on a tiny representation of the city streets, trying to find the address you had typed into the search bar.
A text box pops up, informing you of your arrival, and you finally look up.
No wonder it took you so long to find the place–it’s hardly what you expected at all. You always picture tacky neon signs, bars on the windows, undesirables milling about on the street, smoking cigarettes.
Okay, so you admittedly don’t actually know much about tattoos.
All you know is that you want one–a fact you confessed to a friend over lunch the other week: a conversation that led you here.
“Okay, so get one,” she had said bluntly.
“It’s not all that simple,” you had protested. 
“Why?”
“It’s just… it seems like a lot. Mentally. Physically. I’m not sure I have what it takes.”
“They don’t hurt that bad,” your friend had insisted.
“I’m not just talking about that, I’m talking about… y’know, just everything. The noise. New people. Strangers touching me. It just doesn’t seem like something I’ll be able to do.”
“Oh. Ohhh. Because of the… yep. Actually I might have something for you,” she said, taking out her phone and scrolling through that app that drives you crazy–it’s overstimulation in a convenient package–full of noise, chaos, and flashing lights. 
She must have seen you pull a face, because she held out her hand placatingly. 
“Just finding the name of the place, hang on. It’s a shop right here in DC that went ‘viral’ for this video of a guy with autism who wanted a tattoo to commemorate his dad, but he was only comfortable lying on the floor–so the tattoo artist just… got on the floor with him! It was really cute, and anyway I guess he caters to all sorts of people, so… I dunno. Check it out.”
And here you are. Checking it out.
The words “Government-Issued Ink” are spelled out on large windows, and the punny name–apt for its location not far from the Capitol–makes you snort. 
The shop is bright, warm, and inviting–tearing down your outdated preconceptions that tattoo places must always be run-down, dark, and dingy. It’s also empty this early in the morning, save for a lone figure in the back, seated at a well-worn desk, his head pitched forward over his work.
He’s so enveloped in whatever he’s sketching that he must not have heard the light ringing of the bell as you had entered. You watch him for a few moments–taking in the graceful movements of his hand and the way his fingers grasp the pen. He’s dressed in a plain blue button-down dress shirt, which also doesn’t fit your assumed archetype of ‘Tattoo Artist.’ You can’t see his face; his head is leaning forward too much and a few short locks of dark brown hair obscure your view.
Suddenly wondering if you’re being incredibly rude, staring at someone without announcing your presence, you open your mouth to introduce yourself.
“Um.”
While not exactly eloquent, it serves its purpose. The man startles and looks up in surprise.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet and letting the pen clatter carelessly to the desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s okay,” you shake your head rapidly. “I was, um…” You blink a few times, your nerves getting the better of you as the man comes around his desk to approach the front of the store.
“Interested in a walk-in consultation?” he offers, holding out his hands in a gesture that could either be an open invitation or a shrug.
“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I was thinking about getting, uh, a tattoo, and I was told this shop was… good. With tattoos. And other stuff.”
“Other stuff?” he chuckles, smiling warmly. 
“You know… with people who… might not be good at getting tattoos.”
“What makes you think you aren’t ‘good at getting tattoos?’”
“A hunch,” you shrug, expelling a little huff of laughter through your nose. “I was told to ask for a Marcus Pike?”
The man’s smile widens. “You’re looking at him.”
Oh. You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Marcus Pike is well-dressed and clean-cut, almost startlingly so. You scan up and down, looking for any sign that this man could possibly be a tattoo artist, but the only evidence you can find is a small black target inked between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Don’t… tattoo artists usually have more ink? Of course, with him almost completely covered from head to toe, you obviously can’t create a full picture of Marcus’s skin, but the fact that he wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nearby government buildings still takes you by surprise.
You realize you haven’t said anything in response, but Marcus doesn’t seem to be bothered by your deer-in-headlights stare. Instead, he grins again and steps sideways, extending his arm in a silent invitation to come deeper into the shop.
“Come on in. If you’d like, go ahead and sit wherever you want, and we can talk about it. No pressure,” he promises. “I’m not here to push ink on you like a used car salesman; I’m here to collaborate with you. Figure out what you really want. And, if what you want ends up being ‘nothing,’ I totally support that, too.”
There’s something innate and intrinsic about Marcus Pike that sets you completely at-ease. You cast your eyes around, taking in the eclectic seating in the shop–all mismatched, all different colors, styles, and shapes, but all looking incredibly comfortable and inviting. You settle on a giant turquoise beanbag that seems to swallow you whole when you sink down into it, and Marcus grins and sits down in the bright yellow saucer chair beside it. 
“So at the very least, you’re thinking about a tattoo,” Marcus leads. “Can you tell me about that?”
You nod, feeling encouraged by his openness. “Yeah, so… my mom, she passed away a couple of years ago, and it just seemed like I should… memorialize her in some way. Like, in a way that leaves its mark on me like she left a mark on me, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of getting some kind of permanent art that commemorates her.”
“That’s a great idea,” Marcus says softly. “Lots of people choose to do that after losing a loved one.”
“Yeah, the only problem is that I’m not good with um… noise, or people touching me, or… pain, really,” you confess. “I’m like, the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.”
Marcus chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I think anyone can get a tattoo done if they want it, provided they get it done in a way that feels safe and comfortable.”
“My friend, she uh, recommended your shop because apparently you’ve done some stuff for people with autism and it went viral on TikTok…” you ramble, “and I thought maybe that meant you’d be a good fit for… for me.”
Understanding flickers in Marcus’s expression, and he nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I hope so,” he says with quiet earnesty. 
A beat passes–just a few seconds of silence–but something small and soft and warm settles down between the two of you, and the comforting feeling sinks down into the pit of your stomach and stays there, latent and waiting.
“So, let’s talk design,” Marcus announces. “Do you have anything in mind? Any images or ideas, however vague? I can do anything from replicating designs to building something completely from scratch for you.”
“I like the idea of it being a unique piece,” you tell him.
“I prefer original designs too,” he says. “Not to sound incredibly cheesy, but there’s no one like you, you know? In–In the general sense, of course.” He chuckles sheepishly, looking down at his hands. “I like knowing each person that comes in here leaves with something unique. Something all their own—I’m rambling,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “One thing about me is that I talk too much. Anyway–did you have any ideas you can share with me about what you’d like?”
“I don’t have a good image in my mind,” you confess anxiously. After all, how can he build a design based on the swirling, disjointed images in your brain? “I think I want it to be colorful, like she was. And… I keep getting thoughts about, I dunno, the cyclical nature of life, something corny like that.”
Marcus laughs. “Sometimes the corny stuff is what sticks with us. So, colorful and commenting on the cyclical nature of life,” he lists off on his fingers, still grinning. “Anything else?”
“I’ve looked through your galleries online,” you tell him. “You have a few that look like watercolor paintings, and I really love how they look.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna throw out an idea—Feel free to tell me ‘no,’ because I’m just brainstorming here, but I keep thinking about a tree of life. The leaves could easily be done in watercolor and could be any combination of colors you want.” His right hand twitches–as if reaching for a phantom pen–as he speaks, and his gaze seems to be fixed on a spot on the wall, his eyes glimmering with enthusiasm as he starts to speak faster.
“You could have the leaves and the roots connecting on the sides, making a circle, maybe even having her birth date and death date embedded in the roots…” He blinks rapidly a few times, as if dispelling the image from his head. “Anyway. That’s a possibility.”
“I think that’s amazing,” you say softly, watching Marcus with something like amazement in your expression. “Actually… I really like that idea. It sounds… perfect.”
“Oh,” he intones softly, looking at you in surprise as a bright, toothy smile breaks across his face. “Oh. Well then, let’s do it, huh? One final question: where do you envision getting it?”
“I was thinking on my shoulder. Here,” you indicate, pressing your hand to the skin of your upper arm. “That way it’s visible when I want it to be, but easily hidden if for some reason it needs to be.”
“That’s perfect,” Marcus says. “Plus, the circular design will go really well there. Okay. Great. Um, some things to know about the process. We’ll exchange emails, and you can contact me at any time with any questions, concerns, ideas, changes, anything. In the meantime, I’ll get started on a design for you, and I’ll share initial sketches that you can give feedback on before I move to the final stages of the design. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maximum, depending on any changes you ask for. My only request is that you’re always honest with your feedback–don’t tell me you like something when you don’t. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.” He grins widely. “After that, you book an appointment on a day that works best for you. I almost always book the whole day for the appointment to factor in time for copious breaks and making sure you feel comfortable. Does that work for you?”
You nod eagerly.
“Last question,” Marcus says. “Is it okay if I get a close-up picture of your upper arm? That way I can make sure it fits the curvature of your arm, it’s the right size, stuff like that.”
“Mhmm,” you nod again, pressing your lips together and trying not to look nervous. Thank god you wore a sleeveless top under your sweater.
“Only if you’re comfortable,” he insists.
“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, removing just the one arm from your outer layer and pulling it aside. 
You watch as Marcus grabs a little ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera from his desk and comes back to your side.
“This is just used for design purposes,” he promises. “I delete them after the design is done.”
“I trust you.”
His resulting expression could light an entire room. “Thank you,” he answers quietly. “Okay. Super close-up, just your arm. Cool?”
“Cool,” you confirm, and you hear the camera click several times.
“Actually,” Marcus says, still staring thoughtfully at your bare shoulder. “Would it be okay if I made a couple of little marks–washable marker, of course–to make sure the dimensions are how you want them?”
Oh. You normally don’t like it when people touch you. You knew it was going to happen eventually, obviously, because how else was he going to get the design onto your skin? But it was something you had planned on working yourself up to, not something you had to do today. On the other hand, something about Marcus’s entire bearing makes you inexplicably ache to be touched by him. 
“‘No’ is an acceptable response,” he interrupts your dithering with a quiet reassurance.
And actually, that works to seal the deal for you, and your decision is made in an instant. 
“Yes. You can. That’s fine.” And, to your surprise, you mean it.
Marcus seems just as surprised at your answer–his eyebrows shoot upward almost comically at your response.
“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s perfect. Hang on.” He jumps up again to retrieve a black marker–from what was clearly a children’s set of washable markers. He meets your eyes, and again you take in that sincere, earnest, patient look that endeared you to this man from the moment you entered the little shop.
“Is it okay if I touch your arm?” he asks quietly, still watching you carefully as you nod.
“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to your shoulder again. His touch, when you feel it, is just as warm as you’d imagined. He’s gentle, cautious, and when he speaks again, his voice remains at that same, soft volume and tone. “I’m envisioning being from about here–” he makes a little black dot, “–to here. What do you think?” 
You nod. It’s the perfect size–large enough to cover your shoulder but stopping just above the point where the sleeve of a regular t-shirt would hit.
“That’s perfect.”
“Okay, so that’s–” he tsks softly, measuring the distance with his finger, “–about four inches, so that same distance across, and–” he makes two more marks on either side of your shoulder. “About like that. Is that okay?”
“Yes,” you answer, smiling with enthusiasm. 
“Great! Let me just…” Marcus draws a few short lines denoting the proposed boundary of your design, and you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes you at the cool tip of the marker on your skin. 
“Sorry,” he chuckles. “One more picture?”
At your nod, the camera clicks one last time. 
“Like I said, that’ll wash off with soap, no problem,” he promises with a smile. “Thanks for that, makes it easier to scale.” He grabs two business cards off his desk and hands them to you. “Can you write your email on this one for me? And you can keep the other one. Like I said, anything you need, just email me. And uh, barring that, you’ll be hearing from me in a week or so with a rough sketch. Okay?”
You scribble down your email and hand the card back to Marcus before pulling your sweater back over your bare arm. You slip the other card into your purse and rise to your feet. “Thanks,” you say, nodding to him.
“Hey, no–thank you,” Marcus returns. “Thanks for entrusting me with this. I mean it.”
Surprising yourself, you extend your hand toward him, and, when he takes it, you feel enveloped with warmth again.
“Thanks,” repeat, a little bit more breathlessly this time, before turning and hurrying out of the shop before you can embarrass yourself any further.
Your shoulder still tingles from his touch hours later.
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Rather than it being a week before you hear from him, you receive an email from Marcus Pike just three days later.
Subject: Initial Sketch
Hello,
Please see attached. It’s just pencil for now, but I made a note of the general blocks of color I was thinking for the leaves. You’ll see what I mean when you open the file. Sorry, I know it’s a pretty rough sketch, I was just excited to get this to you. I look forward to your feedback!
Best regards,
Marcus :) 
Eagerly, you open the attachment. First of all, there’s nothing “rough” about the sketch other than the fact that it’s just penciled in. The details are already so intricate, and you find yourself smiling in amazement as you take in the design.
It’s beautiful.
Brackets, each labeled with a different color in Marcus’s neat, tidy handwriting, surround the top of the tree. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet. 
At the bottom of the image is another handwritten note: *All the colors will blend together and the result should look like a rainbow.
Tears spring, unbidden, to your eyes, as you feverishly type out your response.
Subject: Re: Initial Sketch
Marcus,
I really don’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. Made me tear up. Look forward to seeing it in color.
Thanks again!
Not even five minutes go by before your phone vibrates with another email.
Subject: Re: Re: Initial Sketch
I’m sorry if I made you cry! Obviously wasn’t my intention but I’m glad the design evokes emotion :) I’ll move forward with the design as-is and you should hear from me soon with a full-color image.
Marcus :) 
You can’t wait. The next week and a half stretches out excruciatingly, but finally, on a Wednesday evening, you receive another email. 
Subject: Final Design
Hey there!
Hope you’ve been doing well. Thought you might like to see the final design of your tattoo ;) See attached and let me know if anything needs to be changed. Be critical! Don’t hold anything back! Once we agree on a final piece, we’ll get you on the calendar.
Best regards,
Marcus :) 
Your mind skims over the fact that Marcus used a winking-face emoji in your email, because you honestly aren’t equipped to process that right now, and open the attachment instead. This time, you start crying in earnest. It’s perfect. The colors are so vibrant, and they make the tree look as though it’s in a constant state of movement. Your mom’s birth and death dates are entwined seamlessly into the roots themselves, in a way that makes them not readily apparent at first glance, but seeming to just appear out of nowhere upon further inspection. 
Subject: Re: Final Design
Marcus,
If I had any critical feedback, I would share it, I promise. But I have nothing. This is everything I’d imagined and more, and it means the world to me.
Thank you so much.
After a few more messages back and forth, you settle on a date one month out. 
You can’t wait.
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As excited as you’ve been for the past month, when you step foot back into Marcus’s little tattoo parlor, the air of finality makes your body thrum with anxiety.
You’re really doing this.
Marcus is at the back of the shop, busying himself with setting up his workspace when you enter. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley that looks just as soft as he is, and seems to complement his features even more. As soon as he hears the chimes, his head snaps up, and he grins widely. 
“Hey!” he calls out excitedly. “Just getting everything ready. Do you want something to drink before we get started? I’ve got water, juice, soda…” he trails off, waving his hand in the direction of a mini-fridge in the corner. 
“I’m okay for now.”
“Sounds good, but when we take a break, you should have some juice or something else with a bit of sugar in it, okay?” You nod, and he continues. “Okay! Where do you want to sit?”
“Don’t I have to sit in the chair over there?” you ask, gesturing to the traditional chair and bench near Marcus’s work table. 
“Not at all,” he protests. “The table is mobile, I bring it to wherever you feel comfortable.”
“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I’ll go ahead and sit in the chair, though.” Of all the options, it looks like the easiest–you aren’t entirely sure how Marcus would be able to comfortably tattoo you whilst sitting on a bean bag chair. 
“Your choice,” he insists, spreading his hands out in an open and unguarded stance.
You settle in the chair and he sits down on a rolling stool beside you. 
“Okay, so I’ve got a stencil of your design here,” Marcus says, holding up a paper with an outline of the tree for you to see. “It’ll transfer onto your skin exactly how you want it to go, and I’ll just trace it. Make sense?”
“Yep,” you nod.
“Before I do that, though, I have to make sure nothing interferes with the design, including tiny little hairs.” He holds up a pink safety razor. “Are you comfortable with me doing this for you?”
At your tentative nod of consent, Marcus leans forward and gently swipes the razor up and down your shoulder until he’s satisfied. His eyes dart between your skin and your face the entire time–making sure you’re still with him. After he’s done, he talks you through the stencil–confirming its location, gently applying it to your shoulder, and then holding up a mirror for you to approve. 
“It’s great,” you whisper excitedly.
Marcus returns your smile and begins to absentmindedly roll up his sleeves in preparation to start working–-and the question about tattoos that you’d asked yourself upon first seeing the man is suddenly and unexpectedly answered.
You can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes from you when you catch the colorful patchwork of designs on both of his forearms, disappearing under the pushed-up henley and suggesting that they go all the way up. 
Marcus catches you staring and grins, his eyes sparkling with mirth.
“I didn’t know,” you say softly. “You keep them covered up.”
“Force of habit,” Marcus shrugs. “I had a desk job for a long time.”
“Doing what?” you ask, curiously. You can’t see the man doing anything but this.
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he jokes, winking in your direction. 
Ignoring how the wink makes your heart stutter in your chest, you bark out a laugh at his answer. “What? Were you like a secret agent or something?” you tease.
“Special Agent,” he corrects, grinning. 
“Get out,” you deadpan. “I can’t imagine you as a Fed.”
Marcus shrugs, giving you another one of his boyish, crooked smiles. “Would’ve been fifteen years this year had I not finally seen the writing on the wall and run for the hills a couple of years ago.”
“What made you leave?” 
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s a long story. How sensitive are you to noise?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.
“Uh, I dunno. Kind of depends on the day and the situation,” you shrug.
“Fair. Well, I usually let newcomers listen to what the gun actually sounds like, so there are no surprises. If it’s too loud, I do have noise canceling headphones.”
And miss out on hearing Marcus’s soft-spoken reassurances? No matter how loud the tattoo gun is, you’d rather endure it just to be able to hear him talk. 
Marcus turns the instrument on, and the room is filled with a mild buzzing sound. On your worst days, admittedly, it would probably grate upon your nerves, but you’re feeling relaxed, comfortable, and excited about your new tattoo.
“It’s not bad,” you tell him truthfully. 
“Perfect,” he grins. “Are you all set to get started?”
Heart rate increasing with pleasant anticipation, you nod giddily. 
“I’m obviously gonna be touching your arm a lot,” Marcus says, “so let me know if you need a break from that, the noise, the needle, anything.” Seeing your solemn nod, he continues. “I’m gonna do a little dot right here to let you see how it feels, okay?” He gently touches his index finger to your skin to indicate where. 
“Okay.”
The gun turns on again, and Marcus presses it lightly against your skin for just a second before pulling back.
“...That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I thought it would hurt more,” you confess.
Marcus laughs. “Well, the same feeling over and over again in a small area can start to be pretty uncomfortable. I’ll check in regularly to make sure you’re still doing fine. Good?”
You smile widely. “I’m really excited.”
His smile softens, his gaze becoming warmer and more tender. “I’m glad.”
His other hand gently cradles your arm as Marcus leans in, a look of intense concentration settling over his features as he begins the design. Engrossed in his work, you take the time to study his forearms. They’re a hodgepodge of designs, clearly done at different times and by different artists, but you can see themes throughout. He likes classic styles, you can tell, and in between some of the more traditional works you can see beautiful references to an assortment of famous paintings. A Dali melting clock here. A sunflower clearly inspired by Van Gogh there. On his opposite bicep, you can just barely make out the side of one design that looks like it might be of a Greek statue. Tilting your head, you realize it’s Nike alighting on the bow of a warship, and you inhale sharply. That’s one of your favorite sculptures.
“Still okay?” Marcus asks, glancing up at you with concern in his eyes.
“Sorry.” You shake your head quickly. 
“Just checking,” he says softly. “Try to be just a little more still, okay?”
“Sorry,” you repeat, laughing sheepishly. 
“Don’t be, you’re doing great.”
You try to fight the way your entire body seems to grow warm at Marcus’s praise, but you can’t stop the way the feeling stampedes through you. You’re being ridiculous, you chastise yourself. He’s doing his job, and you’re getting all moony-eyed.
In order to distract yourself, you continue playing ‘Spot the Famous Artwork’ on Marcus’s sleeves–although, as distractions go, it’s not your best work. You can’t help but focus in on the way his forearm cords with muscle as he holds the tattoo gun, controlling each movement so delicately and precisely, creating a beautiful, intricate design on your shoulder.
After finding a bit of yellow patchwork that's clearly a reference to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss near his right elbow, you break your silence.
“You like art, huh?”
It seems like a stupid thing to say to a fucking tattoo artist of all people, and you immediately kick yourself internally for saying something so obvious. 
Marcus glances up, and, seeing how your eyes are focused on his own ink, smiles. “Always have,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to your shoulder. “Some of those are years-old.”
“Is that how you got into being a tattoo artist?” you ask.
“Sort of,” he answers, brow pinched in concentration as he continues working. “I uh, apprenticed for a shop in college to pay the bills before going to Quantico for training.”
“You’re really talented,” you tell him. “I was surprised to find out you haven’t been doing this your whole life.”
Marcus hums his appreciation as he carefully fills in a root. 
“Can I ask what made you join the FBI instead of opening your own place after college?”
He huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Parents would have killed me, going to college and then doing nothing with it.”
“Running a small business isn’t exactly doing nothing,” you point out.
“Well, public opinion on tattoos wasn’t what it is now,” Marcus says. “They were scandalized by my apprenticeship, but it paid the bills, so they couldn’t complain too loudly.”
“Was it them who wanted you to join the FBI?”
“Mm, not so much,” he murmurs. “It was more like ‘whatever you want to do, so long as you can make a lucrative career out of it.’ Being an artist wasn’t one of those things, so in lieu of becoming one myself, I decided I wanted to protect them instead.”
You scrunch up your nose. “Protect them how?”
Marcus grins up at you and waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Art crimes,” he answers. “Being an art detective was kind of in the limelight in the early ‘nineties after the famous Gardner Museum theft, and I got swept up in the craze.”
“So you spent the last fifteen-ish years recovering stolen art,” you fill in for him.
“Stolen, forged, looted, illegally traded or smuggled…” Marcus offers, not breaking his concentration again. He wasn’t wrong–the repeated drag of the needle across what felt like the same square centimeter of your skin was starting to wear on you. 
“Uh-huh,” you say, forcing the discomfort out of your tone.
Noticing the tightness in your voice immediately, Marcus’s movements stop. “Feeling okay?”
You shrug.
The gun switches off.
“You gotta be honest about how you’re feeling,” he reminds you. “I might be able to create designs based off of customers’ vague descriptions, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”
“It’s a little uncomfortable, but I can endure it,” you insist.
“There’s no need to endure something that’s painful,” Marcus argues with an amused smile. “Even if it involves choosing to repeatedly jamming a needle into your skin.”
You can’t help but laugh, and your heart swells when he joins you.
“C’mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.”
You let him lead you to the other side of the shop, where he stops in front of a large storage cabinet that you'd assumed held various supplies. When he opens it, however, you find that isn’t the case at all.
No, the entire cabinet is filled to the brim with a collection of stuffed animals just as eclectic and varied as the furniture. There's also a couple of shoeboxes filled with every manner of fidget toy you could ever imagine. 
"You can grab one, if you want. I know it might feel kind of goofy, but I promise they help with the pain."
"Okay," you breathe. Your gaze lingers first on the IKEA shark, then on a very soft-looking cactus with an adorable grumpy expression, but when your gaze lands on the largest and arguably oddest toy in the collection, your hands can't help but move toward it. 
"The big guy, huh?" Marcus laughs, taking the giant squid off of the shelf and placing it in your arms. You have to laugh at how large and ungainly it is; its massive black eyes stare vacantly back at you, but the effect is dopey, rather than menacing. 
"Where do you get all of these?" you ask in amazement. 
"Most of them are gifts from past clients, including that one," Marcus says, indicating the squid. "But I think he originally came from the Smithsonian. I was told his name is 'Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.'"
"Thank you," you say in a small, appreciative voice.
"'S'fine," Marcus shrugs. "Feel up to continuing?"
You nod, looking down at your partially-inked shoulder. "Guess you didn't get very far before I had to stop," you remark, somewhat self-deprecatingly. 
"It's not a race," your artist says earnestly. "We've got the whole day, and we go at your pace. You're paying me, after all." Another wink in your direction.
"Yeah," you nod, confidence growing again. "Yeah, okay." You plop down in your seat, with Cthulhu in your lap, and Marcus takes his place beside you. 
“Gonna turn this back on again,” he announces as the now-familiar buzz fills the room, “and I’m gonna touch your arm–” his fingers wrap warmly and gently around your skin, “–annnd here we go.” 
The needle scratches insistently against your skin, but it isn’t so bad–not really, not with the hilarious giant squid on your lap and Marcus’s gentle, soothing voice in your ear. He talks while he works, sometimes asking you questions about your own life–to which he listens intently and always seems to have follow-up questions–and sometimes telling you stories of his own. You discuss art, obviously, but also music, books, movies, and baseball of all things.
You find yourself wondering if he has this type of easy rapport with everyone who comes in, but you assume he must. He might be the most disarming person you’ve ever met, and it’s hardly a stretch to believe he’s like this with everyone. Still, there’s an ugly, jealous part of you that wishes the connection between you was unique, special. That he’s only this warm with you. 
Marcus was right–squeezing the stuffed toy on your lap is a perfect distraction from the discomfort of the needle, and before long, the sensation fades into the background. As the time drags on, though, the persistent drone of the tattoo gun causes an ache to creep in and settle between your eyes. You take in a deep breath through your nose, count to three, and exhale slowly through your mouth.
Marcus glances up, watching you for a split-second before cutting power to the gun and stretching his back with a satisfied sigh. 
“Break time,” he announces. “Hand’s getting a bit sore.” He shoots you a knowing glance and another one of those crooked smiles. “And you should probably have a little something to drink, maybe a snack.”
“Yeah, thanks,” you say gratefully as he walks over to the little fridge.
“Apple juice?” he asks, holding up a little juice box that looks slightly comical in his large hands. When you nod enthusiastically, he hands it to you.
His fingers brush yours.
If it were anyone else, you’d recoil, but it’s him. It might just be the forced proximity, but…
You’re developing quite the crush on Marcus Pike.
Shoving the thought aside for the moment, you stab the straw into the little hole and take a long sip. Marcus settles down beside you with his own choice–a little can of vegetable juice–and holds it up in a silent ‘cheers.’
Feeling emboldened, you ask the question that’s been burning in your mind since you started.
“So what made you leave the whole ‘helping other artists’ thing behind and start a tattoo business instead?”
Marcus presses his lips together, and for a moment, you fear you’ve crossed a boundary. Just before you’re about to apologize profusely, though, he speaks.
“Have you ever just… woken up one morning, and realized that everything you were working toward, everything you thought you wanted in life… was a lie?”
“I… I don’t know,” you confess quietly, surprised at the emotion behind his words.
“Happened to me,” he laughs softly. “I had moved to DC for what I thought was my dream job, with who I thought was–” he shakes his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “I had spent my entire life checking boxes: College degree? Check. Well-paying job? Check. House? Check. Check, check check. I spent so much time trying to get ahead, like life was some kind of game to be won. If I said all the right things, did all the right things, if I did everything right… I’d have the life I wanted.”
“What was the life you wanted?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“It was bullshit, is what it was. Saw one too many rom-coms as a kid, I suppose. I thought I was after the picket fence, the dog, the wife and two-point-five kids, that sort of thing. And one morning I woke up, realized that… that relentless pursuit of something I couldn’t even hold–it was all bullshit.”
“So you just… quit?”
“I quit. I wanted to create things again. I wanted to feel inspired. After a bit of uh… frantic soul-searching before I ran out of money entirely, I sold my stupid, too-big condo that I hated and bought this shop instead.”
“Did it work?”
“Well, I’m not bankrupt yet,” Marcus says dryly.
“No, I mean… did you feel inspired again?”
“I did. I do. So very much so,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and that comfortable warmth that had settled in between you the first time you had met him… grows. Mutates. Until the warm, tingling feeling feels a lot more like electricity.
An unspoken moment seems to pass through you, but then Marcus clears his throat roughly, setting the empty can aside and standing again, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Wanna keep going?”
Breathlessly, you nod. 
In no time at all, you’re settled back in the chair with one of Marcus’s warm, strong, large hands cradling your arm as the other gently wields the tattoo gun. As he starts to fill in and blend the colors, the pain starts to increase, and you worry one of the fuzzy tentacles back and forth in your hand as you grit your teeth.
“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes quietly. “The color’s the worst part, but you’re being so good for me.”
It helps you to watch him work, so you do. He’s blending in the colors now, and you watch with interest as it starts to take shape. It’s so mesmerizing that you hardly even notice the buzz of the gun or the light sting of the needle anymore.
“And you said you ‘weren’t good at tattoos,’” he teases gently, noticing your obvious interest. 
“Did I say that?” you laugh, teasing back.
“I believe your words were, ‘I’m like the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.’” he reminds you. “And look at you now, huh?”
You duck your head at his praise, unable to withstand the intensity and honesty in his gaze.
“Doing okay after all, I guess,” you say with a sheepish smile.
“You’re doing amazing,” Marcus corrects, smiling warmly. “The type of client any artist dreams of.”
You don’t know how to respond to the things this man says to you. Stunned and at a loss for words, you stare awkwardly at your hand where it still wraps around Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.
“I’m sorry.” The words are soft, concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just meant that your enthusiasm and your curiosity is the stuff that makes me want to be an artist in the first place.”
“Are you saying I inspire you?” you try to tease, but it falls flat.
Just audibly, over the hum of the tattoo gun, you hear his whispered response. 
“Yes.” 
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As Marcus wipes away the last of the stray ink on the purple bit of tree, the tattoo gun suddenly switches off. The silence is almost shocking, and you blink rapidly in confusion.
“Break time?” you ask.
Marcus chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “It’s all done.”
“It is?” you ask, although you can see the answer for yourself in the large mirrored wall to your right. 
“How’s it feel?” he asks.
“My arm kind of aches,” you confess, “but oh my God, Marcus… it’s beautiful.”
It’s his turn to preen under your praise, the tips of his ears blushing pink as he grins back at you.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Here, let me give you a little something for the pain.” 
He squeezes a glob of light-green cooling gel and coats the angry skin with the barest of touches. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up at you for confirmation.
After the harshness of the needle, the soft press of his fingers is more soothing than ever, and you have to resist the urge to sigh and melt into his touch. 
“Yes,” you whisper.
“You’re going to want to keep this covered for a couple of hours, up to overnight,” Marcus says as he carefully applies a dressing to your shoulder–still softly, but more businesslike than before as he walks you through all of the instructions for care. “Once you take this off tomorrow, you’ll probably see some fluid leaking from it–that’s totally normal. It’s blood, plasma, and extra ink, and it should stop after a few days before it starts to scab over.
 “You’ll want to keep it from drying out; I’d recommend scent-free, dye-free lotion if you don’t already have some,” he continues. “Wash it twice a day and put lotion on after. When it starts to scab, I can’t stress this enough: don’t pick the scabs.” He gives you a serious look. “Repeat that back to me.”
“Don’t pick the scabs.”
“If you do, you could cause it to scar, or even pull out the ink. One more time for me,” he prompts, and you get the feeling that this is always the sticking point in his speech.
“Don’t pick the scabs,” you repeat.
“It’ll take three to four months for the lower layers of skin to completely heal,” Marcus tells you. “During that time, keep it out of the sun, keep it hydrated, and you’re in the clear.”
“And don’t pick the scabs,” you say teasingly. 
Marcus winks at you. “Exactly. Any other questions for me?”
“No, just… thank you. It’s amazing,” you tell him. “You did such an incredible job.”
“Hard not to, when I have such a beautiful canvas.”
Your eyes dart up, expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes, but all you can see is heartfelt sincerity. You swallow thickly, and he tracks the movement, his eyes dropping down, then back up to meet your eyes. Is it… not just you? Does he feel it, too? Realization slams through you and threatens to overload all of your systems. Marcus’s lips are parted slightly, and the look in his eyes… it’s desire.
“Marcus…”
“Wait,” he says urgently. “Hang on. Come… come over here for a minute, let me–” he dashes awkwardly over to the till on the counter and gives you your total. Frowning in confusion–he wants to do this now? Interrupting that electric moment that had passed between you?–you dutifully swipe your card and numbly take the receipt.
“Now you’re no longer my client,” Marcus explains softly. “I–sorry–I was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss you, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be unethical, I–”
“Yes,” you say simply, giving your response to his un-asked question.
It’s all he needs to stride forward, gently take your face in his warm palms, and, seeing no hesitation in your eyes even as he searches your face desperately—presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is as soft and as tender as the man himself, which hardly surprises you. Your eyes slip closed as his lips move against you with aching caution. He’s careful in all things, including this–taking your cues, giving you the lead, letting you feel everything he’s giving you.
All too quickly, he pulls back–but his eyes only sweep your face again, a growing smile on his lips as he sees nothing but want reflected back at him. 
When he lowers his lips to yours again, he’s less gentle. One large hand leaves your face too hook around your waist, pulling you closer, closer–and when the proximity causes you to gasp softly, Marcus is ready. His tongue gently slips between your parted lips and you practically melt into him. When your knees buckle, his strong arms are what keep you standing upright, and still–
He can’t seem to stop kissing you. 
You break before he does–pulling back to suck in a few shaky, heaving breaths, and he smiles through his own labored breathing.
“I wanted–I–” he begins, before hastily pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as if he can’t help but do so. 
“I’ve thought of you,” he tries again. “I thought of you like this for the last month,” the confession finally spills out. “I wanted to–wanted to kiss you so badly all day, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t let myself.” He kisses you again. “But now,” he promises, whispering the words against your mouth. “Now I’m gonna get my fill.”
To punctuate his statement with one of your own, you slant your head and deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around Marcus’s neck and pulling him closer still. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and the grip on your waist tightens. You lose yourself completely to the feel of his tongue sliding slowly against yours, until he suddenly pulls back.
“I’m doing this all wrong,” he whispers–although he’s still smiling. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner, first.”
“So ask me,” you say with a giggle.
“Come have dinner with me,” Marcus murmurs, shaking his head in quiet amusement as he steals another gentle kiss. “Right now. Tonight.”
“You might have to open all the doors,” you tease. “My arm hurts.”
Another kiss.
“I’m wounded that you think I wouldn’t open every door regardless.”
“Are you always such a gentleman?” you remark with a wry smile.
Another. 
“Well,” Marcus grins wolfishly. He places on last, lingering kiss on your lips and then makes a show of offering his arm. “Not always.”
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beatcroc · 1 month
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a year!!! as of today i have now been drawing these funny little pizza freaks, to the exclusion of almost everything else, for!!! an entire year!!! i wanted to do a nice group shot/lineup of everybody to compare to when i first started trying to draw them because oh boy were they bad. i never even posted most of them anywhere because they were so bad. but im posting them here, now, to see how everything's changed/evolved.
this is probably the hardest time i've ever had trying to figure out how to work with a style, but we got there eventually; i'm pretty happy with the handle i've got on everybody now...dont let ur memes be dreams. lots of unimportant journaling and idle thoughts abt it below.
older pics
the first one is the VERY first time i drew them, before i thought i was going to actually have any interest in drawing them [lmao]; it was just the one isolated image, for my friendserver, to illustrate the funney message, so there was no attempt to make it Good or actually understand anything going on w/ the designs or style.
second is the original run of practices sketches to start trying to figure them out for real; done after i started having ideas for the comics and such and realized oh god maybe i am actually gonna draw fanart for this. [again, lol, and lmao.]
third one is the first pt art thing i posted on here. there were a couple weeks of sprite studies between this one and the previous image. the one on the top right wasn't part of that post i just threw it on as space filler; i'd intended to shift to doing Sprite Redraws But Stylized to explore tings more, but that was the only one i did. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
individual characters
peppino: by far the hardest dear god. bro what ARE your shapes how DOES your face work. jesus christ. everything i have trouble with this style for, peppino has it in excess. i draw in polygons! i need consistency! and that is the last thing this kind of style is concerned with. they are made of squarshy clay and i do not understand how to mold them. i was really hoping trying to learn this game's style would GIVE me that kind of flexibility for fun exaggerated facial expression but i don't think much came of it in the end 😔. anyway on the bright side all this means once i got peppino figured out a little bit everybody else clicked way easier.
fake peppino: honestly i never did anything with him on purpose except for how his eyes work + the perma-smile thing. i figured ok hes supposed to look weird and off model so whatever happens with him happens. and it did. and it kept happening. it is still, in fact, happening.
noise/ette: somehow, for every bit that peppino was the least natural thing i've ever tried, these two worked pretty much right off the bat. i still don't understand it, seeing as pretty much all the things at play for peppino are also at work for them. i think the new sketches are actually a little worse than older ones but not enough that i care.
gustavo: really funny bc i drew him on model twice and just went 'okay, cool nice, easy, um. he doesn't have any fucking legs?' fortunately he was the only one i had a strong idea for how to stylize him [square] and it worked exactly as i was hoping so wahoo.
brick: is an animal and therefore 5000x easier and more natural for me to draw/stylize than anything else in the cast. that is Just a rat bro. i can draw a rat.
gerome: i think the funniest one here. the most drastic and least necessary change imo. i was gonna have him be really small at first, like smaller than the noises, but then i just... didn't. he's just peppino-sized now. also i gave him like. actual human facial structure, which is funny bc in most cases i'd do anything to avoid, but it works well for his being A Rock to give him some angles and definition like that+ to differentiate his vibe from the rest of the cast who are all very squishy. also since he is essentially Just A Head it's good to emphasize that too ig.
john: i only drew john a couple times but he gets to be here because i like him. and because most of the stuff i applied to gerome was readily applicable to john, though i did try to keep him a little more uncanny because he is a Huge And Lanky Freak. i hate that he is barefoot btw but idk how to make his color balance look right with shoes.
pizzahead: i did not want to put him on here honestly but i Have drawn him a handful of times and more importantly i didn't know what i was gonna do with john's pose if i didn't have him there to be glared at. the only thing that's different with him is giving him wider-bottomed pants, which i got from when i tried to draw these guys in clone high style [i never posted that one either][i will eventually]
snick: he gets to be here because 1. he's like 6 lines 2. i like him and 3. ive scribbled him a few times offhand and it went pretty well
misc
there are some guys missing because those are guys i didn't draw enough [or at all] to have gotten comfortable with them. sorry
i would have Liked to shade these but for the time being i have accepted that my grasp of light/shadow has decayed to the point im not going to be happy with anything i try there, so For Now i am working on my presentation with flats i guess. gerome has a shadow only because he's shaded like that ingame and looks naked without it
anyway if you are still reading [hi?] i get to shamelessly plug now. i'm over the hill of my pizza run now, and while i still have plenty of things i want to make here, most of the bigger more in-depth ones have passed. pizza tower was the first thing in THREE YEARS to get me out of my oc groove to doing fanart, and once i am done with my ideas here i will be going right back to it. if you like my art or how i write characters/interactions you should check out my oc/webcomic blog @jamverse . i can't promise people who like pizza stuff will be terribly into my designs, but i can guarantee i treat my guys with the exact same sort of tone i handle the pt guys with. and hell, i've mentioned it a few times before, but like 70% of my characterization for fake pep is just copied off one of my characters, so if u are going to miss him... he will still be there in spirit >;p
and if you dont care about any of that and are still reading thank you anyway. actually making these comics + seeing how shockingly well-received they've been has done a lot for my confidence, and for seeing that my kind of stuff IS something people enjoy :')
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azulashengrottospiano · 8 months
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SUMMARY: vincent sees a masterpiece in you.
WARNINGS: None!! :D
COMMENTS: GAHHH SHUT UP OKAY SHUT UP. HE'S SO KIND. i havent played hsi route yet but i am brainrotting a little. also i was inspired by myself because i realized how animated i am and i was immediately like "omg an artists muse" bc WOW all my facial expressions and body language could give an artist a career I MOVE TOO MUCH!!!!
anyway yes he's sweet but i don't really know a lot about him. do vincent kissers even exist!??!?!?!
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An artist at heart, he’s accustomed to noticing the beauty of everything around him. From the way your eyes widen when you’re surprised to the way they crinkle when you’re happy, from the way your lips stretch across your face when you smile at him to the way they purse when you pout, from the way you drag your hands down your arms when you’re cold and trail them down your legs when you’re stretching, to the way your fingers position themselves around a pen when you’re scribbling out annotations in a cookbook.
Or maybe, he’s just become accustomed to noticing your beauty.
“Vincent.” you call, “You’re staring.”
He makes a soft noise of acknowledgment and flashes you an awkward smile. His eyes fall to the notepad in front of him, and he ignores the way his cheeks flush a tender pink. It’s a lovely feeling, the pitter-patter of his heart in his chest and the shaky breaths that come with knowing you.
He’s in awe of the artist that sketched you out and brought you to life. He's envious of the paints that colored you in. Vincent wishes there was a part of you for him in your masterpiece, a blank space that only he could fill. He would fill you with blues and yellows and browns, he would paint the night sky in your eyes and sunflowers along your legs. Each petal would be delicately sketched out along the flesh of your thigh, and his paintbrush would travel down your calves as he sculpted the stems. He would worship you like you deserve, treat you with reverence, and treasure you like nobody else could.
“Sunflower.” you whisper, right next to his ear, “Are you alright?”
Vincent snaps out of his trance once again, an easy smile falling across his lips. His chair groans against the floor as he pushes away from the table, staring up at you as you stand in front of him.
“Of course. I’m sorry for worrying you.” he says softly, looking up at you through his lashes, “Did you say something?”
“Nothing important.” you smile, like you know exactly what he’s been thinking.
You probably do. Vincent blushes, ducking his head to the side so you can’t see his face.
“Can you come to my room later? After you’re done here?” he asks, reaching out to touch you.
His hands rest on your hips, and you let him pull you closer. Your eyes are full of intrigue, and he knows you'll say yes, but he needs to hear the words from your lips.
“Of course.” you hum, leaning down to his level, “I wouldn’t go anywhere else.”
You kiss his forehead, and his heart stumbles in his chest. Right there, he sees it. He sees you. You’re made up of so many shades of color that belong to everyone you’ve ever met and loved, but right there, on your lips, are swirls of gold and blue.
And as you pull away, he sees sunflowers in your heart.
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skcirthinq · 3 months
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I may have read "I May Be Invisible, But I Still Look Good" by @dandylovesturtles again.
So I drew. Again. (Small spoilers ahead)
The first piece is a little comic adaptation from chapter 2; context is that Leo is cursed out of his body, intangible, and unable to communicate.
And well. His family doesn't know about the curse.
And Donnie's been running some tests on Leo's empty body. They're not. Coming up with good results.
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Dandylovesturtles's writing is so much more impactful than what I got here, so like! If you haven't, go read their works!
The other pieces are random scenes from the rest of the fic, with some descriptions under the cut.
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Image 1: colored and rendered comic adaptation of a scene from chapter 2 of "I May Be Invisible". Raph is hitting a punching bag, while Leo walks in and watches him. Raph cannot see or hear Leo. They're both upset, with Raph's knuckles splitting open and bleeding, and tears gathering in his eyes over the panels. Leo begins to sit down, as Raph stops punching, and falls to his knees, crying in earnest. Leo turns around to give Raph some privacy, and talks to Raph, who eventually curls into himself and unknowingly rolls into Leo.
Dialogue is taken from chapter 2 of "I May Be Invisible, But I Still Look Good", Leo is the only speaker, and reads as follows: "Well, the good news is, Donnie's wrong about this one." "I know it looks bad. Donnie's not wrong about that, I mean, I saw the EEG, I know it's..." "It looks bad." " But... thanks for sticking up for me in there." "Don't give up on me, big guy." "I promise I'm doing whatever I can think of to get back to you." "I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could tell you not to worry. I mean, I know you'd worry anyway, but at least you'd worry a little less." "You don't deserve this, Raph. I wanted to take some of the weight off your shoulders, but I messed it all up again. And now you're having to deal with it, just like we make you deal with everything, and I'm just... I'm so sorry." "At least, do me a favor, and talk to Dad? Or April, or ... Or someone." "Not Donnie, obviously, that could Not have gone worse. But you don't need to deal with this on your own. I hope you don't deal with this on your own..." "Sleep, big guy. I'm with you, I promise. I'm not going anywhere. "
Image 2: when your cursed brother yeets himself off an overpass and through a van's roof and the artist won't draw cars. (A partially rendered set of drawings featuring a blue, glitchy Leo falling through the roof of a moving vehicle, while an upset Mikey crouches on the roof. It's night, raining, and lights are zooming past at high speed.)
Image 3: Leo activated his ninpo after a character arc, just in time for the final battle! (Partially Rendered; a blue glitchy Leo, holding katanas solidifying from his ninpo, turns and looks over his shoulder. Behind him is a wall of pink-magenta flames being pulled up by the big bad.)
Image 4: Leo's family and friends are seeing him (image 3) for the first time in days. While also beating up some elementals. (Sketch)
Images 5-10: sketches of various scenes from the rest of the fic, except for 7, which did Not happen. But I thought would be a little funny if it had. 5 is Mikey and Donnie playing catch with the cursed amulet. 6 is Raph busting out of a dome made of rock. 7 is April accidentally letting the baseball instincts take over when being tossed the Leo ball. 8 is Raph trying to squeeze through a narrow cave passage, and Leo walking through the cave walls. 9 is Casey Sr. getting one last punch in on an elemental. And 10 is Leo looking up at his overjoyed family, once he gets back into his body.
Obviously, all credit goes to Dandylovesturtles!
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bonefall · 5 months
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I'm still wading through some brain fog so I'm not writing as much as I want to, currently. But I have just been absently sketching Willowpelt because she's been on my mind
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I had initially been working with the "hyena" face in mind, but I've been playing around with the "villainous role" idea for Ferncloud's Parting. I mentioned it to my partner who pointed out that big, strong profiles like that are overused for "vengeful" characters.
Besides, I really love drawing that face shape anyway, so I figured I'd move away from it since it's going to be on a LOT of RiverClan cats in particular (they have longer muzzles than other Clans because they hunt in water).
I'm leaning towards "bat" now... maybe I'll retool it so it's more deer-like. Deer are totally underused as inspiration for harsh characters...
Anyway ready for some WIP material? Plus a recap of Ferncloud's Parting for all who need a refresher
(oh wow it got long. The power of girlies <3)
FERNCLOUD'S PARTING... Refresher!!
Replaces Graystripe's Vow completely, taking place just after the Impostor has been deposed and is imprisoned. Ferncloud is now the main POV, accompanied on her journey by her childhood best friend Cloudtail and the Impostor's surviving lackey, Bumblestripe.
The goal of this SE is to explore Ferncloud's relationship to her younger brother, Ashfur.
(BB canon: Ferncloud and Elderberry are the older kits of Brindleface. Ashkit was a singlet born shortly before his mother's death, raised by Fern, Elder, and their grandmother One-eye. Fireheart botched the Queen's Rights while claiming Cloudkit, but for all intents and purposes was socially his Mi... which he was not good at being. Cloudtail was Ashfur's mentor and Ferncloud's childhood friend.)
Ferncloud is asking herself the question; "What could I have done to prevent this?"
A lot of secondary questions revolve around this... Does this make her responsible for what Ashfur has done? Did she teach him anything that contributed to who he is today? Does that make her responsible?
Cloudtail is in a similar situation, as Ashfur's mentor and someone who only ever wanted to help his friend. Could HE have prevented this? He wants to find out.
Graystripe, oldest cat in ThunderClan, accompanies the little group as far as the mountain... and decides to stay there, with his golden boy, Stormfur.
Bumblestripe had come along with them all, for... a lot of complicated reasons. But the most relevant is that he had been one of the Impostor's most loyal, brutal enforcers. Berrynose was killed in a huge skirmish, and now there's just Bumblestripe left alone to shoulder his sins.
After saying goodbye to his father for what's probably the last time, getting to meet the mythical oldest brother he's been compared to his entire life, and seeing Cloud and Fern looking to visit the Old Forest Territories... Bumblestripe goes with them even further to make sure the old cats stay safe.
Like Graystripe's Vow, I'm planning to keep the split chronology. It goes back and forth between Ferncloud in the Broken Era, and Ferncloud back during the Fire Era.
The ultimate moral here, the point I want to build to, is that Cloudtail and Ferncloud did exactly what was expected of them. They raised a loyal warrior who holds the code above all. They're only responsible for Ashfur insofar as they were responsible for teaching him the same values of vengeance, violence, and distrust of outsiders as was expected... in Firestar's absence.
(Though... there's lots of other questions that I don't think FP will answer. Like, COULD they have truly stopped him? Can they ever understand WHY, if they don't currently? There's a LOT of feelings here and I don't know if all of them really have answers.)
WIP STUFF TIME
Here's new stuff, I've either not mentioned this before, or I've mentioned it in passing without actually linking it to Ferncloud's Parting.
I have a LOT of ideas here that I have to start sorting through. I think these characters are all really interesting so it's really a matter of cutting down all these little details into something more coherent.
When Ashkit is young, he's a child. There was nothing particularly outstanding about him, besides the fact he was a bit lonely and eager to please.
There's a bit of an air of "loss" when Ferncloud thinks back to Ashpaw's childhood. Elderberry and One-eye will be dying soon after the "flashback" segments, so when she goes back to the modern era, thinking about them feels bittersweet.
I also want to sneak in that Ferncloud feels jealous over Cloudtail's mateship with Brightheart lmao, because she has a crush on Brightheart. (Note, maybe tie this to Ashfur being obsessed with Squirrelflight, with Fern questioning if her jealousy rubbed off on Ashfur)
Through helping WarriorClan, Bumblestripe feels REALLY good. They don't know anything about his past, his struggles, or his failures as a person. He's just a hero to them and that feels... good.
Watching Bumblestripe be good, learning more about his issues and WHY he did what he did while following Ashfur brings Cloud and Fern some insight... but not entirely what they need. Is Ashfur just a Bumblestripe on a bigger scale? Or are they just learning more about how good of a manipulator Ashfur is? In which case... where did that ability to manipulate come from?
Fang/Honeysuckle might be Bumblestripe's half-brother. If that's the case, Bumble is... frustrated by it. MORE of his dad's complicated legacy.
Ferncloud and Cloudtail probably have some short discussions about how much is really appropriate to teach to WarriorClan... after all, they're here questioning if any part of Ashfur was THEIR fault, what if they accidentally teach them something terrible?
But at the same time, Ferncloud is the Educator of ThunderClan, and these cats can't write. The Glyph system would be very useful to them, and they're begging to learn more about Clan culture.
Putting a pin in that part, for now. Will tie back more into the conclusion that the Clan cat party ultimately reaches.
BACK IN THE PAST; Firestar is away bringing back SkyClan in Firestar's Quietus. Everything that is done is without him.
Longtail, the deputy, is blinded and a leader does not immediately rise to fill the space in ThunderClan.
And in BloodClan, their trading partner... Scourge does the same. Oops! WRONG TIME, SCOOJ!
Planning to retire, Scourge announces an event called The Frenzy. He will choose the next leader from whoever accomplishes the biggest achievement in the given timeframe. This is how BloodClan passes on leadership.
He gives his chosen heir, Claw, their first Frenzy Achievement-- the fang of a dog from his own collar. Anyone who wishes to take power instead must accomplish a feat even bigger than what had allowed SCOURGE to take power in the first place; Killing a dog.
Fury is a challenger. She does NOT want Scourge's chosen heir, Claw, to lead BloodClan next. Claw will continue the trading and friendliness towards Clan cats, which Fury wants to end.
ENTER WILLOWPELT
Willowpelt ALSO wants this trading with BloodClan to stop. She feels it's gone too far.
BloodClan killed her mate-- Whitestorm. Firestar might have been willing to just throw his life away for this, but she's NOT.
She's recovering from a boar bite, currently, but it's scarring up nicely... and she's willing to pretend she's injured a little longer if it shakes suspicion off her.
She doesn't WANT to be allies with Fury, but if her goal is to bring BloodClan back into isolation... then, Willowpelt will do it.
And Fury promises her something else; Revenge. Scourge is the reason why Whitestorm died, and together, they can ruin his plans and make him watch as his peaceful little power transfer crumbles into ash.
GOOD SETUP IMO but I still need to work out what nefarious deed they'll do, exactly. All I know is that Fury will betray Willowpelt at the height of it. Maybe something about taking over Barley's barn. Maybe Elderberry gets killed.
But, I have one very strong feeling in mind; Ferncloud probably ends up killing Fury while Ashpaw watches or even helps.
Hmm... maybe Graystripe (becomes deputy as soon as Firestar gets back for handling this crisis so well) ordered them to let Fury go.
But Ferncloud looked at Fury, and decided that Willowpelt was right about one thing. Most BloodClan cats cannot be trusted.
The code does not apply equally to outsiders.
Maybe I WILL have Fury end up killing Elderberry in some way, and then give Ferncloud and Ashpaw a conversation about it. "Those who don't live by the code will not be protected by it. And we must protect our Clan... even if Graystripe doesn't realize it."
I could make it clear that Fury is not a threat at that point, having been beaten in some way and Claw ascending to BloodClan leadership. OR I could have left it open-ended, like, maybe Fury would be a future problem, maybe not. Not sure yet.
Willowpelt of course will also need to experience some consequences for this... unleeeess, I have Graystripe let her off really easy exactly because she's Clanborn, which even Cloudtail is frustrated about, maybe even coining the term "Codebreaker" as an insult under his breath.
In any case, Ferncloud never told Cloudtail about how she secretly killed Fury. It's too juicy to have her reveal it to him in the modern day, explaining that it IS her fault, she DID teach him the wrong thing.
Hmm... I'm talking myself into it. Though I did also like the original vibe that Ashfur's tyranny was kind of unknowable, trying to make sense out of a senseless thing he did. I think it feels a lot more interesting for Ferncloud to have been hiding this for literal years, and now feeling like she has to "pay the world back" for what she did.
Maybe even build towards something metal about Fury's grave. Hmm... maybe to hide the murder, she buried her in Elderberry's freshly dug one, since no one would notice the soil had been recently disturbed as it was JUST dug.
Buried my sister and my secret victim in the same grave. ~Just Girlie Things~
Cloudtail sitting here, War Criminal to the right and Secret Murderer to the left like "can i ever be around normal people. like, just once"
Jokes aside... Cloudtail needs to point out something very important. Ferncloud regretted what she did, and she never did what Ashfur is doing. She never sought power, when Firestar came back she's lived a long life without ever once undermining him, and even her beliefs have softened over time.
She was a Traditionalist back then, but is Fire Alone now. After everything. The destruction of the forest, loss of her kits, WindClan rebellion, reveal of Squirrelflight and Leafpool's secret...
She's helped to raise every new generation as the Educator. And yet, Ashfur, the Impostor, is unique.
And look at Bumblestripe... being Graystripe's son didn't stop him from being the Impostor's lackey.
We all make our choices. HE made his. You made your own.
But... I don't feel like Ferncloud can entirely accept that as an answer either. There would be a very forlorn sort of feeling here. Yes, we all make our own choices-- but we influence each other. For better and for worse. And she refuses to avoid responsibility for that.
Maybe in that moment I'll have her make the choice to return home, and BE the one who becomes the Light in the Mist to face Ashfur in the Dark Forest. Seems to be coming together.
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animatorfun · 23 days
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TOMREY ANON AGAIN- SPARE SOME FRENREYLATTA ART THEN?! I don't see many fans of that ship so seeing that YOU liked it made me SO happy!! Also, I'd absolutely LOVE to hear about how you think their dynamics between each other would be ;3
Whyyy did this take forever XCCC (it's bc I can't ever think of poses and ship pose ideas never have poly stuff lol + this was supposed to be a sketch but I just kept "tweaking" it and adding little things until it became... A way overly detailed colored sketch >_> because I have no self control/lh)
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Anyways!! Guys!!! Ship ramble time
Soo Frenreylatta... (Everything I'm about to say is just my purrsonal interpretation. Ik this fandom is super chill about character interpretation and shipping but I felt the need to clarify that I'm not necessarily saying everything here is 100% fact and canonical)
Sooo I think first off
I think Tommy's relationship with Gordon and Benry is a lot more organic than Benry's relationship with Gordon.
Benry and Gordon are just generally kind of,, antagonistic towards eachother. And while they definitely have their Moments, I see Frenrey on its own as less of "enemies to lovers" and more "enemies to enemies who kiss sometimes" (which I purrsonally have no issue with)
I think Tommy is on generally good terms with either party. He could hang out with Gordon or Benry and have a great time either way-- but I think putting all 3 together puts Tommy in the role of a kind of mediator. I don't really mean this in a "Tommy solves all their issues" way, more just... Tommy just kind of naturally diffuses tense or emotional moments with his responses to it, which I think would allow for Gordon and Benry to be less antagonistic and more playful with eachother. It just stops a greater conflict from happening altogether.
Simply put:
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I think this could be great :3 I think Tommy is a great foundation to help stabilize the group and balance out Gordon's hostility without just straight up going against him in the most hilariously frustrating way possible like Benry does.
Last second update: I wrote half of this at like 3am while falling asleep and the other half on the bus while trying so hard to stay awake so I apologize if this is worded weird or I repeat myself or didn't explain things well. I'm eepy as fuck
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