#fluff au

Snow Fun! (Babysitter Tenna AU)

This is my first time drawing something less silly but not by much. TT formal apology for rough execution I’m trying out new rendering styles

Based on an anecdote in Chapter 6 of “A Not-So Inanimate Dad” by @zeesharp

Imagining the Baby Monkeys from your au’s with gold visions 👀 I see menace potential and a chance to find any hidden stuff, your parents don’t want you to find.

Nothing can be hidden from them XD Nothing at all~ Wukong is never gonna keep his staff away from them.

Previous

EXCEPT Tim and Brian are still (slightly fanon) Masky and Hoodie.

Like for more art of Dadskin, Reblog to share their madness./j

The first time you spotted him, you thought you were hallucinating.

There—across the bustling convention floor, drowning in a sea of anime wigs and giant foam swords—was Howl Pendragon, in all his blonde, silky-haired glory. Except it wasn’t just a cosplay. The man wearing it had the sort of presence that made everyone else blur out like background noise. His wig looked almost real, his cloak moved as if enchanted, and that sharp profile? Unfair.

You couldn’t help it—your feet dragged you closer, curiosity pulling stronger than your sense of shame. And that’s when he turned. Blue eyes, softer than they had any right to be, met yours across the crowd.

And just like that, he smiled.

It wasn’t forced, not one of those awkward smiles cosplayers gave when someone stared too long. This one was warm, slow, almost knowing. It sat on his lips like he was in on some secret, and suddenly you felt very small in your own shoes. You ducked into the nearest booth, pretending to study overpriced keychains, but your heart was already racing.

Later, you swore the universe was toying with you. Because somehow, by sheer accident, you bumped into him at the café tucked near the convention hall. Your iced latte nearly went flying, but a hand caught your wrist before disaster struck.

“Careful, princess,” he murmured. That voice. Smooth. Playful. The kind of voice that could talk you into anything.

Your breath caught, and for a second you forgot the floor beneath your feet. His hand lingered just enough before letting go, and when you glanced up—there he was. Minato. He introduced himself casually, like he wasn’t dressed as your fictional husband. His Howl cloak draped lazily over the chair, wig gone now, revealing golden hair that suited him far too well.

“You’re staring,” he teased, leaning forward, his chin resting in his palm.

“Am not,” you lied. Badly.

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes glinting with mischief. “Then why’s your straw still untouched? You’ve been holding that drink hostage for five minutes.”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands, which only made him laugh—warm and unrestrained, a sound that tugged at something deep inside your chest.

The conversation was easy after that. You talked about your favorite Ghibli movies, about the chaos of conventions, about the small joys of finding someone who understood exactly why you’d cry over a soundtrack. Minato was charming without trying, his compliments woven in so seamlessly you didn’t even catch them all until much later.

“You’ve got that Sophie energy,” he said at one point, voice thoughtful. “Like you don’t even realize how radiant you are until someone else points it out.”

Heat crept up your neck, and he only grinned at your flustered reaction.

Hours slipped by like minutes. By the time you both stepped out of the café, the sky had already softened into evening, warm light spilling across the streets. The crowd had thinned, the noise dimmed, leaving just the two of you walking side by side, shoulders brushing more often than not.

At one point, Minato draped his cloak around your shoulders, the fabric heavy and smelling faintly of him—clean, warm, something you couldn’t quite place but knew you’d never forget.

“You wear it better than me,” he said softly, close enough that the words brushed the shell of your ear.

You glanced at him, your lips parting on instinct, but no words came. The world felt quiet for once, like it was holding its breath, waiting.

He stopped walking then, turning to face you fully, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair away from your cheek. His eyes searched yours, patient yet certain, as if he was giving you every chance to step back.“Can I?” he asked, voice low, careful.

You nodded before you even realized it, and then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was slow, tender, nothing like the rushed, clumsy kisses you’d known before. It was Howl in the flesh—dramatic but gentle, like he was pouring every bit of warmth he had into you. When he finally pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, and he whispered with a grin you felt against your lips:

“Guess I wasn’t acting after all.”

You laughed, breathless, tugging his cloak tighter around yourself. And for the first time all day, you realized something ridiculous: you’d walked into that convention thinking Howl was fiction, only to walk out realizing maybe he wasn’t. Not really.