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minispidey · 8 months

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01: Barbie and the Giftshopist.

Steven Grant x f!bimbo!reader. series masterlist. next part.

01. This Barbie is his new neighbor!

warnings: uses y/n once, get ready for kinda cringey bimbor!reader. over-use of the word like. extremely feminine reader. reference to elle woods. NOT BETA READ.

"Yeah, but like, I totes believe her. I mean she's totes being framed. I wanna help her." as Steven got off of the lift, he sees multiple boxes out in the hallway and hears a woman's voice talking to someone.

You walk out of the flat in front of his to push in the rest of your things. You were wearing something someone moving in shouldn't be wearing: a pink lace top, flared pink pants and cute high heels. You had a purse and everything.

"I need an alibi from her. Like, she can't just like go to jail for something she didn't do. That's a crime itself." you held your phone in between your shoulder and ear "I'm totally bugging. Where's a good manipedi here?"

"Uh, I think there's a salon across from the baker around the corner?" Steven spoke up from behind you.

You turn to face him, blinking twice "I'll call you back. I'll see you at the office." you end your call and smiled at him "Thanks so much. My nails have suffered too much this past week. Oh, we're neighbors!"

"It seems like we are."

"I'm Y/N. It's so nice to meet you." you two shake hands "I'm like, really struggling with these boxes. And I know I'd be like super desperate, but I am, but can you help me, please?" you smiled brightly, even batting your long eyelashes.

"Oh, uh, yes, absolutely." he said, taking a couple of the boxes from the hallway.

You kept kicking some of the boxes in with your pink high heels, clearly impatient and trying to push them all in. Steven halts your actions by picking them up and setting them down inside.

"You gotta uh, carry the boxes inside. They get stuck when you just push them." entering your flat, he placed more boxes down. He could see your walls were already painted a different color: pink. Steven was surprised to see such a bold choice of color, but he could already tell by your outfit what kind of woman you were.

A woman with great fashion-sense.

You were beautiful. Something about you was just so alluring, so hypnotic. He couldn't even believe a beautiful woman like you was talking to him, let alone letting him enter your flat. But he did notice you were a bit of a ditz.

"Do you need any help with anything else?" Steven asked, turning around as he spoke. His ears were slightly red because of the way you looked at him.

"That's all. Thanks so much." you smiled "I just moved here, and like, still adjusting."

"It's not a problem at all. If you need anything, don't be shy. I'm just in front."

"That's so nice of you! Totes, I'd definitely need some help. Oh shoot, I never got your name."

"It's fine. I-It's Steven."

"It's so nice to meet you, Steven."

His eyes shifted to the racks filled with clothes. Pink, to be exact. You were extremely feminine. He spots furs and his brows furrow a bit "Er... uh..."

"They're faux fur. Can't tell the difference anymore." you giggled, wheeling them to a corner with the rest of your clothes.

"Oh. Well, they're very nice." Steven smiled "Are you a model?"

"Gosh, that's such a compliment. No one's ever said that before. But no, just love clothes. How about you? Wait wait! Let me guess..."

Steven found it adorable as you squint your eyes, thinking of what his job is.

"Are you like... a sculptor? No, a painter! Am I close?"

"I work at a gift-shop, actually. A giftshopist." he smiled.

"No way. You have really pretty hands, you could be like a hand model. Or like I said, a painter."

Steven blushed like a mad man "Thank you. No one's ever complimented my hands."

"You're pretty handsome, you know? It's like... gosh you have a nice nose too." the way you complimented him was as if he was a sculpture.

Steven's heart almost stopped when you casually mentioned how handsome he was. You were incredibly blunt about it for someone he had just met.

"Thank you." he said, his cheeks turning a shade of pink. Something about you saying it that make his body feel all warm. It's such a strange and unusual feeling for him.

"No, but like seriously. You are so handsome. It's like driving me a bit cray, you get it, right? Gosh, I sound like a total creep."

Hearing the same thing two times in a row sent him into quite a little flutter. He had never been one to be flirted with and the combination of how direct you were, plus how much you were repeating yourself certainly made him feel something.

"No, it's fine. No, you don't sound like creep, it's totally fine." he looks back up at you "I'm just... I'm not used to... it."

"Used to what? Being called handsome?"

"Yeah." Steven chuckled, the sound escaping his mouth in such a high pitched and nervous way that it sounded almost like a squeak "And uh, being flirted with..."

Your phone suddenly rings, making you two jump up. You take your phone out, looking at the caller ID "So sorry. I gotta take this."

"Oh, no worries." he clears his throat, taking the opportunity to collect his thoughts and calm his racing heart and mind.

"I, uh, I should go now." he says "I'll see you around, luv."

"I'll see you around, Steven." you gave him a smile before answering your phone, pacing back and fourth across your flat.

As Steven enters his flat, his heart calms down but his cheeks were still red. His eyes shifted towards a mirror, a clearly judging Marc staring right back at him.

"So. You like her?"

"Oh come on, Marc. I just met her."

That evening, Steven heard a knock outside his door. His ears were perked up as he approached the door, opening it to find you in your cute animal print night dress and holding a casserole dish "Okay, so like, I got called in to the office earlier and I never got to properly thank you."

"It's not big deal, luv." he blushed "They're just boxes."

"And really heavy ones. You are like, super strong. Plus I finally got my manipedi." you giggled "I made lasagna in the office but I got leftovers, do you wanna split?"

"Uh... actually I'm vegan."

"Oh gosh, I'm like so sorry. That explains the fur thing!"

"Yeah." he nods "It's alright, luv. I don't wear a big ol sign saying I'm vegan."

"Well... I was just hoping we could hangout because you seem like a really nice guy. I mostly bond with food."

"It's alright, uh..." Steven looks behind him, looking if his place was presentable "If you want, you can eat it here while we chat? Maybe a cup of tea? I've stepped inside your flat, might as well welcome you into mine."

"Really? That's so nice of you! I swear, when I get my stove and oven I'll make you something vegan."

"You really don't have to. I assure you, it's alright."

"Don't worry! I can cook."

Ever since that day, Steven is ecstatic to wake up everyday and greet you in the morning as you both went off to work.

Your clothes were always consistent with the pinks and whites, but you always looked professional as you head off to work.

Steven began to guess what your profession was. You said you weren't a model, perhaps a designer? A professor?

He snapped out of his thoughts when you placed a plate of fried tofu with some sauce over it and spring onions.

"Stevie, do you know where I could like, donate books? Mine are sooo expensive but someone might want to use them." you asked as you cleaned up your countertop.

"Yeah, why?"

"Okay so like, Jean, he's like a newbie, he totally bugged me. Brags that he loves to donate his stuff. He once donated a canoe. He says like he was a hoarder back then. I thought to myself, am I hoarding?" you spin, facing Steven "I totally am! I have books I won't need anymore and I don't have bookshelves anyways."

"I have spots in my bookcase. Maybe I could take them off your hands?" Steven looks up at you with a smile "I don't mind. They have sentimental value?"

"Very. Plus, they were soooo expensive I swear. I could've bought like fifteen more pairs of heels if I hadn't bought them. Or maybe just a pair of Choos."

"What kind of books are they exactly?"

"Law."

"Law?"

"Law." you clear your throat, lifting your arm and bending your wrist in a dramatic way "I'm a lawyer, obvi."

Steven was slightly taken aback by the news. He certainly wouldn't have guessed that right "You're a-a lawyer? Oh, wow, that's super impressive. Wait, how are you dressed the way you are if you're a lawyer? Don't they make you wear suits and stuff?"

"Duhh, I wear pink ones! You see me wear them to work every morning." you smiled "I have a lot."

Steven's truly never met a woman like you.

"You're incredible..."

#moon knight #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #bimbo!reader #x bimbo reader

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atlabeth · 1 year

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far too young to die - anthony lockwood

summary: three things happen on the day you decide to solve your problem:

your tea-making skills get lauded

you get the biggest history lesson of your life

everything goes wrong.

you should have expected this the moment lockwood & co got involved.

a/n: this got away from me but twas very fun to write and protective lockwood is becoming my lifeblood lol<3 enjoy and remember kids: fuck netflix

wc: 5.7k

warning(s): canon typical stuff, mentions of murder and throat slitting, implied/sort of described domestic abuse, hurt/comfort. reader panics a lot. suspend your disbelief please and thank you. reader also has a last name of holloway just for convenience

Reading the newspaper was impossible this morning.

Your leg wouldn’t stop bouncing up and down, and the envelope on the far side of the table drew your eye every five seconds, and your neighbor did not need to be cutting his lawn at the moment, and all the while that presence was there. It always was, whispering illegible things to you and taunting you through the shadows and making your life a living hell you couldn’t prove.

An unwilling shiver ran down your spine, and you tamped down on it.

After today, it would finally be over.

Hopefully.

The doorbell rang, and you about jumped out of your skin. You took a deep breath, calming your heartbeat as you set your cup of tea back on the table, and went over to the door. When you opened it, you were met by three teenagers about your age, and the lanky, dark-haired boy in front gave you a small smile.

“We’re here for Edmund Holloway,” he said. “Have we got the right address?”

“You do—I’m his daughter,” you said. “You’re the agents?”

The boy nodded. “Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood and Co.” He held out his hand and you shook it, and once you released it he gestured to the other boy and girl standing with him. “These are my colleagues, Lucy Carlyle and George Karim.”

You nodded again, wringing your hands together as you let out a shaky exhale and said your name. “Anthony, Lucy, George— nice to meet you all.”

“Lockwood is just fine,” he said, and you nodded.

“Are you the one who put out the ad?” George asked with a frown. “It doesn’t look like your father is here.”

You shook your head. “My father put out the ad. He’s on a business trip at the moment.”

Anthony frowned. “Why isn’t he here?”

“He doesn’t handle ghosts very well,” you said wryly. “Gives him an awful fright.”

“Most people don’t,” Lucy said. “That’s why we’re around.”

“Forgive my bluntness, but it doesn’t seem very smart of him to leave his daughter in a haunted house,” Lockwood said. “Even if agents are clearing the house.”

“He doesn’t exactly… know I’m still here,” you admitted sheepishly. “My father expected me to stay at a friend’s house until today, give you all the payment, and then make myself scarce until the problem was solved.”

“Why in the world are you here then?” George asked.

“...Because I need to know that this ghost is gone,” you stated. “I need to see with my own eyes that it’s over.”

Lockwood eyed you cautiously, and you cleared your throat as you stepped aside. “Come in, agents. I can explain over tea.”

You closed the door as they filed inside, and you wrought your hands together as you followed them. “I’ve got Earl Grey and chamomile, if anyone’s interested,” you said as you began filling up your kettle.

“Chamomile would be lovely,” Lucy said, her eyes wandering around the interior as she took a seat next to George at your table.

Lockwood, however, stayed standing. He pointed at a painting hanging on the wall and glanced at you. “Starry Night?”

You nodded. “My grandmother painted it when she was younger. She specifically left it in her will for me.”

He smiled. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it?” You pulled a tin of loose tea out of your cabinet and set it on the table. “I’ve never been much of a painter myself, but I’ve always wanted to learn like her.”

“As interesting as this is, you said you would explain your poor choices,” George interrupted. “And your history.”

“Blunt as he is,” Lockwood said dryly, “he’s right.” He took a seat next to Lucy, leaning back in the chair. “Tell us everything you know about this house—anything that could be causing the haunting.” George cleared his throat and his lips twitched. “And why you’re still in the haunted house alone.”

You nodded, leaning against the counter with a sigh. “To answer the question on all of your minds, I have no idea who the ghost could be. My only guess is some fellow from decades ago, back before the house was in our immediate family.”

“You inherited it?” George asked.

“From my grandmother,” you said, “the same one who painted. She died a few decades ago, and she left the house to her son in her will. After my mother died, my father and I moved here to get away from the memories.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Lucy said softly, and you managed a smile.

“Thank you.” You folded your arms across your chest. “And before you ask, no—it’s not my mother’s ghost. She died far away from here, and she’d have no reason to stay behind.”

“Do you know when this house was built?” George asked. “A lot of the architecture looks Victorian.”

“Sharp eye,” you said with a slight smile, and you stood up from your spot against the counter as the kettle started to whistle. You poured the water into three mugs and added your handmade tea bags before you looked back at them. “It was built in the 1850s, I believe. I think it’s been in our family since then, but I’ve only been aware of it since my grandmother.”

“Could it be your grandmother’s ghost then?” Lucy asked, and you shook your head.

“She didn’t die here. And she wouldn’t have any reason to stay either,” you said. “Which is why I’ve had no idea who it could be.”

“Strange indeed,” Lockwood agreed, suddenly speaking up. His gaze pierced into you. “You’ve got such a connection to this ghost and yet you don’t even know who it could be.”

Your cheeks burned. George huffed a laugh.

“That’s right,” he said. “You haven’t even told us about why you’re still here.”

“The ghost hasn’t just been haunting our house,” you murmured, staring down at the floorboards. You’d have to clean the dirt between the cracks later. “It’s… it’s been haunting me too.”

Lucy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s always around me,” you said, and even then you could feel the chills all over your body. At this point, though, it might’ve been your own design. “I— I can always feel its presence, I hear it whispering to me constantly, and it feels like every time I touch something old in here I get a damned vision, or voices in my head, and—”

You stopped, realizing your voice had risen without you noticing, and you took a deep breath.

“And I feel like I’m going insane,” you finished, your tone much quieter than before.

“You’ve got Touch,” Lockwood concluded, something different in his eyes. Lucy’s expression had softened, and George just looked even more interested than before when you nodded.

“Talent that strong and you’re not an agent,” he said. “Why?”

“I’ve never wanted it,” you said dryly. “And after dealing with this ghost for the past few months, I’ve got even less desire.”

“You should consider it,” he said. “Maybe then you won’t have a ghost in your backyard.”

“This ghost has been toying with you for months, but it hasn’t even tried to harm you,” Lucy said. “It’s definitely a Type 2 based off your description, so I’ve got no idea why. What’s the point?”

Lockwood shrugged, and he gave a nod of thanks as you placed the mugs of tea in front of them. “Maybe it’s related to you after all. I’ve heard cases of relatives not harming their own, especially in more sentient Type 2s—it’s rare, but it happens.” He looked at you. “If this house has been in your family since the 1800s, surely there’s been at least one violent Holloway death worthy of the Other Side.”

“Is your theorizing always this fun?” you asked as you crossed your arms.

“Usually more,” he said helpfully. Lockwood took a sip of tea and hummed. “We should get chamomile more often.”

“I’m always telling you to,” Lucy said. “George is just insistent on making his own black tea.”

“That’s because it’s far superior!” he exclaimed. “You should be thanking me for it, honestly.”

Lockwood took another sip and looked at them. “She makes a great chamomile. It might just change your mind.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” you said, arms still folded as their heads all snapped to you, “but we’ve only got two hours until the sun sets, and this house is still very much haunted.”

“Right. I guess that means we should start preparations.” Lockwood stood up, smiling at you. “Thank you for the tea and your information. We’ll take your keys, vet the place, and hopefully have your ghost vanquished before morning comes.”

“You don’t need my keys,” you said. “I’m staying.

George laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

He looked at you, completely serious, and then at Lockwood, who wasn’t immediately objecting, and his eyes widened. “You can’t be serious!”

“I want to help,” you said plainly. “It’s my house, it’s my ghost. I want it gone, and I want to be there when it happens.”

“You’ve got no training,” he said. “You’ve got Talent, sure, but zero training. You’ll just—” he looked at Lockwood— “she’ll just slow us down.”

“…You do know this place better than anyone,” Lockwood said, eyes still on you. “Right?”

You nodded. “Lived here for the past ten years. I know all its nooks and crannies, and I could guide you through it blindfolded.”

“You’re not an agent,” George said.

“You said it yourself that I’ve got Talent,” you said, “and an obvious connection to this place and whatever’s haunting it, seeing as the ghost won’t leave me alone.”

“Lucy, you can’t seriously be okay with this,” he said, glancing at her.

“…I have some Touch too. I can help her, see if we’re picking up the same things. Besides,” Lucy said with a shrug, “you all took me in on a whim before I was fully certified. It’s just one job, in her house of all places.”

“I won’t impede your work—I promise.” You looked at Lockwood, desperation mixing with resolve in your eyes. “For months, this house has haunted me from within. I want to be with you when you destroy it.”

Lockwood’s lips quirked up in the slightest of smiles as he nodded. “Alright, then.”

You immediately broke into a wide smile of your own as George sighed. “DEPRAC is going to have a field day with us if anything goes wrong. Allowing a completely uncertified girl to help us.”

“If anything goes wrong, I’ll personally take the blame for it,” you said. “I’ll say I forced you into letting me work with you all, and I will pay any fines.”

“Once we got fined 60,000 pounds for burning a house down,” he deadpanned. “Are you alright with that?”

You frowned. “Should I really be hiring you all?”

“Come off it, George,” Lockwood said, and he collapsed his hands together. “Nothing like that will happen today, I assure you.” He smiled wryly. “As long as everything you told us was the truth, that is.”

“It is,” you said. “I wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

Lucy huffed a laugh. “You’d be surprised what some people do.”

“Another reason I don’t want to become an agent,” you supplied.

Lockwood picked up their bags and set them on the table, and he pulled out a bundle of chains then he tossed it to you. You caught it with a slight grunt.

“Do you know how to use those, not-an-agent?” Lockwood asked wryly.

You rolled your eyes, though not without mirth, and nodded. “I read, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Good. Those are for your protection. We’ll protect you, of course,” he gestured at his rapier, “but it’s a last resort.”

“Let’s try not to get there, then,” you said.

“One thing you should know about working with us is that things rarely go to plan,” George said.

“That is not true,” Lockwood rushed, but that only proved that it was most certainly true.

You sighed as you finished the rest of your tea from before, having gone cold. You were certainly getting yourself into something with these agents.

“Right, then,” Lockwood said, clearing his throat. He pulled out his rapier, that small smirk showing itself again as he looked at all of you. “Let’s catch ourselves a ghost.”

You didn’t think your house had ever been as intimidating, as tense, as it did now.

You creeped through its hallways alongside the agents, the chains icy cold in your grip, almost scared to even breathe. Lockwood and Lucy had their rapiers drawn, and George held a net in one hand with one of their bags slung over his shoulder.

They carried themselves differently than any of the teenagers you’d been around, with an air of eerie confidence completely foreign to you. It was admirable in a sense. Scary to think it could have been you.

“No death glows yet,” Lockwood muttered. “Hear anything, Luce?”

“Very faint yelling,” she murmured. “I can tell it’s an argument—there’s two different voices, but that’s all I can make out.”

Lockwood looked at you, but you shook your head. “Not ringing a bell.”

“Where?” George asked. “Arguments are a good sign.”

Lucy edged past Lockwood so she was in the lead, and you moved up the stairs. She paused at the top, her eyes closed and her brow slightly furrowed. “It’s even louder up here. I feel it all over, but it’s stronger around here. It’s a couple, a man and a woman—finances, jealousy, general unhappiness…” Lucy opened her eyes and looked at you. “Did your grandparents argue while they lived here?”

“They argued like any other couple,” you said, “but as far as I know, they were completely happy. They loved each other.” You frowned. “And I don’t know why regular arguments would be so strong around here after so long.”

“Time isn’t the biggest aspect for sounds,” Lucy explained. “They can linger for decades and be as strong as the day it happened.”

“And maybe they weren’t just regular arguments,” George suggested, your stomach sinking at the thought.

“Could it be your grandfather’s ghost?” Lucy asked.

You shook your head. “No. He’s alive, and he doesn’t even live in England anymore.”

“Move around and touch some things then,” George said. “See if you get anything.”

And so you did. You handed the chains to Lockwood and laid your hands on various things around the hallway and some of the rooms while George and Lucy went off on their own—the walls, certain objects, the beds. All you got were memories from your first few years here, and a blur of the decades between your grandparents. It was overwhelming, and you had to pull away after you touched your grandfather’s watch in your dad’s room.

“Do you feel alright?” Lockwood asked. Though George and Lucy had gone off on their own, Lockwood had stayed with you to, one, make sure you were protected as his client, and two, keep track of any information. “You’re stumbling a bit.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, “I’m… I’m fine. I’m just not used to using my Talent on purpose like this.”

“On purpose,” he repeated wryly.

“I try not to do anything with it,” you said. “I told you, I don’t want to be an agent.”

“There’s a lot of people out there that would kill for a power like yours,” he said. “Kids stuck on night watch, agents with fading Talent, adults who can’t see for shit. Seems strange to just… ignore yours.”

You shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m not ignoring it now, am I?”

“No,” Lockwood said, “I suppose you’re not.”

Eventually, you made it to another room, your grandparents’ old bedroom that you’d ended up turning into your father’s office, and when you opened the door Lockwood whistled.

“That’s a bright death glow.”

You grimaced. “So this is where they died.”

He nodded. “By the look of it, it wasn’t pretty.”

“Great,” you muttered, and you walked inside.

“Lucy! George!” Lockwood called as he followed you in, craning his neck to look behind him. “Get over here—we’ve got a lead!”

“What is it?” you heard Lucy asking, her voice getting closer.

Though you started to answer, you didn’t get the chance to finish as the door slammed shut on its own, separating you and Lockwood from the others. Your eyes widened as you whirled around.

“Don’t panic,” Lockwood said immediately. You nodded shakily despite the blood pounding in your ears, and at your confirmation, he yelled out. “Luce? George? Are you alright?”

“We’re fine!” Lucy shouted, and there was the rattling of the doorknob. “Is it locked on your side?”

You moved forward and tried to turn the handle to test it, but a scream was ripped from your throat as you stumbled backwards. Your hands flew to your neck, splaying across the skin as you expected to feel blood, but there was nothing. The cold metal pressed against your skin, the sharp edge of the knife tore across it, but there was nothing. Centuries flashed behind your eyelids but there was nothing.

Lucy and George called out your name, but you couldn’t respond, your eyes wide as dinner plates as your whole body shook.

“God, are you alright?” Lockwood caught your shoulders before you could run into him, and his hands stayed there when he realized how much you were trembling. When you turned to look at him, your hand still pressed against your neck to stop invisible bleeding, his eyes were filled with concern. “What did you see?”

“I… I—” You tried to voice it, but the words stuck in your throat as the tremors continued.

Lucy yelled your name again and there was a bang on the door, and Lockwood looked up. “She’s okay! She felt something when she touched the handle— Lucy, see what you can get on your side!”

“Got it!”

“It’s okay,” Lockwood said softly, his attention turning back to you. His hands on your shoulders grounded you, and he was a surprisingly welcome presence. “Whatever’s here, I won’t let it hurt you. You just have to tell me whatever it is you saw when you touched that doorknob.”

“I didn’t see anything,” you finally managed. “I— I heard them yelling, screaming, threatening to leave each other, and then—” You forced your breathing to still, but it hardly worked.

“And then what?” His voice was still just as soft, and he didn’t move away from you or take his hands back. He just stood there, waiting for you.

“And then he killed her, Lockwood,” you whispered, your hand falling to his wrist. “She threatened to leave him, and he slit her throat.” You still felt the blood dripping down your neck. You wanted to crawl out of your skin.

He was alarmingly good at keeping his emotions in check, the only sign of his shock the slightest pause before he asked again. “Who?”

“I— I don’t know,” you said. “I just— I felt it, and it’s the same presence I’ve been feeling for months.”

“So it’s our ghost,” he said. “Obviously, but we just need to see if Lucy can…”

His words phased through your ears as the air in front of you shimmered, blue light coalescing into the source of your endless tormentor. One image, one woman, one ghost, the face of someone you never thought was an option, and you could do nothing but stare.

“Lockwood,” you croaked, and he turned around. Immediately, his expression hardened, and he said your name as he moved forward and in turn pushed you behind him.

“Don’t make a sound,” he uttered as he slowly drew his rapier, and he handed the chains back to you. You took them as quietly as possible, and with his arm braced in front of you, he moved the two of you back a safe distance. “Do you recognize her?”

You nodded, but you couldn’t speak. All you could do was stare up, wide-eyed at the ghost above you. You’d been expecting a monstrous apparition, a cruel face to put to the presence that had been haunting you all this time, but it wasn’t. It was familiar, and perhaps it was cruel all the same, because the ghost was—

“Now would be a good time to say it,” Lockwood said dryly.

You nodded again, your voice barely a whisper. “I guess I was wrong.” Your throat bobbed. “Because that’s my grandmother.”

“Ah,” Lockwood said placidly. “The ghost really is your grandmother. Lovely.”

“I never knew,” you whispered. “I didn’t know she died here, that she was murdered—”

“You’ve got to stay calm,” Lockwood interrupted. “You’re not going to be any help to me or yourself if you’re not calm.”

You didn’t know how you were supposed to stay calm in the face of your murdered ghost of a grandmother, who looked far younger than she was supposed to because she was murdered—

“Do you hear me?” he asked, his voice more assertive than before. “I need you to stay calm for me.”

Your vocal chords decided to work this time, though just barely. “I— I’ll try my hardest.”

“I’m sure you know this already,” he said wryly, “but don’t let her touch you.”

And then, George’s voice rang out.

“What the hell is going on in there?” he called, and the ghost lunged.

Lockwood pushed you back all the while slashing his rapier at your grandmother, her screams filling your ears and penetrating your body to the bone. It stole the breath out of you, even as her body dissolved from the metal, and Lockwood latched onto your arm as he backed to the edge of the room with you.

“We’ve got a Type 2 in here!” Lockwood yelled, his sword brandished and his arm still protectively in front of you as his eyes darted all over the room, breath held as he waited to see where she would appear next. “George, work on getting that lock open! Lucy, find the source!”

“Do you have any idea what it is, or am I just on a wild goose chase?” Lucy asked frantically.

“The latter,” you responded, and you heard her groan as she ran off.

“I don’t know if a lockpick will even work,” George said, voice muffled through the wood. “Ghost powers don’t respond well to science.”

“At least try,” Lockwood said. “I’d appreciate it knowing you’re on the case.”

“As long as you try not to die,” he grumbled.

“No promises.”

You shook your head as shaky breaths rocked through you. “Your sense of humor is a bit morbid.”

Lockwood winked, somehow smiling even now. “We’ve got to cope somehow.”

You huffed a laugh, only slightly unhinged. “Sorry about this, by the way. I really didn’t know that it was my grandmother. Honest to God, I had no idea she died here.”

“One of the less egregious problems we’ve had,” Lockwood said. His eyes sharpened as he looked across the room, and your grandmother’s ghost suddenly appeared again.

His grip loosened on your arm as he pulled away, handling his rapier with the skill of someone twenty years his elder. You lashed out with your chains whenever she got too close, staying behind Lockwood every time he shifted or twisted or moved around the office, but in such a small space—all the while dealing with her screams and the constant dread just being near her filled you with—you were beginning to grow tired.

“Do you have any idea what her source would be?” he asked. “Or— or where it would be?”

“No!” you exclaimed. “I thought we’d just be dealing with some bloke that was killed a few decades ago, not my grandmother and her vicious murder that I knew nothing about!”

“Try and think, then!” Lockwood thrust forward with his rapier, preventing the ghost from advancing on the two of you for a moment as he continued to move back. “I know that this is shocking, but we’ll have time to deal with that later. Right now, you have to focus! Use your talent!”

Your heart beat like a hammer, the blood pounding in your ears, and you nodded. “Keep her away from me.”

Before Lockwood could question anything, before you could second guess yourself, you lashed out with the chains and darted past your grandmother’s ghost. You latched onto the doorknob again as you screwed your eyes shut, and it hit you all at once.

You weren’t immediately dead, so you assumed Lockwood was doing his job. But centuries of memories flashed before your eyes, and you were living through years simultaneously.

The first time your grandparents toured the house together, your grandfather closing the door behind him as he took a moment for himself. He knew then that was where he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

When they decided to buy the house and crossed the threshold for the first time, him carrying your grandmother all the way up the stairs and to their bedroom, her falling onto the bed with a delighted squeal.

Your father was born, and your grandfather’s hand slipped off the doorknob as he carried his newborn baby into the room, cooing and rocking him while he walked over and sat on the side of his bed.

He lost his job, closing the door with a hand running down his face as he slammed his fist into the wall. The wallpaper dented beneath his knuckles, but he didn’t even notice.

Your grandmother carefully closing the door behind her, padding over to the desk, opening the drawer and finding letters. Undistilled shock and barely bridled anger, the stench of betrayal.

An awful argument, the worst yet. Screaming so loud it rocked the walls of the room, insults and threats and accusations flying through the air without a second thought. She went to leave, put her hand on the doorknob, but he went mad with rage. He slashed her throat from behind before he can even think, and your grandmother died with her hand still on the handle before she collapsed.

The doorknob, and—

“Her brooch,” you muttered, and your eyes widened as you slammed your hand against the door. “George, the brooch! Tell Lucy to get the brooch!”

“What brooch?” he yelled back.

“My grandmother’s brooch!” you shouted. “My grandfather gave it to her as an anniversary gift. It’s emerald, Georgian cut! You’ll know when you see it— the vanity in the master bedroom on the first floor! You don’t have time to get her, just go!”

His footsteps ran off, but you didn’t even get a moment to relax as you felt that awful presence again.

You whirled around and your breath caught in your chest, frozen stiff as you stared back at the face of your grandmother.

It wasn’t that cruel, demented thing you’d seen when she attacked at first. This was just… her. Beautiful and fair-faced, late thirties having no effect on her. The eyes of your father, elegantly braided hair. You recognized the style of her dress, one that had been passed down to you.

She looked like… like you’d imagined yourself in a decade or two.

God, she was so young. Young and in love and betrayed.

The world grew dimmer, your surroundings taking on a crystalline sheen. Everything was cold and your muscles were made of lead. You heard distant shouts, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

You were so tired.

And then it all shattered. You crumpled to your knees, an overwhelming stabbing in your head as your breath came back to you in haggard waves.

Lockwood was over you, his rapier forgotten on the ground, and he shook your shoulders as he said your name over and over.

“…Lockwood?” you managed, your eyes barely open as you looked up at him.

His smile was one of pure relief as he nodded, and though he stopped shaking, his hands still remained on your shoulders. “Yeah. You’re alright.”

“What happened?” you murmured.

“You were ghost-locked,” he said breathlessly. “I tried to fend her off, but she was only focused on you. George must’ve gotten to the source right before she could get you.” He smiled sheepishly, but there was clear-cut fear behind those eyes. “Sorry about that.”

“I nearly died,” you said. The words tasted like plastic on your tongue, unusual and stiff.

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

Lockwood went to say more, but the door busted open suddenly, drawing the attention of both of you.

George and Lucy were both completely out of breath when they barged in. Lucy’s rapier was drawn and George held your grandmother’s brooch in his hand, wrapped ten times over in a metal net.

“Are you all okay?” Lucy asked, her eyes wide as yours. “I could hear her all the way downstairs, and—”

“We’re alright,” you interrupted, and you looked at Lockwood. He got the hint, and he helped you up from the ground. The energy had been completely drained from you after being ghost-locked, so he kept his arm around you.

“Looks like you were right,” George said, holding the brooch up. “Half-right, the ghost being your grandmother and all, but you’re right where it matters.”

“Pretty good time to be right,” you said shakily.

“Last minute save.” Lockwood laughed breathlessly. “You fit right in here.”

Lockwood helped you downstairs, and he insisted on making tea for you while you sat at the table with George and Lucy explaining what had happened.

Your grandparents were happy, you hadn’t been wrong, but one too many things went wrong beneath the surface. They got married young, but he never felt like he was good enough for her despite her reassurances. He lost his job a week before your father was born, and with the stress, the finances, the jealousy— it all built up. Your grandfather snapped, so your grandmother did as well.

“...and he killed her,” you finished quietly. “She found out he was cheating on her, they had this huge argument and she actually meant to follow through on her threats of leaving him.” You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “It turns out she never got the chance, and my grandfather’s been lying to us and the world ever since.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lucy murmured, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

You nodded thankfully, and you smiled up at Lockwood as he placed a fresh cup of tea in front of you. It warmed your bones when you took a sip, and you already felt your strength coming back from the ordeal.

“You all might get some calls from the police,” you said. “I’m going to call my father tonight and tell him everything, and then we’re going straight to the authorities.”

“We’ll back you up if we get any,” Lockwood assured. “We’ll tell them everything you told us.”

Lucy and George nodded. “I got some visions of my own that corroborate your story,” she said, “so don’t worry about proof.”

George held up your grandmother’s brooch, still wrapped in the net. “I’ll hold onto this if they need it for evidence. Soon as it’s done, we’ll take it straight to the furnaces.”

You nodded gratefully, and after another sip of tea, you stood up. Your legs didn’t shake, so you took another step and looked back at them. “Come on. I’ll walk you all out.”

After the three of them gathered their things, you followed them to the door, and your smile was the most genuine it had been since this all started.

“I can’t thank you all enough,” you said. “Lucy, George, Lockwood—you’ve put an end to my misery, you’ve finally put my grandmother to rest, and you’ve helped bring a murderer to justice.” Your shoulders felt a whole lot lighter as you handed the envelope to Lockwood. “I’m forever in your debt.”

“I wouldn’t say forever in our debt,” George said. “You’ve just paid that off.”

You cracked a smile as Lockwood swatted him with the envelope, then he looked back at you with the same charm as always.

“We were happy to help. And we appreciated yours as well.” Lockwood dug into his pocket and pulled something out, pressing it into your hand. He lingered for just a moment too long before he pulled away and cleared his throat.

“Your business card,” you realized as you brought it up closer. “What for?”

“You’re Talented,” Lockwood said, “obviously. Even though you haven’t honed it at all, you’ve still got some pretty impressive raw ability. If you ever find you want to put it to use, learn the ropes of being an agent… give us a call.” He smiled. “Lockwood & Co would be happy to have you.”

You looked over at Lucy, almost as if you wanted her approval. She gave you that faint smile. “You’re good when you’re confident, Holloway. And it would be nice to have another girl.”

George, next. He shrugged.

“You held your own,” he said, “mostly. I wouldn’t be opposed to it if you got some training. We can’t expand our agency for just anyone.”

“And you already know what I think,” Lockwood said with that same smile.

You couldn’t help a slight one of your own, and you looked at the business card again before shoving it into your pocket. “I’ll think about it.”

Lockwood nodded. “35 Portland Row. Remember it.”

“I don’t think I could forget,” you said with a soft laugh.

His lips twitched into a smile. “Good.”

Lockwood nodded at you one last time, something passing between you for just a moment before he turned around and his crew followed him. You watched the three of them get into the taxi and drive off before you closed the door, allowing yourself a deep, deep sigh.

And despite all the chaos that had just occurred, despite the life-changing revelation that was brought forth, despite your near-death experience and the shift to your axis and the tainting of your family tree, as you walked back inside and picked up the phone to dial your father…

You felt more at peace than you had in a long, long time.

You took the business card out of your pocket, staring at it as you waited for the number to connect.

…Maybe, you thought wryly.

Just maybe.

perm tags: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77 @simonsbluee @kwyloz @masteroperator @louderfortheback

#anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #lockwood & co x reader #lockwood & co #x reader #reader insert #sadie writes

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fuxuannie · 1 year

Note

oooooh if u need any ideas id love to read a fic where serval plays matchmaker for reader and gepard and its all mushy and cute

also random idea but maybe gepard draws one of his (lovely!) portraits for reader looll

* pairing : gepard x gender neutral reader

* prompt : servals main job is a performer, but who knew that she also works as cupid? (request ♡)

* authors note : I LOVE GEPARD AND SERVAL LANDAU SOOO MUCH those two are literally my faves.. gepard pls come home, clara appeared on my screen and i love her but baby pls <\3

SERVAL looks at her brother GEPARD as he paints in his room, humming to himself as she leans on the doorframe as she silently watched him decorate the canvas with his creativity and paint. At first, what he was painting was unrecognizable, but once those little details came to life through his art - it wasn't hard to see exactly who he was painting.

"Oh? I didn't know you were such a passionate painter, Geppie." Serval giggled, watching him jolt at the fact someone was watching him the entire time. "Serval? What are you.." He clears his throat, trying to cover the canvas. "..Doing here.."

"It's my workshop, why else would I be here? The real question is, why are you trying to hide an obvious crush from your sister?" She says with a smile, walking past him and having him move away from the canvas. It was just as she suspected, those little details.. the choice of eye color, the smile and how they matched your features.

"Please don't do anything.." Gepard sighs, and Serval lets out a fake offended gasp. "I have never done anything of the sort!"

..But she never agreed.

In the next few days, while Gepard was with his sister outside, he'd find her talking to you. And Serval making some fake excuse about practice and leaves you with her brother. The first few times seemed purely coincidental, but Serval doesn't seem like the type to simply forget one of her greatest passions.

Next was how she was now more often than not talking to you and Gepard about things about each other. "Oh! (name), are you aware Gepard just loves to grow flowers? You should see what he's blooming in our garden!" or "Gepard! Do you know that (name) really likes to eat at this place called.."

But Serval wouldn't do this for just a crush. She appreciated how much joy and smile you brought to her dear brothers face, and it wasn't often that he broke his serious, Silvermane Guards leader routine. But when he talked about you, it was like he was describing the beauty of an Aeon. He truly loved you, respected you and would surrender his loyalty for you.

So she was absolutely overjoyed when you began to open up about your interest in a certain blonde, and now that she knew you both were interested, it was the final step.

"Geppie, meet me at the fountain today! Got something suuuper important to tell you."

"(name), I'd like to give you free tickets to my next concert today! Just meet me at the fountain."

And there at the agreed meeting place, Gepard grumbled to himself, his back turned to the city as he stared at the small letter glued to the fountain. "Hehe, I lied to you lil bro. ♡ Go tell them how you feel, maybe they have something to tell you too."

He was initially confused on what the other half of the letter meant, until the sounds of footsteps and a disappointed sigh came from behind him. "Servaaall.. you lied to mee.." Gepard paused, and immediately crumpled the letter in his hands. "Damn it."

You then notice Gepard standing by the fountain as well, a little confused with how busy he usually is and especially at this hour. "What brings you here?" You asked, seeing him turn around while pinching the bridge of his nose. "Nothing.. My sister.. I assume she set this up."

Ohhhh.

You blinked a few times and giggle. "Sounds like Serval.. You're usually not this available, wanna talk?" You asked, sitting on the basin of the fountain as he instead leaned on it slightly. "Sure.."

There were a few moments of odd but comforting silence, watching those of Belabog pass by. Underworld and Overworld now together as children who thought that clouds were but fairytale dreams now get to see the bright blue sky after pure darkness all their lives.

"Thank you." You said out of nowhere, kicking your feet as Gepard turns to face you while you were still focused on the people passing by. He smiles a little at how gentle and relaxed you looked. "For what?"

"For all you do. The people you protect.. the kindness you give.. everything." You say with a smile, the very same smile of every portrait he ever painted of you, how it radiated a sense of comfort and warmth that made his heart skip a beat.

He knows he's turning red, and you giggle a little at it. Your head shifts to lean on his shoulder, a small gulp coming from his end as his arm slings around your shoulder.

"You're.. you're welcome."

#✹ ִֶָ ꐑꐑ entos paw prints #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #gepard landau x reader #gepard x reader #honkai star rail

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sunnitheapollokid · 2 months

Text

. * ๑ ❀՞ — “i think she wants you!”

rivals,, varian x reader (she/her) ⭐️

📫 sunni’s notes! : i might do a pt. 2 on this since i wrote this actually pretty long, but let me know what you guys think!! :) i got inspired to do this oneshot by the movie ‘storks’ when i watched it the other day <3

context : (name) and varian are sworn non-buddies, and they have to babysit the king and queen’s baby.. together.

after varian decided that he was the smartest in the kingdom, (name) did not like that. even though she did admit, varian is the smartest.. she hated that he’d constantly say it to her face.

she roamed around town, buying new paint for her recent comissions. (name) wasn’t seen as an academic achiever like varian, more so as the outgoing painter, kind of like the queen!

the queen rapunzel herself, who was pronounced about five months after the defeat of zhan tiri. (name) helped rapunzel since day one, and ever since the day she met varian.. she had always felt something.

was it a bad or good feeling? till this day, she still didn’t know. “hey attila! how you doing monty?” she greeted, smiling. she carried the basket of paints as she made her way to the castle.

she had recieved a letter from the queen a day before asking her to come over before noon.

❀ *.

“rapunzel?” she called out, putting her basket down as she entered the throne room. “(nickname), you’re here!!” she greeted her with a warm embrace. “good, varian just got here.”

“wai— wha, what?”

she turned her head to lock eyes with, she hated to admit, his pretty.. blue eyes. she could just melt, but kept her stance. “what— what’s she doing here?!” he exclaimed. (name) rolled her eyes. “rapunzel what’s going on?”

rapunzel giggled nervously, “i need you guys to babysit celeste!” — celeste is rapunzel’s two-year old. she had the green eyes and the curiousity of her mother, while she had the silky brown hair of her father.

“gods! i haven’t see this cutie in forever!” (name) took her by under her arms and spun her, celeste giggling. “wait, you said guys?” varian continued, walking closer to the two girls. “yes! we’ll be gone for a few days, so i need you both.”

the two groaned. “seriously? rapunzel i can perfectly handle celeste on my own.” varian took celeste out of (name)’s hands and tickled her chin. “like how you handled that issue with the boiler room a few days ago?” the [long/short] haired snapped.

“HEY! that was one time! ONE TIME!”

“whatever helps you sleep at night geek.”

“okay enough!” rapunzel seperated the two, who glared daggers at one another. “please. me and eugene promise we’ll be back as soon as possible.” she had her hands interwined as she pleaded.

(name) and varian began to feel sorry. “go. we’ll take care of everything.” varian spoke, a sincere smile painted on his face. “you can trust us raps.” (name) hugged the brown haired.

“thank you. it means the absolute world to me.”

that night, the royal couple left in a purple and gold carriage towards one of the seven kingdoms. (name) and varian stayed in the castle in seperate rooms while they took care of celeste.

“i can have her tonight, and you can have her tomorrow.” varian spoke, cold as ice. “sounds good.” (name) nodded, dared not to give eye contact. this only made varian mad though.

❀ *.

(name) woke up for a start, the sun’s light pouring in and slightly blinded her. “oof.. what time is it?” she asked herself, looking at her wall-clock that read 8:07 am.

“let’s see how well var did last night.”

she got dressed, and made her way to the courtyard, where breakfast is usually served. she found varian slumping over a cup of coffee.

she laughed, “so.. how was first night?” she sat across him, right after she caressed a napping celeste. “argh.. don’t ask. and don’t laugh.” he shot. “that bad?” (name) teased, taking a bite of her eggs.

varian took another sip, a quill resting on his ear, his ebony black completely messy, and his uniform ruffled and out of place. don’t know.. to (name), he looked kind of attractive.

she shook the thought off, sipping some juice. “anyway. i have some errands to run, you two want to come?” varian asked. “hm.” she hummed, thinking that he wouldn’t want to spend time with either of them.

she peeked to look at celeste, “why not.”

later in the day, they walked around town while varian bought some items for some projects he was working on. “thank you.” he spoke as he handed the man the bag of coins.

he walked back to (name), who was cradling a still sleeping celeste. (name) had a summer dress on, a brown embroided bag slinged over her shoulder. varian moved the strands of hair infront of celeste’s face.

“oh goodness! i didn’t know you two would be up and about!” feldspar smiled. the two’s eyes widened and gave each other a look.

“her?!”

“him?!”

from their yell, celeste had woken up, crying. “oh.. sh, sh..” (name) rocked her. varian tried to help too, singing a song — a lullaby. but she wouldn’t stop crying. “argh, what does she want?!”

“maybe she’s hungry!” he handed (name) a bottle from his bag, but celeste just swatted the bottle away. “nope. maybe.. she needs to change!” varian bent down to get a sniff, “no.”

(name) continued to rock her back and forth. “well she definitely doesn’t want to take another nap.” (name) spoke, varian gave a slight nervous smile. celeste began to extend her arms to varian.

“i think she wants you!” (name) called. “what?! i had her all the night already!” varian yelled, celeste, agitated, cried louder. “varian!!” (name) yelled back. “okay, okay!” varian took celeste and began to rock her, singing a soft lullaby.

with that, celeste calmed down. (name) leaned against the wall, letting out a deep sigh blended in with a laugh. varian shared that laugh with her, baby celeste finally calm. realizing that they were laughing together, varian cleared his throat.

(name) anxiously ran her fingers through her hair, “anyways.. uh, me and celeste can make our way back to the castle. you should finish your errands.. without, us in the way.” (name) reached out for the brunette.

“no way! i mean—“ varian choked. (name) raised a brow. “it’s okay seriously. celeste is clearly more calm with me.” god he should’ve shut up after the first half. (name) thought to herself. “please (name)?” varian asked, letting (name) trail off her thoughts.

he looked, like he really did want them both there. she stifled a laugh, “whatever you say geek.”

#varian oneshot #varian tangled #varian tts #tangled the series #varian x reader #tangled varian

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idyllic-affections · 11 months

Note

What if Kaveh's child became a talented sculptor/painter like in their teens? Say like 15 or so? Idk. That second part got me thinking so much abt them just tugging Kaveh by the arm to their next project like "OMG YOURE GONNA LOVE THIS ONE IM SO PROUD OF IT SPGUEJGEJLVWLHELHEJ"

artistic inclination.

summary. what if kaveh's child was artistically inclined?

trigger & content warnings. none applicable.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. fluff. adoptive dad!kaveh & reader. 0.5k words. they/them pronouns used for reader. this post is an expansion of what if kaveh adopted a child? author's thoughts. GOD YOURE SO RIGHT ANON I LOVE THIS IDEA ITS SO CUTE..... guys. i BEG of you. please send me asks like this. i adore when this happens. getting asks about any of my ongoing series is an absolute delight. requests are always always always welcome, but this kind of ask? this kind of ask is my favorite type fr <3

kaveh's kid does absolutely end up being good with their hands, whether that's because of the time they spent with the forest rangers or simply because they lean in favor of artistic hobbies, and kaveh himself? he is overjoyed. the fact that [name], his [name], seems to have some inherent inclination towards the arts... archons. he loves that about them. it's like they were always meant to be his child.

he loves that his kid's first instinct is to run to him when they have a sort of creative breakthrough. he loves that their first instinct is to tug him by the arm and show him what they've made, even if there's still wet paint or clay on their hands because really, it's just a shirt. it can be washed. stains are just stains. he honestly understands on a very personal level; he gets paint all over himself, too. things happen.

it's worth it in the end, because he just loves them so dearly. their joy is his joy. their sorrow is his sorrow. their feelings are his. he resonates so deeply with the emotions of everyone around him, so you had better believe that his empathy increases tenfold for his own kid. he feels their feelings as if they were his own.

he understands their joy beyond the influence of his empathy, though. as an artist himself... he's so unbelievably honored that their first instinct is to share their work with him.

art is like a little window inside the artist's mind. the things they create give their father a deeper understanding of who they are, how they think, how they feel, why they think and feel that way. an artist sharing their work is an earnest display of vulnerability.

kaveh is so enamored with the way they are so willing, so eager to be vulnerable with him in such a sensitive way, especially in their teen years. he's heard a lot of things about raising teens; teens are supposed to be... difficult, aren't they? however, [name] just isn't difficult in the slightest.

...

well, children tend to be a reflection of the parent(s) they are raised by. [name] can be sassy and sarcastic, courtesy of tighnari and alhaitham's influence, but... they aren't difficult. they are kind and emotionally aware and warm and gentle.

overall, kaveh and his little co-parenting friend group did very well raising [name].

"baba, come look! i finished that project i was telling you about. it took me a while, but i finally did it!"

this happens multiple times on many different occasions, but kaveh's reaction never becomes any less enthusiastic. it doesn't matter what may be occupying his mind at that moment. he treasures their openness and could never so much as imagine disregarding their joy in moments like that. he always replies with a smile, wiping away a little bit of semi-wet paint that somehow ended up on their cheek.

kaveh only ends up smearing it more, but the gesture is sweet and appreciated nonetheless.

"ah, really?! i'm so proud of you. i know it can be hard sometimes. let me see what you've made this time."

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!

#aphelion brainrots 🌸#: [ adoptive dad kaveh! 🌸 ]#favoniuslibrary #astronetwrk #platonic genshin impact x reader #platonic genshin #platonic genshin impact #platonic genshin x reader #kaveh x reader #platonic kaveh x reader

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mollymauk-teafleak · 20 days

Text

oh the times that we believed

More of the fantastic @minky-for-short's human Huskerdust painter and muse au! A bit of plot motived hurt/comfort!

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3 if you enjoyed this!

cw: abuse, sex work, it's Angel Dust working for Valentino and all that implies in canon

-------------

Angel wondered when he’d start believing the things Husker told him.

Some things he didn’t believe and wasn’t supposed to. Husk’s stories from his ragged upbringing on the Strip were clearly bright, shiny pearls formed around small grains of some truth, given to be admired and enjoyed, even if it was artificial. Husk would launch into tales of impossible, artful cons, victories snatched at the last moment thanks to a card up the sleeve, run-ins with the mob where Husk’s life hinged on a dice roll and a mad dash on stage to blend into a big band.

When he told Angel these stories with obvious delight when the younger man laughed until he cried, gasped at just the right moments, hung on his every word, it was like sitting with a younger version of Husk. He’d see the great showman his lover could have been if he’d had quieter demons and more certain luck, the dreams he’d once had that still clung to him, a jacket he’d outgrown a long time ago. Angel couldn’t quite believe any of those stories but that wasn’t the point of a magic show, was it?

It wasn’t those stories that Angel struggled to believe. It wasn’t anything big, really. All the languages Husker could speak, the achingly beautiful art he made, the places he’d been that Angel only knew as names in a book. All that he could swallow easily, he didn’t doubt that he’d found something special in Husk, a man made of dizzying highs and crashing lows and interesting stories, like an antique store in paint-stained shirtsleeves.

The problem wasn’t the big things. It was the little things Husk said that Angel didn’t know how to believe, small handfuls of words he whispered gently or scattered like handfuls of seeds, almost unaware of the blooms they’d grow into inside Angel’s mind.

I remembered those were your favorite flowers. I just worried you might be cold. I wanted to let you sleep, I know how tired you are. We can take a break. I’ve got you. I’m here. I won’t leave.

I love you.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to?”

Angel sighed internally and added it to the list, wishing Husk’s love was as easy to believe in as his lies.

“What do you mean?” he murmured, the question he really wanted to ask but shrunk down small.

“Well…” Husk’s gaze was knowing, though he didn’t mean that as an attack the way most people in Angel’s life did, he didn’t want to know so he could hurt, “You’ve been sitting in that robe for half an hour now, Legs?”

It was news to Angel, though he wasn’t surprised. Time had always been something slippery to him, running through his fingers like water when other people could grasp it and be sure of it. He’d been prone to black outs when he was a child, snatches of time he wouldn’t be able to recall afterwards, only bruises in the shape of his father’s fists and his sister’s fruitless tears to show him what had happened while he was gone. He’d started escaping into them as a young man, using chemicals to open the doors to oblivion, again relying on souvenirs to piece together the story afterwards when it was safe. When it could almost be something that happened to someone else.

And now, brain still slick and foggy from the night before, he wasn’t surprised that he slipped away, not wanting to think about what was going to happen when he took off the robe, when Husk saw what was underneath.

What did surprise him was Husk’s offer.

“But I’m supposed to sit for you today,” Angel’s fingers toyed with the cheap fake fur that edges his robe, worn flat and matted from how long he’d clung to it as his comfort blanket, “Val ain’t paying you to paint me with my clothes on.”

“And if I gave a rat’s ass what Valentino thought, you wouldn’t spend more time in my bed than you do in front of my easel,” Husk pointed out with a wry smile, coming to sit beside him on the sagging old couch in the corner of the studio.

“I’m coming,” Angel insisted, though his voice was wearing so thin the lie showed through, “I’m just tired. Had a late night, that’s all.”

Angel didn’t know who he was kidding, trying to fool a man who’d grown up on the Strip speaking fluent bullshit, who could see the way his hands were trembling, the way he only pulled his robe tighter around him. But Husk didn’t seem angry or even irritated by the feeble attempt, just studying Angel with a careful, warm gaze.

“There doesn’t need to be a reason,” his voice was gentle too, light, willing to play along and pretend this was just going to be a regular day, “If you don’t feel like it, you don’t feel like it.”

“You know what my job is, right?” Angel gave a bitter laugh, staring at his hands, trying to force them to relax and not look so desperate, “You know what my life is?”

“Baby,” that broke Husk’s voice a little, the sadness welling up in the cracks, “You ain’t at the club right now. You’re with me, you’re safe here.”

Another thing Angel didn’t know how to believe, another thing to toss into the chasm between what he wanted and what he could do.

“When are you gonna get sick of trying to convince me?” the words slipped out of Angel, past his better judgment, taking advantage of his bone deep exhaustion and clouded mind, “When are you gonna get tired of saying this shit to me and it not making a difference?”

There was a moment of quiet or at least as quiet as this part of the city got, down to just the riot of horns and curses from the street outside. Angel’s stomach went into a sickening freefall, leaving him burning with self hatred. He never could have anything good in his life without bending it to see when it would break, so he could cut his hands on the jagged edges and tell himself the pain had been inevitable, that he’d been right to expect the worst, that he didn’t have to change because the outcome would always be the same.

“Can I touch you, baby? That okay?”

Angel jumped like a gun had gone off by his ear, the nod shaken out of him before he could think whether it was smart to be honest right now.

Words were hollow at best and weapons at worst but something about the solid presence of Husk’s hand on his shoulder was more certain, something he could trust in. It hurt, of course it did, there was nowhere under his robe where it wouldn’t, but Angel kept it off his face. He knew it would hurt far worse if Husk took it away.

“Short answer, Angel? Never,” each word came slowly, like he was checking it over to make sure it was right before putting it in place on the end of his tongue, “Do I wish things were different, yeah, of course I do. I wish you’d never been hurt the way you have, I wish the idea of me loving you and caring about you wasn’t new. But, fuck, I don’t blame you for that, how could I? It ain’t your fault.”

“It isn’t my fault that Valentino has a contract with my name on it?” Angel took a sharp, ragged breath, whipping around to face him, “I was a junkie long before I met him, Husk. My life was well and truly fucked before he decided to make a profit off it. I signed my body over to him and I meant it, how is that not my fault?”

“Because you trusted him back then,” Husk’s voice grew firm, roots digging deep and refusing to bend under Angel’s attempt to wrench it up, “And I know I’m asking you to do the same for me, telling you I won’t hurt you when that’s all anyone’s ever done. Believe me, the asking don’t come easy either. Before you walked into my studio, I was ready to just drink my way to hell and be done with it. Believing I deserve you, that I got any right to tell you I love you…it’s hard.”

For a wild moment, Angel wished he had two sets of arms, one for the part of himself that burned to shove Husk away, one for the part that ached to pull him close, “So why do it? Why try when it’s so hard it feels…impossible?”

“Because you’re worth it.”

Husk said it so plainly, without hesitation, like he was telling Angel the sky was blue, that water was wet. Like he just knew.

Angel had never had any use for faith, his nonna and his sister had tried to convince him but when he looked at the stained glass, his eyes were always drawn to the snake coiled around the tree, the twisted shapes with horns and claws more than the pure, perfect saints with their palms upturned to the light. Even when he’d been too young to know himself, he had known that when the priest spoke about temptation and deviance and sin, he was talking about Angel. Those were the first words he learned to describe himself and that kind of shame never fully went away.

But when Angel looked at Husk, he saw something in his eyes that could only be faith. Belief for its own sake, belief because it filled a space inside him, because it felt good when so many other things felt bad.

“So I’ll never get tired of telling you I love you, baby,” Husk murmured, “I’ll never get tired of telling you you’re safe here. Whether you believe me or not, it’s true and it’ll always be true.”

“Husk…” tears blurred his vision but he still felt that gaze, anchoring him in place.

He didn’t have the words to finish that sentence, he didn’t know what to call the emotions thrumming in his chest, scared that if he looked too closely they’d crack and fall away. Instead he shrugged out of the robe, letting it turn into a faux silk puddle around his hips, letting Husk see what he’d been hiding from him, why he hadn’t been able to imagine showing him before.

Husk’s voice was strangled, like something was gripping his throat, something not outside but inside, “Angel. Fuck, what did he do to you…”

The bruises had looked bad that morning when he’d dragged himself upright, showering and dressing quickly so he didn’t have to see them, only feel them, but Angel knew they’d look worse now. Husk’s expression, the tremor in his voice, told him enough.

“Apparently some big shot was in the club last night,” Angel’s voice was flat, distant, echoing oddly in his ears like it was someone else speaking, “Someone Valentino wanted to impress. I was headlining like usual but I fell, went down hard. No way to recover.”

He lifted one shoulder, a more misshapen, more natural bruise throbbing like it knew he was talking about it.

“Val was furious,” he closed his eyes against the memory of flashing eyes and bared teeth, smoke pouring out with every curse and cutting word like there was a fire inside his mouth, “I was in for a beating anyway but then…then I made it worse. I told him I’d slipped because my hands were shaking. I wasn’t gonna tell him why, I’d said too damn much already but…but he made me tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Husk prompted gently, not demanding, just giving him permission to say it. Just promising him he’d be heard.

“That it was the shakes. That it was because I ain’t had a hit in…a week?”

It sounded such a small thing to say it out loud, a pathetic, scrambling first step up a mountain that stretched into the clouds. Seven days, seven hard, painful, blinding days, felt like nothing to boast about, a child holding up a shiny candy wrapper and calling it treasure. Sitting here, all Angel could think was how seven days wasn’t worth a beating, not when he was just going to fall off the wagon at any moment.

But Husk’s voice was awed, a tone that would make Angel think of the colorful prayer candles and brightly painted wooden rosary beads in his nonna’s little closet, the place where she carefully tucked her faith and her home away, keeping it safe from their family’s darkness.

“That’s incredible, baby,” he murmured, finding Angel’s hand and holding tight, “I mean, I’m sorry that asshole flew off the handle but, fuck, I’m proud of you.”

Angel gave a dry, bitter laugh but he held on just as tight, “Don’t get used to it, can’t promise it’s gonna last.”

“Don’t matter,” Husk’s voice was as firm as his grip, keeping Angel anchored, “I’m proud of you either way. For doing it and for telling me, for letting me see. I know what it costs you.”

The smile came easily, easier than it had any right to when he was sitting here wearing nothing but the streaks of tears and blooming bruises, “No more than you’re worth, Husk…sorry, I ain’t gonna make a pretty picture today.”

Husk paused a moment before a light flickered in his eyes, a light that took years off him, that turned him into the main character from those impossible bullshit stories.

“Well…I’m sure as fuck not lifting a finger for Valentino today, except to give him a taste of his own medicine,” his eyes slid over to his cluttered workbench, deeply stained with turpentine and oil paints, old whiskey jugs and jam jars filled with water in half a hundred swirling colours, “But I still feel like painting. Work with me here, Legs…”

Angel watched in bemusement as Husk began loading the coffee table with half crushed tubes of paint, watercolor palettes that had wept half of their pigments away, his most delicate brushes. He navigated the chaos of his studio almost without thinking, always knowing what he needed and where to find it, even if he never put it down in the same place twice.

“The hell are you doing, handsome?” Angel tilted his head, putting his arm out when Husk gestured, without even thinking because he just didn’t need to.

“Trying something new,” Husk sat beside him, dipping a feather light brush into water, then pressing it to a square of dusty pink paint until the horsehair drank the color, until it looked like a flower bud, “Call it inspiration.”

“Like I’m your muse?” Angel flashed him a grin, knowing Husk thought his gold tooth was hot.

“Like you’re the love of my life,” Husk gently touched the tip of the brush to his skin, “Let me know if it hurts…”

It didn’t, the brush was as delicate and gentle as Husk’s own fingers, like it really was an extension of him. A few strokes and that bud bloomed into an orchid on Angel’s skin, with a burn scar in the center. Suddenly it wasn’t where Valentino had pressed the smoldering end of his cigarette to wrench the confession out of him, it was something beautiful.

“It won’t last forever,” Husk murmured, eyes holding Angel’s, “But neither will the hurt. Either way you’re beautiful and either way, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Angel’s voice trembled along with his hands, making the orchid dance as if in some breeze, “Can you do more of them?”

Husk raised his knuckles to his lips, “Fields of flowers. A galaxy’s worth of stars. Moons and suns and whatever the hell else you want, baby. I can’t give you much but I can paint you the universe.”

“I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” Angel laid his head against Husk’s shoulder.

He said it wasn't much but to Angel, it felt like everything.

Every scar, every bite, every bruise was given something beautiful. Some got flowers until Angel was wearing a necklace of them, some became clouds in a sky that began as daylight at his fingertips and ended at night by his shoulder, with every color in between. Dragons curled around some, guarding them fiercely, planets orbited around others and made them the core of distant solar systems.

Husk painted almost without thinking, like he was letting whatever he felt for Angel spill out through his brush, giving him a hundred other stories than the ones the bruises told. He made him a fae prince with garters of wisteria on his thighs and serpents curled around his wrists, a young god with the world in his palm, a literal angel with a folded pair of gorgeous wings on his back. He was right, they wouldn’t last, but Angel knew he’d always remember. Nothing was going to take this from him.

And while he painted, almost as great a gift as the escapes he was offering, Husk listened. He seemed to know which scars to ask about and which to let lie, which ones to frame and which ones to cover. Angel told him about the jagged slash on his back, the bullet that had whizzed overhead while he crouched behind a bar in France, after the drag show he’d been performing in went to shit when an enemy soldier felt the knife strapped to his thigh. He told Husk about the pinhole scar on his ear from his very first, very stupid attempt to pierce them, the one that had ended with his sister bending him over the sink and holding her favorite scarf to his ear until the bleeding stopped. He showed him the bump in his nose, where he’d fallen on his face, smack bang into the sidewalk, right off his very first pair of high heels.

Husk might have been a showman once upon a time but he’d clearly spent a lot of time in audiences too. His laugh was a smoky wheeze, like an accordion with a hole in the bellows, and he used it at just the right moments. He asked the right questions, he groaned and gasped and chortled and made Angel feel as though he was standing on a stage, bringing the house down. And all while he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, with Husk crawling all over him to paint his chest, his back, down to his ass and between his thighs. It tasted like relief, to be naked but not offered up, to be exposed but not sexualised, touched but not grabbed. He loved when Husk fucked him, of course he did, but it was nice to know it didn’t have to be an inevitability, something to make him feel more powerful rather than powerless.

Angel didn’t think there was an end to his scars but, by the time the sky outside was bleeding orange, he was standing in front of Husk’s dusty mirror, a completed work of art. Every mark on his skin, from his childhood to last night, was decorated and adorned and loved. He would cry but he didn’t want his tears to ruin the sets of bright, golden eyes Husk had painted on his cheeks.

Instead he choked out, “Thank you…fuck, Husk, thank you so much…”

Husk wiped smudges in half a hundred colors off his hands, eyes warm and admiring, “Should be me thanking you, baby. You let me help.”

“Now that I don’t believe,” Angel reached out and snagged his collar, pulling him into the frame of the mirror so he could look at himself and Husk at the same time.

“Listen…there was something else I wanted to give you, not that you need to take it,” Husk’s voice softened, eyes ducking and an honest to God blush darkening his cheeks, “You tell me if I’m being an old fool here…”

Angel paused, watching his lover’s expression in the mirror, struck with the sudden sense that the ground was about to shift beneath his feet.

“Ever since you introduced me to your friend, Charlie?” Husk cleared his throat, suddenly sounding like he was reading from a prepared speech, “She commissioned me for a couple paintings of her girl, the mean eyed one.”

“Vaggie?” Angel chuckled, “Yeah, she said she was going to. She’s a generous girl, huh? A toff but she’s nice about it.”

“Real fucking generous. I ain’t had pricetags like that since before I blew it all,” Husk admitted with a small, almost disbelieving laugh, “But…it got me thinking. Between what I’m getting from that asshole Valentino and your friend…well, your contract with the club has to have a price attached, right?”

Angel’s heart sank with the bitter, shameful taste of a dream he’d been a fool to believe in, “Yeah. It was a fortune when I first signed it and it’s only gotten bigger every year. Val finds any excuse to add to it, room and board, make up, costumes, the fucking drugs. When I was younger, I thought maybe one day…but it’s impossible.”

“Not for me.”

The reflection wasn’t enough anymore, Angel turned and looked at Husk, jaw slack, eyes wide, “What?”

“I could give you the money to buy your contract out from under that creep,” Husk’s voice steeled, a fierce determination bolstering it, “Then you wouldn’t have to live with him, you wouldn’t have to work at his whorehouse calling itself a nightclub. You’d be able to get clean, you could find a new job or, hell, you could still strip but it would be on your terms. And he wouldn’t be able to say shit. And…you could leave the city. Get away from all this.”

Husk’s voice stumbled at the end, the words clearly paining him but he said them anyway, not flinching from Angel’s gaze.

It was a fantasy, an impossibility, like the things he’d painted on Angel’s skin. And in spite of himself and the life he’d lived, in spite of every second that had come before this one, all Angel could do was ask for more.

“Or?” he prompted, his voice a whisper like it was scared to be heard.

Dawn broke in Husk’s smile, “Or…I buy the apartment above my tiny, shitty studio. It’s also tiny and shitty but it’s got enough room for two people. You move in, I succeed in pulling my career out of the gutter and give you the chance to build a life you actually like. I make you coffee and flapjacks every morning, you make me your nonna’s recipes, we go out dancing, I drag you to art museums, you make me go to the ball game. And…and I guess we live happily ever after?”

“I guess,” Angel smiled, feeling his heart crack open, all the hope he’d been so scared of rushing in, “I want that, Husk. God, that’s all I want.”

“Then let’s go get it, baby,” Husk drew him close, his embrace smudging the paint but it didn’t matter, this dream meant more.

Maybe it was just a daydream. Maybe it was one of those stories too fantastical to really believe, the work of a Vegas showman, a beautiful con, the throw of a dice. Maybe it was another escape into oblivion, an idea that would melt away like a high. Maybe it would fade into a scar or blur like paint under a thumb.

But Angel didn’t care. If it did fall apart, the way everything had before, he’d still say this feeling had been worth it.

Angel realized now, he didn’t have to wait until he started believing the things Husk told him. He had to choose to believe in them.

That's what made it faith.

#hazbin hotel #huskerdust #huskerdust painter au #hazbin angel dust #hazbin husk #husker #angel dust #please reblog and comment

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bagely · 2 months

Text

(Looking through my folder of things I'm never going to continue, I found an AU )

There are a couple of scenes and some have no narration and others do.

For context:

In this AU Philza is a drunk and Missa is a failed painter

Missa becomes captivated by Philza and after weeks of trying to talk to him, one day he cheers up.

————

In a seedy bar in a small town in the 16th century, a painter finds the courage to do what he has been thinking about doing for a week.

He takes a drink of a sento, and with the courage that this gives him, he approaches, taking the arm of a man who was drinking calmly at the bar " Can I take your portrait? She was sorry if she bothered him with that but-"

The visibly upset man interrupts "ugh. Let me go, I don't want you to make me a painting, fuck off."

"One painting, just one... it will be quick, please? please?" In a desperate tone, " i paint well, I promise. called me Missa and i-"

Interrupts again "I know who you are and I have better things to do to be portrayed by a loser"

"I'll pay you."

"Deal"

"Aren't you going to regret it, sir.. sir.. drunk sir?"

"Philza, my name is Philza."

" Sorry, that's always i see you here."

"Are you my stalker or something?"

"I really want to make you a portrait, lord."

"just buy me a beer"

———

Philza: what am I supposed to do?

Missa: What a mussa does. Just stay in one position and be handsome.. until i finish.

Philza: And you will end up in...

Missa: Days if my inspiration is good, and it is

———

Philza:"You've got a lot of paintings here."

Missa: "Yeah... failures, I think. Some are good." sigh and then smile "but yours will be perfect, I will capture your beauty. If it's even humanly possible."

Philza: "Do you talk sloppy all the time?"

Missa: "Sir, I want you to know that I have intentions in every sentence I say."

————

The almond-shaped room was beginning to make him anxious to be silent and in a position where he could barely move it made him bit uncomfortable.

"Don't you get tired?" Philza said

"Of seeing you? not even my worst dreams."

"Now you're just flirting."

"Don't move..." Paused dramatically "and I suppose you see it that way"

————

Missa: "I will finish the painting soon, you can't leave, I will pay you more.."

Philza: You can't fix anything with money, I'm leaving. I don't need your stupid mommy and daddy money.

#qsmp #deathduo #looking for old things that I don't use to put here #copium material #qsmp fic

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year

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I wanted to know something, this may come out as dumb? Though.

Are there Red roses in Twisted Wonderland? Like, real red roses, not white roses that you have to paint red.

I was thinking why the boys have to paint them, wouldn't it be easier to just have them and let them grow? Or is it a tradition for the dorm?

If it is a tradition, I'll have to re read book 1 again and sorry for not noticing before 😓 but if it isn't and we just don't know, well 👀 I imagined the boys freaking out when they discover that red roses exist in your world (and pink ones).

There's no such thing as a stupid question! ^^

I believe that natural red roses do exist in Twisted Wonderland (there are depictions of what appears to be red roses outside of Heartslabyul's painted ones, such as in Kalim's Dorm Uniform Groovy); it mainly seems to be the rose trees in Heartslabyul that have white roses instead of red. Note that when painting the roses across all TWST media (such as the manga, in the rhythmic mini-games, and even in Dorm Uniform Cater and Trey's initial card artworks), the Heartslabyul boys are shown to be painting specifically the roses in the TREES, not in the shrubs or other areas where the flowers may grow; this leads me to believe that the roses that are not in the trees are naturally red. However, do note that in some illustrations (such as SSR Tsumsted Riddle) there do appear to be bushes with white and partially painted roses alongside red ones, so this could be false. I'm just basing this take on what I've physically seen the painters interact with. I assume painting white roses red is to pay homage to the card soldiers from Alice in Wonderland, who accidentally planted white rose trees and need to cover them with red paint to hide their mistake. In the case of the dorm itself, they may have purposefully planted these trees long ago to honor the Queen of Hearts and her spirit of strictness. Painting the roses appears to be a chore that is assigned to the various students of Heartslabyul, and with the dorm honoring the spirit of strictness, the routine painting of the roses is a good exercise for its students, whether doing it by hand like Ace when collared (as this would teach them hard work) or by magic like Deuce and Cater (as it gives students at a school meant to train magicians a chance to use magic for a practical application). This isn't outright stated to be a tradition of the dorm, but I'm saying I wouldn't be surprised if it was due to the nature of Heartslabyul's legacy.

Additionally, recall the 810 rules of the Queen of Hearts; they have certain stipulations about what color the roses should be depending on the occasion. For example, the roses must be red during an unbirthday party, and they must be white for when the garden flowers put on a spring concert (episode 1, part 4). The roses must also be BOTH red and white (alternating) when inviting new friends to a party (Trey's Ceremonial Robes vignettes). Due to these demands (which Riddle will strictly enforce), it is a necessity to be able to swap the colors of the roses to match the situation--and it's just more practical to paint white roses red than to paint red roses white. Depending on the quality of the paint, whites can be very patchy and not fully opaque; this means it could take more time, layers, and/or product to turn red roses white rather than vice versa (and too much paint can make the petals heavy and droop/fall off). This is, of course, assuming that the painted roses are somehow stripped of their red paint whenever the flowers need to be white rather than have white paint caked on top of the red layer.

I did notice something kind of odd in the manga adaptation 🤔 In Riddle's flashback, all the roses in his hometown in the Queendom of Roses appear to be white. You'd think for a place with such a flowery name, there'd be more diversity in the colors of their roses?? Please this information with a grain of salt, as we didn't get to explore that much of the country and the multitude of white roses we see are pictured specifically in Riddle's home and yard; this may not be an accurate reflection of the roses in the entire Queendom. I assume the decision for white roses in the flashback was made on the mangaka’s part to make the flowers stand out against the bushes (which are already dark-ish) rather than to indicate “all roses are white”.

But yeah, those are my thoughts on the topic! 🌹

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst theory #twisted wonderland theory #twst theories #twisted wonderland theories #disney twisted wonderland #notes from the writing raven #question #Cater Diamond #Trey Clover #Ace Trappola #Deuce Spade #Riddle Rosehearts #Heartslabyul #twst manga #twisted wonderland manga

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seaside-kaycee · 27 days

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Hey there!

my name's Kaycee/Shade, and ive finally decided to start posting my art to tumblr! currently working on a proper "meet the artist", but for now you can have this phasmophobia painting i made of me and my friends, @paperstarzz and @squish-fish! im not the best at 2d acryllic painting yet, this is only the second canvas ive ever done recently, but im fully open to criticism from other painters. anyways, i probably will be slow uploading at first since im still getting used to showing my art to people outside my friends and immediate family, but if you think my artstyle looks cool or wanna see how my style evolves, it doesnt hurt to drop a follow.

original painting

added digital effects

(if anyone has any tips for how to take better photos of art, please let me know. my phone camera is utterly awful lol)

just as a fun bonus, heres a commission i did for my sister, @theclaratv of sun, moon, and eclipse from security breach.

#Shade's art #artists on tumblr #painting #digital artist #phasmophobia #fnaf security breach #fnaf daycare attendant #digital art #acrylic #first post woohoo #i have another blog that ive had for quite a while but i only really reblogged on that blog #felt weird to suddenly shift that blog to original posting yknow #its seaside-rusty incase anyones wondering

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howlphilic · 12 days

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/howlphlia/748036188504457216/i-love-taboo-kinks-and-i-need-your-headcanons

any ship with gavi, especially gadri

gotcha my friend. 🤝

PEDRI && GAVI HEADCANONS.

TW:// dark kinks, slight gore, nsfw. MDNI. 📜

[ PS:// if you aren’t into very dark kinks or gore, do not read this. taboo kinks, dark plots, and rape are included. if you aren’t into this type of content please block me or scroll. i’m not here to deal w yappers. thanks.]

...

1. !SLEEP PARALYSIS DEMON PEDRI + !PAINTER GAVI.

— In this universe, Gavi is a young lonely painter and Pedri is a 2000+ old sleep paralysis demon that is completely obsessed with gavi. every night, at 3am, pedri appears into gavi’s dreams just to make it harder for him to breathe, touch him everywhere, and rape his holes. gavi has no idea what to do with himself, he doesn’t know if he likes it or not, he isn’t able to move or scream, punch him, touch him, but he feels so good. every time this happens, he forces his eyes open to notice things about him, just tiny little things and turn them into a painting.

2. !PRIEST PEDRI + !NON BELIEVER GAVI.

— Gavi has always been an atheist and a very innocent one. he never had the chance to learn anything about religions so he stepped foot into the catholic church for the first time ever just to come across a priest. gavi approaches him but little did he know that the priest is not teaching him but he is manipulating him into thinking that this is how you show your love to god. letting the priest lift his shorts up and slowly slide inside of him as he gropes him and forces him into praying with him. using his perfect knowledge to brainwash the innocent little boy to throw himself at him and let him use him whenever he visits the church. what a perfect priest.

3. !WEREWOLF PEDRI + !RABBIT GAVI.

— Clueless little bunny gavi getting lost into the woods because he has no clue about the directions and paths and werewolf pedri that immediately smells gavi’s bunny scent and goes insane because a bunny stepped into his forest. a bunny. not even five minutes passed and pedri was now on top of bunny gavi, pulling on his ears and cotton tail, growling, pinning his hands on top of his head, chopping one of his ears off with his own sharp teeth, and pulling his pants down to at least rape him before eating him raw. or maybe torturing him a little. no bunnies are allowed into the forest of the big bad wolf.

...

4. APOTEMNOPHILIA.

both of them would definitely be into this type of thing. gavi would think about it 24/7. pedri cutting his legs and arms off because he wants to tie him up and see him as nothing but a doll. using him whenever he feels like it, craving insults into his pale skin and humiliating him because he isn’t able to fight back at all.

5. AUTOGYNEPHILIA.

okay, we all know pedri is into that. he would love to see gavi dressing up as a girl. tiny skirts, bras, lingerie, panties, high heels. he is a sucker for it. pedris dick would probably get hard at the fact that he is the only person who knows about gavis obsession with feminine clothes and behaviour.

6. PET PLAY // CLICKER TRAINING.

gavi is the biggest puppy on the earth, aren’t we all aware of this? but behind the closed doors he loves acting like one too. pawing at pedri for attention and rubbing his head against his hand. sitting on his boot and grinding against it while looking up at pedri with those puppy eyes. he loves wearing a collar with his owners name on it, he loves getting trained by pedri. he loves being obedient. (mostly a brat)

pedri would for sure be very into it as well. he would teach him how to do things like. “sit”, “crawl”, “spin”, “stand.”

[first nsfw post, lowk nervous..sweats..it’s 2am and i cannot sleep to save my life.🔥]

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fantastyfanfictionist · 2 months

Text

The Secret Canvas: A Tale of Art and Adventure

If you enjoy this story please reblog. As always feedback is encouraged and welcome. Summary: Upon inheriting a mansion Virgil's exploration leads to unexpected adventures.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

“Hi Virgil!” The executor, Sarah, met up with him as the taxi drove away. “Thank you for meeting me, especially on such short notice and all the way out here.”

Virgil slung his backpack over his shoulder and sighed.

She continued. “It’s just that it was extremely hard to find-”

Virgil tuned out what she was saying and looked at the house in front of him. It was a mansion, literally. Two, maybe three stories tall, a wrap-around porch, a turret on one side and so many windows.

‘Who lives here?’ Virgil wondered following Sarah up the stairs.

“I’ll show you to the office and we’ll go over some things.” She unlocked the door and Virgil entered behind her.

“Wow,” He couldn’t help but mumbled. The inside was old? Antique? He wasn’t sure, but it was stunning. Some of the furniture had white covers and there was dust everywhere.

He was in a lobby area with what he guessed were chairs and side tables. Stairs wrapped around and there was a balcony looking down with doors going past what he could see.

“In here please?” Sarah opened a door to his left.

Virgil put down his backpack and followed her.

This room was clean compared to the rest of the house. A desk and some chairs. A bookshelf lined the back wall.

Sarah sat on a chair and pulled out some papers. “First order of business.” She handed Virgil a copy.

“This is a sealed will and I was named the Executor of it. Legally, I don’t have to give you a copy or explain this to you, but it states that the inheritance must go to next of kin and you seem young, I’ll do you the favor.”

“Okay,” Virgil looked confused. “If this is a will, do I have to sign anything?”

“No,” Sarah smiled. “That’s only in movies. You sign if you disagree and take it back to court. Because you are the sole beneficiary, you did get notice to get a copy of the will if you like. I don’t think you knew about that though.”

Virgil shook his head, looking at the papers in his hand. Sarah continued.

“Because you’re the only one with assets to get, the probate stage was a lot faster than normal, and I waited to meet with you in person until it was over.”

“So I could’ve found this out at any point, since when?”

“For about a 6 months now. Like I said, legally I don’t have to give you a copy, just have to let you know how to get one. And I don’t have to meet you in person. But I feel in your best interest, it would be better for me to do so.”

“Thanks?” Virgil looked at the papers. “Not to be insensitive but who is Walter Brooks?”

“I believe he was your great-great grandfather’s uncle.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He was a painter. Like you.” She beamed.

“You know-”

“Have you heard of Eliot Canvas?” She seemingly changed the subject.

“Practically all painters know him. No one knows who his real identity is.”

“Yeah, turns out it’s Walter Brooks. The paintings that are not finished around the house confirm that.”

Virgil sat back in his chair. Disbelief written on his face, Sarah laughed.

“You are getting his house as well as everything in it.”

“Why am I getting all his things? There was no one else? No grand kids? No brothers with family?”

“You are next of kin. You’re the only person alive with relation to him.”

“If it was that long ago why now?”

“His will stated to read through when his brother’s and sister’s passed on. The last one did sometime last year. This is your house now, I think you’ll like it. It’s surrounded by trees and a big yard and no one really comes on this side of town anyway. Likely you won’t be disturbed by a bunch of neighbors.” She handed him a key and a notepad with some numbers on it. “There’s a safe in one of the rooms. I have to get going, but it was nice meeting you and I wish you good luck.” They stood and Sarah reached and shook Virgil’s hand.

Not long after Virgil was left in silence. “Time to explore I guess.” He muttered to himself, picking up his backpack he walked up the stairs.

The upstairs was a little less decorated than the downstairs, but the view looking down was beautiful nonetheless. A chandelier Virgil didn’t notice before hung on the ceiling a little ways away from the doorway and light from one of the windows shone on it, beaming little rainbows across the room. There was a hallway with doors lined up and down both sides.

“Start from one side I guess.” Virgil walked to one end of the hall. “Empty room.” He moved on to the next. “Empty... Empty... Empty... Empty… Empty… Do any of these at least have a bed?” The next few doors were also empty and Virgil was on the last one from the hallway. “Emp-” Virgil paused when he saw it wasn’t empty like he expected. “Stairs?” A circular railing led up somewhere and Virgil walked into the room.

“Must be the attic.” He climbed the stairs. “Wow,” He breathed out. It was brighter than he expected, caused by the many windows lining the wall, letting in natural light. The sunset created a glow across the room, filled with mostly blank canvas’s and a few half-finished ones.

Pulling out his own smaller canvas and paintbrush Virgil walked up to the window, in awe at the view.

Forest was in front of him and to his right a field half full of flowers and half of what he assumed were weeds. Faintly in the distance to his left he saw some roofs of buildings, most likely the rest of town. Sarah was right, this house is secluded. ‘Just the way I like it.”

Paintbrush still in hand he turned to look at the rest of the canvas’s in the room. “That’s odd?” He noticed a finished painting behind some half finished ones.

The odd thing wasn’t that it was finished, but that it had no dust on it. “For an old painting it sure looks clean.”

He walked over towards it. From what he could see, it was the view he just saw out the window, and it did have some small differences. Instead of buildings in the distance it was more trees and the field was all flowers. Virgil moved the paintings in front of it and picked up the finished canvas.

In an instant, light blinded him and he had to close his eyes. Virgil slowly opened his eyes and found himself in a strangely familiar field. “The painting!”

Part 1/?

#ssfanfic #virgil sanders #sanders sides fanfic #painter Virgil #ts fanfic #sanders sides human au #fanfic #the secret canvas: a tale of art and adventure #The secret Canvas #human au #Roman Sanders #Logan Sanders #Patton Sanders

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whumpr · 1 month

Text

My Blood, My Holy Wine: Part One

That verse felt like Dimitri, now that he thought about it. It felt guilty, heavy with regret. He wondered how Dimitri thought of that line. He wondered which role he placed himself in.

Part Two Here Did you guys know Tumblr had a character limit? I didn't. So here's a nine page fic split up into two parts! Please forgive any missed typos The war mages (Manuel, Mariano, Laredo, Dimitri, and Izan.) All belong to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump Contains: Fade to Black NSFW, Scarification tattoos, History of self harm, Depictions of Self Harm, Gore, Background character death, Magical Exhaustion ____________ It was undoubtedly a breakup song; Dimitri had told him to ignore that. It wasn’t easy to ignore. The first lyric was a sorrowful, “Just before our love got lost, you said “I am as constant as a northern star.”” Miguel traced the words in his mind, eyes flickering across the far wall. He knew James Blake… vaguely–the name sounded familiar. He recognized the soft, lonely, lilting quality to his voice, and the way he carried it through intricate melodies and runs. And I said, "Constantly in the darkness

Where's that at?

If you want me I'll be in the bar." Miguel grimaced. He cut his eyes over to Dimitri, who was laying on his back with his eyes closed. “This song reminds you of me?” He asked. “Tss. Shh.” Dimitri reached down to swat at Miguel’s leg, pointing at the speaker as the song played on. Miguel rolled his eyes and dismissively waved Dimitri’s hand away. He leaned back; Dimitri–eyes still closed–stretched his arm out to catch him against the bed and pull him in against his chest.

You’re my blood, you’re my holy wine You taste so bitter and so sweet I could drink a case of you, darling And I would still be on my feet Dimitri squeezed tighter around Miguel’s shoulders. Miguel smiled against his chest. “That part?” “Tss.” Dimitri hushed him, softer this time, “All of it, keep listening. Think about us.” __ The song didn’t fit them. Not exactly. You had to really stretch the lyrics, willfully ignore some lines– really, you had to focus solely on the chorus. But Miguel couldn’t focus on much of anything, not with Dimitri’s teeth on his neck, not with his fingers slipping between the buttons of his shirt. I am a lonely painter, I live in a box of paints. I’m frightened by the devil And I’m drawn to the ones that ain’t afraid That verse felt like Dimitri, now that he thought about it. It felt guilty, heavy with regret. He wondered how Dimitri thought of that line. He wondered which role he placed himself in. Dimitri’s lips closed around Miguel’s throat, and his arms wrapped around his waist to slowly lower him onto his back. The song melted into the chorus as Miguel tilted his head back over the edge of the bed.

And she said,

"Go to him, stay with him if you can

But be prepared to bleed" Ironic, that line. Almost funny right now. Dimitri’s room in the tattoo shop smelled like someone had lit a sandalwood candle in a hospital. It was comfortable and dimly lit, and he always had music playing. It was nice; it was pleasant. It made up for the fact that this room was exclusively for scarification work. Dimitri worked under a concentrated light. It was good for not offsetting the calm dim lighting of his setup. He had taken it upon himself several months ago to rework the runes Miguel had carved into his own skin, as well as add a few new ones. It had been going well, what runes Dimitri added were powerful, and the ones he restored worked more efficiently and elegantly than before. Today, Dimitri had asked if he could surprise him with something purely decorative. Miguel had said yes, on the condition that whatever it was, it was not Dimitri’s name. Dimitri had scoffed and said the mere thought of it was tacky. Miguel added that it couldn’t be sexual. Dimitri had laughed and said Miguel should give him more credit. It wasn’t a complete surprise. Dimitri had let him see the stencil once he’d applied it. My Blood, My Holy Wine, written in careful calligraphy down the inside of his right forearm. It was sweet, it was perfect, he’d agreed to it immediately. The song coming on during the process itself had been a coincidence. Miguel knew not to laugh while Dimitri was working, but it had made him smile. He watched Dimitri work as the song played. He had worked up from the wrist, starting at the most delicate skin to keep his hands the steadiest at those parts. The tip of his blade danced gracefully; like it was gliding on ice. It wasn’t painless, not by any means, but it was better than the way he used to handle it himself. He still remembered the way he used to shake, the way he used to slip sometimes; he remembered the time he had taken the knife at the wrong angle and nearly hilted it inside himself. He’d stumbled out to the neighbor’s house, barely able to knock before he collapsed. He remembered coming to enough to hear the horror in the town doctor’s voice at the sight of his other scars, the gentle hand on his cheek and a soft, “Who did this to you” that barely drifted through the darkness. “You’re almost done.” Dimitri’s voice cut through the fog. Miguel snapped out of the memory of the town he’d left behind, looking down to his arm again. Dimitri’s scarred hands pressed a clean cloth to his fresh wounds. Miguel followed his arm up to Dimitri’s eyes; Dimitri was already watching him. “It’s just the comma, and some flourishes on the first L. Do you want to take a break?” “N-no.” Miguel answered. He looked down again, to the bloodied cloth beneath Dimitri’s hand. “It’s okay. I want to keep going.” Dimitri shifted closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the unbroken skin of Miguel’s palm. He leaned away to drop the bloodied linen into the trash can behind him and picked up his knife again. Miguel watched the blade dip with careful precision into the top layer of skin. .. Somewhere along the line Dimitri had put the song on repeat. Miguel only noticed when things were over, and he was sitting up looking down at the fresh tattoo.

Miguel smiled as he studied the fresh lines. Gentle, ebbing pain danced over his skin. His eyes followed the lyrics as the chorus came again. So short, so sweet. Such a small part of such a short chorus and still such a devoted vow from Dimitri. Miguel didn’t like to sing, but he whispered along to the chorus as the song neared its end. You’re my blood, you’re my holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet

I could drink a case of you, darling

And I would still be on my feet The pain at the edges of the letters faded slowly, and a faint golden light began to grow beneath Miguel’s skin. On their own, the thick outline of the letters and flourishes closed into their center, keeping their shape as they healed into a raised scar before the song could finish playing.

Dimitri and Miguel stared down at the healed lettering in front of them. Silence rang out for a short moment before James Blake’s gentle piano started playing again. Dimitri quickly reached back to the speaker behind him and paused the music.

“What the hell was that?” He demanded.

“Uh, I don’t–” Miguel stammered, staring down at the new scar decorating his forearm. He wasn’t lightheaded anymore. He didn’t feel tired. The healing hadn’t even hurt.

“Healing magic?” Dimitri asked, “This whole time?”

“No!” Miguel answered, “No. No, I can’t– I couldn’t do that.”

They both sat in silence; Dimitri looked down to the new scar.

“Is it a spell?”

Miguel paused, running his fingers over the raised skin. It didn’t even itch. “I was about to say that…” He looked up again. “That, or it’s a rune?”

Dimitri reached into his pocket and pulled out his pocket knife. Miguel watched as he calmly pulled the blade across his palm. Blood pooled against his skin, he held it out to Miguel.

“Try it on me.”

–

Missions with the rest of the war mages still left Miguel feeling starstruck. As dangerous as it always was, it filled him with a sense of admiration that brought him back to his early days in the military. Nothing could touch the war mages. They were a force of nature when they were together as a team. As dangerous as it was in reality, none of it felt real, none of it felt heavy. It was almost like a game.

Seeing Manuel go down didn’t land until they saw him struggle to get back up.

Miguel got to him first, sliding down to his knees at his side. His blood was already covering the grass beneath him. The blast of magic had torn straight through his clothes, showing the gruesome wound beneath his ribs. It was at least an inch deep and three times as wide, a gory crater torn through skin and muscle. It would have killed him had he not been wearing his gear.

“Oh, oh. Manuel. Hold on, I–” Miguel struggled to find his words. Manuel took in quiet, ragged gasps. His eyes were screwed shut in pain. Okay, he wasn’t hearing him. That was fine. He didn’t need him to.

The almost transparent shape of Miguel’s magic settled under Manuel’s back. He lifted him into his lap and placed his right hand against the wound. The first sound Miguel could make was a choked noise of pain at being shifted.

“This…” It shouldn’t hurt. It hadn’t ever hurt before. There was something about the rune, something about the pain that had gone into creating it that canceled out most of the healing magic’s pain.

Then again, he’d never healed a wound this severe before.

“I don’t know what this is going to do.” He finally said. Manuel reached up to clutch his wrist, pressing his hand further down against the wound. Miguel took that as permission.

He took a breath and pushed down any embarrassment he might feel. Now wasn’t the time. He didn’t need to sing, at least; the verbal component was in the words themselves.

“You’re my blood, you’re my holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet.” He spoke. Manuel furrowed his brows, his eyes still screwed shut with pain. The scar on Miguel’s arm began to gently glow–he continued:

“I could drink a case of you… darling, and I would still be on my feet.”

The steadily growing bloodstain on Manuel’s shirt began to slow, the lines of tension in his face began to ease. His breathing was still staggered, he still struggled to open his eyes. Miguel tried again.

“You’re my blood, you’re my holy wine, you taste so bitter and so sweet. I could drink a case of you, darling, and I would still be on my feet.”

The tension in Manuel’s face eased further. Miguel lifted his hand for a moment to see the wound had grown smaller, but it wasn’t gone. He placed his hand back down and tried again.

Manuel’s face eased with the repetition. His shoulders relaxed. He still didn’t open his eyes, but as the blood flow stopped, his head dropped back. Miguel shifted the magic holding him into a shape that would cradle his body and support his head. He lifted his hand from the wound. It had stopped bleeding entirely now. But the wound hadn’t fully healed.

Miguel’s head was spinning. He swallowed thickly and looked to the sky. The mid-morning sun seemed harsher, somehow. He turned his blurry eyes to the other war mages. Laredo was on top of the man that had been leading the assault–the robed bodies of the man’s lackeys littered the ground. The war mages had made quick work of them…

Miguel’s vision spun as he looked back down to Manuel’s side. He could manage one more round of the spell, just to save Manuel the stitches. He laid his hand against Manuel’s waist.

“No, you’re done.” Izan’s voice spoke up from beside him. Slender fingers wrapped around Miguel’s wrist and gently pulled his hand back. “You look like you’re gonna pass out. I’ll take him.”

Miguel watched as Izan took Manuel in his arms. He could feel the weight off his mind as he released his magic’s grip on him. Izan stood up, Manuel in his arms, and a familiar pair of hands landed on Miguel’s shoulders.

“Come on, Crazy.” Dimitri whispered, “That was at least ten of that spell–let’s get you into some shade.”

#whump #my writing #dimitri #miguel #oc whump #gore #whump writing

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