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imgoingtofreakoutnow · 8 months

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Sketch me down, see me through – pt. 1

Summary: After a quiet day, you decide to sketch Astarion

Pairing: Astarion x Tav

Words: 1.9k

Warnings: it's really just a fluffy thing, lots of pining, they're both touch-starved

A/N: I wrote this a while back and it's not too bad, so enjoy! Here you can find Part 2 (@tripleyeeet you know this already but enjoy still! also, @yn-ymn-yln you might like this)

\_/

The day was slowly fading into the night as the fire of the camp stretched towards the burning sky.

It had been a weirdly uneventful day: you had wandered around without a real aim or purpose all day, mostly enjoying the view than actively looking for more loot. You still managed to stumble across a couple of lonely barrels and chests, gaining nothing really useful other than a well-crafted dagger with neat gold details in the handle.

Your companions were nowhere to be seen, probably drinking in the village nearby or resting in their tents or simply enjoying the company of somebody else.

As you sat alone next to the fire, sketching a bird roaming a few feet away and looking for food in the grass, you didn’t really mind a chance to enjoy your own company.

“There you are!”

The bird flew away in a ruffle of feathers when Astarion’s voice rumbled in the small clearing your camp was set in.

“I thought you had joined the others at the tavern,” he said, plopping down behind you with a tired sigh.

“I wasn’t really in the mood for drinking…” you mumbled with a shrug, your hand jotting down the last details of the bird before they left your brain, “or being among other people.”

“I better hope you don’t mind my company.”

His head popped over your shoulder, but you didn’t raise your gaze from the drawing, too focused shading the charcoal with your finger than giving in to his egotistical nature.

“You know I don’t,” you assured, blowing away the excess black dust from the parchment, “but you did make my model fly away.”

Astarion scanned silently the small sketchbook still open in your hands from behind your shoulder. You could feel his breath brushing your ear, creating a web of shivers that ran one after the other along your spine.

“Look at that.” His fingers reached for your drawing. You held your breath as they hovered over the dark and slightly smudged lines. “I had no idea we had such a talented artist within our group.”

“I’m not that good,” you scoffed with a smile, turning your head ever so slightly towards his, “but thank you.”

“However,” he continued, scratching thoughtfully his chin, “you could definitely use a better model.”

You nodded slowly, pressing your lips together before clicking your tongue. “You’re right, I should ask Gale to pose for me.”

“Gale?!”

“Or Shadowheart,” you added, ignoring his insulted tone. “Her features are so soft, perfect for a portrait.” You met his eyes with a grin. “Don’t you agree?”

Astarion huffed through his nose, pulling back and leaning on his arms. “I suppose she could be a decent model, but I don’t see her around to be sketched.”

You snorted, turning around on your seat to face his narrow scarlet eyes.

“Oh, is my annoyance amusing to you?”

“If you wanted me to sketch you so badly,” you started, turning to a blank page of your sketchbook, “you could’ve simply asked.”

Astarion stared at you for a second, his lips slightly parted and his eyes wide in surprise. Those were the small expressions that you loved more about him: those seconds in between, where his facade broke for a moment, revealing something so brief that simply couldn’t be faked.

Then he cleared his throat and his mask of smugness covered his face once again, annihilating whatever real emotion that had made its appearance on his features. “If you insist, darling.”

He laid down on the grass, propping himself up with his elbow. His head rested on his closed fist, tilted as his half-lidded gaze was stuck on you. “So, how do you want me?”

You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat. No matter how many times he looked at you like that or his words tickled your brain with lewd thoughts, Astarion always managed to stir something in your guts; a pull you couldn’t always ignore, especially when you were completely alone.

“You can just sit up,” you assured him, breaking away from his eyes to sharpen your pencil. “I’m not that good of an artist to draw you like that,” you explained a moment later, pointing at the relaxed —and obviously thought-out— position he was in.

“As you wish.”

Surprisingly, Astarion immediately followed your request, sitting back up with not even one objecting word.

“Nevertheless,” he murmured, leaning towards you, “if anatomy is the department you lack, I’ll be more than happy to aid you with your… sketches.” A devilish grin appeared on his face as his hand moved in the air with his words. “In every position you might ever need.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Your calm voice and mischievous grin, almost mirroring Astarion’s, were in no way a faithful reflection of the turmoil storming your chest and mind.

“Now stay still,” you told him, your focus slowly shifting to the drawing as you started laying down the first few guiding lines.

“I’ll be as immovable as a rock, darling.”

“And silent,” you mumbled, your eyes darting from the page to Astarion’s slightly vexed expression.

Astarion noticed your frowning, however he had no time to articulate the question on the tip of his tongue that you had leaned in. Your hand reached out hesitantly, almost waiting for him to pull away or shoving you back in an instinctive reaction. But he didn’t.

You gently grabbed his chin, guiding his face slightly to the side. Then your thumb moved to the spot between his eyebrows, smoothing away the crease of irritation altering his features. You could feel the tension in his muscles give away under your touch, any resistance crumbling under your fingertips.

“There,” you whispered, admiring the calm expression on Astarion’s face. “Can you stay like that for a while?”

“Of course, darling.”

Your heart skipped a beat when he spoke. There was a sudden softness to him, one that you had never seen for longer than the blink of an eye. It was almost overwhelming, even after you had lowered your gaze to work on the small portrait.

Your pencil, guided by your hand, moved quickly on the page. You didn’t really need to look at Astarion to sketch him. His cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the shape of his eyes, his features had long been carved in your mind.

If he had taken the sketchbook —as you feared he was going to— when he appeared next to you, he would’ve found pages and pages covered in quick and small drawings of him. Studies of his face, hair, hands; whatever your mind could recall accurately.

Nonetheless, there was always something that you never managed to get exactly right.

You moved your gaze from the page, studying closely his eyes and the ever-changing glint behind them as you tried to recreate it with charcoal and parchment. An impossible task that made you sigh more loudly than you expected.

“I can almost smell your brain fuming, darling.”

You put down the pencil, straightening your spine and stretching your sore neck. You scrunched your eyes, exhausted of drawing in the dim and shifting light of the flames.

“Is it done?”

When you opened your eyes, Astarion was subtly peering over the page, the smug grin on his face unable to hide his nervous anticipation.

“I think so,” you mumbled, shading one last detail before staring critically at your creation. As you looked at it, you noticed so many details out of place: a line too straight, a curl too twirly, a shadow too dark…

“It could be better,” you said apologetically as you handed the sketchbook to your model, “but I hope you like it.”

Hesitantly, almost as if the book was made of fire, Astarion took it.

He stared at your drawing for a long time, his fingers following the charcoal lines and then looking for those same shapes on his face. A small shaky breath left his lips as his fingertips moved on his neck, brushing the scars of the bite.

“I had never seen them on me before,” he whispered, scoffing slightly as his hand fell back on the drawing.

“I actually drew them a bit too high,” you explained, pointing at the sketch with your smudged fingertips. “And the nose is too straight, and it’s all a bit of a mess-”

Your voice was cut off when Astarion took your hand in his. Before you could utter another syllable, he brought it to his lips, leaving a lingering kiss on your knuckles.

“Nonsense, darling. You’ve given me a mirror in which I will always be able to see myself.”

He kissed the inner part of your wrist, his eyes locked in yours as his teeth grazed your veins. “How will I ever be able to repay you for this?”

“You don’t have to.” Ignoring your burning skin, you squeezed gently Astarion’s hand in yours as his eyebrows shot up. “I did this for you and you only. I’m not expecting anything in return.”

Astarion still looked at you with a puzzled expression while you took your sketchbook out of his grip, took the short dagger hidden in your boot and carefully cut the page with his portrait out of it.

“This is yours,” you said handing him the rough sheet of parchment, “and it should’ve never been taken from you in the first place.”

As if he was handling the smallest and frailest animal, Astarion accepted the page in his hand, his wide eyes still marveling at the way your lines came together to recreate him.

“I…”

For once, words failed him.

He looked up from the sketch and a million emotions crossed his face. Confusion and relief. Sadness and recognition. Fear and joy. And that softness, that overwhelming look empty of all the sharp edges that defined him every other moment.

“Thank you,” he whispered, placing a shaky hand on your cheek. “I won’t forget it.”

That touch was alien to you.

It wasn’t the kind of touch that you had learned to expect from Astarion. It wasn’t sexual or teasing, anticipating a pleasure that he seemed always so eager to satisfy. It was gentle, hinting at an intimacy you had never dared to entertain, not even when you were falling asleep in your tent and your neck was still sore where his teeth had dug their way into your flesh.

His thumb moved slowly, hesitantly on your skin. You were both entering uncharted territories and you could do nothing more than being careful. Nonetheless, you couldn’t help but lean into his touch as you always did, kissing softly his palm to let him know that you wanted it.

That you craved this intimacy, no matter how long you both needed to get there.

Some voices reached your ears —drunken and loud singing— and before you could make out who they belonged to, Astarion had already moved away, leaving your cheek to the cold touch of the night.

He quickly folded the drawing and put it away, giving you one last small smile before a smug grin bloomed on his face and removed every other emotion. He stood up and headed towards Gale and Wyll, the swaying owners of those voices that had just entered the camp.

As the crowd was becoming a little too much for your liking, you headed into your tent, falling with a sigh on your pillow. You could still hear the other three outside, but your mind was wandering far away, relishing in the memories of that night as you slowly fell asleep.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion bg3 #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #dnd #astarion ancunin #astarion fic

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even-disco-baby · 1 year

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SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hello again, gendarme.” He smiles at you— not from his usual post, but from one of the cafeteria tables. A small sketchbook is laid out in front of him, along with some odd gray sticks.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Compressed graphite. Not quite as bold or blendable as charcoal, but certainly less messy.

EMPATHY — Garte will appreciate it.

“I’d like to talk about the case again.”

“You moved! I didn’t know you could do that.”

“What are you drawing?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “That’s the question, isn’t it?” His smile turns a little rueful. “I found one of my old sketchbooks and thought I’d like to fill the last few empty pages, but I’m finding myself a little… uninspired.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION — The accursed artist’s block. Staring down an empty page only for it to stare back, mocking you.

EMPATHY — He is unsure of himself. He said this was an old sketchbook. Maybe he’s afraid of drawing something new beside his old work and seeing that nothing has changed.

“Ah, yes. Artist’s block. I know it well. In fact, I don’t know when the last time that I actually *made* any art was.”

“You could draw the cafeteria.”

“You could draw one of the other diners.”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “A life drawing exercise, huh? And who would you pick as a subject, gendarme?”

“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”

“Maybe Garte? The skua could be a fun challenge.”

“You should draw the guy with the wig and sunglasses over there. He looks pretty funny.”

“Lena! She’d probably love to model for you. It would take her mind off things.”

“Kim, how about you pose for him?”

[Suggestion - Medium 10] “Why not me?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No.”

He has nothing more to say on the matter.

“Aw, why not? You’d make a great model!”

Let it go.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I do not get paid to model for portraits. I get paid to solve murders. Such as the one we came here to investigate. Several days ago. Which has not been solved yet, for some mysterious reason.”

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — In case you couldn’t tell, that was sarcasm.

“Come on, Kim. You’re the perfect subject! A true man of the people. And there’s this sort of radiance about you… I can see the portrait already, just looking at you. Really clearly, actually.”

Maybe don’t say that. He’s just not gonna get it.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He shrugs. “Sorry, gendarme. It’s not right to use someone’s image without permission, you know? Maybe some other time.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No.” And then, a little awkwardly, “But thank you.”

“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”

“How about Garte? Though, you’d have to draw the skua, too…”

“You should draw the guy with the wig and sunglasses over there. He looks pretty funny.”

“Lena! She’d probably love to model for you. It would take her mind off things.”

“Kim, how about you pose for him?”

[Suggestion - Medium 10] “Why not me?”

CHECK SUCCESS

YOU — “Why not me?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He considers you with some amusement, but still, he does consider. “You’re not too busy?”

“On second thought, you’re right, I have some work to do right now. Another time, maybe?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant sighs audibly.

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — What did I *just* say?

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He chuckles to himself, apparently quite tickled by the little comedy act you two are making of yourselves. “Beautiful. Why not? Have a seat. I’ll try not to keep you too long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Much appreciated,” he says drily.

YOU — [Take a seat.]

SAVOIR FAIRE — Time to strike a pose. Let’s go with something cool. Something that really captures what you’re all about.

ENDURANCE — But make sure it’s something that you’ll be able to hold comfortably.

Wink and shoot him your signature finger guns.

Look at him with big sad eyes like a shamed puppy.

Look thoughtfully into the middle distance, as if contemplating your own future masterpiece.

Stare straight at him with eyes that have seen how this world will end.

Hold your head up high. With *honor.*

Just sit and act natural. No need to put on airs.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He looks you up and down, thumbing his bottom lip. His eyes look brighter and more alert than you have ever seen them. And then, he picks up his graphite and begins to work.

His eyes dart between you and the page, his hand sweeping across the page in bold, practiced strokes. All traces of his earlier hesitation have vanished.

VOLITION — Sometimes, a little push is all we need.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — Every now and then, he pauses to look up at you, and it’s almost unnerving to be the subject of whatever calculations are going on behind his eyes. He holds out his graphite, squinting just slightly.

VISUAL CALCULUS — This is called sighting. He’s roughly measuring the relative proportions of your figure and checking them against his sketch.

KIM KITSURAGI — Even the lieutenant is watching now, interested in spite of himself.

“Are portraits your specialty?”

“Have you been drawing anything for school lately?”

Better not distract him.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hmm…” He ponders this for a moment, not looking up from his work. “Not exactly. I’m more interested in the graphic arts than this sort of thing. But it’s best to build a strong foundation before branching out, you know?”

YOU — “Graphic arts? Like what?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Printmaking.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he speaks, seemingly without him even noticing. “Monotype, especially.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Monotype is a printmaking technique that is singular from other techniques, in that it produces only *one* unique print, rather than an edition of multiple prints.

YOU — What, really? What’s the point of printing it, then?

ENCYCLOPEDIA — I don’t know. I didn’t invent it.

“Why monotype? Wouldn’t a different technique be more… practical?”

“I see.” [Drop the subject.]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He shrugs slightly, smudging a bit of graphite with a bare finger. “Depends on how you define practical, I suppose. If I had my own studio, and I was selling my prints, then maybe. But we make do with what we have, gendarme.”

EMPATHY — And what he has is very little.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Besides, I think monotype has its charms.”

The young man does not elaborate, instead focusing on the work at hand. He picks up an eraser that has been shaved down to a point for fine detail work, and begins on what are likely the finishing touches.

EMPATHY — He has already talked at uncharacteristic length about this. It’s making him a little uncomfortable.

SAVOIR FAIRE — He doesn’t like to share too much about himself because it makes him feel *uncool.* He prefers to maintain an air of mystery.

RHETORIC — It’s safer, too, that way. He’s learned that passion exists to be exploited. False promises and admiration are the offerings of Sunday friends.

“If you say so.” [Back off.]

“What kind of charms?” [Press on.]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — His eyes flit back to you, sizing you up now in a different way. And then he looks back down at the page with a quiet bre ath.

“Well, it doesn’t take as much time or labor as other methods. Or expensive tools, or dangerous chemicals. Just paper, a plate, ink, and something to apply it with. And I can use the same plate over and over again, even use it to create different layers for the same print.”

RHETORIC — In other words, it’s cheap and can be done from home. An attractive option.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “And with monotype, it’s not so hard to go back and change your mind. You can start over as many times as you’d like, right up until the moment you lay the page on the plate.”

INLAND EMPIRE — That really does sound attractive. To be able to wipe the slate clean, over and over again…

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “There aren’t as many limits on what kind of textures you can create, too. Brushstrokes and fingerprints… They can really come out beautiful.”

His brow creases a little, and he picks his graphite back up to rework a particular area.

DRAMA — He’s still holding out on you, sire. Too self-conscious to admit what he really likes about the medium.

YOU — Which is what?

EMPATHY — Fragility.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — An image which is only complete after being mirrored and translated, never to be recreated except as a ghostly afterimage. An exercise in surrendering to chance. What will be, will be. And then the moment will pass, and it will be time to start the next piece.

VOLITION — This man knows disappointment intimately. It is his closest companion. He has learned to make peace with it. He passes the time with his Sunday friends, lays his paper on the plate and hopes, despite himself, for the best.

YOU — Is that… a good thing?

VOLITION — …It’s hard to say. But we make do with what we have.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “There.” The young man sits up straight, and it’s only now that you realize just how close he brought himself to his work.

DRAMA — His face may not betray him, but the body does not lie. He was having *fun,* my liege.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “All done.” He tears the page from his book and holds it out to you with a small smile.

ITEM GAINED: Portrait of a Disco Holdover

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hope I didn’t keep you too long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Don’t worry about it,” Kim says, rather resignedly.

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — If you’d declined, the lieutenant thinks, my partner would have just found some other way to get sidetracked.

KIM KITSURAGI — Still, he cannot stop himself from glancing at the portrait over your shoulder.

PORTRAIT OF A DISCO HOLDOVER — It’s you! Unfortunately. Not even the most masterful hand could make the Expression less unsettling to look at. Your posture is poor, your face is swollen and blotchy, your hair is thinning, your clothes are shabby and out of place… I could go on.

Oh god, you could?

Please don’t.

PORTRAIT OF A DISCO HOLDOVER — But, you know… it’s nice. The smoker’s technique is bold and rather lovely, broad strokes of graphite intersecting in just the right places to create surprising depths. Somehow, even though it’s you… it’s not hideous.

EMPATHY — Because you’re seeing yourself through another person’s eyes.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — There is an odd tenderness to the portrait. Something amusing in your grimace, a touch of sympathy in your hunched shoulders. With the eraser, he has lifted small spots of pigment from your face, as if it were illuminated by flecks of light from the karaoke disco ball.

There are no disco lights tonight, but still, he sees them when he looks at you. Your moment has passed, but it left quite the impression. A ghost print, superimposed over you.

“Not bad, but the bicep girth is off. Right, Kim?”

“Oh god, is that really what I look like?”

“Hmm. It’s okay, but you should consider a backup career plan.”

“Whoa, you’re amazing! Can you draw me again, but this time in the costume from the cover of Man from Hjelmdall and the Devil Woman? And like, with a really cool warhammer? And Queen Lydiaana standing in the background, all like, ‘boohoo, where will I ever find another man like Ha— I mean, the Man from Hjelmdall?’”

“Beautiful.”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — His smile climbs up into the corners of his eyes, warming his entire countenance.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — If you were to capture a portrait of him in this moment, it would be beautiful, too.

#disco elysium #harry du bois #the smoker on the balcony #kim kitsuragi #this one is. so self indulgent. i like the smoker i like to think abt him #and assign him my art student interests #anyway. oh the joy of making art and showing ppl what they rlly look like in your eyes #and oh the beauty of monotypes and printmaking and hoping for the best #GODDAMMIT I FUCKED UP THE FORMATTING AGAIN AND DIDNT CATCH IT UNTIL LIKE 12 HOURS LATER.#if you saw that. no you didn’t.

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intimacyequalsdeath · 3 months

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Will you be my Valentine? Sugar Day 2 Vincent Sinclair

Day 2 of the Will you be my Valentine special! This is a short intro as it's pretty self explanatory <3 Lotta babes like Vincent so here is your food for this month.

Notes: Minors DNI, Fluff, SFW, No real warnings for this one. No specific descriptions or pronouns are used for the reader. If there are pronouns they will be they/them when in reference to the reader.

"Five more minutes, I promise"

That's what Vincent had signed to you about an hour ago when you asked him how much longer he has to work on the newest wax figure for the town. You rocked slightly back and forth on the stool you were perched on, your elbows on the table and your propped up on your hands as you watched him smooth down wax he had just placed onto the arm of the figure.

"Vincennnnttttt" You whined out.

Vincent turned his attention to you for a split second before turning back to the wax, this was his way of telling you that he was listening.

"You said five more minutes like 1876 hours ago"

Vincent huffed out a chuckle at the exaggeration.

"I guess I did say that didn't I?" He turned to sign to you.

"Yeah you did. I love watching you work but you promised me surprises if I waited" This was the truth.

Vincent said in exchange for your upmost patience he would present you with surprises he had been working on for you. You knew Valentine's day was approaching, or at least you thought, keeping track of months in Ambrose is kinda tricky when nothing is up to date, but you figured it had something to do with that.

Vincent's shoulders moved up and down once again in a chuckle before setting his tools down on the table and going over to a corner of his workshop you usually didn't go into.

He came back from said corner with a few small things in his hands and pulled up a stool next to you to present you with them. The first one he placed in front of you was a small wax figurine, upon closer inspection of it you realized it was a small model of your beloved Jonesy.

"It's Jonsey! Vince this is adorable!"

He nodded in agreeance before placing the second thing down in front of you. This time it was what appeared to be one of his sketchbooks though it wasn't one you recognized.

"'Vince, what is this?"

You asked unsure of what he wanted you to do with it. He looked at your for a second before motioning for you to open it. You did as he instructed you to do and were met with pages and pages of sketches and drawings of you from various times you had Vince had been hanging around Ambrose together.

"I've been working on these since last Valentine's day" Vince signed.

"Vince...." You were at a loss for words "These are amazing. I've never had anyone do anything like this for me before."

You continued to flip through the pages of the sketchbook. Sometimes remembering the little dates and events that the sketches of you were from until you came to one in particular. On one of the very last pages of the sketchbook there was one of you unmistakably clad in wedding attire, with a rough background of the church penciled in behind you. You paused and looked back at Vincent.

Vincent made eye contact with you for a moment before shrugging slightly and producing something from his pocket. He produced a simple band, one he had clearly made himself.

"Vincent, a-are you sure?"

Vincent nodded, reaching over for you to take the ring from him.

"It's nothing final, yet. Just more of a promise ring I guess" He signed placing the ring into your palm.

"Then I promise" You said, eyes meeting his as he looks surprised for a moment.

"P-promise?" He says nervously. You nod.

"I promise that when you do have the actual ring, that I will marry you"

Vincent took your hand in his, and slipped the delicate promise ring onto your ring finger. A intimate placeholder and constant reminder of your future with him.

#slasher x reader #slasher fandom #vincent sinclair #house of wax 2005 #vincent sinclair x reader #Vincent sinclair fluff #valentines day

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nolita-fairytale · 8 months

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don't want to walk alone | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader | chapter five: the honeymoon pt. 2

summary: you and carmy enjoy the last few days of your mini-moon.

warnings: light smut, husband!carmy who comes with a warning label of his own, swearing, lots of tooth rotting fluff, marriage, no use of y/n, second person pov, she/her pronouns

wc: 3.2k

listen to: the official don't want to walk alone playlist (mentioned song - lizzy mcalpine's 'dancing queen' cover)

a/n: hi cuties. here is part two of the honeymoon in chicago. i will be writing an epilogue to finish out this series, then my focus will be back on the world of 'burn your life down.' please enjoy all of this fluffy, lovey dovey content because these two deserve.

part four | masterlist | epilogue

This feels right, you think to yourself, stretching out in the abnormally large bath tub that overlooks the Chicago River. This being the bath, your honeymoon, the non-stop sex between you and your insatiable husband.

You’re up to your shoulders in bubbles, the temperature of the water just the right amount of hot, and you’ve got to admit that you need a recovery bath from the last night or so.

“You gonna join me in here or what?” you ask Carmy, a flirtatious smile on your face as you steal a glance his way.

He sits facing you, a few inches away on the floor of the bathroom, the sketchbook that you got him as a wedding gift laying in his lap as he continues to make furious strokes with one of the wildly-expensive-yet-worth-it pens that you purchased in addition to the sketchbook.

“Nah,” Carmy exhales, the corners of his lips curving up into a smile as he looks at you like you might disappear. “I just wanna look at you a little longer.”

“I know it’s kind of our thing now. But maybe tomorrow night?” he offers up, half apologetically. You shake your head, as if to let him know it’s no problem, and Carmy returns his attention over to what he’s sketching.

“Watcha workin’ on over there?” you ask, curiously, in reference to the broad strokes of pen on paper that you can hear.

“It’s a surprise,” he answers almost too quickly, his focus unbroken as he keeps his head down, buried in whatever it is he’s drawing.

You inhale deeply, letting out your breath on an even deeper exhale and it feels as if you’re melting into the warm bubbles that surround you.

“I’m just glad you’re drawing again. You always seem to light up when you do it,” you sigh, settling into the comfort of your bath, even though you now have to accept that Carmy won’t be joining you tonight.

You close your eyes, listening to the sound of your bubble bath playlist that plays over the speakers of your phone – the easily recognizable voice of Leon Bridges filling your ears as your shoulders relax.

“Why don’t you draw something? For our next tattoo,” you suggest, your eyes beginning to close.

“God, I love you so much,” is Carmy’s reply, without missing a beat.

Opening one eye, you sit up slightly to get a good look at Carmy, shooting a quizzical look his way.

“Well, yeah. But are you referencing anything in particular this time?” you giggle, peering over the edge of the tub in hopes of getting a look at what he’s sketching. Carmy tuts, clutching the sketchbook close to his chest so that he’s sure you can’t see.

The two of you exchange a look, then a laugh, before you resign yourself, sinking back into the tub. Carmy can’t take his eyes off of you, watching you close yours. He looks down at his sketchbook, the image of you in the bathtub, your hair tied up in a messy bun on top of your head beginning to take shape on the page. With deep blue eyes full of love, he finally answers your previous question with:

“You encourage me to dream, baby.”

A beat.

“It’s one of the many reasons I love you.”

You inhale again, peeking one eye open just for a moment as you grin.

“I love you too, Bear. So, so much.”

You take another breath, and a beat, before reiterating, “And I meant what I said. You should draw something for our next tattoo.”

“You really want my scribbles on your body forever?” he asks, skeptically, completely discrediting the talent that you know he knows he has.

“I married you, didn’t I?” you shoot back with a shrug.

He snorts out a laugh, shaking his head incredulously.

“Don’t know if that’s the same.”

“Seriously, Bear. I know we talked about maybe adding some ink to mark this chapter of our relationship… but I really want you to draw it. You don’t have to make up your mind now but, just think about it, okay?” you continue, this time opening both of your eyes to look at him – just so he knows that you mean it.

“Sure,” he nods hesitantly. “Uh… yeah. I’ll think about it.”

You hum along to your playlist as the song changes, and Carmy returns his attention to his sketchbook, stealing glances your way as he continues to work on his drawing of you. You swear you’ve slipped into the kind of relaxed state that yogis traveling to an ashram for the first time can only dream of, as both you and Carmy settle into a comfortable and quiet rhythm.

Carmy hasn’t felt this inspired in a long time – noting that he hasn’t felt this relaxed in a long time either – and he’s more than willing to admit that it’s all the love (and all the sex, because it’s certainly not hurting) that’s sparked this creative kick. He was nervous before, before checking into the hotel earlier today, that maybe he wouldn’t be able to relax – the idea of going to the spa with you tomorrow is still absolutely terrifying – but it’s moments like these that remind him that he may not be so bad at this whole relaxing thing after all.

It could be minutes, hours, days when you decide to get out of the tub – having lost track of time entirely since you checked in at the Langham hotel. Without saying anything, you pull the plug on the bathtub, allowing it to drain as you stand up, grabbing for the fluffy, plush white hotel towel.

And you know that you could put on a robe, just like Carmy, but you have a better idea.

You’ve been saving the little white slip dress that Natalie bought you for just the right moment, and you think this might be it. You can feel Carmy’s eyes on you as you disappear from the bathroom, leaving him where he sits on the floor, and back into the bedroom in search of where you hung the slip dress earlier this evening.

You wonder how long it will take – if he’ll follow you back into the bedroom – but he doesn’t, so you take your time drying off. The white slip dress slides off of its hanger easily. You pull it over your head, allowing it to settle gently over your frame, noticing just how softly it drapes over your figure.

Nat really nailed it with this one, you think to yourself, the pads of your feet hitting the ground as you head back into the bathroom to hang up your robe.

Carmy’s gotten up off the floor, having carefully set his sketchbook down on the long counter, confident in the way he stands, waiting for you. He watches you like a hawk as you begin hanging your robe on the back of the door, a smirk beginning to form on his face.

“What?” you ask, because you know exactly what he’s thinking without even having to look at him.

“Nothin,” he answers, cheekily.

As you turn around, Carmy’s taking a step towards you. You busy yourself with taking your hair back down, watching your reflection in the mirror as Carmy approaches, coming up behind you. You can feel his hands slide along your hips, pulling you towards him as he begins to leave soft kisses on the tops of your shoulders.

“Jus’ wanted to let you know how beautiful you are,” he mumbles in between kisses, pressing his hips against your ass. “That’s all.”

“That’s all? You’re insatiable, Carm. You know that?” you ask him with a giggle, watching him in the mirror this time.

“Oh come on,” he counters you. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” You moan as soon as you feel one of his hands bunching up the material of your dress, his lips curving into a smile against your skin as he hears you. “Putting this on for me.”

“Baby,” you sigh happily, beginning to understand just how fun a honeymoon is supposed to be.

“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” he begins to tease you, moving your hair to one side of your neck.

“Remember when we snuck into a dressing room…” he continues you, his piercing blue eyes bearing into your soul through the mirror image – just like that night. “... during the James Beard Awards…”

“How could I forget?” you gasp, his teeth nipping at the soft skin of your neck. “It was Syd’s first win and neither of us could wait till we got home.”

You remember it well, especially now, as Carmy begins to grind his hips into your ass, his eyes pleading with you in the reflection, begging you to let him fuck you.

“Friday night and the lights are low…”

You smile, as soon as you recognize the lyrics to one of your favorite songs. Only this time, it’s nothing like the version you and your best friends sang at karaoke night, this version done as an intimate, acoustic singer-songwriter cover. Carmy’s hands are patient, slowly exploring your body as you turn around to face him, surprising him as you wrap your arms around his neck.

He sends you a questioning look and you smile back as you lean in, placing your mouth over his in a messy kiss.

“I love this song,” you whisper against his lips, pulling him in for another kiss as you press your body closer to his. “Dance with me, Carm.”

“Yeah?” he asks, with a single, amused raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you answer with a smirk. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Instead of answering (or protesting, considering he had his sights set on fucking you up against the bathroom counter), he just embraces you, holding you close to him as the two of you sway back and forth to the song, exchanging heated kisses. It’s here, in the midst of a push and pull of desire, dressed in a fluffy white bathrobe and the slip dress his sister bought you, that you and Carmy have your first dance as man and wife.

It’s exchanged kisses, teasing remarks, and eager hands till the very end of the song, both of your feet coming to a halt, too consumed with the passionate makeout that Carmy’s engaged you in this time. Your hands travel to where his robe is tied closed, beginning to open it as your breathing picks up.

“Think we can count that as a first dance?” Carmy asks, in between kisses, his lips moving at a feverish, more desperate pace this time.

“Definitely,” you reply, the softness in his eyes matched so well with the softness of the music. It’s then that you kiss him again, your mouth beginning to trial south every time you return to him.

“Baby,” he moans, as he watches you kiss lower and lower, anticipating what comes next.

“Said I’d make it worth your while. And right now, I want to go down on my husband,” you rasp, your voice low and sultry as you drop to your knees.

Carmy moans as soon as he feels your mouth on him, your tongue coming out just to taste the tip of him. His right hand tangles in your hair, beginning to grasp at the back of your head as he lets out a:

“Fuck.”

———————————

Your vintage lace slip dress, plucked from the ground where it was carelessly thrown the night before, and Carmy’s denim jacket draped over your shoulders.

That’s what he wakes up to, Carmy, your husband, as you climb back onto the bed, having left your brown paper bag filled with all kinds of goodies on the nightstand next to him.

It may seem silly, bringing his denim jacket considering you barely planned on leaving the room, but he brought it for moments like this, when he knew you’d inevitably want to wear something of his while heading down to explore the rest of the hotel.

“Think you’ll even need that?” you’d asked as you watched him pack his bag for this weekend.

“Gotta be prepared, babe. You’ve been stealing my clothes since day one,” he had pointed out, making it clear that he was only packing options at this point. You’d giggled, making a comment about how considerate your then-husband-to-be was and a declaration that you were nothing if not consistent.

“Good morning, my love,” you say as you climb onto the bed, settling at the foot.

Carmy just smiles dreamily, his curls a wild, beautiful mess, as he sits up, reaching for your hands so that he can pull you over him. You smile, leaving a quick good morning kiss on his lips as you mutter something about morning breath.

“Fuck off. You love me,” he teases in response, laying back down.

“Fuck off. I do,” you parrot him, nodding happily, as you settle over him, straddling his hips.

With your hands still in his, Carmy brings your conjoined hands up to his lips, leaving a kiss to each knuckle, his eyes fixed to yours, his focus unbroken. He smirks, seeing you in his denim jacket, just like he predicted. It looks damn good on you and there’s something so primal about the way he feels when you wear his clothes – the fact that you’d showcase to the world that you’re his stirs something inside of him that feels intoxicating.

“I went downstairs to the hotel cafe. Got a few pastries and coffee for us,” you say, as you run your hands up and down his chest.

“Thanks, baby. But I’m not hungry yet,” Carmy replies, something in his voice that tells you he’s got something else in mind. You quirk an eyebrow in his direction, letting out a loud laugh as he flips you over, rolling you onto your back.

“Think we should work up an appetite first.”

“Again?” you giggle, heat pooling between your legs as you think of how he fucked you up against the bathroom counter last night – after you went down on him.

Instead of answering, he captures your mouth with his, groaning into the kiss as he lays his body over yours. You could care less about the morning breath as Carmy winds you up with the way he kisses you, the way he touches you, and you’re sighing out in pleasure as his hand slips between your legs.

“Jesus fucking Christ, baby,” he spits through gritted teeth, as soon as he realizes that you’re not wearing any underwear.

“You go down to the cafe like this?”

You smirk, letting out a devious chuckle at his discovery.

Before you can properly answer, Carmy’s fingers are dancing over your wet heat, earning well deserved gasps from you as you buck your hips into his hand, a sudden possessiveness taking over.

“Fuck, Carm,” you groan, knowing exactly how to wind him up. “Yeah. Might have to punish me for it.”

“Think so, sweet girl,” Carmy mutters, before his mouth is on yours again.

———————————

It’s your last night at the Langham hotel and you and Carmy have barely left your room – save for the trip to the pool downstairs. You find yourself curled up with your husband, your head buried in the book you're halfway through in a cozy silk PJ set as Carmy works on something else, a few pages deep into his new sketchbook.

“How’s your book?” he asks, his focus still on the page before him.

“Good,” you answer quietly, looking for a good place to pause. You look over at him, smiling as you notice the very cute face he makes when he’s concentrating.

“Watcha workin’ on?”

A light blush runs across Carmy’s cheeks as he prepares to show you.

“Uh… just been sketchin’ up some ideas… you know. Ever since you asked about, you know… the tattoo,” Carmy answers, suddenly feeling shy about showing you his work.

“Yeah?” you ask, only to be met with a nod as Carmy hands you the sketchbook.

You take it, your eyes eagerly scanning the page, considering it’s the first time since you gave him the gift that he’s let you see anything he’s been working on. You smile, a look of awe in your eyes as you take in all of the little food-related tattoos that he’s drawn up.

“I like this one,” you say, pointing to the nest of spaghetti he’s drawn, clearly meant to be a single portion of carbonara. “I mean, I like all of them… but I like this one.”

“Yeah?” he asks, only a little surprised that you like any of them really.

“Yeah,” you nod in response. You look down at his work, then back up to Carmy before gesturing towards the page. “May I?”

“Uh… sure,” he answers anxiously, the sound of the page turning only magnifying his nerves.

He’s so incredibly talented that it hurts, and it’s not till you get back to the very first page, the one where he's drawn you in the bathtub that your heart stops.

“Carmy,” you gasp, looking down at the sketch.

“You hate it,” he’s quick to say, offering up a way out, almost too eager to beat you to the punch if that is how you feel.

“Baby, of course I don’t hate it. I-,” you shake your head, marveling at the drawings below as you trace your fingers over the broader strokes of the pen. “It’s just… no one’s ever drawn me before so. I’m kind of… in awe right now.”

Carmy inhales, then lets out the breath on a deep exhale, because he’s drawn you before – considering he’s barely made time for his art in the last five years anyways – and that they just aren’t things he’s shown you yet.

“What do you think?” is all he asks, his eyes searching your face for a reaction.

“I think,” you say, returning his gaze with yours. You can tell that he’s nervous, that this feels extremely vulnerable, and you know exactly how to pivot. “... that you’re incredibly talented… and it’s really, really not fair.”

He laughs.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he replies, brushing off the compliment.

“No, I mean it, Bear,” you harp, making sure he hears you.

“Okay,” he nods, and you know it’s the best you’re going to get when it comes to him accepting your compliment on the spot.

You take a beat, before handing him his sketchbook back, returning your attention to your book as the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm of spending time with each other. This is exactly how you pictured this weekend going – spending time together, doing absolutely nothing, and fucking all day long. You’re not quite ready to go back to real life yet, but you also miss Aioli, and you know you and Carmy have another shot at this when you go on your real honeymoon in a few months.

“Maybe I should bring this with me… you know… on our honeymoon part two,” Carmy says, gesturing towards his sketchbook. It warms your heart to see him so excited, so inspired and relaxed.

“Definitely,” you reply with a smile. “Let’s do it all over again in a few months. When we go to Japan.”

“You wanna take a bath?” you ask, an implied, ‘you said you would join me’ in your voice as you ask the question.

Carmy licks his lips, a small smile threatening the corners of his mouth as he answers,

“Deal.”

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adalwolfgang · 9 months

Note

Can you write about Sinclair brothers and Rusty nail's S/O is an artist but S/O's sketch book all only draw about them.

Thank you and I really really love your any creation or other thing else!! Really thank you and hope you have a wonderful day like you!!💜

Slashers coming across s/o's sketchbook

A/n: Thank you Nina, I love you too!! And again, Im so sorry for taking so long on your reqeust!

Warnings: Jonesy is the queen bee. Bite me. Not proofread.

Credit to @cafekitsune for the banner(s)

Beaugard (Bo) Sinclair

Bo didn't mean to stumble upon your many drawings.

He was up at the house, trying to tidy up a little (shocker I know) and happened to knock over a stack of books. One of them being your sketchbook. He kneels down, picking up the books but pauses once reaching for yours. After a few seconds of glancing around the room, he grabs it and starts skimming over the many pages.

As he flipped through its pages, he was taken aback by what he saw. Each page was filled with intricate and lifelike drawings of only him. His heart swelled with a mixture of surprise, and a touch of vulnerability. He had never imagined that anyone apart from his brother could make something so beautiful.

Bo's fingers gently traced the lines of his own face in awe, realizing just how deeply you had been observing him. His mind began to race before quickly being interrupted by the sound of the front door being opened. He smirked to himself, keeping his back turned from the door as he kept flipping the pages.

Jonesy came trotting into the room with the wag of her tail, tongue carelessly hanging out. You weren't far behind as she walked up to Bo, giving his leg a short sniff before carrying on toward the basement.

"What'cha doin'?" you quirked a brow as you quickly caught on to him seeming to be hyper focused on whatever it was he was reading. When he turned his body, your book coming into view, your pupils dilate at the realization and embarrassment.

"Ya've really captured my good looks darlin! I never took ya for an' arti-" before he could finish his next sentence, you ran up and tackled his ass to the ground in desperation to get the book back and out of his eyesight. This caused him to laugh as he kept holding the book farther away from the both of you on the ground. After a couple minutes of teasing, he hands your book back, adding one last cherry on top.

"I also seen that ya've been studyin' anatomy~" He immediately got an elbow to the ribs in response.

Lester Sinclair

Had to take a double take.

He was digging under his trucks seat, looking for a toy Jonesy had dropped. He grabs ahold of something, thinking it's the squeaky toy, he yanks his arm out only to raise a brow in confusion when seeing it's only a book. The kind of book people use to draw with. He looks over to Jonesy who was sitting in the passenger seat, waiting patiently for her toy to be returned to her.

"I'll git yer toy in a second, alrigh'? Let me jus' look at this real quick," he sits down in the truck, carefully opening the book. His eyes growing wide when he spots your initials signed into the first page. He looks up at the front door to the house, seeing as the coast was clear, he looks back down at the book, peeling back another page. The first page was just little doodles of Him, Jonesy, and you. He flips another page, this time met with much more detailed sketches. Them being of only him. His eyes stayed glue to the pages as he skims each page with great precision.

"What'cha reading?"

He jumps in his seat when you pop up beside his truck window. The book again falling to the floor. He clears his throat, trying to calm his breathing.

"Erm...Would'ja believe me if I said nothin'?"

You quirked a brow before leaning inside the window and looking at the book on the floor of the truck. A look of embarrassment washes over your face.

"You were looking at my drawings...Weren't you?"

After that, he apologizes profusely, ending with you quickly forgiving him but taking the book back inside with you, deciding it best to keep it somewhere else and not in his truck anymore. As he watched you walk but up the steps into the house, his thoughts were interrupted again. This time by Jonesy barking at him. He turns around to see her still pawing at the seat, wanting her toy.

"Oh shoot! Sorry girl!" he quickly goes back to the task he was doing before, reaching under the seat for the dog toy.

Vincent Sinclair

His face gets so hot from the discovery, he almost thought his body heat melted his mask.

You both were in the basement. He was at his desk, working on another mask mold he had recently got from Bo. You were sat on his bed with Jonesy laying her head on your lap asleep. Currently you were drawing another sketch of Vincent, this time sitting at his desk working on the mask mold. After a few hours, you were almost finished with your drawing. Jonesy had already woken up a few minutes' prior. You were putting on the finally details when she trotted back into the basement, carrying her dog bowl in her mouth. She placed it Infront of the bed, nuzzling it with her snout closer before sitting down and looking up at you. You stare between her and your almost completed sketch before letting out a small chuckle. You set down your book on the bed, picking up the bowl and walking toward the stairs.

"Ima go feed Jonesy, be right back Vinny"

He let out a Mmhh in acknowledgement. When you leave with the dog, he continues working. That doesn't last long though when his focus goes to the open book on his bed. He looks over to the stairs then back to the book. He sits there for a moment before deciding to stand up and walk over to the bed. He pulls the book toward him, looking over the page you were recently drawing on. He's beyond surprised. The talent and detail is admiring to say the least.

By the time you return to the basement with Jonesy, he had already seen every single drawing you had in that book. He had already gone back to his wax mold, trying to keep his focus on something else besides all the thoughts and images in his head from his discovery. His face was almost as warm as the boiler that was a few feet away. You didn't seem to notice though as you went back to your spot on the bed and get right back to sketching.

He ratted himself out later on.

Rusty Nail

Flattered and impressed as hell.

After not getting to see each other for what seemed like a month but was only a week, Rusty finally pulled up to yall's shared home. The only thing on his mind was finally getting to sleep in his own bed with his only and favorite person. Upon walking through the door, he was immediately tackled by your affections.

"Welcome home old man!"

He lets of a rumble of laughter, giving your head a quick peck while wrapping his arms around you to also return the affection.

"Someone missed me eh?"

As you both go to your shared room, Rusty plops down onto his side of the bed as you walked over to your side, grabbing a book off the nightstand.

"I know you're probably exhausted but I want to show you something since I don't have the patience anymore."

You walk back over to his side, taking a seat beside him as you open up the book for him to see. Inside it was sketches you've drawing over the past week of his absence. Even though he was tired, his eyes grew a little surprised as he skimmed over the drawings. It was like looking in a mirror. He traced his hand over some of them, a soft smile spreading gracing his lips.

"These look beautiful sweetheart" he looks up at you with a smile before leaning forward a pressing another kiss to your cheek.

Now every time he leaves for a long drive, he takes a drawing with him and keeps it on his person at all times.

#bo sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #house of wax x reader #sinclair brothers x reader #rusty nail x reader #rusty nail #rusty nail joyride #rusty nail joy ride 2 #joy ride 2 #joy ride 2 dead ahead #joy ride

352 notes · View notes

byeoltoyuki · 2 months

Text

✧memories of us ✧ We meet again

↳ Pairing: Jisung x Reader

❧ Genre : romance / smut /fluff / 1st love to strangers to lovers

❧ Summary: Sometimes memories are just that. Memories.

A series of drabbles about you and Jisung, about your love and your heartbreak and a second chance.

❧ A/N: Likes and reblogs are appreciated ♥

Because you asked me @rylea08 :)

Masterlist / previous /

It was another of those sunny days. You sat at your favourite spot at Soyeon’s cafe. The sun was gently caressing your skin while you were drawing in your sketchbook with music in your ears and a cup of cappuccino. Just what you needed. You hummed happily; your muse the inspiration had finally visited you last night and ever since you couldn’t stop yourself from drawing.

For the past few days you tried not to think about the BBQ party, about Jisung. You managed, not easily, to keep it to yourself. You weren’t ready to tell Yunji that you had seen both Minho and Jisung - she wouldn’t be pleased. Changbin, on the other hand, you bet he already knew but didn’t confront you about it and for that you were grateful.

You didn’t know what to think of the encounter with Jisung. You couldn’t deny that a part of you, and sadly a rather big one, was delighted to see him again and see what kind of man he became. But another part of you was worried. Those feelings you had buried deep inside you since the night you left him at the restaurant, were begging to show up. Not ideal.

“What are you doing?”

Your whole body tensed at the sound of his voice. Did you somehow summoned Jisung just by thinking about him?

You blinked, confused as he took seat across from you, smiling sheepishly.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” You blurted, forgetting all about your manners. You were just so stunned to see him here. You had spent hours in this café without ever seeing him. So why now?

“Grabbing a coffee of course!” And yet he had none with him. To that you cocked a brow and waited for him to confess the real reason. Jisung sighed in defeat. “Fine. I bribed Soyeon. She refused to give me your phone number but she told me I could catch you here.”

His confession left you even more confused and yet at the same time your heart clenched painfully, longing for something that would never happen again. Maybe.

“You bribed Soyeon?” You repeated, unsure you heard it right.

Jisung propped his chin on his hand, his smile turned into a mischievous grin. “Yep. She likes you a lot. Not that I’m surprised. She threatened to kick my ass if I ever do something to you.”

Your heart swelled with love for your friend. You hadn’t told her your story with Jisung but she still understood and worried for you. “I’ll let her hold you while I’ll do the beating.”

Jisung burst into laughter, imagining the scene. “Please, have mercy on me. I’m just a man.”

A handsome one, you wanted to add but refrained.

“So, now that we established that, what are you doing?” He tried to have a peek but you hid it from him. “Oh come on!”

Jisung, whenever he wanted something, always knew what to do to make you give in, today was no exception. The moment he did his best puppy eyes, you came to realization that no matter how many years passed, you still couldn’t deny him anything. And it sucked.

You shook your head, disappointed with yourself for being so weak as you pushed the sketchbook towards him. “I usually come here when I need a good coffee and to draw. Something about this place helps me.”

Jisung looked through your sketchbook with a little frown that showed how serious he got. He took his time, observing the different kind of sketches until he reached the last page. You hadn’t finished it but he could recognize Soyeon’s garden and the different shapes of people.

He glanced from the sketchbook to have a good look at you. “When did you get so good?”

“A lot of practicing I’d say.” You smiled. You tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, feeling a little embarrassed. You liked your drawings and you knew others did too, you didn’t become an artist just because it was a hobby. But something about showing it to Jisung made you feel shy. “Remember my roommate Hyunjin?”

“Yeah. I” Jisung cleared his throat, “saw his work recently. He’s really good.”

You didn’t think Jisung would be interested in art but apparently there were still things you didn’t know about him. This thought made your lips quirk. “Yeah. He is. He helped me a lot and pushed me to switch majors.”

Jisung gasped loudly. “You did? When?”

“Shortly after we broke up.” You admitted, wincing at the memory.

Ending things with Jisung had left you broken and miserable. And yet, it was also this pain and sadness that fuelled your inspiration. You poured all your feelings into your work and it paid. Hyunjin, knowing your reluctance to show your work, stole it to show it around. the day he told you his teacher wanted to meet you, was the day you finally broke down and cried. The poor man didn’t know what to do to calm you down; he lent you his shoulder until there was no more tears left.

“Hyunjin showed my work to his teacher and then made me meet him.” There was so much fondness in your voice at the memory. “I was angry at first but he still convinced me to go. Best decision I had ever made.”

“I’m glad you had someone like Hyunjin by your side.” Jisung admitted. He didn’t have the chance to meet the man that often but from the little he had seen, he knew that Hyunjin was a good friend to you, who pushed you to achieve your dreams. “Any chance I get to see more of your work?”

You hesitated. There was something you, indeed, wanted him to see but you weren’t sure he would like it. You stared at Jisung for a moment, not averting your eyes when he looked back.

“Come to my exhibition.”

#stray kids #han jisung #stray kids fic #stray kids x reader #han jisung x reader #han #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fluff

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cherry-lynn · 4 months

Text

rocky and his water motif

ive seen a few people analyze rocky and his symbolism with water, and i thought id jump on the train and contribute what ive found. i looked through every piece of art in the gallery and messed around with the dead drop to find everything here! with that being said…

obvious spoiler warnings! and warning for a lot of speculation and over analyzing! a lot of things i mention are really big stretches but i added them anyways incase anyone else wants to look into it more

starting where the pilot starts and near the start of the comic (the page “lackadaisy dithyramb”), right off the bat we have an entire poem from rocky dedicated to the mississippi river. this iconic poem is literally just about the river, and he recites it in both scenes from on the bridge over the river.

note that in both cases there is also a crescent moon featuring in the background

more poetry! this one is from the comic on the page “lackadaisy doggerel”. this is actually one of my favourite pages in the comic, its very cool! we have this poem that, again, is entirely about water. it talks about water in a metaphorical way, comparing it to memory and the passage of time. maybe ill try to analyze this poem sometime but idk im not very good at that stuff. seems to talk about rockys past but im not sure

i didnt want to just put this entire page here but i will note that the page has a raging storm, an ocean, a water mill, another storm cloud and a waterfall all picured above rocky, who, in this case is ahem under water, in a way.

last bit of poetry im talking about is probably the most relevant. rockys feauture in the “lacrimosa” poem/halloween artwork shows him seemingly drowning outside a window.

the significance of it being outside a window is somewhat unclear to me, as every other character appears in something reminiscent of a picture frame. my only idea is that its meant to show him outside of what could be a home, in reference to him getting the “unceremonious boot”. the text emphasizes this idea, saying hes away from home

this next one is more obscure and much more of a stretch! after digging around in sketchbook pages, i found this tiny little sketch on a page simply labeled “lackadaisy preview 0018”. the sketch page features sketches that were used for the page “lackadaisy palaver” in the comic, and a few bonus doodles. this was one of the bonus doodles, and i cant seem to find a comic pannel that matches it anywhere.

this sketch could be a lot of things, its a bit hard to tell. most likely, its an unsused pannel of rocky that was going to be used on the comic page. maybe him on whe windshield, or something like that. that being said, the first thing i thought of was the lacrimosa art. its a stretch but i thought id add it, just in case! who knows really

next up is rockys character artwork, which features him standing on a barrel floating in a river.

be careful rocky, you might fall! one little detail about this art that i like is that hes quite literally hiding his sadness behind his back. and again, the crescent moon motif features in the background. the cattails in this image also remind me of this scene in the pilot

…but i mean cattails do grow near water so i dont think that means anything

speaking of the pilot, this scene has rocky accidentally blowing up a water tower and flooding the area, and getting a whole bunch of water dumped on him

be careful rocky, you might get hurt! ...i dont think he cares

one last note from the pilot (for now) is a line from mitzi after rocky comes back with alcohol for them. it could mean nothing, could be foreshadowing, who knows

note in the second image: “rest” as in the rest of the alcohol they were meant to bring back

the music video for liquid gold ends with rocky dropping a bottle and the golden liquid flooding the room

i wasnt even looking for water symbolism when i found this, i was just rewatching the music video for fun! i just about had a heart attack when it ended like that D: rocky please dont drown

back to the comics! sorry this is a bit all over the place. forgive me for just uploading an entire comic page, but the page “lackadaisy thunderhead” features rocky standing over a river. at the bottom of the pannel on the right there are daisys, a symbol that features in a lot of rockys artwork and is generally associated with the lackadaisy speakeasy. the daisys could just be for aesthetics or to frame the pannel better, but its also notable that they appear where the water is.

the name “thunderhead” is interesting given some other pannels

not sure what it means though

the very first scene in the comic aside from the introduction shows rocky at the river.

in the page “lackadaisy trouble boys” from the early concept art mitzi makes a comment about rockys aim, and makes an… interesting metaphor

side note: im gonna cry is that actually how rocky gets the little hole in his ear lmao

the mini comic “wilderness” has rocky climbing out of a small muddy pool of water claiming “the waters great”, despite looking absolutely horrible. isnt shown here, but he says he cant feel his legs and calls for freckle to come back.

knock knock! its time for the playing cards! rockys card depicts him as the 8 of spades, although hes also been shown as the ace of clubs multiple times.

first up, 8 of spades! i really like this art but i have a lot of questions. for one, why is rocky holding a shovel and whats with the lantern? theres nothing wrong with it, just caught my attention since i think freckle is drawn with shovels a lot more than rocky (might be wrong on that though) second, this is the only picture i can find where you can CLEARLY see rockys head injury healed. cool! third, the outfit hes wearing is… atypical for rocky, you could say. for obvious reasons. he always wears blue, why suddenly the change to black? and obviously, the choice of making him the 8 of spades. some quick google searches and this is what i found: from various websites (the first things that popped on on google), apparently spades symbolizes the winter season and the water element. it seems to represent old age, change, wisdom and acceptance. the number 8 supposedly represents victory, prosperity and overcoming. i was going to put images, but i could only have 30 and i ran out of space lmao im so sorry this is SO LONG djfjsjnrfj

make of it what you will. as for the ace of clubs:

my google searches were much less interesting so ill just put my own thoughts. the clubs is likely just for the association with the lackadaisy speakeasy, as in both of these cases he is shown alongside other characters from the lackadaisy and everyone has clubs. as for him being the ace, the main notable thing about the ace is that its generally the highest card.

the main idea i personally took from these cards is the idea rocky will possibly not be a part of the lackadaisy in the furure. we see him in his classic outfit, no head injury as the ace of clubs, with clubs being associated with the lackadaisy. but we also see him with a healed head injury (so clearly in the future) with a new outfit and no more clubs suit.

not sure if this is even notable but this entire (very iconic) scene in the comic takes place in the rain

be careful rocky, you might get shot!

and now, even more crescent moon motifs

so why have i been pointing this out? well its undeniable that rocky also has motif with this crescent moon. i have no idea what it means but heres my very quick five minute thoughts on it: one: the moon controls the tide. obviously a river doesnt really have a tide, but still! theres some association with water there, so its notablea. two: this might be a stretch but in the pilot theres this very memorable frame where it shows the reflection of the moon (which initially looks like a cat) ahem in the water. obviously water reflects stuff so its not abnormal for the moon to reflect in the water but i just thought it was cool!

aaaand last but not least

this analysis was brought to you while listening to hatsune miku, i probably made a lot of typos so yell at me and ill fix them but not my grammar its terrible and im not fixing that, lmk your thought and if i missed anything, thank you for reading have a nice day sorry it was so long <3

#lackadaisy #rocky rickaby

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kairiscorner · 10 months

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my brother in christ, please, do a oneshot in which gabriel (miguel's brother) courts us after the wedding (from the last miguel oneshot) PLS!! !! !! ILL DO ANYTHING

hello <33 MMMMMM OK SURE WHY NOT >:D I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS AAAAAAAAA

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

i'll love again someday — gabriel o'hara x reader

summary: he saw you standing there, in all your glory—in all your tear-stained and sobbing glory; trying to put on a brave face as you watched his big brother, who you loved for years, be taken away from you in the blink of an eye. he sympathizes with you, but at the same time... he rejoices at the fact he can now show you all the love you've deserved and will ever deserve. word count: 1,051

he believed you were heavensent, soaking in all your beauty as you stood there next to him as another person of honor at his big brother's wedding; though he knew you were more than just some person to him. you were gorgeous, even as your eyes glistened with tears, tears filled with emotion that went undisclosed over the years. it's poetic, really, just seeing how filled to the brim you were with unfathomable sadness—you were statuesque, you were the image of his perfect somebody, that somebody he vowed to cherish forever before he even met them truly.

he remembers your face quite clearly, you were that one friend of his older brother who always came to their place over breaks and occasionally when your parents weren't around. gabriel was a little nosy, in complete honesty; he always snooped around when miguel would come home with a new face, especially if it was a pretty one. he remembers he was sketching that day, just being in his own little world without a care in the world. he doesn't remember what he was drawing, though, none of it was worth remembering—except for that one sketch he drew of somebody that taught his heart how to skip a beat for a second, that somebody who his gaze landed upon and changed the trajectory of his life forever; that person who he vowed to love before realizing he was even really in love.

and that somebody was you. his somebody was always you.

he could still recall how wide your smile was when miguel told you a crappy joke even he didn't understand, how bright your eyes shone when you stepped foot into their house, and how sweet your voice was when you greeted him after you caught him staring at you and miguel from behind a column in the living room. your lips looked so supple, and curved into a perfect smile—your hair was luscious and was probably so nice to touch, to run his hand through, and bury his face in; and your hands, oh your hands were his favorite part. your hands were so welcoming, warm, and kind.

he remembers feeling so hot in the face when you smiled up at him and asked him what his name was. he really forgot what his mother named him when you asked him, every word that was ever written in the lines of his mind that he usually hardly puts effort in to remember was all just erased; you made him into a blank slate when he caught your gaze. "...hermosa," that was the first word he ever uttered to you as he stared into your beautiful irises, his face flustered and his eyes wide. your face was all he could think of that day, so much so that when he was around you and miguel with his sketchbook, you filled all the blank spaces in the pages, not one bit of it was wasted with anything but drawings of you, trying to capture you in all your magificence.

he never forgot that day, especially with how embarrassing it was for him, and he still finds you so, so beautiful.

"hermosa!" he called out to you as the wedding had concluded, and the guests were pouring out of their seats to head to the reception. you tried to wipe away the tears that were now falling, ceaselessly, in fact. you hoped your mascara wouldn't streak down your eyes, and it did a little, but you couldn't conceal it right now. you turned around, and there, in front of you, was the once shy little boy whose mind went blank at the sight and sound of you and your voice.

you smiled and sniffled back your cries; gabri didn't deserve to see you sad, you thought, he was a good kid, and he... he deserved nothing but to see happy faces of his loved ones for as long as he lived. "hello, gabri." you greeted him as his smile widened. "you... wow, i honestly couldn't believe you got prettier with age. you look wonderful." he commented as he extended his hands out slowly towards you. you chuckled, it felt weirdly nice to hear you being complimented before you were going to burst into tears at the fact the man you loved would never know how you felt, and still feel, for him.

"and you... you got more handsome, gabri." you complimented him back, which sent sparks flying in his heart as he got more embarrassed and smiled widely. "hush, now, i'm nothing special..." he said as you shook your head and tried to tell him how handsome he had become, which just flustered him even more. "hah, keep complimenting me and i might just melt all over you." he said as you placed your hands in his. "i wouldn't mind that." you answered as gabri's eyes widened. "you... wouldn't?" he asked you with a chuckle. you shook your head as you smiled. "gee, well... if you want, i can keep you company all night. y'know, as much as i love mig, i really think this wedding is a drag. he hates this color arrangement, and so do i. wanna, um... head somewhere else before the picture taking at the reception?" he asked you with a heat creeping up in his cheeks.

and it was here, finally, that you felt something other than grieving over your lost love. you felt a spark of hope, a ray of sunshine in your gray, cloudy skies. you held his hand tighter, and as tears kept welling in your eyes in spite of your shining smile, you nodded. "i'd really, really love that, gabri." you said as gabri smiled and walked with you down the aisle as you held onto his arm now—as if you two were the newlyweds, as if you two... were each other's future; as if you two had exchanged the vows that gabri had promised to his somebody in the future—that he'd love them forever, and ever, and would never, never in a million years, hurt you or leave you alone.

it would finally be your turn to have your happily ever after, and for gabri to shoot his shot and love you, endlessly and unconditionally, just like how you deserve.

tags !! @binibinileonara @miguelswifey04

#gabriel o'hara #gabriel o'hara x reader #gabriel o'hara x you #gabriel o'hara x y/n #gabriel o'hara fluff #atsv #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #spiderman 2099 #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse x reader

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scribespirare · 11 months

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Love the way you write flowerfang! Request: Miguel actually meeting Miles' parents! people always avoid it (for valid reasons) but I would love to see that confrontation. Maybe with 18+ year old Miles? So it's more of 'oh no age gap' rather than just 'oh no it's illegal'

Been getting lots of requests for Miguel to meet Miles' parents so I'm filling two at once here!

Also yallre so sweet ily 🥺 the sketchbook idea is one of my absolute favs b/c its just so sweet and fun.

The inevitable happens about a month before Miles turns 19.

“Tu casa es muy bonita,” Miguel says when he shakes the hand of Miles’ mom.

His mom turns that quick, sharp look of hers on Miles, part surprise part exasperation, before turning back to Miguel. “Miles no mencione que hablas español,” she says in that way that’s simultaneously a compliment to Miguel and an accusation to Miles. “Please, come in.”

When Miles was 15 he’d gotten this new sketchbook, right after all the fighting about the multi-verse had died down. He hadn’t bought it with anything in particular in mind, and he hadn’t even known what he wanted to draw the first time he’d cracked it open.

An hour later he’d been staring down at Miguel’s sharp features and was honestly a little confused about it.

The second and third times he’d drawn Miguel had been even more confusing, and he’d shoved the book into the back of a drawer and tried to forget about it, limiting himself to practicing his graffiti letters on the margins of his notes.

The sketchbook saw light again when Miles and Miguel had gotten together right after Miles had turned 16. Miguel isn’t the only thing or person Miles draws in it, but he’s on basically every single page. Maybe it’s a little weird but hey it ain’t hurting anyone and Miguel is pretty okay? Not like, conventionally so. But the way he moves, the way he carries himself, the sharp, long lines of him in his suit…those things deserve to be committed to paper. That’s all Miles is saying.

Anyways, nobody was ever supposed to actually see this sketchbook. Miles still kept it in the back of a drawer most of the time, and had a primary book that he used more often too. But he’d taken it with him to the dorm and it was still in his bag when he’d visited last week and it had fallen out and open and…

Well, Miles is grateful the more explicit art hadn’t been on display, but Miguel is sill here for dinner. Miles wants to melt through the floor, or perhaps set off another collider just to get out of it. He’d talked to Miguel first of course, and they have their story straight about where they met (Miguel is a graduate student at Miles’ college), when (at the start of the year), and how long they’ve been together (five months). They definitely didn’t get together when Miles was underage, no ma’am or sir, and Miguel totally isn’t a superhero from another dimension nope.

“Miles does have a tendency to leave things out,” Miguel agrees amiably as he comes inside. “Thanks for having me.” Out of his suit he’s not quite so a striking a figure, but he fills out his button-down and jeans well and practically towers over Rio. Even more surprising is when Miles’ dad, Jefferson, steps up to shake Miguel’s hand as well, and Miles has the realization that Miguel towers over him too. Miles is the same height as his father now, even if he’ll never have Jefferson’s wider build, but in his mind that’s still his dad. Larger than life and stronger than anything. He doesn’t look fragile next to Miguel exactly but it’s a near thing.

Miles feels an elbow in his side and glances down at his mother, finding it difficult to shift his attention from where Miguel and his dad are exchanging awkward pleasantries. Sizing each other up, Miles thinks. His mother is also watching them but she glances up at Miles from the corner of her eye, smirks, says, “Eres como tu mama.”

She’s already heading for the kitchen by the time Miles catches her implication; that she chose a man three times her size, and now her son is following in her footsteps. He feels himself heat in embarrassment, and when he glances at Miguel he knows the man’s superior hearing picked the comment up too. Jerk.

“Vamos, boys!” Rio calls, successfully breaking Jefferson and Miguel apart. Miles isn’t even sure what they’d been talking about at this point and raises an eyebrow at his boyfriend in silent question. Miguel just shrugs as he falls in just behind Miles’ shoulder, following him into the dining room.

“Te pareces a ella, también,” Miguel murmurs, nearly making Miles trip.

Everyone please stop comparing me to my mother he thinks desperately because there’s no time for him to reprimand Miguel or his mother out loud. At least not without embarrassing himself further.

Rio hands them each a plate as they pass her on their way to the table. And because she will forever be Miles mother through and through, the first thing she says when she sits down is, “So, Miguel, ¿cuántos años tiene?”

Miles nearly does a spit take and his first bite hasn’t even reached his mouth yet.

If Miguel is put off by the question he doesn’t look it. Well, he looks mildly constipated but that’s kind of just his resting bitch face. “I’m thirty-six,” he replies evenly.

“Thirty-six!?” Jefferson repeats, aghast, and looks between Miguel and Miles. “No wonder Miles hasn’t said anything about you. Christ, you’re twice his age.”

Miles cringes, dropping his fork entirely. “Dad, please.”

“You father has a point,” Rio reprimands, but still turns and tells Jefferson, “Relax, baby. I’m sure Miguel is lovely.” Her gaze is sharp and warning when she tacks on, “But we’ll see.”

The table descends into awkward silence. Miles notices that Miguel isn’t eating, just pushing his food around on his plate. He clears his throat after a while and Miles wants to groan. This can’t be good.

“If it helps,” Miguel says haltingly, “I didn’t pursue him. He’s…persistent.”

His parents give slow, reluctant agreement with this statement and Miles rolls his eyes. He wants to remind Miguel that he’s been more than enthusiastic since they got together, but then decides this is probably not an appropriate place nor audience. Instead Miles just awkwardly tries to get a conversation moving. One that doesn’t involve the elephant in the room, but still draws Miguel out of his shell a little so his parents see exactly how amazing he is.

Unfortunately, Miguel’s resting bitch face really doesn’t give up. Miles knows it’s because he’s nervous as hell, but his parents don’t.

By the time the plates are being cleared, the air is a lot less awkward. at least His parents seem reluctantly impressed by the fact that Miguel’s a geneticist and listen when he explains a few of the tamer experiments Miles knows he has going on. He makes it sound like they’re happening in an lab on campus and not in another universe, and also like he’s a PhD student. As far as cover stories go it’s pretty good.

“So how did you two meet?” Rio asks as she’s stacking everyone’s plates and passing them to Jefferson to take to the kitchen.

Immediately Miles perks up, because they practiced this. “He’s part of the mentor program for the undergrads! He got assigned to a friend of mine.”

At the exact same moment Miles says “Genke,” Miguel says, “Gwen.”

They both pause, Miles swiveling to stare wide-eyed at his boyfriend. “Uh,” he says. When he glances back at Rio her eyes are narrowed suspiciously. Thank fuck Jefferson is already in the kitchen and didn’t hear that. Mom senses are even better than cop senses but at least now it’s two on one instead of an even playing field.

“Gwen!” Miles corrects, smiling like nothing at all is wrong. “I meant to say Gwen! Man, it’s so hard having two friends with Gs names. Gotta give em nicknames or something,” he finishes lamely with a small, awkward laugh.

Rio’s suspicious look hasn’t eased. “No me digas,” she says, in that way that clearly means uh-huh, yeah, sure. Usually Miles hears that right before he’s grounded. But seeing as there’s company and also he’s eighteen, she just shakes her head. “I’m going to help your father clean up in the kitchen. There’s dessert though, so no te escapes, claro?”

“Si, mami,” Miles says obediently. “We’re not going anywhere.”

He sits very, very still until she’s finally out of the room. Then he drops his head head to the table with a long, dramatic groan. A moment later he feels Miguel’s big hand on his nape, squeezing gently in that way that makes Miles boneless.

“It’s not so bad,” his boyfriend murmurs. “I like them. They obviously care for you, and I’d be suspicious too if my kid brought home someone like me.”

Miles rocks his head to the side and glares up at Miguel. “You’re fucking amazing, and I want them to love you like I do.” He pauses, considers the words that just left his mouth, then adds, “Well, not exactly like I do, but still.”

The corner of Miguel’s mouth tilts up in a small smile, and it’s the most relaxed he’s looked all night. Miles desperately wants his parents to see this softer, caring side of Miguel. “They’re certainly closer to my age than you are.”

Miles sits up so quickly it dislodges Miguel’s hand from his nape, and he narrows his eyes playfully. “Hey! My parents are off limits, old man.”

Miguel just smirks, the asshole, and then Rio and Jefferson are back so Miles can’t even say anything else without thoroughly embarrassing every single person at the table. He almost considers doing anyways it just to spite Miguel.

#asks #requests #flowerfang #deleting tags so maybe thisll show up

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thedoover-if · 11 months

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THE EX ROUTE IS GOING TO KILL ME, WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US😭😭

IM SORRY😭 to be fair id never forgive cheating but in games i usually always let it slide so i really wanted to have a ro where it feels very vulnerable to not only move on but also allow oneself to fall in love AGAIN... i think itll be a very interesting dynamic to explore (and i love drama LOL love when authors rip my heart to shreds and then stomp on the pieces too)

fyi youll be able to be hesitant, fearful or whatever OR you can cheat with them, not caring for their current partner and be like rory from gilmore girls where she's like "dean was mine first" (iykyk!!!!)

added a little snippet of a potential scene ive got planned with MC on 'the ex' ro route. call it a little taster LOL (under the cut)

(fyi its from the pov of an MC who still involuntarily feels something for the ex)

“don’t do that,” you spit, gaze slowly travelling down your ex-spouse’s frame. they’re seated on the opposite side of the living room, on the same exact sofa they used to occupy – be it during game nights, movie nights, or simply weekends spent quietly enjoying each other’s company. it felt like the perfect fit. they were the unique key to your lock. the gentle notes on your sometimes out of pitch days… until the music abruptly came to a halt, never to be played again. and ever since that day, three years ago, your life has been muted – dulled even. “do what?” they tilt their face up, and for a moment you’re transferred back in time. but you snap yourself out of it just as quickly; you refuse to go down that path again. although you’re stood a few metres away, you’re able to make out a shapely outline – it's you – on the otherwise empty page of the sketchbook propped on their lap. “you’re drawing me – I don’t want you to draw me.” “why can’t I? you look beautiful.” the stupidly crooked smile creeping upon their features is like a stab to the heart, and those last three words shove the knife straight through your body. just like that, your lungs implode – you’re in too deep. a tsunami of emotions rips open every old wound you nurtured close so carefully over the past months. the hours spent in therapy, flushed down the drain by a sweet compliment. soured by the wrong person. “because that’s what you did when you were with them. when I see you doing this, it makes me think about every night you lied.” your throat grows tight, your vision blurs, and yet you continue, “every night you spent with [redacted] while I was right here… waiting.” for seemingly the first time, you notice sun rays peeking through your beige curtains. it’s almost like the sun has sensed the devastation ongoing in the pit of your stomach, and so with each passing second of your skin soaking up the warm orange beams, the grey clouds inside your head clear more and more. it takes one large breath to relax the tightness of your vocal cords, before you’re able to force a sound out. “you really hurt me [redacted]…” as soon as a look of regret takes over [redacted]’s otherwise painfully gorgeous face, a small flame of hope lights up in your body – one you didn’t grant permission. it’s soothing… and familiar, yet you starve that spark and let it die. “you drawing me like that – it hurts because you know I’ll like it… and that’s not fair, [redacted]” you whisper, before standing tall, a surge of determination coursing through your veins, “I’m not going to let you do this to me again.”

#inbox <3 #ro: the ex spouse #snippet

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fandom-monium · 9 months

Text

Sweet Poison - Part 4

Summary: In which you realize some things about your friend, Zagreus. “Death may be normal here, but the pain…”

WC: 1.5k

TW: Zagreus (Hades Video game) x Succubus!Reader, GN!Reader, a succubus AND an artist bc sex is just work and food, au where in game Zag commissions the paintings using gems, what if boons actually affected Zagreus, slow build, strangers to friends to lovers trope, sex work, fluff, fluff and humor, mutual pining, idiots in love, mild angst, pheromones (technically it’s succubi magic aura), Zagreus is at least 6 ft convince me otherwise, eventual smut

AN: What is a slow burn without the angst??

“Why go through all that effort? Surely you understand how dangerous it is,” You say, referring to his runs through the Underworld. As far as you know, there’s been several. Buried in the covers with a good book, you lay on your side and flip to the next page, though it's lost your attention since Zagreus arrived. “Death may be normal here, but the pain…”

At your lounge chair, Zagreus waves you off, eyes flicking from your figure to your sketchbook in his lap between exaggerated strokes, obnoxiously scritching the parchment. You roll your eyes. “I’m more than familiar with pain. As for why…”

Hearing the somber shift in his tone, you look up, willing him to meet your gaze. “Please don’t feel obligated to answer if it’s too personal.”

“No I… I trust you,” For a moment, Zagreus expression softens, like he can’t believe he’d befriend a demon to this point. You know you can’t, but you also know you could tell him anything and he’d listen.

Almost anything, that is.

The sketchbook shuts with a soft thud. Zagreus crosses the short distance to sit at the foot of your bed, by the curve of your hips. The bed dips under his weight before he takes a deep breath. “Long story short, I found out the mother that raised me isn’t my biological mother, and eventually I learned my biological mother escaped the Underworld and is somewhere on the surface.”

“So once you get to the surface, you intend to find her?”

“Exactly.”

“And what then?”

“Get answers,” He simply answers. Though his eyes steel with conviction, he slumps forward, resting his elbows on toned thighs.

Heat rises to your face, and you turn back to your book.

“You must think I’m a fool.”

“No.” Zagreus shoots you a flat look over his shoulder like he doesn't believe you, so you fully turn your attention to him. “Really! I don’t. I mean, shades aren’t allowed to leave the Underworld, natural order and all that.”

“…Shades. Right,” He says slowly, breaking eye contact for a split second.

“But I understand why you’d want to try. I just wish I could help you in some way, maybe smuggle you out on my next job.”

He perks up, gazing at you curiously, “You’ve been to the surface?”

“A few times for work. Though it has been a while since my last assignment…”

“What’d you have to do?”

Oh, you know: make contracts with humans and feed off them until they’re a husk of their former selves. You know, as succubus do. You settle on, “Demon things. You wouldn’t get it.”

Zagreus shrugs, unable to argue with that.

“… Suppose you do find your mother and get your answers,” You start, tone low and nervous. You swallow, trying to keep your nerves from wracking your vocal cords, keeping the tremble out of your voice. “What-what do you plan to do after?”

“That depends,” Wild, black hair falls over his eyes as his gaze drops to the floor. “If she hates me or not.”

You cock your head. Was that fear in his tone? For a moment, you allow yourself to study his broad back, scolding yourself when you admire the exposed ridges of muscle. Harsh, green light frames his profile, turning him into a slim silhouette among the soft shadows of your chamber. But now, as he sits at the edge of your bed, no longer he looks poised and regal as he usually does. No boons livening the air around him, no charming grin or cocky smirk. Posture be damned, he slouches, beautiful lips pressed thin, and he looks defeated—no, he looks…

Tired.

It never occurred to you how miserable your friend is here in the Underworld. He always seemed so lively by the time he reached your chamber, even when he’s scuffed and bloodied, like the heat of battle cheers him up. And yes, it’s Tartarus; souls are supposed to be despaired, miserable, tortured—for gods’ sake, it’s your jobs—but looking at Zagreus, exhausted yet still handsome as ever in his flaming laurels and refined chiton, feet seering footprints into your floor, he looks out of place in your humble abode.

Your heart clenches, suddenly self aware. Self conscious. Differences that hardly mattered before now at the forefront of your thoughts.

“I’m not finished, by the way.”

You meet his gaze, visibly perplexed though it’s painful. His heterochromia, the contrast of the blood red and forest green, is needlessly beautiful, as if the man isn’t magnificent enough already. Curse his family for whatever genes they poured into him.

The bed rises once more and as Zagreus leaves for the balcony, the gap between you—once miniscule and quickly closing—begins turning into a chasm.

“My drawing. It’s nowhere done.” Stopping before the balcony’s threshold, Zagreus gestures to the sketchbook. You sit up, blankets and furs pooling into your lap as you take it into your hands.

You, or a semblance of yourself at least, stares back. The strokes are short, thick, lines of charcoal jagged and uneven, though that’s to be expected. Zagreus snorted at you he buys art not create it, but that did nothing to deter him from trying. You lent him your sketchbook and pencils anyway, the thought of sharing your hobby with him filling you with giddiness you haven’t experienced in gods’ know how long.

As you study the amateur sketch of yourself, your heart swells so big, it terrifies you. There’s scuffed edges where the side of his palm pressed into the strokes, leaving partial prints. The proportions are atrocious, and if he’d been anyone else you’d tear into him. Yet, far from accurate as it may be, he manages to highlight your most discernible features. Just not the ones you expect. It’s not your chest or your hips or waist or even your legs, no.

It’s the fluid lash of your tail as you lay on your stomach, as if he tried to capture the cat-like movements on paper; the draping of your wings and the way you relax them against your back like a blanket; the graceful curve of your horns, the ends pointed not in a threat but a promise. And your face—

Smudges blot all over the background of your figure but most of all where your face is, the paper slightly damaged as if he erased one too many times trying to capture your visage.

Your heart skips. Blood and darkness.

As Zagreus’s back disappears behind the rumbling door to the next chamber, it’s for the best, you think, left to the familiarity of your quiet chamber. Your heart thunders in your ears.

Zagreus and you, a demon—a succubus? You’d never last.

As friends. As friends, of course.

This is for the best.

It’s for the best.

…Is it possible to feel loss when there is nothing to begin with?

Eyes misting over, you snatch up your sketchbook and pencils, letting your tears stain the page with Zagreus’s eyes still fresh in your mind.

It’s for the best.

#zagreus x reader #hades game #hades supergiant #zagreus and reader #zagreus (hades video game) x reader #zagreus (hades video game) and reader #supergiant hades

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