#(But I do want to go back to do something that's not a sketchbook scribble!)

[greypetrel]

Impromptu random wip of the (hopefully) sleeping beauty.

As a treat.

[dykebehaviour]

⋆ ˚｡✞ ⋆˚sanctified⋆ ˚｡✞ ⋆˚

rebel!ellie x preachers!daughter!reader

✞ summary : you, the preacher’s daughter, falls for the school’s rebellious out lesbian. shame, faith, and first love collide in a slow-burning secret romance that threatens to ruin everything - unless you’re brave enough to choose it.

chapel heat

✞ cw : smut, oral f!receiving, praise/degradation mix, fingering in religious setting, fem!reader, religious guilt, internalised homophobia, emotional breakdown, swearing, drug use.

✞ wk : 1,200

✞ 1 > 2 > 3

it wasn’t supposed to happen again.

you told yourself that after the first kiss, that it was a moment of weakness. a lapse. something you could sweep beneath the altar of your shame and cover in prayer. that if you repented hard enough, if you fasted long enough, if you cried behind enough chapel doors, it would go away.

but ellie didn’t go away.

she didn’t avoid you. she didn’t apologise. she just acted like nothing had changed, like kissing you was inevitable.

and worse - you didn’t tell her to stop.

it starts again in secret.

not planned. not discussed.

just… happens.

the first time after the kiss is in the back stairwell, lights flickering above like they’re about to give up. you’ve just come from a group prayer circle and she’s skipping detention, and when you round the corner she’s just standing there, watching you like she knew you’d come.

“shouldn’t you be with your bible study bitches?” she asks, voice low, teasing.

you bite your lip. hard. “shouldn’t you be suspended?”

her eyes trail down your body. “you always this mouthy, or just when you’re wet?”

you shove her against the wall. you don’t mean to. it’s just…something snaps. the frustration, the guilt, the weeks of wanting and pretending not to want, it all hits you in a hot rush and your hands are fists in her hoodie before you even realise what you’re doing.

ellie laughs. not a big one. a low, breathy thing. close enough you can feel the heat of her mouth.

then she kisses you like it’s punishment.

tongue, teeth, groaning into your mouth when you gasp. her hands snake beneath your uniform, grabbing your ass over your tights like she owns it.

“you gonna tell god about this?” she pants into your neck. “tell him how i make you moan like a little whore?”

you slap her. just barely. a weak, open-palmed hit to her shoulder.

she grins.

“didn’t think so.”

the make outs don’t have rules, exactly, but they have rhythm.

ellie finds you when you’re most ashamed of yourself. when you’ve prayed too long and felt nothing. when you’ve stared at girls’ lips too long in the locker room. when you’ve broken down crying in the confessional just to hear father matthews say you’re still redeemable.

that’s when she kisses you.

it happens behind locked chapel doors. behind bleachers. in bathroom stalls. one time in the art room, her sketchbook open beside you, her lips on yours while you trembled on a desk and sobbed that you hated her.

she just whispered, “i know,” and kissed your throat.

but it’s the chapel where it breaks.

where it really breaks.

you go there one night after your father calls. you’re already shaking when you hang up. he’d found something - some old drawing of yours tucked in a prayer journal at home. a girl’s name scribbled beside it. you’d written, “what if i never stop wanting this?”

he didn’t yell. that’s what made it worse. he just sighed and asked if you were “letting the enemy in.”

you don’t cry until you’re kneeling in the front pew, face hidden in your arms, nails digging into your palms.

and then she’s there.

you don’t even hear her come in.

she crouches beside you, hair a mess, sleeves rolled, paint still on her hands. she smells like weed and lavender and some citrusy hand soap. and something about her being here, in this place, feels like a sin so big it could crack the stained glass.

you sniff. wipe your face. “what do you want?”

ellie doesn’t answer.

just tilts her head. “you praying for me?”

you let out a bitter laugh. “no point.”

there’s a silence. heavy. thick with everything unsaid.

then, quietly, “you looked like you were breaking.”

“i am,” you whisper. “every day.”

she exhales. “yeah. i know that feeling.”

you turn toward her, and she’s already watching you. serious, now. not teasing. not smug. just…looking.

like she sees something soft in you that no one else has earned.

and you don’t think.

you just say it.

“i think i want you to ruin me.”

ellie flinches. just a little. just enough.

then she licks her lips. “you sure?”

no.

yes.

you nod.

ellie leads you to the front of the chapel, to the very altar where your father once stood to preach to your class. she doesn’t laugh. she doesn’t mock you. she looks at you like you’re something to be handled carefully, but also like she’s going to take her time destroying you.

she peels your cardigan off first, slow, fingers brushing over your throat where your cross necklace lies.

“you wanna take this off?” she murmurs.

you hesitate.

“no,” you say.

ellie nods. “okay.”

then her lips are on your neck. your collarbone. the hollow of your throat.

you gasp as her hands push up your skirt, her fingers finding the soaked cotton between your legs.

“jesus,” she whispers. “you really want me that bad?”

you nod, shame flooding you.

ellie smirks. “good.”

she sinks to her knees.

she doesn’t tease. doesn’t drag it out.

she hooks your underwear to the side and presses her mouth to you like she’s trying to pull something out of you, like she’s not here to make you come, she’s here to prove that you do.

you’re already shaking when she slips a finger inside you.

you cry out when she adds a second.

and when you come, gripping the edge of the altar like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered, you say her name like a confession.

ellie kisses the inside of your thigh. “that’s it,” she whispers. “say it again.”

you do.

you say it like prayer.

later, she lays beside you on the floor of the chapel, her hoodie bundled beneath your head, her arm across your waist.

you’re silent for a long time.

then:

“am i still… holy?”

it’s not really a question. but ellie answers anyway.

“i don’t know,” she says. “but i think you’re real now.”

you swallow.

“was i not before?”

she looks at you. not smiling. not smug.

“no,” she says. “you were a ghost in your own body.”

her hand tightens around your waist.

“now you’re mine.”

✞ perm taglist : @yasmilks , @frosttbitten , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool , @0phantom0 , @ggutpunch , @leeidk87 , @mikellie , @celiacallsitcasual , @gurlbownerr , @l0veylace , @bluminescent-moon <3

[bi-writes]

dark matter | ghost x f!reader

INSTALLMENT TWO — TIME ROT COLLECTION

type: one-shot, part of anthology series, can be read standalone (6.5k)

cw: dark!ghost, mature language and content, mature sexual language and content, mw3 spoilers, death, grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms, dubcon, size kink, manhandling, breeding kink, cumplay, unprotected piv (18+)

You don't know how long it's been. Maybe days, or maybe it's been weeks, you aren't sure, but it's hard to move when there is nothing that waits for you.

All that's left is a box that sits on your kitchen table. It has his name scribbled across the top, and when you opened it up, just seeing the photos of him tucked into the sides was enough to nearly make you sick. You haven't opened it again since. You haven't touched it. When you touch the cardboard, it burns, it stings.

You don't know what you're supposed to do when the love of your life doesn't come home. You don't know what you're supposed to do when there's bills on the table, when half of the bed is empty, when everything that was supposed to happen died along with him.

You used to sit on this very couch and talk about everything you would do and everything you wanted. You used to lay there, your head in his lap, looking up into those baby blues and tell him about what a good husband he would make, how it was going to be so hot watching him fixing the leaky sink and hanging up the new shelves you bought, being the house husband he was always meant to be.

Someone that pretty deserved to be at home all day, baking bread and fixing a vintage car.

He promised you so much. He promised you love. He promised you laughter. He promised you a lifetime of something more.

But there never really was anything more. He never married you. He never proposed. He just fucked you full before every deployment, whispering into your hair as you drooled about how, "I'll see ye when I get back, bonnie, 'n I'll tell ye how much I luv ye."

But he didn't come back. So you really aren't sure now how much he loved you.

You stand in front of the bathroom mirror, fluffing a brush over your cheeks. The makeup helps, but you look dead, and your eyes are dull.

You don't want to go to work, but you can't pay your bills, and Johnny wasn't your husband, so the box in your kitchen stands as a loving gesture from his mother, and that is all he left behind. And when you went to the service and asked for something, for anything, they said it was out of their hands.

You are entitled to no compensation—because on paper, you are nothing to anyone, and you belong to no one. And though his mother kissed you shakily, with tears in her eyes, you couldn't bear to ask her for anything, because she hurts, too, and you are nothing to anyone, and you belong to no one.

So you work; you work, and you don't stop, and you sleep only a few hours before you get up and do it all over again, and even after a long day, you count the pennies in your purse, and it isn't enough. You let yourself get comfortable, you allowed yourself to succumb to a man, a man you loved, and what did it get you?

Fuck all. You have fuck all, and you let a man do it to you.

Fate and destiny are a cruel reality. Unforgiving—they don't care about the choices you make because they happen anyways, and it's hard to be angry when this is how it was always going to be. It doesn't make you hate any less, and it doesn't make the dust collecting on the box any less thick.

When you do gain the courage to touch it again, you have a week left to find a new flat. You don't know where you will go, but you're packing, and you rip the top of the box off as harshly as a band-aid. Your eyes focus on the knick-knacks that Johnny must've kept. A few different sized sketchbooks, the nubs of worn and used graphite and charcoal pencils, a crystal and beaded rosary that his mother gifted him when he first enlisted. You pick up the crinkled and well-loved papers that are stacked at the bottom, and your eyes blur with fresh tears at the ripped out sketches that sit in your hands.

It's you, in different angles. Asleep, staring out at something, smiling at him. He captures your face beautifully, and you can see where he's smudged the shading with a thick finger to cast shadows and light over you. He sketches in exquisite detail—he always has, but he has always had a certain style, a certain eye, that made lead look like real life. 

It’s odd to see what you looked like through his eyes. Bright. Lovely. Soft. He draws with a breath of fresh air, and you can see where his finger has rubbed away all the harsh lines. When you see a few places where the graphite on his thumb has stamped his fingerprint onto the paper, you feel your throat close up. You want to feel those fingers on your face. You want him to brush the hair out of your eyes and look down at you. You want to feel that hand tracing your jawline, your nose, the lid of your eye—you want to feel the warmth that he always radiated, and you want to breathe in the scent of him until you forget the smell of anything else.

You pick up a loved and bound book, with thinner pages that you know can't be a sketchbook. You unwind the leather string on the front, flipping it open, and you swallow thickly when you realize what this is.

A journal. You never knew he kept one.

The first few pages are dated from when he first enlisted, a few years before he met you. He writes just as eloquently as he draws, and you settle into the couch behind you as you read about his enthusiasm joining, the purpose he finally has, the weight of the world lifting off of his shoulders as he thinks about all the things he will be able to do as he rises through the ranks. You let your fingers skim over the words, feeling how his pen has pierced the paper, and you try to imagine him—fresh shaven with less muscle, life in his eyes as he thought about serving his country. You smile a little, but it hurts after a few moments.

You flip a little further, your eyes skimming over times he cursed out his commanding officer, punched a private for sneaking into the women's barracks, the love he has for a detonator that began when he soldered his first pins. His personality shines, and it's like you can hear him talking to you all over again, and when he begins to talk about a love he doesn't know how to handle, you smile to yourself, because you think he's talking about you.

But when you look again, the dates are wrong. You hadn't met him yet, not at this point, and your smile fades when you realize he's talking about someone else.

He never says their name. He writes at length about them, someone who has captured his eye, someone he says he can't have. Someone unattainable, unavailable, and then there is his own reservations. You don't realize until his entries from a few months later that he's talking about a man.

never felt this way before. not about anyone. rosary i always look at is fucking mocking me, i think. i can hear mum, somewhere, telling me to find a good catholic bonnie, but this is real. i know it is, but i don't know what to do about it. not like anyone i've ever met. can't explain the bond. but i look at him, and i think he looks at me, and i just know. i know. it can't be just in my head, can it? i'm not mad. i'm not. but what am i supposed to do?

You flip the pages frantically. There's sketches of hands on one page, hands that hold a handgun, that squeeze a trigger. They're tame sketches, but you feel a little sick because you feel like you're looking at a part of his life that you're not supposed to be looking at. The intimacy of these sketches—just hands, and you feel like they should be censored to your eyes.

The sketches and the words, they morph as time goes on. Sketches of closed eyes. Of blonde lashes. A harsh brow, a scar cutting across a thin lip. There is no softness in these sketches. Johnny draws with an abrasive pencil. It cuts the shapes, jagged edges akin to glass.

i can't tell anyone. i want to tell the whole world. won't let me. want to scream it from the fucking roof that i love you, but you're such a stubborn bastard. so fucking stubborn.

The sketches suddenly become warped. Angry, spiked, and you can see the emotion from how hard he presses the pencil into the page. More hands, and you can’t help but notice how he draws them simply functioning. Hand over wrist. Holding a utensil. Picking nails. These hands tell a story, and you can see the bumps and bruises and the wounds that litter the surface of them—these hands are anything but delicate. They have wrought. They have dug until their fingernails bled. They have been stuck through barbwire, maimed to the point of texture and roughness and the blurring of scar tissue.

don't fucking believe you. it isn't just me.

You're blind for a few moments from the intensity of your tears. You wipe them furiously, you need to know more, you need to know. The dates skip, and you pause on the day that you met.

so bonnie. so beautiful.

Softer sketches. The delicate lashes that are your own, the gentle curve of your pouty lips. You recognize yourself, but only barely, because he draws you like you are out of focus. He draws you as if you are too far away, just out of reach.

she's everything i've ever wanted. so why can't i let it go?

Your bottom lip trembles when sketches of a butterfly overlap skulls. The motifs never disappear, not completely, and it's only obvious what his true feelings are when you smooth a finger down the sketch of a butterfly escaping its cocoon that hangs from the mouth of a discarded skull head.

haunt my fucking dreams. go away. go away. go away. the ring is right there, so why can't i give it to her?

You close it abruptly. It falls to the floor, the cover of it thudding as you cover your face with your hands. Was he thinking of someone else all this time? Every morning, every kiss, every time he looked into your eyes and told you that he loved you—was all of this meant for someone else? Someone he wanted but couldn't have? Someone that just didn't love him back?

You scream. You toss the coffee table. You shatter the flowers that have died, you pick up the box of his things, and you throw it. You watch the papers fly, the books fall, you hear the rattle of his dead memories meet the floor of the home he left behind, and you scream at all of it just to stop, please, stop, stop, stop—

You're not even sure if it's really Johnny you're angry at. Maybe yourself, because you've never really been good enough to be loved by anyone. No one has ever loved you and you only—you've only ever been additional, on the condition of loving another, never enough to be the one and only, and maybe that's your real problem. Maybe the real problem is that you want to die because you always give everything you have, and no one has ever wanted it enough to give you the same.

Maybe you just want too much. Maybe your dreams are too big, maybe it's just that no one wants what you are handing over. Packaged pretty, all shiny and new, but if no one wants it, you shelve that kind of love, and that's where it rots.

Maybe this kind of love died with Johnny. Not the beginning of something, but the reality of it, and now all you can do is accept the things you cannot change and tame the heart inside of you that isn't good enough to be for anyone else.

When you pick up his things off the floor the next morning, you find a scribbled address on the back of a torn sketch. So, you do the kind thing, and you gather his things back into the box, close the lid on what never really was, and you carry it with you out the door.

The door is unmarked. The paint on it is peeling, but you know this must be the place because there's a pair of dark boots caked with mud sitting out by the bottom step. You raise your hand to knock, and you tap it with your knuckles timidly, adjusting your hold on the box in your arms.

A few minutes pass by, but no one answers. You knock again, louder and firmer this time, and it finally swings open. From the dark flat emerges a large man, sticking his head out from behind the chain latched and glaring down at you. You think he's about to close it on you, but then his eyes flicker down, and you know he must read the name scribbled in big letters on the box that you hold.

It’s enough to make him pause. It’s enough to make him stay, rooted to that spot, even if you can tell all he wants to do is sink back into whatever void he came out of.

"Hi," you whisper, and you have no control over how broken the word comes out. "I...I just thought you should have this."

Because he never really loved me. Not really. Not the way he loved you.

The door shuts, and you hear the chain unlatch, and then he opens it wider. He emerges in the doorway, taking up the entirety of the width of it, and he snarls down at you from behind the mask he wears.

He opens his mouth to spit something at you, but then you hold it out to him with shaky hands, and he can see the tears that are coming down your face. You can't control them, he can tell that much, and he reaches out to take the box from you. You look at his hands, and you recognize them immediately. Uncanny, the resemblance, and you recognize the scar that cuts across the knuckles on his left hand. You know if you push his mask down, you could trace with closed eyes the scar he must wear that starts at his nose and ends at his chin.

He doesn’t know it, but you know what he looks like. You know what he is. If he took off that mask, you would see a face you know, even if Johnny never drew the entirety of it at once. Always bits and pieces of him, but you’d know them if you saw them put altogether. You have the puzzle pieces of him in the back of your mind, and you know you could put them back together if you really tried.

He would not be able to do the same for you. The pieces of you are scattered, and you know they are lost, and that there is no getting them back. Johnny took them to grave; you would never ask for them back, anyways.

You don't ask who he is. He doesn't ask you who you are; but when your eyes meet, there is some kind of understanding. Some kind of knowing. You almost don't want to leave—you know he mustn't be kind, not from what you’ve read of him and the way he looks, but Johnny loved him, and you want to cling onto anything that still breathes that might connect you to him. You hate him, but you love him, and Johnny loved this thing, so maybe...maybe—

The door slams shut in your face, and you catch yourself with the step railing as you crumple to sit there, on his dirty step, crying into your hands. You don't know how long you sit there, but it is dark when you drag yourself home.

It is much too dark outside for you to see the shadow that you pick up along the way—and you’re too in your head to realize it never leaves.

When you come home from work, your knees are weak when you see the letter that’s taped to the front of your door.

EVICTION NOTICE.

They give you until the weekend, a courtesy they tell you they don’t normally give to anyone. You aren’t allowed to stay, even if you come up with the money, and you’re in tears as you pack up your flat. The last place you shared with Johnny, and it’ll be gone soon. You don’t know what you’ll do with your things. You don’t know where you will go.

Johnny never married you. You don’t have any family. You’ll have to stuff your car full of as much as it can hold, and you’ll need to toss the rest. You’ll have to—

The knock at your door startles you. You get up off the floor, where you were trying to stuff all your dishes into a small bag. You pull the curtain back on the window beside the door, and your eyes widen when you see a giant man standing at your door. He feels your eyes on him, and he turns his head towards the window, tilting his head to the side menacingly when he looks at you.

You wipe your face, trying to dry the tears on your cheeks. You open the door shakily, poking your head out.

“Hi,” you say. You wish your voice was steady, but it cracks. “Can…C-Can I help you?”

The mask he’s wearing today is different. There’s a skull mouth painted on it, and his hood is flipped up over his head. He seems taller with his boots on, and he takes up nearly the entire width of your doorway. He’s got so much bulk on him—if you reached across and touched him, you know your hand would hit nothing but a solid wall. No give, just pure muscle and fat. His eyes are still dark, and he still looks like the most unapproachable man in the entire world. He clicks his tongue under the mask, and you swallow when he snarls a bit.

He fishes something out of his jacket. You recognize it—Johnny’s journal. He holds it out to you, expectant, and you open the door wider to take it from him. You feel tears come all over again at the sight of it, and you hold the leather to your chest, hugging it. Johnny never married you, but he would’ve taken care of you right now. If he would’ve known you were here, about to live in your car, he would not have hesitated moving you in with him. Getting you into his bed. Shielding you from the world that was much too scary, much too unforgiving. Johnny would know what to do.

Johnny’s dead.

Just as you are about to close the door, a thick boot stops it. You flinch a bit, looking up, and then a big hand presses against your door and pushes it open until it hits the wall. The man cranes his neck to look around you, and he narrows his eyes at the heap of your belongings huddled in the living room of your flat.

You sniffle, shaking your head.

“I’m just…moving.”

You step aside when he moves. He ducks his head just slightly to get through, and you watch as he walks around, taking stock of what’s in front of him. He seems to find what he’s looking for when he sees the notice on your kitchen counter. He snatches it up and and turns it around to face you, and you just stand there, frozen.

“I told you. Moving.”

His house is soulless. White walls. Beige carpet. Grey tiles. There’s one couch, one coffee table, and one TV mounted to the wall. There’s only dishes in the kitchen enough for one person, and he only has one bedroom. It’s the same lifeless place in there, too. His mattress is on the floor, but he has the decency to put a mattress cover and sheet over it. There’s one nightstand, with just a few cables where he must charge his phone, and one lamp. There are no decorations. There is no other furniture. His house is functional, not valuable.

He puts your bag in the bedroom. That settles that.

You cry that first night. You sleep early, curling up under his one measly sheet, and you cry. You cry because you’re sad. You cry because you’re lonely. You cry because you feel like you owe this man now, this stranger who hasn’t told you his name, and you have no idea how you will pay him back. You cry because you miss Johnny, and he never even loved you.

You jump when the bedroom door opens. He walks in, kicking the door shut, and you watch as he strips himself of his jeans and hoodie, tossing them onto the floor. You sit up on your elbows, meeting his eyes, but he doesn’t take off his mask. Instead, he comes towards the bed, plopping down on the mattress next to you, and you pull the sheet up to your chin. You hadn’t anticipated sharing a bed with him, but you’re also too afraid to complain.

“I can sleep…on the floor if—”

A big hand covers your mouth. You’re silenced, startled that he would touch you this way, and you start to cry again when he presses until you are laying on your back again, moving his hand back until it rests behind his head.

“Please—” You hiccup. “Please don’t hurt me.”

He hums at that. Satisfied. Pleased at your reaction. He could pluck your strings right now, and you’d play music. He falls asleep with that thought.

You try to give him money. He never takes it. You try to buy groceries. You find the notes you spent stuffed back into your wallet later. You try to pick up a broom to clean up, and he locks the supply closet after that. The only way you find out his name is when you find his dog tags in the bathroom drawer, because he still hasn’t spoken a single word to you.

Simon “Ghost” Riley. That’s who Johnny really loved.

You don’t know why the sex started—you don’t know why you let him in, not exactly. Simon had been gone, one of his usual spurts of absence that he occasionally had, but he came home earlier than you expected. Simon likes to shower as soon as he comes home, but you are already in there, under the hot water, leaning against the tile as you empty your head of any thoughts. Simon doesn’t knock, and he pulls back the shower curtain even though he sees your silhouette. There are no words exchanged as he comes in, getting under the hot water, and there are no words exchanged when he takes off his mask for the very first time, and he hoists you up against the wall and fucks you into it.

You know this, too. Your hands trace his back, and you can feel every scar you know will be there, and you can taste the same things Johnny said you would taste when you lick over his jaw. Tobacco. Citrus. Animal.

It almost feels like cheating, but you’re too empty inside to be sad about it. It really feels like lying, even though Johnny’s too gone to hear your excuses. At the same time, it feels like getting something back. Not in its entirety, but something close, something that doesn’t feel the same, but feels so good anyways.

You cry again when you realize you like it better. You cry more when you realize that you’re starting to lose your dreams of Johnny in favor of Simon. You see in the dark instead of in blue. At first, you used to mumble Johnny’s name into the pillow. You used to bury your face into it, muffle the sounds as Simon fucked you from behind, two big hands pushing your ass apart as he pulled you back over and over onto his cock. Now your head is turned to the side, and you’re crying Simon’s name, and he’s fucking you harder, getting down onto his elbows, pressing you into the mattress and using your throat as leverage so he can arch your back and get your ass shaking with how firm he pushes his hips against you.

You’re so delicate, but he can’t be nice. He can’t be gentle. He needs to see teeth marks on your thighs and on your back. He needs to taste your blood and your cum and your spit. At first, he thinks he was doing it because he was lonely, too, but now he just wants to eat and eat and eat.

Eat Johnny’s pretty girl. Fuck Johnny’s pretty girl. Keep Johnny’s pretty girl, because how dare he keep this one a secret, and how dare he try and hide her from him? Johnny wrote a lot of things in that journal, but he didn’t talk about Simon’s insatiable appetite, and he didn’t talk about Simon’s rules. He blamed the entire world for his seemingly unrequited love, but the reality was that Johnny was selfish.

Johnny didn’t want to share. He wanted it all for himself, so it’s no wonder he died for it. When your world isn’t in balance, it compensates. Johnny ended up on the wrong side of the scale.

That’s the fucking truth.

Simon’s got you on your knees again. He likes you this way, ass up, face down, on display. On your back, he stacks enough under your back that you’re nearly upside down, pussy in his mouth as he bends you in half and eats it like that. Now, he’s squeezing your hips, pressing down between your shoulder blades, thick tongue inside of you as he teases your ass with his thumb. Johnny used to love that, but you’re such a jumpy girl.

He’s going to fix that.

Johnny is so predictable. Letting you run around, spoiled, never telling you the way it should be. Johnny made you think you were a pretty princess. He probably intertwined your fingers and fucked you in missionary like a good Catholic boy, but soft, delicate things like you don’t need to be reminded of what they are. They need to be so cockdrunk and dizzy that they don’t know anything else but this place right here, in his bed. Simon knows that’s what you really need—to not know the world outside of this bedroom.

Love is useless. Love can be lost. Love comes and goes, it’s subject to change. Time bends it, rusts it like iron, and Simon doesn’t need something else that will slip through his fingers, no. He needs something that is latched onto him forever. He needs to take one of your ribs and absorb it. He needs to taste you on his tongue and between his teeth always. He needs your blood to be his blood, and he needs your eyes to be his eyes.

Marriage is not finality. Love is not permanent. No—it isn’t enough. He couldn’t keep Johnny, and maybe he can’t keep you, but there is something he can give you that will keep you with him. Even if you left, you would stay somehow, some part of you, and he can see it in some distant place.

Once Simon sees something, it’s as good as true. It might as well be real. Simon is something himself of a manifestation, and he realizes now that maybe he never really saw Johnny because it was you hiding in what he couldn’t see.

Everything is in focus now. He knows what he has to do. Johnny was too stupid to see it—to preoccupied with how beautiful you are between the legs, too mindless when he was cock-deep inside of you to understand what he had in his hands. They don’t make things like you. One of a kind. Once in a lifetime. Something that will never be again if you let go, if you look away.

Simon knows all too much about what it means to leave a scar. He understands permanence. It’s why he’s still alive. It’s why he’s got you here, right here, underneath him, wet-faced and sobbing and clenching so tight around him. Your nails are fixtures in his back, holding him here, and he knows that you understand, too. If he asked you, you would think about the answer, but your body knows. It knows who Simon is and what he wants. He’s certain it does because even if he wanted to, your cunt has him tight, barely enough give for him to pull out and push right back in. It doesn’t want him to leave, and he’s glad for it.

You cry so sweet. Blubbers and gentle tears. You want this; it’s evident in the way you claw at him and pull him back in every time he pulls out just enough. When you pull just that hard, he drops onto his elbows, caging you in, and you sob into his mouth as he grinds his pelvis into yours. The wet smack of his thighs has stopped, but the pressure against your clit has you whining so nice. Fuck, you are beautiful, and you look so sad. From the first moment you showed up at his door, you were all big eyes and sadness. You drag around an air of heaviness that hasn’t left, and Simon is so sick of it—Johnny wasn’t man enough to eat you whole, won’t you just fucking let it go?

Maybe Simon did love him, too. Maybe he did love him back. No, he must’ve—that feeling in his chest still hasn’t left. Simon made a thousand excuses. A man like him, simply unloveable. A soldier like him, just too busy and too dedicated to have anything for himself outside of duty. A victim, what a rotten word, but that is what he is; no one can want him, not really. He saw it, in the back of his mind, peeling back layers of himself just for someone to make a face. After everything, after breaking his nails crawling out of an early grave, rejection just might be the thing that finally killed him. Not a bullet, but the sheer pain from the cut of giving a nasty piece of himself over and not even getting everything back.

Johnny was careless. Loving two things at once, pulled in opposite directions. Too distracted by what he couldn’t have that he forgot about how good he really had it—what a fucking dog. Greedy. Naïve. Fucking delusional. Johnny gave up this to chase something that could never be real. It was pathetic. It was stupid.

It was mine.

“Look at me.”

You do. Your eyes, hazy and wet, meet his, and your hands are shaking as you cup his face and sob because yes, yes, yes, please—I need it, it hurts s-so good.

It does hurt. It burns. It steals. It takes. It swallows, like a brush fire against dry land, licking and eating and tearing apart whatever it can reach. Your moans enrage it, and your cunt feeds it, whatever the thing is inside of his chest that is begging to come out.

This isn’t love. This isn’t romance. This is necessity—survival. Without him, you will come apart, and without you, Simon will starve. He used to take bites out of Johnny. Just enough to make the screaming inside of him quiet a little, just enough to be distracted; but he hasn’t eaten in months, and whatever you’re made of is too good to let go of.

This time, he’ll make it permanent. He’ll make it forever. Where you end, where he begins, where his hands have sunk into you, where his teeth are stuck; he’s going to fix himself to this place, and then he’s going to make himself forget how to leave.

You’re buzzing. You’re somewhere else. You feel like you’re floating above yourself, but at the same time, you’re right here. Simon’s so big; he told you he would be, but it’s another thing entirely to have this man inside of you and hitting your squishy cervix. He’s nasty about it, too—he likes putting a big hand on your stomach and pressing; he likes to feel himself inside of you and laugh at how you cry, and he likes the sound it makes when you’ve come, and your thighs are wet, and his skin smacks against yours with a toe-curling squelch.

“‘s mine,” he says, and you whine, and you nod. You don’t know if he’s asking you a question, but you figure he isn’t. Simon isn’t the kind to ask. He just takes what he wants. He always has. When you come back from the dead, consequences don’t apply to you any longer. You’ve cheated reality, and now you get to reap your rewards.

“Yeah.”

Yeah. Yes. Of course. Yes. Yes, Simon, whatever you want, Simon, anything for you, Simon, yes, yes, yes, yes—!

It will take time. As Simon puts his thumb to your clit to hear you sing, he thinks about how it won’t take much of it. You’re already so docile. You’re already in his bed, eating his food, crying with his cock inside of you and your thoughts filled with nothing but white noise and his name.

Simon won’t be like the man before him. Johnny drew you as a butterfly—something in need, but something that would eventually fly away. Fuck that. If there is a light in you, Simon will snuff it out. If he has to keep you from discovering your wings, he will just cut them off. If it’s the blood inside of you that keeps you warm, he will let it drain from the wounds left behind by his teeth because I will keep you warm, I will make it better, no one else, just me—

His index and middle finger in your mouth silence you. You choke on whatever you are saying in favor of sucking on his wet fingers, your eyes crossing a little as he bites down on your ear and pants there. It’s rare to hear him; Simon tends to swallow any noises he makes in favor of concentrating on hitting that same spot inside of you, but you can hear him now. It’s low and rumbly, so much so that you can feel his chest vibrating against yours. A groan—fuck, he sounds so good. To know your pussy feels so good, it’s making him falter is enough to have you just at the cusp of something white-hot and blinding.

You come when he comes. Simon’s other hand has an iron-grip on the side of your thigh, hiking it up around his hips as he comes hot and heavy inside of you. You shake underneath him, sucking hard on his fingers as he presses his pelvis to yours. You can feel it dripping between your thighs, and the heat of it makes you come, too, a sob coming out of you as you spit his fingers out in favor of closing your mouth over his.

He tastes like you. You suck on his tongue softly, lapping it up, and he uses his wet hand to hold your jaw at an angle so he can spit into your mouth and kiss you again. You grip his dog tags hard, tugging him back to you when he tries to look down at where he’s inside of you. He suffocates you when he lays over you, but you don’t care. You need him skin-to-skin. You need his mouth on yours, his cock still this deep, sharing breath and spit and heat. If you lose it, you’ll lose something else, something more, and you can’t lose it again.

His weight crushes you, and you don’t register the significance of one of his hands underneath you and between your shoulder blades. He feels for something that you can’t see, and he kisses you again when he’s satisfied with what he finds. The lack of something. The killing of it. The knowing that you’ve gotten what it is you’ve been searching for all this time.

He holds you like that always. He keeps your eyes on his when he comes inside of you—always wants to look at you when that first spurt of cum fills you entirely. He likes the way your lashes flutter when he brands you. He likes the way you lose the ability to speak. He likes the way your entire body goes rigid and pliant all at once, seizing up and then melting underneath him until it takes no effort to turn you over onto your stomach and do it all over again.

He notices the change before you do. The tender breasts, the warmth of your lower belly. You are wet always now, eager to be bent over wherever you are because the ache between your thighs is tenfold now.

You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled in a long while, and you’re smiling, hips hiked up on the couch, your dress crumpled around your middle as his cum drips down the back of your thighs. Simon licks his lips as he sits back on his heels, thumbing over your puckering hole.

You lay underneath him in your cocoon. Death at your doorstep, and you let him right in. You draw it around you tight, tucked into this blanket of security and warmth and factitious love that you think will hold this time. Simon’s hand draws around your throat, but you easily fall into him. When he squeezes, crushing what you’ve built back up, you sigh with relief, letting yourself fall into his chest and stay there.

When you close your eyes, it feels like something familiar. Like a place you’ve been before. When you open them, it’s gone. Simon is there, staring at your curiously. Your shadow that never leaves. The thing that remains. Time passes, but you know this will stay, you know it won’t go away. When he bends you over again, his hand slides low, cupping your belly, and your mouth twitches—the ghost of another smile. You put your hand over his there and press, feeling the scars you know by memory alone.

You will give him new scars; and these ones will be only for you.

[leeeedith]

STRAY KIDS reaction (texts) to their S/O walking out after a fight

Bang Chan 🐺

At first, Chan lets you go, thinknig you need space to cool off. But the second the door shuts, guilt washes over him. He paces the rooom, running a hand throught his hair, overthinking everything he said. After a few minutes, he grabs his phone and sends you a message: "Come back wen you're ready. I'm sorry. I just don't want to lose you over this."

Lee Know 🐰

Minho stays still, arms crossed, jaw clenched. His pride keeps him from calling after you immediately, but as soon as he hears the door close, regrets settles in. He sighs heavily and sinks onto the couch, staring at the spot where you stood moments ago. He won't chase you right away, but after some time, he'll text you: "Are you safe? Let me know. I'll wait for you."

Changbin 🐷

The second you turn to leave, Changbin's heart drops. He reaches out instinctively, but his frustation keeps him from stopping you. The moment you disappear, he punches a pillow in frustation before sitting down with his head in his hands. He debates running after you, but he doesn't want to push you further away. Instead, he types and deletes multiple messages before finally sending: "I didn't mean to hurt you. Please come back so we can talk."

Hyunjin 😺

Hyunjin's emotions are all over the place. Wen you walk out, he calls your name, but his voice breaks halfway through. He stands frozen, staring at the door, blinking rapidly to stop himself from crying. He doesn't know whether to run after you or give yous space, so instead, he grabs his sketchbook and starts scribbling aimlessly—his way of processing the pain. Later, he sends you a voice message: "I hate fighting with you... please come home."

Han 🐿️

At first, Han lets out a frustrated sigh, throwing himself onto the couch, muttering under his breath. But after a few minutes, panic sets in. What if you don't come back? What if he messed up too badly? He grabs his phone and calls you, pacing the room while waiting for you to pick it up. If you don't answer, he send a series of messages: "Are you okay?" "Where did you go?" "Please answer me." "I love you, okay?"

Felix 🐥

The moment the door shuts, Felix feels a heavy weight in his chest. His hands shake slightly as he stared at where you just stood. He's not one to handle conflict well, and the thought of you being upset with him makes his eyes sting. He curls up on the couch, hugging a pillow, waiting for you to text him first—but after a while, he gives in and sends you a soft message: "I'm sorry, love. Can you come home so we can fix this?"

Seungmin 🐶

Seungmin watches you leave with a blank expression, but inside, his heart is racing. His logical side tells him to give you space, but his emotions scream at him to fix things right away. He sighs and leans against the wall, staring at his phone, debating what to say. Eventually, he settles on something simple but sincere: "I know I upset you. But pleace don't shut me out... Let's talk when you're ready."

I.N 🦊

Jeongin doesn't expect you to walk out, and when you do, he just stands there, completely frozen. His throat tightens, and for a moment, he wonders if this is the end. He waits a few minutes, hoping you'll come back, but when you don't, he anxiously grabs his phone and sends a text: "I didn't mean to hurt you. Please, just let me know you're safe."

[choochooboss]

Sketch dump! Vol. 5

September 2022 (Part 1/2)

The first piece on top summarised my cosplay rush for Tracon 2022! The second is an old idea for a charm.

"SURPRISE!!"

Back in 2022 I hosted an art raffle for reaching 777 followers on Twitter! The winner would get their submas themed idea realised (which was their friends throwing a surprise party for the twins!). I wanted to make a little comic and have the bosses walk in their office where depot agents, Elesa, Drayden, Skyla, Clay etc. would be waiting with decorations and treats and games.

Emmet is all smiles of course while Ingo gets so emotional he could only whisper a "super bravo".

Not really headcanons anymore but still funny ideas.

1. Emmet gets clumsy when off-rhythm! He starts walking in curves if there is nobody else around to match his rhythm with.

2. Emmet spaces out/forgets to say things aloud when someone speaks too long or when things go off-script! His thinking gets interrupted easily.

3. Ingo sometimes bumps into doors because he is too used to automatic doors!

4. When things go off-script Ingo speaks too much and rushes in straight lines"

Also my little inexpensive sketchbook & my trusty tools! Mechanical pencil and eraser pen are life when scribbling my skrimblos smaller than a postage stamp!

More Ingo~ I utilise a wide range of sources for references, including CSP's poseable 3D models, they can come really handy with perspectives and proportions!

The second piece is my very first attempt at cosplay in Tracon 2022: Blingo! I walked in with a sequin hat, leather jacket, leather pants and high heel patent leather boots.

The hardest part of cosplaying Ingo is remembering NOT to smile ahaha!

Some hairstyle tests

I drew these for a huge submas art collaboration over Twitter hosted by @/mimizukeii!! It was technically my first art collab before I started arranging them myself with Aggie/Magma.

While looking for train related songs I found this cute nursery rhyme to go with the marching:

"Over the mountains,

Over the plains,

Over the rivers,

Here come the trains.

Carrying passengers,

Carrying mail,

Bringing their precious loads In without fail"

I wanted to compare these silly twins, planning to do something more silly with them later. Also a sketch of @/fukurow's butler designs I never finished.. The capes compliment them so well, I love them!!

Prequel to this piece! Emmet is so confident in himself he thinks Pierce wants to learn from him but is invited for a duet on the stage instead!!

Emmet has really great voice actors in Pokemas! I especially love how his english VA gives him that bri'ish/posh/sophisticated vibe while also soft and melodic! I know for SURE this VA/Emmet can sing, I can show you later!

One of my favourite sketches!! I wanted to add a bunch of characters in the BG reacting to this sonic blast of emotion over a performance!

Heyyy it's the smile buddies comic!! I really hope Ingo gets to interact with Marnie in Pokemas one day!!

I feel Ingo's eyes in the mirror panel is a little off in the final comic, I meant to keep it softer like in the sketch!

It's Nimbasa trio!! Idea inspired by submas EX uniform colors. Might continue this later!

Some BG tests for this piece! Compositing is hard but absolutely worth the effort, it can make a huge difference in the appeal of your piece!!

Practise piece drawing over a photo I thought was cool! I want to get more experimental with lighting and perspective!

'How's it hanging bro?' Who hung him up there anyway??

Sketch for this arguing scene! Something REALLY BAD needs to happen for them to end up that tense! Even if I want to present them close to the canon material I still want to put them in really challenging situations to see how far I can push their emotions!

Thank you so much for coming all the way down here!! This set was pretty loaded, I hope you enjoyed scrolling through all this ahah!

Previous posts:

Sketch dump Vol. 1: April-June 2022

Sketch dump Vol. 2: July 2022

Sketch dump Vol. 3: August 2022

Sketch dump Vol. 4: July 2022 Part 2

[unhakies]

i see that ur requests r open… heh… give me a leehan x idol!secretly a marine biologist reader NOW. like reader is a good idol friend thats done a collabd either bnd and leehan really liked her and then found out she does marine biology professionally behind her idol life and he js falls in love THANK YEEEWWW😛😛😛😛

the tides between us. k. leehan (req!)

pairing: idol!leehan x idol!marine biologist fem reader.

word count: 716

genre: fluff, romance, oneshot

notes — i was gonna go to sleep but this was SUCH a good and cute idea that i HAD to whip something up real quick.

you weren't trying to hide anything. well, not really anyways. but in an industry where one can get hated on for simply 'being smart' it's obvious why you would keep that part of your life behind.

nobody noticed.

well, that's what you told yourself.

you met the boynextdoor members during a special year-end stage collab, and needless to say you've been close since. there was woonhak made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, or even jaehyun who dragged you into chaotic tiktok challenges you definitely didnt want to take part in.

but then there was leehan.

he didn't say much at first. but you could always feel his eyes on you.

you sat in the corner of the practice room, cooling down after a tough practice session, tongue poking out of your mouth in concentration as you scribbled away in your notebook.

you were so engrossed in drawing you hadn't even noticed someone was standing over you until they spoke.

"nice whale."

you almost screamed.

"oh my GOD, leehan you scared me." you put a hand over your chest. you breathed out a large breath before continuing. "thank you, it was just a little doodle." you smiled before putting your book to the side.

he sat down next to you, examining the drawing. "you draw often?" he asked, flipping through the pages.

"mhm, sometimes. it helps me think." he just nodded in response, stopping back to your recent drawing. "i think i've seen this species before." he started.

you froze, looking up at him with wide eyes. "huh?"

"the whale. it's dorsal fin, it's head shape. it's pretty easy to tell that its a sei whale." he pointed as he names the characteristics.

you stared at him. you knew he liked fish, but wow.

he gave his signature grin, "i have a knack for this stuff."

you blinked. "well, you're right, it is a sei whale."

he smirked. "lucky guess."

but you knew it wasn't luck at all.

he was reading you like an open book.

days passed by, and it was like he was in a true crime documentary, collecting evidence like his life depended on it.

when he dropped by your dorms to pick something up, he spotted the plethora of sea life books on your bookshelf. he noticed your necklace, the small seashell shaped pendant catching his eye. or even the way your eyes lingered on his fish themed phone case.

the two of you were left in the break room. the rest of the members left to do god knows what. you were doodling in your fish themed sketchbook again, as leehan kept his gaze fixed on you.

you looked up at him.

"are you trying to figure me out?" you chuckled softly.

"a little."

"so, whats your verdict?" you closed your book and sat forward.

"i think you care about a lot of things most people overlook,"

you swallow and look away, you couldn't bare to look at him in the eyes. it's like the room got smaller.

"and i think that's beautiful." he finished. you mustered up the courage to speak. "thank you.." you said, cheeks burning.

he just gave a knowing smile and said nothing else.

the next day, you walked into your break room, your eyes landing on the familiar fish cover of your book. but this time, there was a yellow sticky note on it.

"your whale drawing the other day was really good. ps; i named him seihan." - L

you laughed, startling the staff members who were working on stuff around the room, but you could care less.

leehan found a part of you you thought nobody would see. he didn't just accept it. he liked it.

he liked you.

your staff mentioned something about someone leaving a gift for you in your break room. again.

you didn't need a degree to know it was leehan.

you opened up the small pale blue box. inside a seashell, delicate and smooth with soft blue and pink lines, and a note.

"for when you can't hear the ocean, hold this to your ear. i hope it helps you feel as close to home as it does for me." - L

you bite your lip.

maybe the tide has fully come in

and you might be ready to let it.

perm taglist; @sh0dor1

[rogue-durin-16]

I wanted to request more of the artsy headcannons with guys like Liebgott, Nixon, and Winters, maybe (others if you'd like). I loved the other ones!!

A/N: Got requests for this a while ago, but last time a actually sat down to sketch something, it was 2022 I think? So I was a little rusty BUT here they are. To this ask I added Bill (per @msmercury84's request) and Doc Roe (by @jetjuliette's request). Enjoy these delayed headcanons part 2 <3

Warnings: none

JOSEPH LIEBGOTT

This man can't stay still. You're too focused on fixing up the sketch to notice he's no longer there.

One second he's somewhere across from you talking to Ramirez, the other he's standing right behind you, leaning in with arms akimbo.

"Would you look at that."

That nearly puts you under cardiac arrest because how did he move so fast.

Joe zeroes in on the scribbling around the drawing. You're not sure if it's because he finds it funnier or because he doesn't know what to do with the fact that you were drawing him.

"Likes to fumble with grenades. Who the fuck needs a warning?". Everyone. Literally everyone needs a warning. You just sigh.

His index finger lands on the isolated word. Liebling. "Who taught you that?"

Maybe Web. Maybe you read it somewhere. Maybe Joe said it at some point. Either way you give him a vague answer.

Of course he teases.

Of course he pries the sketchbook away from your hands to check if you wrote something like that beside any of the other boy's sketches.

Of course he gets a shit eating grin when he confirms he's the only one.

RICHARD WINTERS

One would think Dick Winters never snoop.

One would think wrong because we're talking about the same man who pulled the "I'm not a quaker". He does snoop, he's just sneakier than the rest.

Which is why he knows you're sketching him right away. He's pretending he doesn't know, though. Maybe he's waiting for you to tell him.

He is however, sneaking glances at you. Expectant? Amused? Curious? Who knows.

He's looking too much and you finally ask what's up.

"What are you drawing?". You give him a look. A 'oh, shut up' look, because he's not as subtle as he wants to be.

Still, because he's not annoying like Luz or Lieb, you do show him.

He lets out one breathy chuckle. Just one. And you bet your life he's reading 'prettiest eyes'.

He sneaks a side glance at you, a little smile. He will not tease you but he's keeping that piece of information with him.

Definitely finds the notes amusing. Doesn't have much of a reaction, but he does say "it's really good."

On God you keep that compliment to your heart.

As close as he keeps the mental image of the sketch to his.

LEWIS NIXON

"do my eyebrows look like that?"

Absolute jumpscare. Where the hell did he come from.

Kind of worried his eyebrows do look like that. He probably frowns at the scribbling because "I'm not a walking encyclopedia."

Oh but he is when he's around you, isn't he?

He double checks the sketch.

He doesn't bring up the 'smartest officer' part, but he does give you a puzzled look. "Huh."

Walks away and walks back at least twice.

Probably finds himself a bit at loss of words, which is kind of a once in a lifetime event. And it was because of a little sketch?

He's glad no one's around to see him fumbling.

He most likely ends up going with "I don't look that good."

Because you can't turn down an opportunity to fuck with him, you say "oh, you do."

"you're something else." He says, because he really can't think of anything else that won't make him look absolutely stupid.

Maybe he asks you to show him the rest of the sketches just to move on from the topic.

The topic being you thinking he looks that good.

BILL GUARNERE

A loud 'HA!' makes you jump and the sketch nearly gets ruined.

"Look at this, Babe! Picasso here drew me!"

Toye says something about how Bill's too ugly for you to actually draw him. You do not agree, actually.

"Well the dame wrote here I'm a... Charmer, alright? What sweetheart, am I charming ya?"

Smug asshole. He is a charmer, isn't he?

Makes a show out of every detail and every scribble aloud like it's the most hilarious and fascinating thing in the world.

An argument breaks out about whether or not he actually has the most creative comebacks. He does.

Cracks up at the nickname part. Like, genuinely loses his shit because, hell, he does have the funniest nickname.

For sure at some point he states he "ain't that handsome" as a joke. Although there's some truth to it.

Maybe he really doesn't think he looks like that and he wonders if you see him like that.

His chest swells at the possibility of it. He doesn't say it out loud.

He does invite you to a drink later though.

EUGENE ROE

This can go one of two ways.

Either he sees it on accident or someone else lets him know you're sketching him.

It's probably the second way, since Gene spends half the time focused on other people and the other half dissociating.

Maybe Babe insistently tells him he has to see something.

Immediately disappointed but not surprised when Babe takes the sketchbook off your hands and waves it at him.

Gene 100% looks at you to silently check if he can see what Babe's showing him. Honestly, you don't care that much because it's Eugene.

Cue quiet astonishment. I'm talking cigarette hanging from his parted lips kind of astonishment.

He doesn't know how to react, so his eyes just go from the sketch to you and back to the sketch.

Needless to say he doesn't quite believe the things you wrote.

'Angel on Earth'? Definitely not. 'Too good for this shit'? Doesn't believe it for a second. The only thing that might be true is the fact that he's the only Doc you'll trust but that just makes him anxious.

He's taken aback by the fact that someone actually thinks those things about him.

He just gives you a small smile and tells you it's really pretty. You consider it a win because he rarely cracks a smile anymore.

·★· ·★· ·★· ·★· ·★· ·★· ·★· ·★· ·★· ·★· ·★·

Tags:

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

[prettycalla]

|| careful impulse ||

Pairing: Michael/Reader

Summary: You haven't been taking care of yourself, forcing Michael to do something about it.

Word count: 2.4k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, smut (not super explicit, but it's still obvious), Michael is a sweetheart (even if he is a little mean about it), smoking mention, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(For @glassbxttless - I hope this is okay! Also I swear I'm not turning into a Michael account. I have a 4k Geta fic that I'm in the process of editing and I'm working on a Caracalla one too!)

Michael Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

You’ve been hunched over your sketchbook for the better part of the day now. You haven’t moved, haven’t eaten, nothing. Your designs are due in by Monday, leaving you with barely over a day to finish.

You're on the verge of tears. Hours and hours of work you've put into this, and you just can't. Get. It. Right.

“You can’t sit like that all day,” Michael says, watching you from across the room.

He’s leaning in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.

You don’t answer him, instead furiously erasing the same line for the fifth time.

“Are you even listening to me?” he asks irritably.

You let out a frustrated breath through your nose, but say nothing. You have to finish this.

Michael tuts in annoyance, crossing the room to stand in front of you.

“When was the last time you ate something?” he asks, looming over you.

“It’s not finished,” you say through clenched teeth.

“I don’t care. When was the last time you ate?” he asks again, pressing.

You shrug one shoulder, still scribbling.

Michael reaches down and takes the pencil out of your hand, tossing it across the room. You glare up at him, furious.

“I’m trying to work,” you snap at him.

“Yeah, well, you’re not getting anywhere, are you?” he replies. “You’ve been on that same bit for an hour.”

“Just because you have nothing to do-“ you start to say, but he interrupts you.

“This has nothing to do with me,” he shoots back. “You. Need to stop.”

“I can’t, I’m not finished,” you tell him with a frustrated sniffle.

You’re not about to start crying over this. You’re not.

Michael crouches down in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. His touch is warm against your skin. You want to lean into it so badly, but you have to finish.

“Hey. Look at me,” he says softly, pressing his fingers under your chin to tilt your head up.

Reluctantly, you meet his gaze. He doesn’t look happy with you, but his eyes are soft. He’s worried.

“You’ve gotta eat. You’ve been at this all day.”

You open your mouth to argue and he presses his finger against your lips.

“Don’t,” he says, warning, “I don’t wanna hear it. I know how important this is to you, but it’s not gonna get finished if you collapse. You come first."

He taps the sketchbook.

"Not this.”

Then your shoulder.

“You.”

Your gaze drifts down to the sketchbook again.

“Oi,” he says, pulling your attention back. “Are you listening to me?”

“Go away, Michael,” you say with a huff.

You try to get up to find your pencil, but he’s too quick for you. He lifts you up and slings you over his shoulder. You yelp, slapping at his back with one hand while desperately trying to keep hold of your sketchbook with the other.

“Michael!” you shriek. “Put me down!”

“Not until you eat something,” he says calmly, as if you’re not currently trying to knock the wind out of him.

As if you both haven’t done this exact same song and dance before.

He carries you into the kitchen, dropping you unceremoniously into a chair at the kitchen table. While you’re distracted, he slips the sketchbook out of your hands, putting it on top of the fridge. He pulls out his own chair, making sure it’s right in your way, before he sits down heavily.

Your gaze immediately drops underneath the table. If you could climb under the legs and scramble out the other side…

“Go on,” he says, knowing exactly what you’re thinking. “I dare you.”

You’re stubborn and he knows it as well as you, but he’s just as bad. This won’t end well if you keep pushing. Neither of you know how to back down.

Your eyes drift to the plate in front of you. Two boiled eggs sit haphazardly in cups. The little rainbow ones he’d pointed out to you at a charity shop that you immediately fell in love with. A small stack of toast sits next to them.

Michael pushes the butter across the table, knife already jammed into it.

“I know you like to cut your own soldiers, so I left the toast as is,” he says.

“You cut them too big,” you reply, taking the knife and spreading butter across the top slice.

Michael laughs. “Right, like yours are any better. Skinny little things. Starvin’ soldiers is what yours are,” he teases.

Out of nothing but pettiness, you cut the slice of toast up as thin as possible.

Michael scrubs a hand over his face.

“You’re worse than a kid,” he grumbles, but you can hear the affection in his voice.

You lift the teaspoon sitting on the plate, tapping the tops of the eggs until they crack and give away. Yolk oozes out across the chipped shells, little yellow trails slowly dripping down.

“Thanks,” you mumble as you dip your too thin soldiers into one of the eggs.

“Sorry? What was that?” Michael asks, theatrically placing a hand to his ear. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

You stick your tongue out at him.

“You heard me,” you reply. “Thanks. Y’know, for…this. For looking after me.”

“Somebody has to,” he says. “Look, I know this project is important to you, and you’ve got a deadline and all, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

You don’t say anything, instead fussing with the egg, pushing the toast a little too hard into the yolk.

“I just don’t like seeing you suffer like that,” he admits softly. “You’re good at what you do. You really are. You just need a break every so often.”

Michael tentatively reaches across the table, and you stop making a mess of your food, moving your hand closer to his. His thumb strokes gently across your fingers.

“Take more breaks and I’ll stop throwing you about like that, promise,” he says jokingly.

“Maybe I like when you throw me about,” you reply with a grin.

Michael’s eyes narrow. You laugh, squeezing his hand a little too tight before turning back to your food.

“Chancer,” he says fondly.

He gestures to your plate.

“Eat up, will you? I worked hard on that.”

Knowing Michael’s cooking skills, you don’t doubt it. You both finish your food in silence, but it’s a comfortable one that’s settled over the room.

For the most part. You keep stealing glances at the top of the fridge.

“Oi,” Michael calls, waving his hand in front of you. “Leave it.”

You kick him under the table, not hard, but enough. Without a thought, he kicks you back.

“Don’t start,” he says, “You know it won’t end well.”

“For you, maybe,” you shoot back with a mischievous smile.

“Nah, I’m not falling for that. I’m trying to be the adult here,” he replies.

He stands up, dropping the cutlery onto the plates with a clatter as he stacks them for the sink.

“Go get the duvet and go back into the living room," he tells you. "I’ll be in in a minute, alright?”

You do as he says, dragging the blanket from your bed and taking it into the living room. Michael’s sitting at one end of the settee, his tobacco tin balanced on one thigh as he rolls a cigarette. He looks up as you come in, licking the paper and pressing it closed.

"You're not smoking that in here," you tell him as you flop down next to him.

He pulls a face at you as he pushes a cardboard filter into one end of the cigarette, placing it behind his ear.

"Wasn't planning on it," he replies. "It's for later. Gonna need it."

You frown. "What do you mean?" you ask.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he says dismissively as he shakes his head.

He tidies up the tin, placing it on the coffee table before sitting back.

“C'mere,” he says, patting the space between his legs.

You slide over, letting him pulling you into his arms. He drags the blanket over you both, making a fuss out of tucking you in until you start laughing.

"You feeling any better, darlin'?" he murmurs into your hair, pressing a little kiss to the top of your head.

You let out a sigh. "Yeah," you reply. "Thanks."

"S'alright," he says, and you feel him shrug.

You turn your head as best you can to look at him.

"No, I mean it," you insist. "You were right. I did need a break."

His eyes widen dramatically. "Did you just say I was right?" he asks with a grin. "Christ, is it my birthday?"

You slap at him lightly. "Yes, you were right. Happy now?"

He pulls you tighter against him, enveloping you in his arm. He smells like faded washing powder and the aftershave he always gets from the chemist's. Familiar. Safe. Like home.

"Could be happier, if I'm honest," he replies quietly.

You pull a face. "Why? What's wrong?" you ask.

"Well..." he says, dragging the word out.

His hands move under the blanket, one stopping at your hip, the other toying with the waistband of your pyjama shorts.

"I mean, I thought you were relaxed, but your shoulders are still up to your ears for one," he says, voice low against your ear.

The hand on your hip reaches up to playfully grab your chin.

"And you're clenching your jaw for another. I can hear it, y'know," he continues, hand dropping back again.

You can feel a blush creeping into your cheeks at his words.

"I don't know what you're on about," you say, annoyed at how shaky your voice sounds.

"Come off it," he murmurs, sliding a finger under the waistband and letting it gently snap back against your skin.

You jolt in his arms, and you hear him smile. You huff, smacking his hand.

"Come on, darlin', don't be like that," he says. "Just tell me to stop, and we'll say no more about it."

That's the problem. You don't want to tell him to stop. And you know he knows that.

"I'd feel bad," you say, pretending you don't care, "Since you seem so desperate for it and all."

Michael laughs in disbelief. "Oh no, no, I'm not the one desperate for it."

You're all set to keep arguing with him when he slips his hand under the waistband and past your underwear. You let out a sharp gasp, your nails clawing at his forearm.

"Michael-" you splutter.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in your ear. "Go on."

His fingers press closer to you, sliding up, up-

You just about manage to hold in the squeal that threatens to erupt from you as he finds the most sensitive part of you.

"One little word," he insists, knowing full well what he's doing to you. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

He sounds so smug and patronising, and any other time, you'd have no trouble telling him to fuck off, but right now, you're struggling. He doesn't let up, gradually picking up the pace against you until you're squirming in his arms.

"I'm waiting," he sing-songs, his other hand gripping your hip.

You lightly knock your head back against his chest, in the hopes that it'll shut him up. It doesn't.

"You're so cute like this, you know that?" he says with a breathy laugh.

You don't know what's worse - the fact that he's laughing at you, or that you find it so fucking hot. You can't think straight, his touch is scorching against your skin, he's going to drive you mad-

"If you stop," you manage to say, your voice little more than a whine. "I'll kill you."

He laughs again. "I don't think you're in any position to do anything to me, sweetheart," he replies. "But don't worry, I wouldn't dream of it."

You couldn't answer him even if you wanted to, barely capable of anything more than gasping moans as you are right now. You're so wound up, mind blank, so overwhelmed by how he's making you feel. You're vaguely aware of Michael grinding his hips against you, and fuck-

"Michael-" you manage to grit out.

He knows that tone. Knows exactly what it means.

He quickens his pace against you, not letting up for a second, and you're close, so close-

"That's it, darlin', cum for me," he whispers, nipping at your earlobe.

His touch, his voice, it's all too much all at once, and you're falling apart in his arms, a shuddering breath pushed from your chest. Your back arches and he holds you tight against him, his fingers still tracing soft little circles against as you all but collapse against him.

You rub a hand over your face, pushing loose strands of your hair out of the way.

"Fuck," you breathe, still trembling with little aftershocks.

Michael presses a kiss to your cheek.

"Feel better now?" he asks, lips still against your skin.

You manage a nod, and he squeezes you gently, holding you close to him as your breathing eventually returns to normal.

"Do you need to...?" you ask, trailing off as you turn to look at him.

Michael shakes his head, a little too quickly. "Nah, no point," he replies, and he sounds embarrassed.

"What do you-"

Then it hits you.

"Oh," is all you can manage to say.

You'll definitely be filing that thought away for future use.

Michael loosens his grip on you, rooting around in his back pocket. He manages to pull out a lighter as he takes the cigarette from behind his ear.

"Told you I was gonna need it," he says, putting it between his lips.

"Michael, don't you dare," you scold, trying to reach around to take it from him.

You manage to slap the lighter out of his hand. He just laughs, pushing you forward gently and climbing out from behind you to retrieve it. Without him there to hold you up anymore, you slump back into the settee cushions, utterly exhausted.

"Hey," he calls from the doorway.

You raise your head slightly.

"Love you," he says with a soft smile.

You can't help the rush of warmth that runs through you. No matter how many times you hear him say it, you can't quite seem to get used to it. You're about to say it back when he tries to light his cigarette again. You grab a cushion from behind your head and toss it at him.

"Out!" you shout at him.

He just laughs as he heads for the front door.

You lay there for a few moments, letting yourself enjoy the peace and quiet.

Michael might be a menace at the best of times, but God, you're grateful to have him.

[dragon-kazansky]

Bridgerton shade of blue

Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader

Benedict bumps into you, quite literally, at a ball while trying to escape his mother's attempts to find him a partner. You decide to humour him with a dance, not realising just how entwined you would become with him. It seems the universe will find every excuse to push you and Benedict together, no matter how much you fight it.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Season one

Chapter Eight - Sparkling diamond

♡♡♡

Benedict joined his sister, Eloise, out in the garden again long after the other had gone to bed. She was smoking on the swing like last time.

As Benedict takes a seat on the opposite swing, she passes him the cigarette. He takes it.

"I found bits of your sketchbook in the fireplace," Eloise says.

"Are you spying on me now?"

"You'd actually have to be interesting for me to bother spying on you," she chuckles.

"The drawings in that sketchbook were abominable," he says firmly. "I could not stand to look at them."

"I believe that is why they call it a sketchbook." Eloise looks at them. "I write in my diary, which is not the same as wiring in my novel."

Benedict chuckles.

"It must be very difficult to want something and not be able to get it."

"Eloise..."

"If you enjoy drawing but need practise, then practise," she goes on. "Hire a drawing master. Find a young lady to act impressed."

You cross his mind. However, he doesn't want you to act impressed. He wants you to be impressed by his work. Genuinely so.

"If you desire the sun and the moon, all you have to do is go out and shoot at the sky. Some of us cannot.

"Look no further than Lady Whistledown. She possesses a huge talent for writing, and yet she must hide away and publish under a false name."

"Yes, because if anyone knew who Whistledown truly was, she'd be strung up for what she said," Benedict states.

"That is not my point. Whistledown is a woman, therefore she has nothing, and still she writes. You're a man, therefore you have everything. You are able to do whatever you want. So do it. Be bold."

Eloise envies her brothers.

"At least that way I can live vicariously through you." She rises to leave.

"Eloise... are you Lady Whistledown?" Benedict asks.

Eloise laughs.

"You're an accomplished writer, always scribbling in that diary of yours. You certainly know everyone else's business. You have more opinions than anyone else I know in London. You would have my full support and admiration either way, sister."

Elosie laughs again.

"So... is it you?"

"No." She looks at him. "Though if it were... do you honestly think that I'd admit it?"

Elosie heads back inside.

Benedict is left with his thoughts.

♡♡♡

The ballroom was elegantly designed. Soft shades to light up the room. You find yourself without a dance partner, however.

Prince Friedrich was in the middle of a dance with Cressida Cowper.

The duke was standing sternly off to the side with Lady Danbury. They appeared to be talking quietly, though judging by the stern faces, it was not a pleasant conversation.

You find yourself gently, and you admire the room. Benedict wasn't here. You couldn't see him at all.

That is not to say you had gone unnoticed. You glance to your left and find a perfectly suitable gentleman looking your way. You smile softly and turn your gaze away.

Tactics of flirtation were not completely out of your power.

Before anyone could make a move, however, the doors at the top of the stairs opened. It wasn't so much the doors that caught everyones attention, more like who had come through them.

You swear you all breath left you when your eyes landed on Daphne coming down the stairs with her mother. She was wearing the most beautiful silver gown you had ever seen, and her hair was beautifully done. She looked like, well, a princess.

In her hand was a feather fan. It went beautifully with her attire. She began to descend the stairs.

All eyes were on her.

Prince Friedrich was at the bottom of the stairs. Not once did he look away. You watch with interest as Daphne gets closer, closer, and closer to him.

The prince leaves Cressida's side to meet Daphne at the bottom stair.

The duke does not move.

Daphne stops.

"Miss Bridgerton, I simply musylt have your first dance." He speaks to her softly.

"It would be an honour, your highness." She curtsies.

A moment passes between them, and then you watch as Daphne drops her fan. Just like that, the prince kneels down to pick it up.

The prince kneeled.

You don't even realise the soft gasp you let out as you watch.

Prince Friedrich offers her the fan, and she takes it. She smiles at him and then gives the fun to her mother as she takes the prince hand.

They dance.

The duke leaves. Though he turns back to look at Daphne before he goes.

In the words of Lady Whistledown, why settle for a duke when one can have a prince?

♡♡♡

The invitation to attend the boxing match came from Anthony Bridgerton. You were rather pleasantly surprised by his invitation.

Anthony apparently needed some help to keep his mother quiet about finding a wife for himself.

You laughed.

You follow the siblings until they reach the prince. He approaches Daphne, but greets you, also. You curtsy.

Anthony then offers you his arm. "Shall we?"

You chuckle and take it, allowing him to lead you over to some seats. As you settle, you turn to the eldest Bridgerton.

"Where are you brothers?" You ask.

"My brothers? Currently talking to one of the fighters." He gestures to the edge of the ring where you spot Colin and Benedict.

You don't even notice you're smiling.

"You and my brother seem to have grown rather close." Anthony points out, looking at you.

"I can assure you there is nothing untoward. Your brother is my friend, as are you all now." You smile at him.

Anthony chuckles.

"Benedict seems to have a lot on his mind at the moment. I am not one to get in the way of someone's business."

"Smart woman," Anthony chuckles.

You nudge his arm lightly and wait for the fight to begin.

As the match is announced to begin, the other brothers find their way to you and Anthony. Benedict looks rather surprised to see you. "I had no idea you were attending."

"Your brother invited me to keep your mother off his back. It seems that is all I'm good for." You chuckle.

"No true, but appreciated none the less," Benedict comments.

You smile, and he takes the empty seat beside you. It does not go unnoticed that you keep your arm looped with Anthony's. He doesn't comment on it.

The fight is intense. You gasp with every hard punch. The men around you cheer on their victor.

You had never witnessed such a match before, and you would be lying if you said you were not somewhat into it.

As the crowd stands, you stand with them and cheer along with the Bridgerton brothers. William Mondrich was their friend, and he was putting up hell of a good fight.

Benedict finds it amusing how excited you seem to be.

Mondrich wins!

You cheer along with the brothers. You laugh at the excitement. It was a thrilling match, indeed.

Anthony helps you down from your seat and speaks close to your ear so you can hear him. "We're off to collect our winnings. I shall see to it you get home right after."

You nod and thank him. As he leaves to fetch his earrings, Benedict turns to you.

"Did you enjoy that?"

You chuckle. "I did. Surprisingly."

"I must say, I did not expect to see you in attendance."

"I am full of surprises."

Benedict looks at you quietly for a moment. "Yes. You are."

You smile and look away. However, his gaze lingers on you for a bit.

Later, the Bridgertons see to it that you get home safely before they head off to the club. A place for the gentlemen only.

Anthony helps you up into the carriage and thanks you for humouring him today. Yo return the gesture and wave as the carriage leaves.

Colin has to nudge Benedict out of his thoughts.

♡♡♡

@callmemana - @lilscast - @imgondeletedis - @benedictbridgertonss - @clownsdiehard - @wxnterwidow333

@sillynilly27 - @autumn-slaves - @ben-has-arrived - @ajdelilah - @aadu2173

@booknerdlife - @tamlinrose - @sarahskywalker-amidala - @cheryyluv - @louschan - @lou-la-lou - @cultish-corner

@hopshusushi - @katherinejess - @nannabug - @afunkyfreshblog - @f0x33 - @dd122004dd -

@jupitervenusearthmars - @orchiidflwer - @bespinnn - @captainlunaxmen - @winchestersimpalababy - @acupnoodle

@ms-fandomgirl - @fablesrose - @anyaisinyourcloset - @meowzerzstuff -

[drewdoa]

─────────⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺─────────

── .✦ # 𝒚𝒐𝒖 • part 1 ; viktor

── .✦ a/n: hey!! so i decided to mix two of my favorite shows together!!! it’s definitely different from what i would usually write but i think it’s such a cool mix and the thought of viktor being obsessive is like rotting in my brain..i hope you enjoy this and tell me if i should make more!!

── .✦ extra info: no gender mention, obsessive behavior, harmless stalking, might be a bit inaccurate to their canon characters

{ inspiration taken from the show “you” on netflix ! }

viktor has always been the type to stay kept to himself. he doesn’t bother anyone or talk to many people besides jayce and you. rotting away in his lab at almost every opportunity presented.

..almost. he’s got a small hobby he tends to every so often, he doesn’t like to talk about it much since it’s a way for him to “de stress”. you’ve noticed lately he carries a what looks like a sketchbook that’s filled to the pages ends with things he’s been doing. pictures, and stickers and pen scribbled all inside, what else could he be doing? scrapbooking you thought!

one lazy morning though, around the crack of dawn basically, viktor was caught up in that book. going through page after page, admiring his past works. they all look similar. about the same..person?

you watch him carefully from a distance, in the hallway where his lab leads. what is so important about that book? why can’t jayce know about it? why can’t i know about it? are you hiding something crazy from me? do you feel like id judge you? all of these things race through your mind, though you reassure yourself with the fact it could just be something personal and you must respect that.

what are you so infatuated with. finally it’s about time you try and mention it, to test the waters if you will.

⌗˳⳿⤏ “viktor?” your mouth spits out, a bit of a distance between you two.

he’s caught just a bit off guard by your voice, he then relaxes just enough to give you a proper response.

“yes?” his body then turns to you, his chair fitting his body perfectly as he comfortably leans his arm on the armrest.

“i just wanted to check on you since you’ve been here for..a little while again” you take a pause before glancing at his prized possession before back at his face.

“i’ve been caught up with studies and working, im sorry i didn’t warn you beforehand. but you should be here too you know.”

“i’ve noticed you’re a fan of journalism too hm? a little expected though” you say as you step a little closer to him.

“…it’s been something i do on the side, i didn’t think you knew about journaling. you do most of that with jayce and his phone with a drink in your hand”

you freeze at his slick ass comment. as much as you wanna flick him in the forehead for it, you can’t, cause he’s right. you and jayce have been drinking quite a lot lately instead of focusing on the projects in which viktor has done most of your work.

“if i had the right to beat your ass i would’ve.” you reply while folding your arms. you take another glance at viktor’s book and there’s a familiar face in there. it looks hand drawn, a little accurate to..

“if you don’t mind, i’ve got work to finish, some that you should be helping with but there’s no point now..come back later. and bring my “partner”, i’ve got a lot of work for him.” his tall lanky figure rises from the chair as he grabs his cane, walking to the doorway and taking you with him.

“maybe one night i could show you what ive been doing..i think you’d enjoy the cage.”

✮⋆˙ hello!! i hope you liked this post :)) i was planning on making this like my own little series!! do let me know if you’d like a second part or any other requests (my asks are open <3) :D -drew

[lovers-rck]

bubble gum

summary ellie hids something in her notebook

content friends to lovers, ellie williams x fem!reader

☆

"do you want to see that movie that i told you about?"

you make a face, looking at the weird pink thing on the ceiling "is that gum?"

ellie follow your gaze and cringe "i don't know what you are talking about"

"that, on your ceiling"

"there's nothing in the ceiling" she says, avoiding your gaze and playing with her pen.

"yeah there is!" you replie "look there"

"maybe you are high"

"what? that makes zero... whatever"

ellie's face displays a victorious smile as she keeps drawing in her sketchbook "so... you want to see that movie? jesse told me that was super scary"

you were laying down in ellie's bed, outside was raining. you kept looking at the gum in the ceiling as you scrunched your nose "i don't know. im not in the mood for a scary movie"

ellie rolled her eyes. she had already seen the movie, but maybe if she pretended not to have seen it before to watch it with you maybe, just maybe, you would snuggle up to her in the scary parts. or whatever.

"pussy" she murmurs. her pencil traces long sketches on the rough paper

"you are so annoying" you say as you sit in the bed, finger brushing your hair "what are you drawing?"

ellie shakes her head "nothing" she is sitting at the head of the bed, with her back against the wall. some thread of hair are resting in her face, tickling her skin, and you have the urge to put those annoying locks behind her ear.

but you don't.

"let me see" you say

you crawl between the sheets, sitting across from ellie, who is holding the sketchbook strangely tightly.

"it's just doodles"

"okay" you replie "i want to see them"

"is shit"

"all your work is shit to you" you rolled your eyes "i never get to see your drawings"

"you are so noisy, has anyone ever told you that?" ellie says

you stick out your tongue playfully and when ellie laughs you grab her sketchbook quickly. ellie is quick too and lunges at you, your body getting pinned between the mattress and ellie's body.

you two become a jumble of wrestling arms and hands "give it back" ellie yells, half laughing half angry "no!" you scream, holding the sketchbook above your head "bitch!" you yell when ellie bites your shoulder

you hear ellie's laugh and take that opportunity to open the sketchbook above her head, where she can't reach in that position.

you always wanted to see what ellie did in that notebook, always curled up in the pages sketching something. you noticed how she always carried a pen and that notebook everywhere she goes, drawing something time to time.

so your surprise is genuine when you go through the pages and find various drawings of you.

you laughing with jesse. you with some dogs. you and that stupid frog stuffed animal she gave you. you smiling. and the most recent sketch, half way finished; you laying down in her bed, just like you were a couple minutes ago.

the drawings are beautiful, quickly but really good studies of you. if you squint your eyes a bit, you can see where she erased some lines to redraw them more accurately.

you flinch when ellie's hand interrupt your surprise by grabbing and closing the notebook. she moves away from you and you sit down.

ellie is sitting a couple inches away from you, avoiding your gaze and hugging that sketchbook like a kid hugging her favorite toy.

your lack of words was not exactly due to the drawings. you knew that this was normal and that ellie used to draw people she knew, you were in moments where she decided to walk away and draw the moment, immortalizing it on paper.

your lack of words was due to what the scribbles and words around the drawings meant. little hearts, short confessions of love and silly doodles were the things your eyes could decipher in the short seconds you held the notebook in your hands.

"ellie"

"i told you that they were stupid drawings" she replied, her voice tinged with rage and shame.

she felt idiot. too idiot to fall in love with her friend . too dumb to draw her friend when she was distracted, trying to capture every tiny detail that make you special with a stupid pen in a stupid notebook. too idiot to think about you in that way.

"they are not" you murmur

"yes they are" she feels so ashamed "i should throw this thing to the trash can"

you feel how angry and ashamed she is and your mind just can think of the dumbest or smartest response that has ever you occurred.

so you kiss her.

you fingertips feel the soft skin of her cheeks as you press your lips against hers. you don't move, too afraid to do something, so for a couple of seconds your lips just stay there, warming eachothers flesh.

when you feel that you had made the stupidest decision ever you move away, panicking and mumbling sorry's. your hands leaves ellie's cheeks, to embarrassed to even look at her.

"im sorry" you murmur "im sorry ellie. i don't know who gave me the right to do that. im sorry" you look at the door of her room "maybe i should go. sorry"

but before you can go, ellie kisses you back. her grip is more stronger that yours, her hand resting in the back of your head, moving you against her.

she moves her lips this time. her mouth moves against yours, deepening the kiss quickly. hungry.

she pushes you closer to her, moving you in a way that you end up in her lap, with your hands in her neck, kissing her like your life depends on it.

you can feel the same response from her. her hands are everywhere, squeezing and touching and caressing every part of your body as fast as she can, too excited to keep her hands in one place.

a few moments later you move away from your mouth, searching for air. she looks at you.

everything is very awkward for a couple of seconds before you two start laughing.

ellie's chest moves as she laughs with embarrassment "god" she mouths

you laugh too "confessing your love for me trough drawings" you say "fucking drama queen"

ellie hide her face with her hands "shut up. im embarrassed"

"as you should"

"idiot" she murmurs, taking her hands off her face "can i kiss you again?"

you roll your eyes.

but you nod.

[feelbokkie]

L♡VE IN F♡CUS | Chapter 22

WARNINGS: swearing, mention of food and eating, depiction of an anxiety attack

PAIRING: idol!Changbin x fem reader

GENRE: smau, crack, angst, fluff

P♡V: 1st/2nd person (depending on how you view it)

SUMMARY: Amateur concert photographer Y/n has recently been promoted to junior music journalist. Her first assignment? An exposé on the popular Kpop boy group, Stray Kids. Spending an entire tour doing in depth interviews with eight men seems simple enough, but one member isn't exactly open to the idea. Will Y/n be able to break down the walls around his heart, or will her big break turn into a big disaster?

TAGLIST: ♡PENED

W♡RD C♡UNT: 2,972

SCREENSH♡T C♡UNT: 21

A/N: I wasn't planning on writing this chapter so soon but on of you sent me a ko-fi and it kinda motivated me to get this chapter done and out.

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©feelbokkie (2024) — all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated.

You flip through the menu for the fifth time trying to figure out what to eat. Hyunjin and Wonseok happily chat along in their own little world about some art movement—you lost the plot of their conversation ages ago when they started about a specific type of paint and technique that you’re not even going to try to pronounce. Changbin sits across from you, absent-mindedly fiddling with his menu and nodding to the ongoing conversation.

“Are we boring you so much that you’re just going through the menu? Again?” Wonseok asks suddenly.

“I don’t know what to eat,” You grumble quietly.

Wonseok reaches over and turns a few pages in your menu. When he finds the page he's looking for he traces the page with his finger until he lands on one of the menu items. "They have fish and chips right here."

"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd take us to an actual restaurant. I can't order fish and chips while the three of you order...whatever you're going to order. It's like if I went to a restaurant back home and just ordered tteok-bokki...or if we were in the States and I got chicken tenders and fries." You gently push Wonseok's hand away from you and roll your eyes.

Wonseok pulls back his hand and brings it to his temples, almost as if he's starting to get a headache. "This is probably the only time I'm going to get to treat professional idols to a meal, I'm not just going to give them street food. Just order what you really want to eat because you're not going to be able to order fish and chips for dinner at the place we're going to. I don't want to hear you complain about not eating what you wanted for the rest of my life."

You huff out a 'fine' as you close your menu and set it to the side. Your eyes land on Changbin who is quietly scribbling something on a piece of paper that seems to have materialized. You quietly shake your head and turn your attention to Hyunjin who is looking between you and Wonseok, thinking hard about something.

"You know, Wonnie, Hyunjin is an amazing artist." You pull up your broken arm from resting on your lap. "He's the one who drew all over my cast. He posts some of his stuff on his Instagram. He's probably even carrying around his sketchbook in that tote bag of his..."

"Ah, noona..." Hyunjin's voice trails off as he scratches the back of his neck. You can't see his ears under his hat but you can almost imagine how red they're getting.

Wonseok takes your broken arm and carefully examines the doodles and drawings on your cast. Most of them are flowers and plants. Occasionally, there are little characters like the BbokAri he drew next to Felix's message and the puppy next to Seungmin's. There's hardly any room left for anyone else to write anything. Before you forbade any of the members from hanging out with you without someone else there, Hyunjin would find his way to you when he was bored and draw on your arm.

"Wow, these are amazing, Hyunjin! Do you mind if I look at your sketchbook?"

Your arm is returned to you as Wonseok and Hyunjin get wrapped up in yet another art-filled conversation. Changbin is still focused on his piece of paper, scribbling away. Part of you wishes you could pull out the small tablet you brought with you so you could work on editing photos on the ride to the gallery. But you know that'll only cause Wonseok to scold you for working when you're not supposed to. If you could offer more thought to Wonseok and Hyunjin's conversation that isn't just regurgitated garbage from your first-year introduction to art history course that you took back in university, then you could easily join in their conversation.

Deciding to bite the bullet, you sit up a bit straighter in your seat and rest your chin in your good hand. "What are you so focused on writing there Changbin?"

There's a moment of silence between the two of you. He pauses writing but you're not sure if he heard you or is thinking of what to write.

"Lyrics," He mumbles so softly that you almost miss it amongst the noise that is Wonseok and Hyunjin chattering loudly beside you.

"Did you get an idea just now?" You perk up in your seat a bit. "Can...can I see? I won't write about it. It's all off the record."

Changbin's head stays low, focusing on writing his lyrics. It's only now that you're reminded of his inability to focus on more than one thing at a time. The fact that he answered you earlier is strange and probably the most he can do.

You watch him silently as he works. You take note of all of the little things you see. Like the way his brows twitch as he tries not to furrow then while he scribbles something out. Or how the fingers on his nondominant hand dance on the table while his head subtly bops along to a rhythm only known to him. Whether he's simultaneously creating a beat in his head while he works or he's remembering a song that one of the other members of 3racha made is another unknown factor that you wish you knew the answer to. You notice the way he mouths out the words he's writing to himself and how quickly he presses his lips together and shakes his head when it appears to not flow correctly. You can only imagine that this is what it was like watching Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel; hypotonic.

You only break out of your trance when your server comes to the table and takes your order, something that neither you nor Changbin noticed until Wonseok and Hyunjin told you. And that's when Changbin finally looked up and caught you staring at him, forcing you to look away as heat rose to your face. Wonseok took advantage of the situation and ordered your food for you before you could change your mind.

After lunch, the four of you decided to walk around London for a bit. When you were working with Han and Seungmin yesterday, you made sure to avoid the more populated and obvious tourist areas, only capturing notable landmarks in the distant background. With more freedom to explore, you all head to the more touristy areas so Hyunjin and Changbin can blend in more seamlessly.

As you walk along the crowded streets, the earlier pain you felt inside the art galley quickly comes back. You're paying less attention to the conversation between Wonseok and Hyunjin and more to your surroundings. Despite the cool day, you feel suffocatingly hot. Almost like something is sucking all of the air out of your lungs.

"...Y/n!"

You snap out of whatever daze you're in at the sound of Wonseok's worried voice. You glance up to meet three concerned faces watching you carefully.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" Your voice is thick is unsteady as you're unable to meet any of their eyes.

"Are you okay? You're walking slowly. I thought we lost you in the crowd for a moment there."

You swallow hard as you try to settle your rapidly beating heart. "I think I ate too much earlier. My stomach hurts."

"You look kind of pale, noona," Hyunjin chimes in. "Maybe we should head back to the hotel?"

You wave Hyunjin off quickly. "N-no, it's okay. I just need a moment."

"I'll go get you some water." Wonseok's voice softens with a gentle tone as he looks around for a shop.

Hyunjin places one hand on Wonseok's shoulder, stopping him from trying to look through the crowd. He pulls his bucket hat off with his other hand, gaining a clear view of the area. "We've been here a few times. I think I know where there's a shop nearby. I'll help you find it, hyung."

"Okay, thank you. Changbin, are you okay watching Y/n?" Wonseok asks the younger man.

Too focused on the unsettling feeling growing through your body, you don't notice that Changbin's already watching you. He's been silently keeping an eye on you since you started to fall behind on your walk. Had Wonseok waited a second longer to notice you, Changbin would have said something to bring their attention to you.

"I got her," He says simply.

With that, Hyunjin tosses something at Changbin and leads Wonseok forward through the crowd. Changbin quietly pulls you off to the side away from the crowd, under the shade of a tree. You mumble out what you hope is a 'thank you,' and focus on Changbin's shoes. They're white sneakers a blue stripe going through them. Subconsciously, you start to count the small holes near the end of the shoe while you place your hand on your chest. You feel your heart beating rather quickly like it's beating a little too hard and might give out at any moment. You apply as much pressure with your hand and take deep, unsteady breaths as you try to calm your heart.

You feel something cover your head, partly obstructing your vision and muffling the outside noise. You look back up at Changbin who is now adjusting Hyunjin's bucket hat that he put on your head.

"Professional idol secret," His words come slowly as he continues to fix the rim around the hat. "A lot of us don't do well in crowds so we wear bucket hats to block out the noise and the view a bit. Fans think we wear them to hide our hair for comebacks, but most of the time it's to protect our sanity."

You swallow dryly, unable to wet your suddenly parched throat. "I go to concerts and fan signs for a living. I do well in crowds."

Changbin crouches down so you can see him under the protection of the bucket hat, a tender smile warms his whole face. It's the first time you've seen him smile since the gallery. "In the past, yeah, but...you have the same expression on your face that you've been getting when we're at the airport lately. You kind of look like Hannie when he's having an anxiety attack."

"I don't have anxiety attacks," You're not sure if you're telling Changbin or reassuring yourself. You can't remember a single moment in your life where you've had an anxiety attack. So why would you start now?

"Okay," Changbin nods before standing up straight again, your view of him is once again obstructed by the hat. He gently takes your hand off of your chest and places it on his own. "At the very least, match my breathing. You sound like you just ran a marathon and I can't help you if you pass out. I don't know cpr."

The two of you stand there for a moment. Changbin's hand is firmly on yours as he keeps it on his chest. You have no choice but to match his breathing by following the steady rising and falling of his chest. You can feel the subtle, yet rapid thuds of his heart beating in his chest despite how calm he is.

Slowly, but surely, your own breathing falls into its own steady rhythm and the strange feeling in your body dissipates. You're not exactly sure how long the two of you stand like that, but eventually you drop your hand from his chest and Changbin let's you.

"Better?"

You slowly nod your head. Most of your discomfort is gone, but you still feel jittery. Almost as if you injected straight caffeine into your bloodstream. "Yeah, I just need to sit down."

Changbin doesn't ask further questions and instead leads you to the small grassy area near the tree and urges you to sit. He joins you on the grass, falling back into silence. Now that you're relatively back to normal, you can't help but avoid looking at Changbin. You're more thankful for the hat now that it can help you avoid his gaze.

The two of you sit there in silence for a few more minutes before Wonseok and Hyunjin find you. Hyunjin is about to question why you're wearing his hat before Changbin stands up and pulls Hyunjin to the side for a moment to talk to him.

Wonseok takes one of the empty spots beside you and rummages through the plastic bag he brought back with you. He pulls out a water bottle and a small metal tin and hands them to you. "I watched a TikTok ages ago and a doctor on there said that mint is supposed to be good for an upset stomach."

"Thank you," You smile tiredly at Wonseok.

Hyunjin and Changbin make their way back to you. Hyunjin takes the other open spot next to you while Changbin sits on the other side of him. They're quiet for a moment while you continue to drink your water and eat the mints that Wonseok bought. Wonseok passes out the other water bottles from his bag to Hyunjin and Changbin.

Surprisingly, Changbin breaks the silence first, asking if the store that Wonseok and Hyunjin went to was crowded. Then the conversation shifted to what everyone planned to do later. Wonseok tells them about your now tentative dinner plans, which leads to an argument. You change the subject to see what the newlywed couple of the group had planned. The conversation shifts again, this time to souvenirs that all of you want to get. Which of course leads to another teasing argument that ends with Wonseok trying to make you spill water on yourself.

"You two are such a cute couple. How long hav--"

You choke on your water as Hyunjin's words catch you off guard and trickle down the wrong pipe. Wonseok has his own visceral reaction, one that you don't see but you can hear the sound of him gagging at the question. Still, Wonseok slaps your back to help you get the water out.

"We--are not--dating." You choke out as you try to regain your composure.

"Y/n is like my little sister," Wonseok adds as he drops his hand back to his side.

Both Hyunjin and Changbin have confused expressions as they watch the two of you. Hyunjin opens and closes his mouth like a fish as he lets out confused babbles. "Sorry, I just thought...you two are...when..."

"Wonseok hyung is older than you but you two talk casually. Plus you're so close." Changbin says finally. Hyunjin shuts his mouth and nods quickly, agreeing with Changbin's reasoning.

"That's because Wonnie is a pathological liar--ouch!" You rub the spot on your leg where Wonseok hit you and glare at him. Although, you're not sure he saw your face through the hat.

"Stop telling people that I'm a pathological liar." You don't have to see to know that he's rolling his eyes. Wonseok shifts a bit and faces Hyunjin and Changbin. "I enlisted right after I graduated high school to get my military service over with. I ended up liking it so much that I stayed for two more years. When I finally enrolled in university, I was so much older than everyone in my classes that I just never mentioned how old I was. I met Y/n our senior year during our internship so I never said anything. She didn't know that I was older until we got our official IDs with our birth year on them."

"And he's so much older," You crack a smile.

"Stop that, I'm only 3 years older than you."

"Whatever," You wave him off as you turn back to the two younger men. "Besides, we're really like family. His parents treat us like siblings."

"Plus I have a girlfriend."

"And he has a girlfri..." Your voice falters in the middle of your sentence as you think about it for a moment. You turn to Wonseok and blink for a moment as you try to process what's happening. "You got a girlfriend? You actually got a woman to talk to you? Romantically? Who is it? Do I know her?"

His lips form a line so tight that the skin around them turns white while he tries to think. You flip part of the bucket hat up so you can see his have better. He's looking down at a blade of grass, contemplating something before he meets your eyes. "Frankie,"

"My Frankie?"

"Well, technically our Frankie but yeah." He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.

"Oh," Your heart rapidly sinks to the bottom of your stomach.

You physically bite your tongue to prevent yourself from asking a million questions. Knowing that your best friends are dating behind your back hurts. Especially when there's an unspoken agreement against keeping secrets. So why did…

"I'm going to throw this all away and then we can explore a bit more." You get up quickly and take everyone's now empty water bottle.

If you stay where you are and continue to let your mind wander any further, you're going to either say something rude to Wonseok or burst into tears. You're happy that your friends found happy relationships. But they kept it from you and the idea of that doesn't feel good in your head or your heart.

"Noona--"

Wonseok puts his arm out, preventing Changbin from going after you. You're out of ear range as you walk quickly to the trashcan. Wonseok turns to both younger men and shares a small smile. "I get it but if you try to comfort Y/n when she's upset, it's going to become a bigger issue. Trust me, she hate when people see her upset or cry. Just let her have a moment and then she'll be okay."

—

Buy me a coffee?

—

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[gamesetattach]

What Do You See

Jannik Sinner x Reader A sports photographer shadows Jannik for a month, and she's a little... unconventional. She's kind of a hard one to figure her out, but Jannik kind of wants to... so he starts observing the observer, and it's a whole thing, and so on...

The first time Jannik Sinner saw you, you didn’t even have a camera.

He had expected you to be snapping photos from the moment you arrived. That’s what sports photographers did, right? Chase action with their lens? But you seemed to be an exception.

Nike had hired you for this new campaign, assuring him you were an up and coming photographer with a singular eye—someone who transformed sports imagery into something more like art. He’d seen some of your past work, you'd covered the Olympics, even some Grand Slams. It was different. Unpredictable. An abstract mix of movement and stillness that made even the most familiar athletes look like something out of a dream.

The Nike representatives had mentioned you had a unique process, that you had different conditions than most other photographers. They hadn't quite said it as a warning, but maybe they should have. Because when they later revealed you'd requested to shadow his routine for nearly a month, and that you wouldn't have signed the contract otherwise, Jannik thought they were messing with him. He wasn't a stranger to the camera, he'd now participated in dozens of shoots and promotions, and all of them combined could have been done well within a month. Still, he agreed, despite being wary of being followed by a camera throughout his regime for weeks on end.

So when you showed up the first day without a camera, just yourself and an overflowing sketchbook, Jannik didn’t know what to make of you.

At first, he kept his distance. You'd both exchanged polite introductions, of course, and you were professional, but clearly withdrawn and bashful. Quiet, but not unfriendly. You answered questions if his team asked, you engaged when prompted, but for the most part you just sat back and watched.

It was an unusual energy to have around—most people in his orbit were either giving instructions or vying for attention. But you stayed in the background, present but separate, observing.

The whole team was intrigued.

Darren was the first to approach you in the early days, in his typical easy-going, perceptive manner. "You sure you're getting what you need?" he checked in one afternoon, standing beside you as Jannik worked through a drill. You glanced up from your sketchbook, surprised, then nodded.

"Oh, yeah. Just watching you guys doing your business as usual is enough. Its part of my process."

Darren watched as you made a few, incomprehensible notes in the margins of your page. "Fair enough," he mused, and nodded to himself to fill the space as he echoed again, "Fair enough."

Simone was a little more reserved but respectful, making sure you had space while still keeping an eye on you. Uli began to inquire about your work and would sprinkle in cheeky anecdotes in between his many, pensive proverbs. And Marco, perhaps the most outgoing of the group, started to just talk at you after a while, trying to gauge what made you tick. Nothing quite kept your attention long enough, though. You always retreated back into your own world of quiet observation.

One evening, after practice, Jannik decided to approach you himself as you sat near the benches, sketchbook in hand. He wiped his face with a towel before slinging it over his shoulder, eyeing the way you stared down at the open pages. He couldn't decipher the glimpse of scribbles and figures he saw on the paper, it looked as though you had written in code. He hesitated for a second before finally speaking.

"What do you see?"

You looked up, caught off guard by the question and any acknowledgement at all. You considered him for a moment before shutting your sketchbook. "I don’t know yet. That’s why I keep watching."

Jannik didn’t reply right away, only nodded, lips pressing together in thought. He didn't know what to expect from you, that fact was increasingly clear the more time you spent around, but he hoped maybe he'd get a less cryptic answer. Maybe something about composition, something about movement. Instead, it seem you were studying something else entirely—something unseen, something felt.

And that only made him more curious.

---

He liked watching you work. So, as you continued to focus on observing him, he started to notice things too.

It was strange, the way he had become so aware of you. The way he caught himself looking to see if you were around before practice started. The way he started anticipating what you’d do—how you always stretched your wrists absentmindedly when deep in thought, how you never spoke when taking a shot but would mumble to yourself after, analyzing. How you had a very particular way of standing when you were focusing, weight shifted just slightly onto one leg, while you forgot most of the world existed.

He saw how, despite being surrounded by the noise of the courts—the sharp pops of rackets hitting balls, the occasional shouts of players or coaches—you never flinched at the loudest moments. Instead, you reacted to the subtle ones. The way a shoe squeaked differently on the hardcourt when Jannik did a sharp pivoted. The way his breath hitched ever so slightly before an important point, how he exhaled between strokes, a steady rhythm he performed unconsciously until he caught you watching him. It was like you were tuned to a different frequency, one that most people overlooked.

And how you always tucked your pen behind your ear when you were thinking. He watched you do it absentmindedly, often mid-conversation, your fingers moving as if by muscle memory. Sometimes he'd catch you reaching for it with your lips parted slightly, brows furrowed just enough to hint at the ideas running through your mind. Other times, you'd flick the pen side to side before placing it back behind you ear with a huff, as if you were frustrated—like maybe something wasn’t coming together quite right in your notes, though he couldn't even begin to guess what you could've been writing.

He once saw you do it after staring at him for a while. You were lost in some internal debate, chewing on the cap, and when you realized he was looking back your way, you flushed and immediately turned your head and pushed some hair out of your face while returning your pen to it's rightful place in one, swift motion. He only smiled to himself before returning to his drill.

Then there was the way you tilted your head slightly before jotting down a note, like you were considering every stroke before committing it to the page. It was slow, deliberate. You’d pause, as if absorbing something, and only then would your pen move. He often caught himself wondering what it was you were writing about, if it was about him, if it was even about tennis at all. But he never asked. He just kept watching, drawn in by the way you worked, by the way you saw things he couldn’t.

He would just watch you sometimes when you got lost in thought, staring—not at the obvious things, but at the details others missed. He caught you gazing at his hands once, studying the way he gripped his racket, thumb grazing the grip as he adjusted between points. Another time, you had been focused on the slight flex in his forearm as he tossed the ball for a serve, as if tracing the movement. And then there were the times you were watching him straight on, only to quickly avert your gaze when he met your eyes, looking embarrassed to have been caught—almost startled that someone was even noticing you at all.

And of course, Jannik's team noticed him noticing you, too.

“Eyes on me,” Marco muttered with a smile one morning while tossing a ball back and forth during warm-ups. Jannik rolled his eyes, but made no move to deny or defend himself.

“I can't help but be curious,” he said, shaking out his arms. “The way she works... its just different.”

Simone, standing off to the side, smirked knowingly. “Yeah, sure. Curiosity. That’s what it is.”

---

It took nearly two weeks before you finally brought your camera out. Even then, you didn’t start shooting. You moved around the practice courts, finding angles, testing light, still watching more than anything. By then, Jannik had gotten used to you being there.

His team had, too.

The first half of your time with them passed quickly, though you remained an unassuming presence. You sat in on every practice, every training session, quietly taking notes or sketching. They were a tight knit group, and you were a foreign entity placed into their natural environment, a disruption in a space that functioned on routine and familiarity. Before you arrived, the team had been hesitant at the proposition of having an observer for so long—no one felt fully comfortable with an outsider lingering too close for too long—but you never felt intrusive. You were just… there.

Eventually, they got used to you. And sometime soon after, they became more and more endeared by your intriguing quiet and your odd methods.

At first they mostly left you to your own devices, letting you observe in silence. It wasn’t unkind, just careful—giving you space to settle in on your own terms. Then slowly, during meals, they'd leave an open seat at the table just in case you wanted to sit in, though no one ever pushed you to join. And when you started to take the bait, things began to open up.

It started with Darren, who had a way of drawing people out without making them feel cornered. One afternoon, the first time you joined as the team sat around a small table during a coffee break, he had casually leaned back in his chair and asked, "So are you always this quiet, or just around us?"

You had looked over at him, surprised to be addressed in the conversation. You shrugged, looking down at your cup. "I mean, I'll talk if I have something to say."

"Smart kid," Darren had smiled, nodding at your answer, "I'm the same way."

And just like that, the conversation started flowing more easily around you, the invisible boundary that had been there before loosening. You even started to talk a little more. Not much, but stark compared to your distance at the beginning.

Once, during a cool-down led by Marco during an especially hot afternoon, Jannik was dripping in sweat from practice and the whole team had been rendered silent by the heat and their exhaustion. You all sat around and waited as Jannik stretched, wet towels around necks, caps drawn low, fanning your faces.

Somewhere in the distance came a loud, disgruntled groan. The cry carried through to the court and the sound bounced around the space, it was incoherent and strained and probably came from a player practicing nearby.

"Couldn't have said it better myself." You quipped dryly once the echo faded.

Everyone turned to look to you before immediately breaking down with laughter at the well-timed comment, humored even further when all you did in response was squint up at them as you took another sip of water. Jannik, still chuckling well past the joke, kept his eyes on you for a while after—half amused, half surprised. It was the first time he felt you revealed anything of yourself, letting on to some of your humor and wit, and something about it made his chest feel a little lighter.

Another time, Simone and Darren were discussing a clip of a match at length. It was maybe a 5 second snippet of the hundreds of hours worth of footage they had watched, and yet they had spent much of the practice off to the side, dissecting the tactical, technical structure of the move in the video. Marco and Uli teased the coaches mercilessly, after they brought it up for the 5th time that day. Even Jannik would throw his hands up and laugh when they would reference it after a hit of his.

At some point, to defend themselves, Darren and Simone insisted on showing the clip, thinking everyone would immediately see reason to their fixation. Jannik was understandably impressed, shrugging in agreement while replaying the expertise demonstrated in the brief rally. Marco and Uli acknowledged the skill, but continued to poke fun. You had been listening quietly, eyes flicking between them as they debated a play that most people wouldn't think twice of.

When they showed the video your way, you figured it was just for the sake of including you. You only shrugged in response, but they prompted you to speak your mind.

Simone played it once more for you. "Come on, what do you think?"

"What do I think?" You had blinked, barely missing a beat before answering, deadpan, "I think you both have too much time on your hands."

Jannik let out a sharp, high laugh at your response, and clapped his hands once in delight, looking over to his coaches for their reaction. Your dry remark even had Simone suppressing a grin in defeat, as Marco hit his shoulder.

Darren only shook his head, but he was smiling, too. "Oh, so now she's got something to say."

The moments were small, and maybe infrequent, but they were always warm. And that did something.

---

One afternoon, after receiving a new wave of kits from Nike, the team was unpacking the packages while bantering with each other. They held up the shirts against themselves, and laughed and bustled with excitement. It was a welcome, novel interruption to the usual practice schedule. And after they finished the lively try on haul and began to pack up the rest of the garments into the boxes, they looked up to discover they were all wearing the same crewneck.

"Hey, we should take a picture, no?" Marco grinned after they shared a laugh, gesturing to the sweater they all wore, "For memory, come on."

They all lined up, arms slung across each others shoulder, and looked to you, the only other person in the room. You had tuned most of the activity out, choosing to compile your notes while they played dress up. You only looked up from your sketchbook after realizing the noise had died down, and found all of the team in a row watching you expectantly.

"Did you need something?" The corners of your mouth twitching as you raised an eyebrow.

"...Can you take a photo of us, or do you not actually do that?" Jannik said, eyes shining with a smile.

And at that, you laughed—like really laughed. It wasn’t just a quiet chuckle or a hum of amusement but something genuine, full. Jannik went still, nearly choking on his breath at the sound, but the rest of the room came alive again at his line and laughed along with you.

"It's true, we've yet to see you take a picture." Marco jumped in, bumping shoulders with Uli.

"Yeah, are we sure you're a photographer." Darren chuckled.

"Just hand me the phone," You shook your head, still laughing to yourself.

They all posed as you lined them up in the frame and counted down from three, taking a burst of photos. Most everyone smiled up at you, but Jannik was still floating in some sort of state.

"Uh? Smile please," You said, poking your head over the phone to look at him, "Jannik?"

"Sorry." He shook his head and managed a smile for the camera, and Darren ruffled his hair.

"He's just thinking about how to get you to laugh like that again." Uli teased, elbowing Jannik a little.

You chuckled in response, brushing it a off as a joke, and handed the phone back over, "Ever the romantic, Uli."

But Jannik was still watching you, and made no comment in response.

You caught him staring and tilted your head, still amused. “What?”

He swallowed, shaking his head quickly. “Nothing.”

Though it was anything but.

The way you were opening up—it wasn’t just amusing, just sweet. It was kind of… well, it was something else to him. For all that he observed of you, he was only just getting to actually know you. And just barely, at that.

It'd taken all this time to even scratch the surface, and soon you'd be gearing up to leave. He wanted to hear you laugh like that again. He wanted to make you laugh like that again.

But he wasn't sure he would have the time to.

---

Towards the end of the month, the team prepared to leave for the next tournament, and it was strange to think how different things had been when you arrived. The team had warmed to you fully, and Jannik had—well, he wasn’t sure what had happened. He only knew that he felt drawn to you in a way he couldn't have predicted. That he found himself looking to you even when your attention was elsewhere. That he wanted to know you better, to really see all of you. That he was going to miss you when this was over.

And he knew the end was beginning when you actually started taking pictures.

The first time Jannik saw you shooting, finally fully in your element, he could only stop and stare. He had grown used to you as the quiet observer, sketchbook in hand, always watching but never intruding into a scene. But with the camera in your hands, you transformed. You commanded the space. You moved differently—fluid, intentional. Every angle, every beam of light, any shift at all, you saw it before it happened. Your weeks of observation manifested in this almost prophetic ability to anticipate anything and everything.

You barely looked away from the lens when you worked, you were always thoughtful, but now it was like you were lost in something else entirely. You crouched low for some shots, or moved quickly when the pace demanded it, and sometimes you just stood still and captured the weight of a moment. You weren’t just documenting—you were creating. And Jannik had a hard time playing as usual on the other side of it. He found himself watching you more than he should.

He had thought he understood focus before. His whole life revolved around precision, control, the discipline of an athlete who needed to be in tune with every part of himself. But the way you worked, completely immersed, as if the world outside the lens no longer existed—it was something else. And it left him a little breathless.

---

And then, just like that, it was over.

Your presence had slowly settled and become natural part of the team’s daily rhythm, and it felt strange to think you wouldn’t be there anymore. The others felt it too. The last few days had been filled with joking remarks about how they were going to look boring in every other set of photos from now on.

The last practice session had wrapped up, the last meals shared, and now, everyone was focused on packing up, readying themselves for the coming tournament. When you all made your way to the airport, everyone took more time than usual. They were making their way to California, you were headed elsewhere. This was goodbye.

Darren had playfully insisted you set up permanent residency as their official photographer, to which you had only smiled and said, "I don’t think my other clients would be so thrilled about that."

Simone gave you a firm nod, a silent acknowledgment of the way you had managed to suit the team without ever demanding space.

Then Marco, who had taken to saving you a seat at team lunches, patted your shoulder and said, "Don’t forget us when you’re famous."

Uli gave you a smile and pinched lightly at your cheek, before looking back at the team, "We're going to lose our little shadow."

And then came time to say goodbye to Jannik.

He had stayed back as you made your rounds, watching each interaction unfold. When you finally turned to him, something in his chest tightened. He had spent weeks watching you, studying you, growing an unconscious space in his life to make room for your quiet, magnetic presence. And now, you were leaving.

You met his gaze, smiling softly. "It was nice working with you, Jannik."

He should have said something then—maybe found the right words to make you stay just a little longer, or at least to let you know that he liked having you around more than he knew how to admit. But instead, he just took your offered hand, holding it a beat too long before saying, "Yeah. You too."

You squeezed his hand once, brief but firm, before stepping back. "Good luck in the tournament."

Simone, always more observant than he let on, cut in for Jannik's sake. "Don’t disappear entirely, okay? Stay in touch."

"Will do," you promised, and you meant it.

The loud speaker crackled a last call for your flight and Darren nodded at you, offering a final goodbye "Take care."

And before Jannik could really register it, you were already moving away, blending into the hum of airport departures and travel plans.

And Jannik let you go.

---

Another month passed.

Jannik had thought about reaching out more times than he could count. He’d pulled up your name in his phone, thumb hovering over the screen, running through a dozen different excuses he could use to text you. Something casual—maybe bring up a funny story from practice, maybe ask a question about photography that he didn’t actually need the answer to. But every time, he’d shut off his phone and tell himself there wasn’t an organic way to initiate things. That if you wanted to talk, you would have reached out by now. That he should've done something when he had the chance, when he had you with him.

And then the photos came out.

Jannik had known they would be good, with all the effort you put in. But he hadn’t expected them to be this.

He scrolled through the final selections, stunned. They were beautiful, yes, but beyond that—intimate. Personal. They weren’t just action shots. They captured the in-between moments, the quiet focus, the rawness of effort. The ones of him in motion looked kinetic, powerful. The ones of him still—those were the ones that really got him. They felt like him. Like you had seen something beyond just an athlete and actually found a way to show it.

Everyone was talking about them. That Nike had taken things to the next level, that this was your best work yet.

Jannik stared at the images longer than he meant to, longer than was probably normal. They weren’t just good—they were unlike anything he had ever seen of himself. They weren’t glossy, overly polished marketing shots. They were real. They felt like you had seen him, really seen him, and turned that into something tangible.

And all he could think about was how much he wanted to see you. Or, at the very least, hear from you.

He pulled up your contact before he could overthink it again, his fingers quickly tapping name. He could say something about the photos—he should say something about the photos. His fingers halted over the keyboard as he began to type out a message.

Jannik exhaled sharply, staring at your name on the screen before deleting the few letters he had gotten out. A message felt too easy to ignore. Too casual. And after all this time—after how badly he had wanted to reach out—he didn't want to risk the the chance of you slipping away again.

So he hit the call button instead.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. He was about to convince himself that this was stupid, that you wouldn’t pick up, that you probably barely thought of your month on the courts with him, when he heard the small click of the line connecting.

"Hello?"

Your voice was exactly as he remembered it—quiet, even, always so careful in the way you spoke. He found himself gripping the phone tighter.

"Hey," he said, voice rougher than he intended. "It’s Jannik."

There was a pause, just for a beat, then a quiet, amused hum. "I know... Caller ID is really big these days, and I do have your contact saved."

Jannik huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Right."

Another pause, this one a little longer. He could hear faint sounds in the background—maybe the hum of traffic, the distant murmur of music. You were out somewhere. You had a life outside of all of this. And, not for the first time, he wondered what you were up to.

"So," you said finally, and he could hear the curiosity in your tone. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Jannik leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, before letting out a breath. "The photos came out."

You made a small noise—something between acknowledgment and amusement. "They did."

"They’re incredible."

Another beat of silence. Then, softer, "Thank you."

He swallowed, glancing at the phone screen as if it would tell him what to say next. He had thought about this moment so many times, thought up so many excuses to reach out, but now that he was here, none of them felt right. So he just went with the truth.

"I, uh… I’ve been meaning to call you."

"Oh?" There was something teasing in your voice now, the faintest hint of a smirk behind the words. "And what stopped you?"

He let out a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t know. Didn’t want to bother you. I wasn't sure if you had enough of me after watching for a month."

A pause. Then, lightly, "So why now?"

Jannik shut his eyes briefly. "Now I’m done waiting."

There was a shift in your silence, like you weren’t expecting that level of honesty. Then, finally, "Well. That’s good to hear, because honestly... lately I've been feeling like a month wasn't enough."

His chest felt lighter, like some part of him had been holding onto something without realizing it. He felt himself smile. "So, then... when can I see you again?"

---

There are some lit ass tennis photographers out there, and they're honestly what brought me back to the watching the sport after a dry spell in my teens. Like, hello?? Love art, support art, all art. Okay, I'm off my soapbox.

Experimented with kind of a shier (shy-er?) reader than I have written in the past, it was fun. I hope you like her, and the fic xx

[tainted-liquor]

'Hot Wheels! ...🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ft. 1610Miles

...⋆｡° ✮

Ingredients: sugar, kisses, n a lil bit of lemon zest!

TWs: A lil suggestive, but nth serious? Miles js runs a hot wheels car across yo ass like a ramp😭

A/N: Inspired by my man lol

It was dark outside. Wayyy too dark, the kind of dark where your main priority would be to go straight home, regardless of what temptations of bright colors pushed themselves into your face. But right now, you were In Miles' house while his parents were out on their little 15-year anniversary date. You spent the whole day dancing in his room, trying on some of his shorts for the sheer fun of it, and watching TV together so close that it would've sent Mrs. Morales into a coma. It was around 9 o'clock, and the two lovebirds still weren't back from their date.

So, you decided to do something to pass the time. You hopped on on the plushy material of the Morales' couch, doodling in Miles' sketchbook while you waited for him to finish taking his shower. Did you nearly lose your shit when you saw his many many Gwen drawings? Yeah. But you were instantly relieved to see most of them crossed out, painted over, or replaced with drawings of you entirely.

You scribbled down a rough sketch of Miles, groaning in frustration when it didn't turn out how you imagined. He looked French instead of Puerto Rican, and everything decided it wanted to go wrong. You put down the pencil, letting it fall between the concave of its pages before scrolling on your phone. It wasn't very long until Miles emerged from the bathroom, internally panicking as his toned muscles stared at your from his short-sleeved white tee. "Eugh, you stink. Get back in the shower" You joked, sporting a wicked grin and a quiet laugh.

He side-eyed you, looking you up and down before sucking his teeth. "I will throw you off that couch, don't play with me" he chuckled, shifting closer so you could see the tiny blue box in his right hand. "Oooh, what's that?" You asked, turning your head as he loomed over you. He opened the box, revealing 3 toy cars stacked on each other. "My cars!" He beamed, flopping comfortably on the living room floor as he took out every toy car oh so gently. "Cars? Like, Hot Wheels cars?" You inquired, watching as he pretended to rev up the engine.

It was no surprise that he owned toy cars, you had already seen his massive collection of rare toys and posters around his room. You thought it was cute, silently admiring as he explained why he even has the cars, and breaking down their value. "I mean, I can put them away if you want?" He asked, sounding slightly more embarrassed by the second. "Oh, no no no! I love that you have interests!" You reassured. You watched him stay in his own little world, before continuing to scroll on your phone.

It wasn't long before Miles looked back up at you, suddenly brewing an idea. He slowed his actions, analyzing your posture and looking down at his cars. He fought back a smirk that crept on his face, slowly advancing towards you like he was trying to see what you were looking at on your phone. You didn't really notice he was getting closer, finding yourself lost in the world of TikTok as you watched a guy dance to Kung Fu Fighting. And you didn't notice until you felt cold metal hit the fabric of your shorts.

"AH-! FUCK-MILES WH-..." You began, turning around to see Miles using the curve of your spine and the silhouette of your behind as a ramp. Miles burst out in laughter, shivering as he ran each car across your backside. "Are you fuckin' serious right now?" You deadpanned. He nodded, a smug but clearly overjoyed grin plastered on his face. "What? It's-...pffFFHAHAA...It's the perfect ramp!"

"Make me smack you miles"

Taglist: @ashsostrange @chessbox @janaeby @faeriesoiree333 @Fivestardior @an1bara @bachirasegoist @milesnanana77 @niaurluv @sp1derw1re @ban-al3x

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[idorukiss]

Heres a sorta drabble/headcanon of sorts of how I picture MC's relationship with Rafayel would devleop~ I'm not much of a writer but the brainrot is real and im working on making similar ones for the other boys too!

1,051 words || You can also read it on ao3

‧͙⁺˚･༓･˚⁺‧͙⁺˚･༓･˚⁺‧͙⁺˚･༓･˚⁺‧͙⁺˚･༓･˚⁺‧͙⁺˚･༓･˚⁺‧͙ Xavier ・ Zayne ・ Sylus

There have been many different things in Rafayel's life that inspired him when it comes to his art, But nothing took control of his heart so intensely as much as you have. Like a whirlpool you shook him to his core from that first meeting, and all he wants to do is capture you on his canvas for eternity.

It really was quite the blessing with how willing you were to become his bodyguard- not only can he keep you within arms reach but you can also protect him from all the shady people after his life. Like killing 2 birds with one stone, except you were so much stronger and beautiful than any stone he’s ever set eyes on before

He absolutely felt like a flirt to you at the start with all of the compliments and casual physical touch between you guys, He just loved to say how amazing you are while enclosing you in a deep bear hug. It was strange at first you'd admit, but it never felt like he was trying to make any passes at you or act like he was expecting anything in return. Perhaps that's just how he acts with people he trusts?

When Rafayel isnt painting, you two spend a lot of time outside finding inspiration all around. He usually has a sketchbook with him scribbling away anytime he sees something interesting- the landscapes, pretty flowers, or even a parfait you guys got to share. You’ve seen some of these sketches as he works on them, it always amazes you how much detail he can capture with so few lines.

He never let you fully flip through the sketchbook however, claiming all sorts of reasons why, like that the drawings were scared of the sunlight or you had to go through many trials to be worthy. It was obvious how much he cherished it and you respected his wishes, though it would be nice to reminisce on some of the good times you guys had together again. Though its not like your phone wasn't filled to the brim with photos already

Late one night, you stop by his place to make sure he didn't need any motivation to finish a painting for a deadline set the next morning. You have confidence he could make it in time, he always did, but you want to help him as best as you can otherwise. When you arrive you spot a stunning completed painting and a Rafayel sleeping on the sofa below it- both stunning as they're illuminated by the moonlight.

Taking it upon yourself to clean up his supplies a little, just enough to not be a walking hazard of course, you spot his precious travel sketchbook on the floor. Surely he wouldn't mind if you took a little peak in it, you'd love to see how he finished the last landscape you guys saw before he locked himself up to work. As you flip through the pages you see so many familiar sights from your time together so far, but scattered around them filling maybe even more pages was many drawings of a person. Of you. All surrounded by hearts and little notes about things you've said.

When did he have a chance to draw all of these? Is this how you look to him?? Questions race your mind as your face flushes at the image of him intensely scribbling in the sketchbook as you dance around the beach being dumb. You decide to grab a pencil and add your attempt of a sketch of him in the back, signing it with a little heart of your own. It’s nowhere near his skill level but something that captures how you feel, and maybe he would get a chuckle out of it once he spots it.

You don’t realize when the casual acts of affection he started out with turn slightly more romantic- going from linking arms together to holding your hand, and you swear you feel him press little kisses on the top of your head every time he wraps his arms around you. But you don't hate it, in fact it makes your heart flutter every time you realize it

Rafayel often messages you at the most random times to meet him somewhere, usually it was because he found a stunning view and wanted to share the experience with you. Sometimes he would even show up at your apartment to whisk you away, and every time it filled you with joy. These dates and every moment you get to spend with him fill your heart with so much warmth.

One particularly warm night you were woken up by a call inviting you to the beach near his studio. It was worth crawling out of the bed at an ungodly hour, not only for the view but for him. While you were admiring the waves, he couldn't keep his eyes off you as a cautious pinky is hooked around yours. Two faces flush as you look at him, it lasts for only a moment before its interrupted by your watch.

Your face falls as you read the notification “It looks like I got a last minute mission in the morning…I guess this means I have to head back already.” As you take a heavy step to start walking away he reaches out to stop you with a pleading look on his face “Wait, don’t go yet” “Rafayel…. I’m sorry, I really am. This night- everything was wonderful, it really was” “Can’t you just stay the night?” He wraps his arms around you, nuzzling his face into your neck “Please just stay the night, I don’t want you to leave.” Your heart flutters as you wrap your arms around him in return “Okay, I’ll stay for you my sweet painter”

He is the most clingy man you’ve ever met, constantly torn between wrapping himself around you while peppering every inch of skin with kisses and diving headfirst into hundreds of paintings with you as his muse. His studio would be covered in nothing but paintings of you if he didn't have to focus on his commissions.

He sculpted out a place in your heart that held him, and in turn you've devoted yourself to him- loving him with every fiber of your being

[lightcurse2end]

Now Playing: ___

Warning: Mentions of Dying Thoughts.

I didn’t want to die. Well, before anyways.

It wasn’t something that just came to me. It built up. 

“So I suggest you don't do anything stupid this time.”

“Ignore the fool. He's apparently just that stupid. I'm surprised he's even survived this long.”

“You’re stupid at times, you don’t think before you act, and you always seem to get yourself into trouble.”

“Fuck off and go hang out with your real friends.”

“That really, you've been toying with a grieving woman's heart who can't get over her dead fucking partner, all because you're a selfish shithead who is obsessed with this bubbling idea of a relationship? Fuck you.”

I’m not stupid. At least, I don’t think so?

I try my best to think, to understand but It always ends up the same.

Why do I even do this? It only really hurts others in the end.

Koji laid on the floor of his room, back against his bed frame and the rest of his body curled up slightly, the sketchbook right in his line of sight, open to one of the more recent pages.

Drawings of the Raymond he saw. The one in his dream that one night. He thought he would go away, once he let go. Instead, they got worse.

Raymond was everywhere now. Not just in his dreams. Following him, talking to him. He sounded distant sometimes. Koji forgot how he sounded.

Some nights, he saw his version of Ray. The small one that would follow him around instead, not saying anything but just staring. When he did talk, it was clear. Concise.

Raymond? Unnerving. Those same eyes, staring him down. He followed him but was always behind him. He could feel those eyes staring him down, even now, from the man 

“…go away.” Koji mumbled, ripping out one of the Moon drawings. 

“Why?”

The voice was distorted. Sounding more like a recording of a distant memory. 

“Because.” 

He ripped another page out.

“I don’t wanna talk to you.”

Another, this time of Raymond.

“Ever again.”

Raymond watched him, the red eyes tracking every single movement he made. But, he stayed silent.

Koji continued to rip out the pages, growing more agitated with each one. Eventually, after all of his friends were ripped out, he turned the page and paused.

The drawings of Aveira he had made a while ago. Most of them were scribbled out, due to them not being “perfect” enough or not capturing her beauty in the right way.

The door opened and he looked up, spotting Kei, hesitating at the door.

“…Nagata?”

He just stared.

Kei went over, sitting down in the exact spot Raymond was, causing the pale one to disappear. He stared at him and the balled up pages around him.

“…Jade said you were ignoring her. I wanted to check on you.”

‘So, he’s just here as a messenger. He was probably forced by Jade to come.’

“I’m fine. Just not feeling up to calling right now.”

He ripped out the Aveira page.

“….You haven’t been acting right for…a while now.” Kei narrowed his eyes. “Did you cut your hair?”

Koji lazily glanced up at him.

"You've been an asshole to everyone recently. Even Mom. And she's just trying to reach out to you."

Koji stared at the blank page of the notebook, Kei's words dying before they reached his ears. All of the pages were gone.

It was all gone.

He stood without a word, gathering the balled up pieces of paper and heading over to the trash, dumping them in and staring at the pile for a minute before closing it.

Kei paused his rant, watching Koji's slumped and automated actions.

It wouldn't be stretching it if he said that the man wasn't okay. He wouldn't be worried if it started quickly, but Koji had been acting like this when they met. And everywhere he went, they'd always say he was acting "unlike himself" or "weird". Even when their mother had tried to get him to stay for dinner, he replied harshly and declined, saying he was busy.

Was he really?

"Kei."

He looked over at the mention of his name, finding Koji now at the door. He quickly got up, following the man.

Part 2 will be on Kei's account.