Today, I drew fanart for my favorite blog @dailyskyfox! This character is just too cute, and it makes me smile with a new cute drawing every day. If ya ever need some cuteness and positivity in your life, go check this blog out!

matildaswan  asked:

berena lap sitting pls <3


There is an alcohol ache in her head, a dream weight in her body, but she feels like she might burst, might fall apart at the sight of Bernie Wolfe in her kitchenette - tiny, and messy and home for a while.  She’s missed her in the mornings. She’s missed her, like this; unkempt, a little gruff, bed-warm, well-kissed and here. 

Bernie’s hair is a halo of knots, and sleep sits on her shoulders, gathers at the corners of her eyes. She is a mess of their clothes (a borrowed cardigan, borrowed slippers) and a jumble of grimace and frown as she stares down at the mug, cradled between her hands: an unhappy appraisal, a sight to behold.

She slides a mug over the small table, then leans back in her chair, takes a sip of her own, pouts. 

‘Jesus, Serena, this coffee’, she says, and Serena pads across the linoleum, plucks the sugar from near the sink, sets it down in front of Bernie. ‘When we get back - ’ 

‘I’m not going back.’

Her tone is short, unguarded, harder than intended, and she watches Bernie’s shoulders square, her light smile fall (milk staining her upper lip). Her gaze falters, fails, falls to her mug, and she peers into it as her mouth opens, shuts, opens. 

‘No - right - of course -’, before she clears her throat, looks up at Serena, earnest, miserable. ‘Not ever?’

She doesn’t know how to tell her. She doesn’t know how to say she’s lighter here - she likes it here - coffee and all. She’s not ready for England, not ready for Holby, wants desperately to crawl back under the covers here, in her new bed, with Bernie, stay there forever. 

Instead she edges closer to Bernie, who watches her, eyes wide and hopeful, clambers onto her lap, shuffles forward. She hears the clatter of the mug on the table, feels her hands moving to her hips, feels her thighs between her thighs. 

‘Not yet’, she mumbles, reaches forward to graze a thumb against her lip, below her nose, where the coffee has stained a little. Bernie slips her fingers a little below the waist line of her pajama bottoms, pulls her close, closer, so that their bodies are flush, so her eyes catch her eyes, her determined stare catches her desperate one. It’s a promise, not a parting. 


Serena collapses in the small armchair, in the corner of her crowded apartment, face red with wine, eyes bright with laughter. She watches Bernie shuck off her jacket, her scarf, her shoes, stumble around until she can hurl each boot towards her bed - talking a mile a minute.

She’s missed Bernie at midnight. Missed the way Bernie speaks to her, more to her, French to her - as they stumble from restaurants, hail cabs, chase pigeons through parks. She’s tipsy, and happy and here and Serena feels lighter than she has in months, as Bernie crawls into her lap, flings a leg over either side of her legs. She throws her head back - lets out a great honking laugh - as she fumbles, loses balance, as Serena scrambles to catch her, hands gripping her thighs. 

‘Take me home’, she says, and Bernie chortles, gestures wide around her. 

‘We are home, you silly.’

Serena licks at her lips, nudging Bernie’s leg, and her hair falls in a curtain around her face as she lets her chin fall, as she peers at Serena, close enough to count her freckles.

‘No’, she smiles, wide, kisses her. She grins against Bernie’s mouth, Bernie’s cheek, Bernie’s ear. ‘Take me home.’