#this was supposed to be a simple sketch page

[nemisisnemi]

Leona Kingscholar? more like Leona STINKscholar/j

close ups underneath + click on the drawings for higher quality!

pls dont decimate my quality tumblr pls dont decimate my quality tumblr pls dont decimate my quality tumblr-

[eluriart]

Inktobertale Day 13- Immortal

Ink belongs to comyet

CORE!Frisk belongs to dokudoki

[rkivefae]

(repost from old acc, it's been a few years since I've been on here)

Okay, so my friend has doodled in my chemistry notebook when I let them borrow it, then I began thinking,,

Steddie high school au

Eddie draws continuously in chemistry class and he has certain things he draws with inspiration from that class and doesn’t want to contaminate it with other classes so he hides the notebook, poorly, in hope that when he comes back, it'll still be there.

Steve comes to his seat, in the back of the class and notices it immediately. His first thought is that someone lost it so he grabs it in hopes of seeing a name but instead sees crazy drawings. Ranging from small sketches of supposed knights to fantasy creatures that Steve never would have thought of seeing.

"If found, leave where it is OR ELSE" It read in thick sharpie letters on the front page.

He felt bad for being nosy and going through it but he couldn't help himself as he continued looking through it. After some heavy overthinking, he decides to draw something back. He wasn't the most talented but he was better than most in his art classes, so hopefully they didn’t laugh too much at his attempt.

He decides to draw a jester, tried his best to shade in all perfectly and portion everything properly. To say the least, he was impressed with his final product because this is better than anything he’s ever done in is classes. Next to it he writes, as if the character was saying it, “You should put this in better places.”

He didn’t even focus in class, AT ALL.

But when he came back to the class, he found the notebook again. Took one look at it and tried to fight back the desire to just crack it open and see if they wrote back. His fingers itched to have the glosses cover turned open. just a peak. He tried to reason and at first he held back. Trying to focus in class but that ended terribly, so he grabbed the notebook after about 5 minutes of spacing out on the teacher and eyeing it.

When he opened the page, there it was. A reply.

It was a king, you could tell by the crown he wore but fangs were prominent in the grinning feature. Black curled hair that fell onto his shoulder that was covered by a dark suit. A hand stretched out with a sword towards the Jester, “There is a trespasser? And a fool? State thy business!”

Steve fucking giggled. Giggled! Of all things he could’ve done, he giggled! King Steve Harrington since freshman year, had all the ladies wooing at him and guys wanting to be him just giggled because the owner of the notebook drewsomething for him.

Steve would never get focus back into that class since he replied. Always waiting for the notebook and it became his priority. He didn’t understand how he was still passing that class with how much he began lacking!

They talked about simple silly things at first before Eddie began picking it up more, talking more about who he was but never stated a name, not yet. They weren’t ready for that.

Steve even helped Eddie decide on what to use as his Hellfire club signature look that was going to be fought to be published as an official club on school record!

But when the last page came along at the ending of the school year, Eddie spoke about it. Said, “It’s the end of the year, the last of this book. Could I finally ask your name?”

Steve’s whole world stopped spinning. He couldn’t even begin to explain the thoughts racing through his head.

When they know, would they stop being friends with him? No one truly liked Steve Harrington, he became popular by default of being a pretty boy and on the basketball team. Most talked about how his group of people were assholes and that he might as well be, too. He wasn’t oblivious, he knew what most people thought. He was a boy of a rich family that was spoiled. That wasn’t a lie, but his life wasn’t pretty, thanks to his father and mother. But could anyone really understand that? Walking through the door of his home in fear of what he’ll walk in and see, what would happen to him if he breathed wrong in the presence of his father?

What if when he says his name and they don’t want nothing to do with him? What if when he says his name, he loses the only honest friendship he has? What if they share the things he told them in the notebook to everyone else withproof as a way to ruin his life because they didn’t like him? Maybe they weren’t like that but Steve couldn’t take that risk. No one with this chance would not take it, right? Tommy would take it. The rest of the boys on the team would take it. Carol would take it and laugh about it. He couldn’t expect different from other people, right?

Steve’s breathing quickened as his chest tightened, tears welling up and he gripped his chest. He rushed out of class with an unsteady balance, the teacher yelling behind him and he didn’t return for that period, the notebook left open and unsigned.

He couldn’t.

That moment was talked about everywhere, how he rushed out of class and didn’t return. No one bothered to question why, just whispered how panicked he was. Poor Steve, they said mockingly in the halls but never to his face.

Eddie knew.

It didn’t take long to piece it all together, the incident, the opened notebook, the fact that it was all too much of a coincidence and the things he said just made sense for it to be Steve Harrington.

He didn’t want to believe it at first, laughing that it was just dumb and there was no way that Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington was talking to Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson with passion. But then again, they both didn’t know who each other was.

When Steve talked about dumb moments with his ‘friends’ and how he felt bad for the people they ‘hung’ around, the games he lost and how he beat himself up, even the moments that Steve told him how he hated the social ranking - it all should have made sense. At first, Eddie thought that the person writing back was like him, a freak with nerdy interest. Which, in a different font, Steve was.

However, as the next few years flied by, Eddie just watched Steve from afar. From sucking faces with Nancy Wheeler in the hallway, picking her up and twirling her around, smiling bright because he was happy to the moments that it looked like Steve was seconds away from turning over and dying. The bruises that cascaded over certain parts of his body being a brushed off topic and the fear that was in his eyes when he turned the corner. Like he knew things he shouldn’t.

There was raw fear, hatred, anger and even disgust that Eddie was able to recognize. Part of him wondered where the happiness went and the other was tired of him staying afar, wanting to talk to him because Steve Harrington was more than just a pretty boy from what he knew and the look on his eyes only said more.

Eddie never got to, Steve rushed past every day, ready to get the day over and he couldn’t talk to him. Soon, Steve graduated and Eddie was held-back again and he took that as a sign. A strong one. To just get over it. He was never going to know Steve Harrington and it was stupid for him to even think so. Plus, if he did, it was stupid! The town freak with the most loved boy in town? Not a good duo. So, he stayed afar for good.

Until he didn’t.

Steve Harrington waltzed in with an arguing Dustin Henderson, the club all watching the two before Steve Harrington scoffed. “I’m serious, I’m not playing your nerdy campaign just because you’re missing a person! I don’t understand it,” He said, pushing a bag towards Dustin’s chest. “You know I’m not smart enough to understand that.”

Before Dustin could reply, Eddie took that as his chance to finally greet them. He climbed out of his chair rather loudly, catching both of their attention before walking up to Steve, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning forward.

“Well, Well, if it isn’t the missing Jester.” He said, a cocky tone laced within it

It took only a few seconds before Steve’s eyes widened when it clicked.

“No. Fucking. Way.”

[withleeknow]

lemuria.

pairing: hyunjin x reader genre/warnings: established relationship; fluff; unedited bc i suck, self-indulgent etc etc, this is pretty straightforward idk word count: 0.7k note: SO! the only reason i wrote this was bc of a certain purple-haired artist who altered my entire brain chemistry just by saying the words "ma petite artiste" 🫠 iykyk! but please tell me someone knows bc i am dying to talk about this with more people. even the title of this drabble is another desperate attempt to find my people lmao

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / masterlist / ko-fi

In your head, you have a list of favorite things that can’t easily be topped: Saturday mornings (it’s the best time of the week, argue with the wall), cuddles with Hyunjin, and cuddles with Hyunjin on Saturday mornings. Not necessarily in that order though. You’re a simple woman.

You’re in bed, draped over his chest like a lazy house cat, watching as the sunlight slowly filters into your bedroom. Hyunjin’s got one arm around you and the other reaching for his lap, where he’s balancing a pencil and his open sketchbook, gracefully dragging the pointed graphite head across the page until the doodle is detailed enough for you to recognize. It’s nothing special — just the (dying) plant that sits in the corner of the room. At first glance, it seems healthy, lusciously green and thriving but really, it’s grown too leggy to be able to survive on its own.

You call it Viv, short for Vivian, which obviously is an unconventional name for a plant. Hyunjin says goodbye to it every time he leaves the house. In a way, you suppose it’s like a child that you care for with him, something that you try to keep alive and nurture together.

You sigh, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Your artist, your love. Your muse too if you were even one tenth as gifted as he is.

The sun ventures further into your safe space, tiptoeing across the wooden floors like slowly-skipping stones, brushing against every object in sight until it reaches the two of you. You lean back when the light lands on him, smoothing over his soft, soft hair, caressing his cheeks, weaving itself in the tiny spaces between his fluttering eyelashes. You’d put him in a museum if you could.

You don’t know what compels you to reach out, but your hand has a mind of its own anyway. It makes him pause the sketch, your fingertips tracing the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips. His chiseled jawline and the beauty mark that you love to kiss. Hyunjin, Hyunjin, Hyunjin – important things must be repeated thrice.

“What are you doing?” he asks, a glint of amusement in his sharp eyes.

“This is my way of drawing you,” you say, completely unbothered, enamored with the way his smooth skin feels under your finger.

He hums, abandoning the pencil and the sketchbook in favor of catching your wrist and pressing his lips to the palm of your hand.

“Ma petite artiste,” he murmurs against your skin.

For some reason, it floors you. Flabbergasts you, stuns you into silence for a few seconds.

When you come to, you make a show of dramatically arching an eyebrow, a silent accusation despite the way your face flushes with a rosy tint, burning you from the inside out. You can barely suppress the smile that tugs on your lips, and Hyunjin catches it oh so easily.

“Where did you learn that?” you probe with affection. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“Duolingo,” he says as he moves to press you against the bed, ignoring the second question in its entirety because it simply doesn’t warrant an answer. Who else would he do anything for but you? Who else would it ever be for?

“Duolingo,” you repeat in amusing disbelief, barely containing the laugh that threatens to escape from your throat even though the heat on your cheeks is still painfully obvious to the both of you. You’re shy, embarrassed that all it took to melt you was a couple of cheesy French words he learned on Duolingo of all places, but Hyunjin is endeared, always so damn endeared by you and everything you do. “That owl teaches people how to flir–!”

He doesn’t let you finish your sentence, doesn’t let you get to the quip before he’s kissing away whatever remaining wit you have in your flustered state. The kiss, deep and slow and intimate in a way that sets fire to the heart inside your ribcage; his lips, addictively soft and wonderfully warm, much like the caramel sunlight that dances over the two of you.

It’s Saturday morning, and your plant is still (probably) dying but you can’t really bring yourself to care about it right now, not when you’re drunk on his pillowy smile pressed against your own, on his quiet giggles as he tries to make you blush.

It’s Saturday morning, and Hyunjin is your favorite person in the world.

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 06.03.2025]

[susieredfish]

It was originally supposed to be simple pencils sketches, but something went wrong 🤧

Spydoc sketchbook page drawn with acrylic markers, pens and colored pencils

[moonlight-joy]

A Writer’s Muse

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary:  At a masquerade ball, you share a kiss with a stranger. The next day, Benedict won’t stop teasing you about your secret rendezvous, unaware that it was actually him.

Pairing: Reader/Benedict Bridgerton

You had always known that Benedict Bridgerton was an artist.

You had seen him sketch at balls, in the gardens, during long afternoons in the Bridgerton drawing room. His fingers, always smudged with charcoal, moved effortlessly across the page, capturing the world with an ease that left you breathless.

But never—not once—had you realized you were his favorite subject.

And you would never have known… had you not found his sketchbook.

It had been left on a table in the Bridgerton library, tucked between the pages of an open book. You hadn’t meant to pry. Truly, you hadn’t.

But when you saw your face staring back at you from the pages, drawn with such detail, such tenderness—

Your breath caught.

There were dozens of sketches.

Some were simple—a quick charcoal outline of your profile, the curve of your lips when you smiled. Others were far more detailed—the way your hands rested in your lap, the way your eyes softened when you looked at something you loved.

And then—there were the ones that made your heart ache.

A drawing of you sitting beneath the large oak tree in the Bridgerton gardens, your dress flowing around you like water, your expression serene.

Another of you reading by candlelight, your face bathed in a soft glow, lips parted ever so slightly in thought.

One of you sleeping.

Your chest tightened.

This was not the work of a man who had simply sketched a friend.

This was the work of someone who had memorized every piece of you.

Someone who had studied the curve of your cheek, the shape of your hands, the way your mouth quirked when you were lost in thought.

Someone who—

"You weren’t supposed to see that."

You gasped, snapping the sketchbook shut as Benedict’s voice filled the room.

He stood in the doorway, his expression frozen between panic and something else—something vulnerable.

Your heart stammered in your chest.

“I—” You swallowed hard, holding up the book. “I didn’t mean to—”

Benedict strode forward, reaching for it. But you stepped back, clutching it tightly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. “Because I knew this would happen.”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Benedict exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark curls. “I knew you’d look at me differently.”

Your fingers curled around the book. “Benedict…”

“Please,” he murmured, voice raw, “just forget you saw it.”

Forget?

How could he ask that?

How could he expect you to unsee the way he had drawn you—not as just anyone, but as someone who mattered?

You lifted the book, flipping to a sketch—a particularly detailed one of you laughing, your head thrown back, joy captured perfectly in every line.

“This is not something I can forget,” you said softly.

Benedict swallowed. “Then what do you want me to say?”

You met his gaze, searching. “The truth.”

Silence.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his body taut with tension.

And then—

“The truth?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded.

He took a slow, measured breath.

“The truth is,” he murmured, stepping closer, “I have been drawing you for years.”

Your heart pounded.

“The truth is,” he continued, his voice rough with emotion, “I never meant for you to see them because—because if you did, you’d know.”

“Know what?” you whispered.

Benedict exhaled, his gaze dark and unreadable.

“That I love you.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

Benedict ran a frustrated hand through his hair, laughing bitterly. “You see? This is why I never said anything. Because now, you’re looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.”

You shook your head. “No.”

His brow furrowed. “No?”

You stepped forward, closing the space between you. “I’m looking at you like—like I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

Benedict stilled.

“I’m looking at you like I can’t believe it took me this long to realize,” you whispered. “That I love you too.”

His breath caught.

Then—before you could second-guess yourself—

You kissed him.

The moment your lips met, it was as if the world had been waiting for this exact moment.

Benedict inhaled sharply, his hands finding your waist, pulling you close as he kissed you back with a desperation that stole your breath.

It wasn’t hurried.

It wasn’t frantic.

It was slow, reverent—like he was memorizing every second, every feeling.

When you finally pulled away, Benedict pressed his forehead against yours, his breath uneven.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You smiled, brushing your fingers against his cheek.

“I love you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, his expression one of pure relief.

And then, with a soft chuckle, he murmured—

“Well, I suppose I shall have to sketch this moment next.”

You laughed, pressing another kiss to his lips.

“Only if you let me keep the sketchbook.”

Benedict smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

But then, before you could reply, he took the book from your hands, flipping to an empty page.

And right there, in that very moment, he sketched something new—

Not a portrait of longing.

Not an image of unspoken love.

But the two of you together, hands intertwined, a love no longer hidden between the pages of a book.

And as he looked at you, his muse, his heart—

He knew he would never stop drawing you.

Because you were his greatest masterpiece.

Please support my work with like and comment

[kiemiu]

𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝓞: 𝓝𝐞𝐰 𝓕𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

pairing kang sae-byeok x fem!reader | wc: 1.8k

summary -> the kids being preoccupied left you room to become friendly with the newcomer, kang cheol before his sister makes an appearance for a quick visit. warnings -> injuries (?)

( beneath the quiet masterlist )

12:33PM

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 gave you more time to spend with the kids while your mother was out running errands. You never had a full grasp on what she did on those errands, always returning with more junk than she had left with, always leaving the bulk of it all in the trunk of her car for you to carry in. Even at such a young age you could feel your bones aching and your back practically begging for a break as you carried in pile after pile of magazines. Never knowing what she did with them, or why she had so many, but also never being curious enough to ask.

A huff of exhaustion yet relief left you after plopping the last stack of magazines in front of her door, twisting and turning parts of your body to release any tension before you went back to supervising the kids. Turning your head in a slow circle until your eyes landing on the halfway open door to the art room. The top of a head picking in and out of the crack, scattered papers with markers all over the floor. It didn't take you long to realize it was Cheol. After breakfast and a short lesson, he asked to retire to his room because he wasn't feeling the best, not in need of a nurse or tea that you offered but just wanting to sleep.

You knew how hard of an adjustment it must've been for him to be dropped off in the middle of his adolescents. So many questions could be going through his head, mainly wondering why? And as you think back to his older sister you can't help but wonder what type of hardship they might've been through at such a young age.

The bleak weariness that overtook their forms showed that the past hadn't been kind to them, and even in the safety net of an orphanage they still kept their walls up high. Being self-preserved and reluctant to bond to those around, as if at any moment the world around them would start to crumble, and their efforts to build anything other than a simple acquaintanceship would be futile when it's all said and done.

Without a second thought you made your way over to him, giving the crowded play room a mere glance to make sure the kids were behaving appropriately before making your way inside the art room.

A few gentle knocks were placed on the door before you slowly made your way in, even with the intention of being subtle, you still managed to frighten him, his body jumping before he backed into the leg of a table. A junction of apologies leaving your lips as you slowly made your way towards, your hands held out as you approached as if he was an injured animal.

"I just wanted to see what you were up to." you quietly whisper, bending down far enough to pick up a piece of a paper he colored on. His once rigid form slowly relaxed, scooting himself closer and closer to you when he realized you didn't pose a threat.

The picture messily drawn showing three people in front of a house standing and holding hands with big smiles. "Who's this supposed to be?" You asked, turning the page toward him, having the smallest hint of who it might be.

"Me, my sister, and my mom." he clarified, beginning to draw on another piece of paper, his eyes never leaving the page even as he dropped a marker to pick up another one. You didn't want to press the issue, thinking of all of the possible outcomes that could've led him to end up here, instead settling for a hum of approval and a meek "You draw very well."

A small smile creeped on his face at your compliment, the rapidly moving hand that sketched across the paper halting as he slowly looked up at you. "You wan' me to draw you?" his head slightly tilting to the side, his doe eyes gleaming with something adventurous.

You reciprocated his smile, before nodding, offering to draw him as well, leaving your mother to supervise the other group of rowdy children on her lonesome, you were sure she could handle herself.

As you drew each other on the floor of the art room, you exchanged your likes and dislikes, foods you hated and adored, and your all time favorite tv shows. Small laughs being exchanged between you two, while a light weight lifted off of your shoulders to see him fully relax into the atmosphere. His posture eased and his babbling nonstop, cutting himself off between sentences to tell another story than the other one he told, which was something you also did when you got too excited.

Just as he was in the middle of telling a story, two short and rapid knocks broke through the tranquil bubble created between you two. Looking over your shoulder, your eyes slightly widening at the sight of his sister, standing placid, her face wearing the same exhausted yet impassive expression she wore last time.

Cheol gasped before lifting himself off of the floor and running towards her, his arms locking around her waist as one of her hands rested on the top of his head, messily combing her fingers through his flat locks. "We were just talking about you, noona!" he exclaimed, his toothy grin looking up at her as he rested his chin on her lower abdomen, arms still locked tightly around her waist.

A flash of confusion crossed her face, her eyebrow lifting up only for a split second before returning to her regular stony composition. "You were?" she asked, the tilt of her head similar to the way Cheol had completed the action earlier. Although different in looks you could tell they were related by the allusive mannerisms, even the way they talked occasionally reminding you of the other.

You lifted yourself off of the floor, dusting the sides and back of your pants off before slowly making your way over. "He was just telling me a story on how you taught him how to ride a bike." you clarified for him. A grin creeping on your face as you recalled him telling you she wasn't the best teacher at the time, the longest she'd been on a bike no longer than 10 seconds as she always ended up losing her balance.

Sae-byeok's gaze fell from yours to her little brothers, a ghost of a smile tugging on her lips for a split second before disappearing as her head turned over to the ruckus of the playroom next door.

You didn't mean to stare, but your eyes couldn't help but lock onto the visible scar on her neck, something you hadn't noticed the first time you saw her. Your head tilting the slightest to gaze at it. It was a faded pinkish color, a whisper of a tragedy etched into her skin for life, just barely being covered by the stray hairs falling from her pulled back low ponytail.

It felt as if you were underwater, falling into a trance of your eyes trailing the visible parts of her body to see any other unmarked scars that you had missed at first glance. Her hands barely concealed yet the scratches and traces of dried blood on the knuckles shined a brighter light on who she was. Her fingers long, slender, and littered in bruises, making you wonder what she could've done to sustain such injuries.

The way her hands consciously slipped deeper inside the sleeves of her jacket to conceal her hands didn't go unnoticed, and as if you were pulled from the suffocating waves of the ocean, you heard Sae-Byeok's voice come into view.

"Why aren't you playing with the other kids?" she asked, your eyes catching hers for a second before they diverted to Cheol who was still gripped onto her tightly. He hummed in response, not wanting to tell his sister that he was afraid.

Afraid of what the other kids would think about him, how they would treat him if he spoke too much, and if they'd see him differently if he was truly himself.

"Um, I just wanted to color." he murmured, his eyes avoiding his sisters, his hands resorting to latching onto her wrists, swinging them back and forth to keep himself occupied from having to meet her gaze, knowing that she can read him like a book.

You saw Sae-byeok tense, her face cringing at the sudden pressure around her wrists, but quickly masking it with a frown. Her mouth opened to question him but was abruptly interrupted by Cheol. "Oh, Miss Kim, Can I show noona what we were drawing together?" He suddenly asked, his head turning towards you, a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

You nodded, your eyes abashedly meeting Sae-Byeok's for a split second. "Of course, and if you want you can color with your noona in the visitor area." you offered, already gathering the sheets of paper off of the floor and bending down to throw markers back into their bin.

You smiled as he quickly nodded his head up and down, quickly scattering down to the floor to help you clean the mess you made together. "Will you join us?" Cheol suddenly asked after gathering the multitude of supplies, holding the bin of coloring items with both of his hands, occasionally using his knee to keep it from slipping.

You opened your mouth to answer but was soon interrupted by the yell of your mother calling your name. A small sorrowful smile making its way onto your face, "I don't think I'll be able to..maybe some other time, yeah?" you query, holding the now neat stack of papers close to your chest.

Cheol nodded, his smile still never slipping as he made his way back over to Sae-Byeok.

You held the papers out for her to take, not wanting to pile too much onto Cheol, only then being close enough to realize the noticeable height difference, she practically towered over you, her head having to slightly tilt down if she wanted to maintain eye contact.

Her eyes stayed trained on yours, eyelids fluttering at the smallest graze of her fingertips against yours as she took the drawings away from you. A mumble of what you assume to be a 'Thanks' was heard as she turned her back towards you, her and Cheol treading down the hall to the visitors area to continue coloring together, faint murmurs of Cheol's voice being heard as he told Sae-Byeok how good of an artist you were when you were merely average at best.

As they turned the corner you couldn't help but feel your heart skip a beat at Sae-Byeok's departing glance at you over her shoulder, her eyes flickering towards yours like a magnet before she disappeared into the halls of the orphanage. She evidently wasn't one for words, speaking her own secret language with her eyes, you just had to figure out what she meant.

Where did you come from Kang Sae-Byeok?

' 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ' 📷 : @miabcuzz @twicesuuui @kissyslut @kritkalhit @st4rcs @dumbbellxo @theforestchoseme3 @wlvlurvsfimmia @genshinenjoyer @theweirdanimation @ch-3-rry @nenukkjhj @giaqnn @crack240 @pookalicious-hq @laurenkenss @sheinhamood @pooksterrr @bbynai @diorzs @beaaluv @colorfulkittenperfection @yourl0caltrash @kidicaruslover911 @sherryuki-callmeyuki @i0nic02 @knfthxv @mina-has-been-here

[jellion0345]

"It began here. It will be end here. Have you any parting words?"

I met Morrowind a year ago and he has held a special place in my heart ever since 🌙⭐

It was supposed to be a simple sketch based on a screenshot from the game, but I got a little bit caught up in the process ahaha, I drew it last month, but now is the perfect moment to show this page!

Of course, I'm showing this screenshot from the game, then I went to visit Dagot Ur for the first time, well, then I squealed loudly in surprise because I came without Sunder and Keening, and this changes his appeal to us as we go to him 😳and then I walked into this room and saw him, I even have somewhere recorded my first reaction "why is he so tall???" 😳😳😳

Oh, it's all such a long story! But that's why I love Morrowind!

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 1: You Shouldn't Have Answered The Door

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter one of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 3.6K

Warnings: References to sex, Cursing (once or twice), Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, a little OOC,

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Chapter 2

Present Day

Your head rests against your forearms on your desk, jerking upwards as a loud rhythmic knocking assaults the front door of your apartment.

What?

You think to yourself, rubbing your face with your hands. Your sketchpad was laid open on your desk beneath your head, the rough sketch of an egret bowing its head along the bank of a small pond splayed over the page in shades of gray. It would be the first in your new series of nature paintings that you would be unveiling in a month.

At least I didn't poke my eye out with the pencil. You think eyeing the sharpened point of the pencil that was dangerously close to your face a few seconds ago.

You turn your wrist to glance at your watch and note the time. It was an antique, square faced and strung on a simple black band, a reminder of a past life that you couldn't bear to part with.

Who would come see me at 8:00 am on a Monday?

For a minute you try to remember if you'd received a call from the curator of the gallery downtown, or if there had been a meeting or a lunch with your agent to discuss your next installment of work, but nothing comes to mind.

When you officially retired from being a hero you decided to become a full time artist, a hobby you had since you were a child. You hadn't expected it explode. You had enough money from your heroing career to live several lifetimes, not unwelcome given the fact that you couldn't die, not in the traditional sense at least, so art was supposed to just be a way for you to off steam. But you were happy with your life now, a lot happier than you had been when you were a hero on Payback. The thought of your previous employment with Vought sours in your mouth followed by the unavoidable thought of Ben that you push down with a well practiced sigh.

You didn't feel like reliving all that over again right now, though you knew it would probably happen later. It came in waves, especially at night when you found it difficult to sleep, the melatonin wasn't working, and all you really wanted was a hard drink.

Sobriety sucked.

The knocking persists, rattling around in your head like a bee trying to get out of a plastic cup.

"Fine. I'm coming." You shout standing up from your desk and making your way from the wall that serves as your studio towards the front door of your apartment, while trying to rub away the line the page made on your cheek.

Your apartment was the one extravagance you allowed yourself. Despite the amount of money you had, flashing it had never been a priority even in your hero days. The apartment was open concept with exposed brick walls, tall North facing windows that angled away from the inside and jutted outward over a raised wooden floored area that served as your studio. A large modern kitchen sat just to the right of the front door with stainless steel appliances, on another wall a tv hung above a leather couch and held a dark hallway that lead to your bedroom and the guest bedroom, the other walls were covered in your work, and the final wall held several bookshelves with art supplies and your vinyl record collection. A collection you started forever ago and that continued to grow with each passing year.

Need to get another bookshelf. You note looking at the limited space that remained.

You look through the peep hole in the solid metal apartment door. A tall dark haired man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a black duster and a thin younger guy with brown curly hair stare back at you.

"I don't want to buy any girl scout cookies." You shout through the heavy metal of the door.

The younger guy snorts.

"y/f/n y/l/n?" The dark haired man asks an accent tilting the ends of his words.

"Who's asking?"

He pulls out a badge, holding it up to the peep hole. "I'm Agent Butcher, this is Agent Campbell. We’re from the CIA, here to ask you a couple of questions about Soldier Boy."

At the mention of Ben's hero name you pause. You had avoided thinking about your former best friend as much as possible over the past forty years. Your relationship with Ben was complicated, the final few days you spent together even more complicated than the early years.

It hurt to compare what your life with him was like before you both became supes to the life you had together after. You had grown up together, forced into close proximity because your parents were friends and then became best friends yourselves. You stayed friends, before you both got injected with Compound V and a few years later moved on to Payback together. You were the only person able to keep Ben in check and as violent as his temper was, he didn't like to cross you. You were the only person who knew the real him, had been with him longer than anyone else. Not that he ever admitted that to you or admitted that he cared about you, but you thought somewhere deep down that he had to, felt at least something for you.

That was the problem. You were in love with him, cared deeply about him, cared more about him than anyone else you'd ever had in your life. On the night you finally slept together you were happy, you thought he felt the same way, and then the next day at his premiere you found him in the bathroom with Countess bent over a sink. The fight that followed had been your resignation from Payback and also the reason why you weren't there when Ben died.

Your jaw clenches together at the memory, followed by guilt. You were always there for him, you had his back just as he had yours, but the one time you hadn't been there-

You open the door to look at them. "The singer?"

"What?" Agent Butcher looks confused.

"The artist? Soulja Boy-" You arch a brow feigning confusion. "Because honestly I don't understand why the CIA would be asking me about that."

“No.” Agent Butcher holds up a photo.

You keep your face impassive. It’s a photo of Ben and you at a movie premiere the week before he left to go to Nicaragua. Both of you were standing in your supe suits, your own was a sleeveless black one piece suit with purple embellishments that traced from the sides of your ankles and stretched up under your armpits, while a dark hood covered your head and a black mask hid the bottom of your face. You always thought you looked more like a supervillain in it, but you were thankful that it hid your identity. It was so long ago, but you still remember that night clearly. The ridiculous movie, the afterparty where everyone was so tipsy and the smell of alcohol burned against your nose, and finally when you went to the bathroom and found Ben and Countess together, the immeasurable rage followed by heartbreak that you felt when you saw them.  Not to mention the fight that followed when Ben trampled all over your heart and stated that you meant nothing to him.

“You’re here to talk to me about my mom?” You flit your eyes back to the two men standing in the doorway, easily slipping into the lie that you and Legend invented.

“Your mom?” Agent Campbell looks confused.

“Yeah. Indigo? I mean y’all can come in if you want-“ You open the door wider, understanding that they won't leave, before you begin to move towards the kitchen. “I apologize in advance. I’m not quite myself, I was up late working.” You pause halfway into the kitchen. “I’m going to make some coffee, you guys want some?” You eye the man in the black coat. "Or tea?"

“Coffee is fine."

You find the coffee filters and shuffle through the cupboards to find a bag of coffee, still trying to wake up. Staying up late wasn't unusual for you. You tended to find the urge to create in the wee hours of the morning, not to mention everything that happened in the past kept you up.

You open the bag of coffee to smell the grounds, thinking that it will wake you up, but as soon as you do the smell of Agent Butcher and Agent Campbell washes over you.

You could smell the compound V in their veins pumping through their bodies with every beat of their hearts.

So, they're supes. You think to yourself, pouring the grounds into the coffeemaker. Which means they probably aren't from the CIA.

Despite the realization, you weren't worried. Your particular ability was a well-kept secret, a secret that only Ben knew despite you being on Payback. Stan Edgar and the others had believed that "Indigo," the hero name assigned to you, had enhanced strength and senses, but it was more than that. You had an ability that, if brought to the public, would probably land you in a government facility. Laying low had it's perks, your freedom was one of them.

You watch them begin to walk around your living room examining the artifacts of your new life, the one you crafted when everything fell apart. There wasn't anything in the living room to arouse suspicion that you were the original Indigo. The only remnants of your past life that remained were in a wooden trunk at the back of your walk in closet, hidden behind a collection of paint splattered overalls almost identical to the pair you were wearing right now.

"You've got a nice place." The younger guy says looking around.

"Thanks. It's rent controlled. I got lucky-" You fiddle with the coffeemaker to buy yourself some time.

Why were they here to ask me about Ben? It had been 40 years, hardly seems relevant now. And why were they pretending to be CIA?

"You're an artist?" Agent Butcher asks, staring at the canvas sitting on an easel by your desk. It was a collection of multicolored dark greens that swirled together, flecked with pieces of gold that shone in the brilliant sunlight from the wall of windows where your studio was.

"Yeah. And I tend to paint my best at night. Hence the coffee" You turn, placing your hands on the island to face the two men.

“You’re really good.” Agent Campbell says examining some of the canvases on the wall.

“Thanks.”

“So your mum eh?” Agent Butcher turns to look at you. You note the smirk on his face and incredulous raising of his brow.

He doesn't believe me. Hard not to. I don't age.

“Yes?” You raise an eyebrow to challenge him

“You look a lot like her.”

“Thanks. I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.” You look from Butcher to the younger guy who has moved on to look at your vinyl collection. "And I'm pretty sure that most kids look like their parents. But I'm not a geneticist."

"NO WAY! You have a signed copy of Billy Joel's Glass House!" Agent Campbell shouts holding up the vinyl cover in awe.

"Yeah." You can't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

"How did you-“

"Hughie." Agent Butcher sighs.

The younger guy now identified as Hughie puts the record back with a frown, before turning back to the collection.

“But you have the same name.” Agent Butcher's eyes flit to yours.

“She named me after herself. I’m sure the CIA can locate my birth certificate."

“Right.” Agent Butcher smiles, but it’s tight lipped.

You stand there for another minute looking from Agent Butcher to Hughie, trying to think of why they're here. "So what do you want to know?”

“Well is your mum around-“

You allow your shoulders to droop and take in a shaky breath. "She died about a year ago. Cancer."

They weren't the first to come here and accuse you of being Indigo. Legend and you had come up with the farce to protect you, help you start over, but you hadn't wanted to part with your name. So other precautions were put in place: a funeral plot was purchased and a death certificate was issued as was a fake passport, I.D, and birth certificate that made you thirty two rather than over one hundred.

“Really? I thought Indigo-“ It’s enough to make Hughie turn around and look at you.

“Don’t read everything Vought says." You interrupt. "That experimental shit they put in her veins may have made her powerful, but it couldn’t protect her from that.” You sigh again to sell the lie, before turning to the coffee maker, to pour them and yourself a cup. "There should be some milk in there, sugar's in the bowl." You gesture to the refrigerator and the small blown glass sugar bowl on the counter next to the coffee maker.

Hughie moves into the kitchen to pour himself a cup, but Agent Butcher continues to eye you suspiciously.

“It wasn’t in the news.” He grunts.

“They covered it up pretty well. I mean do you blame them? One of the first supes gets killed by something like cancer. Can’t be good for Vought given they pride themselves on showcasing unstoppable heroes. I mean can you imagine if Homelander or Queen Maeve died of something like cancer? Doesn’t look good.” You shrug your shoulders and take a sip from the coffee in your hands. “What did you want to talk to her about?”

“Soldier Boy.” Butcher moves to the coffeemaker and it takes a strong amount of willpower to stop the urge to turn towards him, but you know that you need to act indifferent.

“Did she talk to you at all about him?” Hughie moves to one of the bar stools on the opposite side of the island with his coffee in front of him.

“Yeah.” You look down at the mug with a sigh, rolling the warm glass between your hands. “He really did a number on her. Plus towards the end she started seeing him everywhere."

The emotion that you summon is not fake. You allow a small amount to trickle over the dam you built to protect yourself from falling back into the pit you fell into when Ben broke your heart and then died. When you broke every piece of glass in your apartment and threw your couch through the wall.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Hughie looks sincere when he says it.

Why is someone like him hanging out with this guy? You think to yourself eyeing Agent Butcher again.

“It’s been hard. But I took care of her, sometimes it was only me. It’s kind of hard to restrain an 103 year old with super strength.” You smile to yourself at the joke.

“So you’re a supe?” Hughie takes a sip from his coffee mug.

“No I was just able to talk her down. Guess that first batch of Compound V doesn’t work the same way. Never transferred. Plus my dad wasn’t a supe so maybe it just diluted.” You shrug, the lies weaving easily through the air. 

“But she did talk to you about him?” Agent Butcher presses. He's leaning against the counter to your left.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“I mean what do you want to hear? There’s a lot.” The mug sends a pleasant warmth through your hands as you hold it, but does little to stop the chill of the past from creeping up your spine.

“Start at the beginning.”

“Well.” You take another sip of coffee. “I don’t know details-details but- I just know that she grew up with him, they were from the same neighborhood in Philadelphia.  All that shit they made up about Soldier Boy being from a poor family was just propaganda. His dad owned half the steel mills in the state of Pennsylvania. Used to invest in property with my grandfather. Soldier Boy and my mom were friends. When he got the Compound V shot, she did too. They were looking for female and male volunteers. I think he asked her to? Or-“ You shrug your shoulders to push away the memory of the day Ben told you about the experiments. When he told you he was finally going to make something of himself and convinced you to go with him.

“They were dating?” Agent Butcher asks.

The question makes you pause. It was difficult to think about that, difficult to relive the memories of Ben continuing to push you away and his final refusal to admit he loved you. Ben never did say that to you. You had been through so much together, so many years as friends and then after the night you finally were together he threw you away like you meant nothing.

“No, but he really hurt her-“ You avoid their gaze.

“What did he do?” Hughie asks leaning forward on the counter.

“They had been through a lot together and I think when their friendship began to transfer to relationship he pushed her away. My mother said something about him refusing to admit he loved her. I think the last straw when she caught him with Countess.”

“Do you know anything about how he died?”

The memory of the phone call strikes you in the chest, when Stan Edgar himself called to tell you Ben was dead. When the darkness swallowed you whole and all you felt was guilt and heart break over the fight you had and how you left him alone when he needed you most.

“It hurt my mother a lot. Broke her. She never really got over him, no one was good enough, not even my dad. She drove him away too and then it was just us.”

“Was she there when Soldier Boy died?” Hughie spins the coffee mug in his hands.

“No. She left Payback  before that mission. It was right after she caught Countess and him together.” You force a shrug. “I think she regretted not being there. She was almost as indestructible as him, but I think she felt worse because they had a big fight right before.”

“So she didn’t know about Nicaragua or the thing that killed him?” Agent Butcher raises an eyebrow.

You cock your head to the side feigning confusion. “What are you talking about? Soldier Boy got vaporized in a nuclear explosion.”

“Well I think we’ve wasted enough of your time.”

They get up to leave.

“Wait-“

 Agent Butcher turns to look at you. 

“Why are you asking me about him? It's been what? Forty years since he died-"

"That's classified love. Thank you for your time."

You watch them leave, but listen to them as they walk down the hallway.

“So do you believe her?” Hughie’s voice echoes in your ears.

“Not a bit. Maybe we trail her for a day. See if she really is an artist." Agent Butcher grunts. "At least until we go to Russia."

Russia? Why would they go to Russia?

You stand there for a second, holding the coffee mug in your hands. As you do the memories of the past 90 years wash across your mind, breaking through the damn that you built to protect yourself.

You were friends for years. You loved him since the moment you met. There were good times before the serum and then the bad, when he got famous and you were there to keep him in check. Sure you may have annoyed him, but he liked that about you, that you were able to bring him back from the edge. The day you finally had sex you remembered it, it was special, or you thought it was. You were excited that finally he loved you as much as you loved him. But then it all fell apart. That fight hadn’t been pretty. When you left him you felt yourself begin to slip, you didn’t eat or drink for days and when you finally got the phone call you thought it was him trying to apologize, but it was Stan.

You think again about Russia and finally your mind drifts to Countess.

She was the one that said that the Russians killed Ben, she saw it happen, saw his body get taken away-

Your jaw clenches together in anger and frustration as you remember the last time you saw her, when she taunted you and you almost ripped off her head. You never heard it directly from her that Ben was dead, only heard it from Stan. Of course the ridiculous funeral for Ben that you were expected to go to would mean that you saw her, but you hadn't gone, didn't want to keep up the charade. Instead you went to Philadelphia and walked the streets aimlessly with a bottle of whiskey in your hand, remembering what it was like when you were kids. Sometimes you think it all would have been different if you never got the injection, if you said no when he showed up in your bedroom and asked you to come with him. He was your oldest friend. The only real person you'd ever loved or cared about. The memory of the fight rings in your ears but you push it down.

You think again about Countess.  She was the reason why Ben and you had the fight. The reason you weren't there in Nicaragua. Regret spikes in your chest. You should have been there that day, should have tried to save him. You always had each others backs and the one time you weren't there he died.

Maybe it was time to pay her a visit.

Thank you for reading! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know :)

Taglist: @roseblue373

[ggukvnly]

☾ In His Silence ☽ ║ JJK

❥ synopsis; they were just classmates, just friends, or so Y/n thought, but when Jungkook is gone and his letters surface, everything she believed begins to crumble under the weight of his silent love.

❥ genre; silent love, heartbreak, unanswered feelings, hidden truths

❥ pairing; jungkook x reader

❥ warnings; emotional intensity, bittersweet tones

❥ word count; 3k+

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

That stale kind of quiet only dust and memory could weave together.

Y/N coughed once as she pushed open the creaking door, her hand brushing cobwebs from the wooden beam above her head. The late March sun filtered in through a narrow window, warm and tired, casting soft shadows across boxes that hadn't been touched in years.

She didn't expect to feel anything.

Not here.

Not after all this time.

But something about returning—stepping back into a place where the past still lingered in corners and cracks—pulled open a part of her she thought she'd sealed shut.

It was supposed to be a simple weekend.

Pack things. Close chapters. Move on.

Nothing sentimental. That's what she told herself.

Until she found the box.

It was unmarked. No label. Just a worn cardboard shell wedged between an old typewriter and the skeleton of a broken floor lamp. Curiosity pulled her forward, her knees creaking slightly as she knelt down. She tugged the flaps open. Inside was a black journal—worn at the edges, the leather fraying like it had been opened and closed too many times. There was a tiny sticker on the corner. A bunny. Faded, but unmistakable.

Her heart stilled.

No. It can't be.

She pulled it out slowly, fingertips trembling. The cover creaked as she opened the first page, the scent of paper and ink blooming into the air like something sacred. And there it was.

In his handwriting.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

March 3, 2015

To Y/N,

You sat next to me today in Literature. You smelled like peaches and paper. You kept chewing the end of your pen like you were thinking about disappearing. I wanted to ask if you were okay. But I didn't. You looked like you didn't want to be seen today. So I saw you quietly.

– Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

Her vision blurred. She hadn’t seen his handwriting in years.

Not since he...

Not since the funeral.

She curled the journal close to her chest, like it might disappear if she didn't anchor it to her. The wood beneath her knees felt harder now. Her lungs tighter. She knew this journal was meant to stay hidden. But he wasn't here to stop her anymore. So she turned the page.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The first time she really noticed Jungkook, he was sketching something into the corner of his notebook. She had been sitting two desks away in Mr. Do's Literature class, trying not to nod off as they dissected The Great Gatsby for the third week in a row. He always sat alone. Second row, far right. Near the window. Hair always falling into his eyes.

Always quiet.

Polite.

Untouchable.

Not the kind of boy girls fawned over loudly. But the kind who made you look twice and then forget how to look away. They hadn't spoken, not properly. Just those little things—passing pens, accidental brushes of fingertips when handing papers forward. He always nodded but never said anything. She thought he was shy. She didn't know he was writing her letters in a journal he'd never give her.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

March 10, 2015

To Y/N,

You laughed today. Not just smiled, but really laughed. You tilted your head back and clutched your side like the joy was too big for your body. I think that's the moment I knew.

— Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

She turned the page with shaking hands. Her heart was racing, like her young self had just stumbled into the boy with the quiet eyes all over again.

They officially spoke for the first time during a class project. Group of two. Random assignment. She remembered the way he had blinked at her, almost startled. His voice was softer than she expected, lower too. A little shy around the edges.

"I... I'm not great at talking," he said, scratching the back of his neck.

She smiled. "That's okay. I'm not great at listening."

He chuckled then. A sound she didn't know she'd remember all these years later.

They met at the library to work on the project every Thursday. She always brought snacks. He always brought silence. But it was a comfortable one, filled with scribbled notes, light banter, and the soft scent of his cologne—something like pine and rain and secrets. Sometimes she talked about things without realizing. About her parents. About her favorite books. About how quiet the world felt when she didn't want to be alone but didn't want to be with anyone either.

And he listened.

God, he always listened.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

April 2, 2015

To Y/N,

You told me today that you think people only love loudly. That love is supposed to be shouting from rooftops, chasing through airports, grand gestures and fireworks. But I love like a whisper. I love in the way I remember your coffee order. In the way I notice when you wear new earrings. In the way I write you letters you'll never read.

Does that still count?

— Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

Y/N pressed her palm against the page. It felt warm.

Like maybe his love was still lingering there, beneath her touch.

They never dated.

Not then.

She thought maybe he didn't like her that way.

He thought maybe she could never love someone who hid behind silence.

So they stayed like that.

They hovered in that strange space between almost and never, where glances felt like confessions and brushing hands felt like sin.

Two parallel lines.

Too scared to cross.

One day, a boy asked her out. Someone else. Loud. Confident. Not Jungkook. She said yes. Jungkook nodded when she told him, face unreadable.

He never asked her to stay.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

May 22, 2015

To Y/N,

You wore yellow today. Like sunlight. Like summer. I wanted to tell you that it looked like poetry on you. But instead, I watched you hold someone else's hand.

And wrote this instead.

— Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

She remembered that day. She remembered how Jungkook smiled when he passed her in the hallway—but it never reached his eyes. Back then, she didn't understand. Now, the truth sat heavy in her lungs.

She read for hours. The sun shifted. Dust danced through the beams of light. And the journal kept unfolding like a slow, unraveling heart. She was older now. Wiser. Lonelier in some quiet way she hadn't noticed until now. And as she sat there, curled into the bones of her past, she realized something devastating: She had never truly known the boy who once sat beside her in silence. But he had known her.

Deeply.

Completely.

Quietly.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Some people fall in love like fireworks.

Jeon Jungkook fell in love like dusk.

Slow. Faint. Lingering.

And then, suddenly, everywhere.

He used to time his mornings so that he'd arrive just a few steps behind her at the school gates. Not too close to seem intentional—but never far enough to miss the way she tugged at the straps of her backpack, or the way her fingers curled into her sweater sleeves when the air was still cool. He memorized the sound of her laugh before he ever earned it. And every time she smiled at him—those soft, polite smiles that didn't yet know the weight they carried—he felt something loosen in his chest and pull tighter all at once.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

June 2, 2015

To Y/N,

You asked me once why I don't talk much. I wanted to say, "Because I'm scared that if I start, everything will come out. All at once." Scared that you'll hear how my voice shakes when I look at you. How every word I'd say would taste like your name. But instead, I just smiled.

And you didn't ask again.

— Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

He kept the journal in the back pocket of his backpack.

Always near. Never out in the open.

He wrote between classes. At night. On the bus. In the quiet hour between dinner and sleep when his chest felt full with things he couldn't say out loud. And slowly, his days began to orbit around her.

When her eyes looked tired, he noticed.

When her shoes looked worn, he noticed.

When she sat in the library for an hour after school, chewing the end of her pen and staring at her notebook like it had betrayed her—he noticed.

He never interrupted. But he never missed a thing.

She never saw the way his eyes lingered a beat longer on the strands of hair that slipped across her cheek.

She never saw the way he smiled to himself when she ranted about her favorite books, gesturing wildly with her hands.

She never saw him pause when she looked sad—as if he was calculating the perfect words that might make her feel less alone.

Words he never spoke.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

June 14, 2015

To Y/N,

You cried today. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind that hides in the corners of your eyes. The kind that thinks no one notices. I did. I wanted to ask, "What's wrong?" But I was scared you'd say, "Nothing."

So I wrote this instead.

— Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

They were young .

And love, to them, still meant grand gestures.

Loud confessions. Fireworks and chaos.

But Jungkook didn't fall like that. He fell like shadows stretching longer at sunset.

A gradual ache.

A hush in the room.

The boy she dated that summer had a motorcycle and a cocky grin. He wore cologne too strong and had a habit of speaking like every word was a punchline.

Jungkook hated him.

Not because he was wrong for her. But because she smiled like sunlight around him.

And Jungkook—he only ever made her laugh in the quiet.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

July 5, 2015

To Y/N,

He makes you laugh louder. I know that's supposed to be a good thing. But tonight, I can't sleep. Not because I'm jealous of him. But because I'm terrified you'll never see the way I love you in silence. You deserve a voice louder than my own. And still... I hope you hear me.

— Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

He started avoiding her. Not out of anger. But because the ache became too much. Every time she smiled at him, it felt like swallowing glass.

Because she didn't know.

Because she couldn't know.

Because to tell her would ruin everything he still had of her—however little it was.

So he stayed quiet.

And wrote more.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

August 3, 2015

To Y/N,

I saw you at the corner store today. You were humming something under your breath. Something soft. I think it was that song you always play in the library. You were barefoot in slippers. Holding strawberry milk. You didn't see me.

But I saw you. And for a moment, I let myself pretend you were mine.

— Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

Then came the library moment. She had just broken up with the boy. He didn't know the details. But that afternoon, she sat on the floor between rows of books, hugging her knees to her chest, her hair half-tied and falling out in loose strands. She wasn't crying loudly. It was that quiet grief again. The one he'd memorized. He walked past her aisle. Paused. Walked back. He crouched beside her, wordless. And gently—so gently—offered her his sleeve. She blinked up at him. He smiled. She tried to return it. Failed. Then broke all over again. And he sat there beside her for an hour, saying nothing.

Just breathing with her.

Matching her silence.

Because sometimes, silence is all someone needs to feel understood.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

September 10, 2015

To Y/N,

You leaned on my shoulder today. You probably didn't mean anything by it. But I stayed completely still. Because I didn't want to break the moment. You felt like gravity. Soft and heavy. Like the world made sense if I just stayed right there. You said thank you when you left. But you didn't know what you were thanking me for. I hope you never do.

Because this ache is mine. And it's the only part of you I get to keep.

— Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

The school year blurred. They studied. They graduated. They drifted. Life swept in like tide pulling sand from under their feet. She went to university in a city two hours away. He stayed in Seoul. Took up art school. Learned how to paint things that didn't speak. But she never really left his thoughts. Some people leave fingerprints on your ribs without ever touching you.

She was that.

She was everywhere.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

January 2, 2016

To Y/N,

It snowed today. I passed our old coffee shop. The one near the bus stop where we used to wait in winter. I saw a girl in a yellow scarf, and for a second, my breath caught. It wasn't you. But my body remembered you before my mind could catch up. Sometimes I think the body grieves more honestly than we do.

— Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

She texted him once that year.

"Happy birthday, JK 🎂 Hope you're doing good."

He read it ten times before replying.

"Thanks. Hope you're doing well too."

He stared at the typing bubble for a full minute. It disappeared.

He never heard from her again. He told himself he was fine.

He dated.

Smiled.

Painted.

Even fell for someone else. Almost.

But he always measured everyone's silence against hers. And no one ever felt quite as loud.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

April 6, 2017

To Y/N,

This will be my last letter. I promised myself I'd stop. You're not mine to write about anymore. But before I let go, I want you to know: Loving you never hurt. It only ached.

Like music that ends before your favorite part.

— Jungkook

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

He folded that final page. Pressed it between two dried petals from the flower she once tucked behind her ear during class. Closed the journal. Put it in a box. And never opened it again.

Until now.

Until her.

Until she sat in that attic, the weight of his words trembling in her palms.

And finally saw the boy who had loved her from a distance so deeply, it made silence feel holy.

⋆⁺₊⋆ Y/n’s POV ⋆⁺₊⋆

The attic was cold. Dust curled in the corners like forgotten breath, and the light from the single overhead bulb swayed gently, as if unsure it wanted to stay. I didn't know what I expected when I pulled open that box. Maybe childhood trinkets. Old art from school. Some half-faded photos, a mixtape, a broken phone. But I didn't expect this.

A journal.

Worn. Frayed around the edges. Black leather. Heavy with time. It smelled like old paper and something faintly floral. Like years. Like memories I didn't know I had permission to hold. And inside—

Me.

Every page. Every entry. Every word—

Was me.

My name written in strokes that trembled with care. Moments I hadn't even realized were noticed. Days I had long since forgotten. The softest versions of myself—curled up in between math classes and library hours—preserved in ink that bled too close to the edges.

And him.

Jungkook.

His thoughts. His longing. His love.

Unsaid. Unshared.

Until now.

I sat there for what felt like hours.

Reading.

Weeping.

Reading again.

His handwriting changed over time. From sharp and stiff to loose, desperate, almost frantic near the end. Like he was trying to outrun the ache in his own chest. The boy I once thought was so quiet—so unknowable—had loved me with a voice so loud it filled every page of that journal. And I'd never heard it. I felt sick. Grateful. Heartbroken. His voice — the sound I had never heard enough — now haunted every corner of my mind. The words he never said aloud filled the silence like a storm: "I love you." He had loved me in silence, fiercely and quietly. But silence had become the space where he slipped away.

I sat down at the table, the scattered letters in front of me trembling in the faint light. His handwriting, so precise and delicate, traced the contours of my heart in ink.

"If you're reading this, it means I'm no longer there to say it to you myself. But love like this... it doesn't fade. It doesn't die."

Tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting.

How could love that once felt like a lifeline now feel like a weight dragging me into darkness?

"I held the letter close, as if my fingers could pull him back from the quiet place where even love could no longer reach — the boy who had loved me silently, the man who now belonged to the stars."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The days that followed were a blur.

Friends and family moved around me like shadows, their words distant and hollow. I felt numb, as if part of me had been ripped away and left an echoing emptiness in its place. I returned to the apartment once, needing to feel close to him one last time. I sat on the floor, surrounded by the things he'd left behind — the sketches of places we'd never go, the worn-out notebooks filled with unfinished dreams. I whispered his name into the silence, aching for an answer that would never come.

In the quiet of the night, when the world was asleep and my tears had finally run dry, I found his last letter — the one he never sent but left tucked away in a drawer.

"Y/N, my love — if you are reading this, it means I have lost the fight inside me. But please know, my heart was always yours. I loved you in silence because I was scared to lose you with words I couldn't promise. Forgive me for leaving you this way."

I cried until there were no tears left, until my body ached with the weight of what was lost. But even in the despair, I felt a strange comfort — that his love had never been silent in truth, only in sound. That it had lived inside him, and now inside me.

Time passed, but the ache never softened. I learned to live with the silence, carrying him in the quiet moments — a heartbeat in the stillness. I would sometimes sit beneath the stars, searching the sky for the boy who had loved me without words.

And I would whisper back to the darkness,

"I love you too."

Because love like that — silent, unspoken, impossible to hold — still shapes the edges of a broken heart.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Not all love stories have happy endings.

Some are meant to echo in silence,

To live in the spaces between words,

And to remind us, even in loss, of the power of a love that never dies.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

To Jungkook, the boy who loved me in silence — I will carry you forever, in every quiet breath, in every fragile moment, in every broken piece of my heart.

[hetacon]

Zora May 2025 prompts: Music, Festival

Would y’all believe me if I said this isn’t even my main Zora May piece? Ok, for those of you that have been with me for a bit, you probably do lol

It seems I’ve made a zora band! I had this idea because it's a part of my Sidlink animatic that I’ve mentioned a few times. There's going to be a scene in it of some sort of festival being held in the domain and I knew I wanted a group of zoras playing music for it, so I started doing some research and here we are!! The group consists of Marot on tambourine, Mei on harp, Tona on flute, Cleff on violin, and Laflat on conch! (Also if you guys remember my Sidlink drawing from Linktober this past year, that piece and this piece are from the same scene! Makes sense considering the prompt for that one was also music :D)

This really was supposed to be simple but simple is clearly not in my vocabulary! Originally I’d been saying that I didn’t need to go so hard on this but when I was talking about it in therapy a couple weeks ago and said that, my therapist legitimately told me, as soon as that had left my mouth: “Yes you did” 😂 She didn’t even hesitate for a second and she said it in the most dead-set tone I have ever heard, it low-key cracked me up! Though to be fair, her reasoning for that was genuinely really solid because she pointed out that this is a concept I've been working on for nearly a year and a half, so of course I was going to dedicate a lot of effort to making this, even though it's just a concept piece

Anyways, as usual I have a lot of thoughts so I'll put some more of my explanation under the cut as well as some more design concepts! I’ve actually figured out the designs for 3 of the instruments already so I recommend you take a look! (And there may be something related to the previously mentioned Sidlink piece in there as well 👀)

Something I find interesting is I had come up with the instruments I wanted back in February of 2024 and had actually figured out who I wanted to play each of them in November, meaning I'd decided on this months before I started designing my zora oc and thinking a lot about the Marot Mart dynamics, so it's kind of funny that all of them except for Laflat are part of the Coral Reef Crew or are Coral Reef Crew-adjacent (with Tona being Cleff's sister)! It was completely unintentional, but it coincidentally makes a lot of sense that they would form a group considering they spend a decent amount of time together!

I’ll get into it more when I eventually make a post with the finished designs for all the instruments but one of the main things I tried to think about was what sorts of instruments the zoras would make based on what specific resources are native to them and what materials they commonly work with! You guys know me, there was a lot of research put into this idea, and I’m so happy seeing it start to take shape beyond just a handful of words written on a page in my sketchbook!

I don't have all of the designs for the instruments finalized yet but I did manage to work out approximately what the tambourine, conch, and violin will look like. The latter two are pretty much done aside from maybe a couple tweaks on the violin, but I still need to figure out the pattern I want on the tambourine head cause it looks really empty compared to the rest of the design

But anyways yeah, here’s a version of the band without the background and the designs for some of the instruments, as well as some basic concept sketches for Link/Wild’s festival outfit as a bonus! :)

Also I just wanted to mention that I was originally going to tell y’all that I wasn't sure what I wanted to call the band and ask if you guys had any ideas or suggestions but as I was looking through a glossary of music terminology, "The Luminous Tones" (as a play on words of luminous stones since, you know, they're something the zoras use in a lot of their architecture) suddenly popped into my head and at first I thought that was kind of silly but then the idea got stuck in my head and no other name will feel right now, so I guess the Luminous Tones it is!

[celandeline]

Things Have Changed Pt. 3 (Carl Grimes X Reader)

Part 3 of 9. We're picking up the pace a little in this part, things are getting a little steamy - don't worry though! We have plenty of parts left before things get actually raunchy.

It’s become something of a tradition for the members of the council (and some of the other, more senior, members of the community in general) to meet at Aaron’s house on Friday nights. After a hard week (and they’re all hard weeks, with the way the world is nowadays) it’s nice to know that you’ll have a few hours of true relaxation and enjoyment, drinking Ben’s moonshine and playing dumb board games with the people that you’re closest to. 

It’s Pictionary tonight, which Aaron had seemed so excited about before you’d started playing. Now, he keeps making more and more urgent noises, gesturing to the crude drawing on his page as the little hourglass runs out of sand. Across the table from him, Ben throws his hands up before slamming them down on the table, shouting. “I don’t fucking know, man!”

The timer thoroughly done, Aaron groans. “How did you guess every animal but horse!”

Ben’s mouth drops open into a loud guffaw. “That’s supposed to be a horse?” 

A chorus of laughs go around the room, and you can’t help but giggle yourself, bringing your mason jar of moonshine and iced tea (mostly iced tea, given Ben’s moonshine is a bit too strong for your taste) back to your lips. You’re pleasantly buzzed, on your second jar of the night, and it’s becoming harder and harder to remind yourself to stop staring at Carl, who’s sat across Aaron’s dining room table from you, looking absolutely delicious with his flannel sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He’s forgone the hat tonight, meaning you can appreciate his hair fully; a rare treat. 

“I can’t.” Aaron says, passing his pen and the pad of paper to you. “Here. Knock yourself out.”

You take the supplies from him and lean towards the center of the table to pull a prompt card from the pile. Careful not to let Carl see, you glance at the word. Ship. Should be easy enough. “Ready?” You look up from the card to make eye contact with him across the table. 

“Born.” He responds, nodding at you. 

Aaron flips the timer, and you start, arcing the pen across the paper in a rough sketch of a pirate ship. Carl watches you carefully, eye following your every move. “Boat?” He guesses. You rapidly shake your head and begin working on the sail of your drawing. You’re not ever half finished when he guesses again. “Ship?”

You nod and quickly grab another card. Ladybug. Moving to a clean area of the page you start your next work, looping the pen in a circle. As quickly as you can, you add legs and a head, and Carl begins his guesses. “Bug? No- beetle?” You shake your head, quickly adding the tell-tale dots to the body of the critter. “Ladybug!” He grins triumphantly when you nod. 

Pulling another card from the stack you start anew. Bark. A bit more difficult. But you start again, this time whipping together what you hope is a passable dog. Your fears are assuaged when Carl guesses - “Dog?” - but you shake your head and keep going, drawing lines extending from the creature's mouth, hopefully to indicate noise. Carl blinks at the drawing for a moment, and you circle your lines insistently. “Oh- bark!” 

“This is ridiculous.” Ben mutters as you reach for another card. 

You glance at the timer to see it nearly empty - you’re going to have to be quick with this one if you want to get the point. Chimney. Simple enough. As fast as you can, you start on a house, which has Carl guessing - “House? Home?” and draw one line of the chimney before the timer finishes and Aaron slams a hand down on the table. 

“Done!” He says, plucking the pen from your hand. 

“It was chimney.” You say, tossing the card back with the others. “Still,” You extend a hand across the table with a grin. “Nice job team.”

Carl returns your smile and your high-five, and you try to ignore the way your stomach flutters at the simple contact. Damn these drinks. 

“It’s unfair.” Ben gripes, nursing his own cup. “How many points are they ahead now, seven? Eight?” 

“Eight.” Alice, who's taken the seat at the head of the table and thus volunteered to keep score, confirms. 

Ben throws a hand up in the air again. “How can me and fuckin’ Picasso,” He snarks at Aaron. “Be expected to compete with the telepathic couple over here!” He levels a finger at Carl, shifting in his seat to stare him down. “You’re cheating, somehow I know it.”

“You’re just embarrassed that you’re worse at this than the guy with one eye.” Carl shoots back, a grin on his face as he sips at his drink. 

“Exactly!” Ben says. “This kid can’t even fuckin’ see and he’s still winning!” He levels a finger at you now. “I’m motioning to not let you and him partner up on game night anymore, it’s downright unfair advantage.”

You busy yourself with your own drink, and try not to let your mind run too far with the way Ben had so easily referred to you and Carl as a couple. He hadn’t meant it like that surely, but hearing it slip so simply from his lips… You pass the pen and pad to Gabriel, on your other side, and the game starts again as Aaron flips the little hourglass. “I withhold the right to choose my own partner for game night.” You set your drink down. 

Ben rolls his eyes. “Have you ever partnered up with anyone but Carl?”

“Not my fault you old farts are no fun- and!” You gesture to Aaron beside you. “Aaron and I partnered up-”

“Yeah when Carl wasn’t here.” Ben snarks. 

“Alright, alright.” Aaron placates, chuckling. “Lets not start name-calling.”

You stick your tongue out at him before returning to your drink. You catch Carl’s eye from across the table and he grins, pulling a face at the back of Ben’s head when he looks away. The pen and paper is passed around the table a few more times, and you get a third drink, nursing it as the night continues. It’s fully dark outside when the conversation and game finally dwindles to a stop. You finish off your drink as you do the rounds, saying goodbye and getting your last few jibes in at Ben (which he takes good-naturedly and gives a few more back). You approach Carl last, intending to just say a quick goodnight before your moonshine-fueled thoughts make you do something stupid like try to kiss him. 

“I’ll see you around-?”

“I’ll walk you back.” He cuts you off, completely talking over you. “Sorry.” He quickly amends, grinning sheepishly. 

“No sweat.” You say, stomach fluttering. “Let me grab my jacket.”

You move to retrieve your jacket from where you’d stashed it, folded across the banister of Aaron’s stairs, and shrug it on. Carl follows you, saying his last goodbyes before you open Aarons front door and step out into the muggy night. He shuts the door behind him, and then you’re alone, with only the empty Alexandria streets for company. 

“We absolutely dominated.” You break the silence, grinning at him as you step off Aaron’s porch. 

“Hell yeah we did.” Carl grins back at you, tucking his hands into his pockets as you begin to walk down the street, heading back towards your homes. “We make a good team.”

You know he doesn’t mean it like that. You know he doesn’t. But you still have to stop your tipsy mind from taking that simple admission and running with it. If Carl had any sort of… feelings about you, you’re sure you would have noticed. Not that it’s even really a possibility given the fact that you made a point of hating him when you first met. If you could only go back in time and talk to your fifteen year old self…

“Do you think they’re actually going to stop us from playing as a team?” 

His voice brings you back to reality and you glance over at him to find him already looking at you. “They better not.” You laugh. “You think I want to sacrifice our winning streak to have to sit through Ben’s bad jokes?”

That gets him to laugh. “God, he was on something tonight.” He says. He pauses, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Do you think he actually thinks we’re a couple?” He asks, chuckling softly. 

It simultaneously relaxes you, that he also noticed Ben’s slip of the tongue, and makes your stomach flutter, that he’s bringing it up. You laugh a little, echoing his chuckle. “I don’t know, I mean…” You trail off. You didn’t deny it, and neither did he. And you can see how, from the outside looking in, you might appear like a couple. You do hang out with Carl pretty often, and tend to gravitate towards him in group settings. Normally you would have just chalked it up to being the only two people in your age bracket in the community, but you know that’s not the truth anymore. “I guess he wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t.” 

“Yeah.” Carl says, the word barely more than a breath leaving his lips. You can feel him looking at you, but you keep your gaze steadfastly forward, your heart already beating too fast with just the knowledge of his eye on you. “Do you ever… think about it?”

It catches you off guard completely, and your gaze snaps to him. But now he’s looking ahead, face partially curtained by his hair. 

“Sorry.” He says quickly. “I-”

“Sometimes.” You say, cutting him off. Maybe it’s that you’d been drinking, or maybe its that the honesty just feels right. “I mean its…” You pause. “You’re the only person that is my age here, and I’ve known you for a while, right? It’s not crazy to think about, I think.” You trail off softly. 

“Yeah.” He says, sounding almost relieved. “It’s like… sometimes I feel like you’re the only person left in this place that I can actually talk to. Or that knows me, really.”

You understand him completely. There’s something about your age that separates you from the rest of the people in Alexandria. You’re not young enough that you don’t remember the old world, but you’re not old enough that you lived most of your life pre-outbreak. It means you understand each other in ways that some of the people around you dont. “God, yeah.” You say, laughing a little. 

A silence falls between you then as you approach the Grimes’ house. One of the upstairs windows still bears light - no doubt Judith waiting for Carl to come home before she goes to bed. Carl’s steps slow as you approach his porch, and you find yourself stopping with him, not really wanting the conversation to end. You turn to look at him, only to find him already looking at you, and for a moment you just let yourself take him in in the dim light streaming from the windows of his house. Absently, you realize that he can see you, watching him. 

“Sorry.” You say. 

“For what?” His lips curl upwards into a smile. 

“Staring.” 

“S’okay.” Carl says softly. “I am too.”

It’s all the permission you need to let yourself keep watching, noticing how his gaze dips down to the collar of your shirt for a moment before finind your face again. He takes a step forward, lessening the distance between you, and you let him. He takes another step forward, leaving you almost chest to chest, and still you let him, more focused on trying to reign in the rapid pounding of your heart. It’s all too much - the drinks, the conversation, now this. “Are you trying to kiss me?”

“Yeah.” Carl says, still grinning. “If that’s cool with you.”

You nod, pressing forward to close the last bit of distance between you. “It’s cool with me.” You breathe, eyes fluttering shut. 

Your lips meet tentatively at first, almost hesitant to abandon the last semblance of boundary between you. But you feel him sigh into it, like he’s been waiting for this to happen and your brain shuts off. All that exists now is the soft feeling of his lips against yours and the way that he licks into your mouth when you deepen the kiss, pushing it past just a chaste brushing of lips. It’s all made even better when you feel him fist into the back of your shirt, holding onto the fabric like you’ll melt away the moment he lets go. 

You don’t know how long you just stand there, feeling him. Kissing him. Filling up on all the little touches he litters across your back and shoulders, on all the soft sighs that escape when you pull back for air. The moment only ends when the light from Judith’s bedroom turns off, dousing you fully in darkness. 

Carl pulls away, glancing towards the house. “I should-”

“Yeah.” You say, a little breathless. “I should probably head home too.”

You step away, and it’s almost tortuous, feeling his hands slip from where they’d made home on your back. You can barely see him now that the light’s gone, but you smile anyway, whispering a soft goodnight as you peel away to head towards your home.

“‘Night.” He whispers back.

[previous part] [next part]

[saymonsays]

‎2 — Solving for X (and Maybe Love)

‎

pairing: kwon jiyong x reader

ep 1 | | ep 3

‎Summary: She’s a popular girl who hates math. He’s the quiet genius no one notices. When she’s forced to get tutoring—and he’s assigned as her tutor—their worlds crash into each other. She’d rather fail than accept help. He’d rather disappear than be noticed. It’s slow, it’s messy, it’s unspoken—but it’s real. In a classroom full of numbers, they might be solving for something they never expected: each other.

‎‎Tags: slow burn, highschool romance, opposites attract, art vs math, chaotic friendships, banter, wholesome chemistry, just fluff

‎

‎“Things I Can’t Say Out Loud”

‎

‎Empty Classroom – After School

‎

‎You were already at the desk, sketching absentmindedly in your notebook when Jiyong walked in.

‎

‎“Hey,” you said without looking.

‎

‎“Hey,” he echoed, quieter.

‎

‎He sat beside you, pulled out his books like always. But something felt… different. Slower. Warmer.

‎

‎After a few minutes of silent scribbling (you: a cat riding a skateboard, him: formulas), he cleared his throat.

‎

‎“I, uh…” he began.

‎

‎You looked up.

‎

‎“I wanted to say… thank you again. For the hallway. The other day.”

‎

‎You rolled your eyes. “Didn’t we go over this?”

‎

‎“I know. I just… I don’t say stuff like that. Not well.”

‎

‎You looked at him—really looked.

‎He wasn’t just quiet. He was careful. Like he had walls, not because he was cold—but because he’s been let down before.

‎

‎He opened his notebook, hesitated, then turned it toward you.

‎

‎Your eyes widened.

‎

‎There was a drawing on the page.

‎Sort of.

‎

‎It was… an attempt of a flower. Slightly lopsided. The petals were uneven, the stem was kind of a sad line, but the effort was there. Underneath it, in tiny neat letters:

“I tried. For you.”

‎

‎You stared at it. Then at him.

‎

‎“…You tried to draw for me?” you asked slowly.

‎

‎He nodded, not meeting your eyes.

‎

‎You bit your lip—hard—to stop yourself from smiling.

‎

‎“It’s awful,” you said gently.

‎

‎“I know,” he replied.

‎

‎“But it’s also…” You paused. “Kind of everything.”

‎

‎That made him glance up. His ears were red.

‎

‎You carefully tore out the page and tucked it into your sketchbook like it was a museum piece.

‎

‎“I’m keeping this forever.”

‎

‎“You really don’t have to—”

‎

‎“I’m absolutely going to.”

‎

‎And then, silence. The good kind. The kind where you both breathe at the same rhythm, even without meaning to.

‎

‎Jiyong opened his notebook again. Then stopped.

‎

‎“…Can I tell you something?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

‎

‎You turned to him, still holding the drawing like it was sacred. “You just did.”

‎

‎He smiled, just barely.

‎

‎“But yeah,” you added, softer now. “You can.”

‎

‎He looked down at his page, fingers tense.

‎

‎“…Sometimes, I feel like everyone’s talking around me. Not to me. Like I’m… invisible unless they need an answer.”

‎

‎You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you picked up your pen, flipped to a blank page, and drew something fast—simple, clean.

‎

‎It was a boy, hoodie up, surrounded by people. None of them saw him.

‎

‎But in the corner, a girl sat on a table, drawing.

‎And she was looking right at him.

‎

‎You turned the page to show him.

‎

‎“I see you,” you said.

‎

‎And in that moment, Jiyong didn’t need math to understand what that meant.

‎—————

‎School Library – Late Afternoon

‎

‎You weren’t supposed to be here this late.

‎But Saebom got detention (again), and the driver was late, and your phone was at 2%.

‎

‎So you were at your usual table, curled into a corner, sketching a wolf wearing sunglasses.

‎

‎And then—he walked in.

‎

‎Jiyong. Hoodie up, satchel slung across his chest, looking like a stray thought.

‎

‎He spotted you.

‎

‎Paused.

‎

‎You raised a brow. “This seat taken?”

‎

‎He didn’t answer. Just slid into the chair beside you.

‎

‎He smelled like fabric softener and pencil shavings. Familiar now. Comforting.

‎

‎“You draw everywhere,” he said after a while.

‎

‎“I exist everywhere,” you replied.

‎

‎He watched you draw in silence.

‎

‎And then—out of nowhere—he reached into his pencil case and pulled something out.

‎

‎A mechanical pencil.

‎But not just any. It was black and silver, sleek, fancy-looking.

‎

‎He placed it on the table between you.

‎

‎“What’s this?” you asked.

‎

‎“I thought… it might work better than the one you keep chewing on.”

‎

‎You looked at the pencil. Then at him.

‎

‎“…Is this a gift?”

‎

‎“No.”

‎

‎You tilted your head. “Feels like one.”

‎

‎“It’s just… a functional exchange.”

‎

‎You smiled, slow. “Right. Functional.”

‎

‎You picked it up, clicked it once. Twice. The sound filled the silence like thunder.

‎

‎“Don’t lose it,” he muttered.

‎

‎“Why?” you teased. “Is it precious?”

‎

‎He paused. Then, without looking at you:

‎“It was my brother’s.”

‎

‎The world paused.

‎

‎You stopped fidgeting with the pencil.

‎

‎“…You never told me you had a brother.”

‎

‎He nodded. “He’s… not around anymore.”

‎

‎You didn’t push. You didn’t say sorry, because some things don’t need apologies. They just need presence.

‎

‎So instead, you slid your sketchbook toward him.

‎

‎“Draw something.”

‎

‎He blinked. “We already went over this. I can’t draw.”

‎

‎You shrugged. “I still kept the flower, didn’t I?”

‎

‎Reluctantly, he took the pencil. Gripped it awkwardly.

‎

‎Then looked at you. “What should I draw?”

‎

‎You met his gaze.

‎

‎“Whatever you think of… when you think of me.”

‎

‎He froze.

‎

‎Dead silence.

‎Then—you.

‎

‎You felt the air shift. Like the room got smaller, warmer, closer.

‎

‎His eyes flicked down. The pencil started to move.

‎

‎After a minute, he turned the sketchbook back toward you.

‎

‎It was a mess. Scribbly lines. Crooked heart. A vague attempt of… sunglasses?

‎

‎“…Is this the wolf from earlier?” you asked.

‎

‎He nodded. “Cool. Unbothered. Not afraid of anything.”

‎

‎You looked at him.

‎

‎He wasn’t blushing.

‎

‎But he couldn’t meet your eyes, either.

‎

‎Your heart thudded. Loud. Stupid.

‎

‎“Okay,” you said, voice smaller than you meant.

‎

‎You closed the sketchbook, tucking it to your chest like it was gold.

‎

‎And he reached for the pencil—

‎—but you stopped him.

‎

‎“I’m borrowing this,” you said softly. “Indefinitely.”

‎

‎His lips twitched.

‎

‎“I didn’t say you could.”

‎

‎“You didn’t have to.”

‎

‎And for a second—just a second—he looked at you like you were the only thing real in the world.

—

Author's note: sorry this part is kind of short BUT I SWEAR THERE'S ANOTHER PART AFTER THIS LOL this was kind of rushed :')

‎

[voidcat]

— the maker, far away and the muse, ardent

characters: endo yamato, you

notes: this is more in the style of my typical dazai content so iykyk. artist!reader, gender neutral pronouns used. small picture of dorian gray reference. a mini post explaining my vision for this fic basically

Drawing Endo Yamato is a tricky feat.

Despite his simple looks, you realize there are more details to him that meets the eye. Sharp edges and curves, eyes and lashes that cut through, wavy locks of hair that fall with an order to itself.

It is difficult but so is to create. That’s the thing with art, and that’s what you love about it until the very end.

No matter how hard, how detailed something is, no matter how long it’ll take you to reach that level of skill required to make it, it is never impossible.

And so you sit back and keep observing him, smoothing out the page before you, you sharpen your pencil.

Despite the numerous pages adorned with his face, you’ve never spoken with Endo Yamato, not even once. Nor did you feel the need to.

Does god often seek an audience with their followers, does a nature artist eat the apple even after days of mold has accumulated— does everyone kill the thing they love? Or do they just leave it be, to their happiness or misery.

To you he is nothing more than a pretty face, beautiful features and an impressive body, one he uses as his own canvas, recording his life and feelings onto his skin permanently.

Endo Yamato never sits still, as if offering a challenge to you. Another thing that helps you in the long run, your pen begins to hasten, your sketch line improves and you begin to remember and transfer every small detail of a millisecond to paper without breaking a sweat.

It begins piece by piece, part by part. When one thing proves difficult to grasp, you have no choice but to dissect it one by one.

You begin with his structure, how he carries himself and his body. You have confidence in your figure drawing but it takes something extra to show off his pride and nose high up attitude in his posture. You don’t know Endo Yamato all that much but you know enough that you don’t like him or his kind at all.

Then comes the face, the edge of his jaw and the softness to his cheeks despite coming off as thin. It’s the details that prove the real challenge. When drawn apart, be it his eyes or the hooked nose, you’re good. Yet the way they have been placed on his face, you have to remake the dough figurine over and over again. His hair proves a great distraction, you’d suppose it is the real source of your problems. It hides everything characteristic to him, every small detail, the arch of his brows, the wrinkles on his face when he smiles or furrows them, the angle of his nose and how the bridge comes down, the light in his eyes though they are absent majority of the time.

You sketch over and over, the pencil glides off the pages. You change the materials but the subject remains the same. Noticeable changes begin to appear after some time. You’ve lost for how long you’ve been drawing, but it comes natural now.

So you switch up the medium, and try the process from the start with watercolors. The uncontrollable nature of the medium met with the difficult subject growing familiar on your muscles perfectly.

Too perfectly in fact, as you are lost in the thrill of it, that you don’t even notice how time passes nor the shift in scenery unless it contradicts your paintings— and you’re slouching over the papers once more, face contracting in focus as shadows disturb your view and lighting.

When you steal a glance above, you’re met with not a cloud but none other than Endo Yamato himself.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets and his confident yet relaxed posture, he glances down at you and the papers, wearing a smug smile the whole time.

You wait for a moment of breath then divert your attention back to the work before you, adding shadows currently.

You hear him let out a slight grunt, and maybe you’d see his expression shift into something of surprise too, were you to be carefully watching.

“It’s sublime knowing I have a fan.” He says, still not stepping one step to the side, adamant on blocking the light apparently.

His words register far too late for you, you let out a hum at first, “hmm… oh?” The sound fades into surprise on your end, “ah, no, you see-“

You dip the brush into water and to the shades of blue and purple, mixing and lightening the amount of paint on the brush. 

A tapping of feet brings you down to earth and reminds you for once you are not alone in your leisure time of painting.

“Ah… sorry.” You say more as an apology for forgetting he was right there up until a second, “it’s nothing like that.”

Your words take him out like a chain of inconveniences following one after another, building up until you’ve lost your temper.

You don’t notice this either, focus solely on perfecting the shading, calling it another painting done and complete.

To Endo, your nonchalance is odd to say the least. Here he stands, the subject of your attention for many a while now, from what he has seen, and you don’t seem to care one bit. Or is it the paper that is holier than him? Or is this another, albeit looser case of Takiishi, not caring for the people but for their reflections, their end products, what comes out of them and the hand that crafts them into something bigger, brighter.

Along the lines Endo Yamato says to you, you do catch something like ‘having the real thing before you already.’ An enlightenment perhaps, a revelation you didn’t need nor asked for.

So he is a charmer, you think, or tries to be. Considering the things at hand it’s the former most likely— walking up to you without a care in the world as if you’ve interacted before. It takes some sort of confidence, as most charmers carry with them. He is just not trying it to the fullest with you, but is it because he thinks he already holds a part of you in his hand, you’re unsure.

In the short timeframe of thinking over a man you couldn’t care any less, you notice your brush staggering, slowing down. Any more and the drops of water will be too much for the paper, ruining all your hard work on this completely.

“So… listen,” you begin, cutting off whatever he was saying. “If you don’t have anything important to say, would you mind-“ 

You wait and wait for him to catch on. Instead met with empty eyes looking at you with not a single clue inside that brain of his, you let out a sigh.

“The light at this hour is very good and you’re making me lose it minute by minute right now.”

Endo looks at you, in disbelief again. Not the reaction he was expecting and definitely not the words he expected to hear. And compared to how quiet and just shy you sounded up until the last sentence— that last demand, all that timid nature of you dispelled within a second. 

Deflated, he admits his defeat for the time being and leaves, stealing one last glance at the paper.

As the man leaves, you watch his back for a bit, waiting for your brush to dry.

Odd, you think. 

What did he really expect you to do or say? 

You may not know Endo Yamato but all you’ve observed is more than enough to deem him as weird. You are somewhat aware he is filled with burning passion down to his very being but that’s just not who you are as an artist.

The views people have on you, and by extension, on artists has always been far fetched from what you’ve seen.

Must art always be loud and intense, waging war upon any heart that gazes at it? Should you too be destructive and heavy— not all artists see their subject like Basil to Dorian, not all art is an all consuming fire, an endless devotion, a declaration of war. Art can be natural and gentle, like a breeze, like a stream of river.  Love can be accepting and gentle, unifying and kind with the familiarity it brings, the comfort hidden in the routine, as he fails to see.

By the time the painting has come to an end, darkness has fallen. Endo Yamato has already left, and the sunlight soon after him. The sky begins to darken, purple spreads of paint among the clouds. You turn the page and leave today in the past, crossing another thing off the list and moving on.

[ghcstao3]

“…where’d you go, Simon?”

It’s the question that usually snaps Ghost out of wherever his mind has wandered, Soap’s version of grounding him in place when he accidentally drifts off into the void.

This time is no different, as everything slowly returns to focus, and Ghost’s gaze flickers up to meet Soap’s.

“Nowhere,” he says, like usual. With nightmares he might have an answer, but other days it’s just… nothingness.

Curled up against the opposite end of their sofa, knees nearly to his chest as a makeshift perch for his journal, Soap watches Ghost with a soft fondness as he stops scribbling on his open page.

A quaint smile appears on Soap’s face. “Then can you answer me somethin’?”

Ghost doesn’t have to think before nodding. He swallows thickly, staring intently at Soap with his recurring need to memorize every slope and detail as he waits on a question.

Soap shuffles a bit, sitting up higher against the armrest. He sets his pencil aside and flips his journal so Ghost can see what occupies the current pages. His smile grows a little wider, a little brighter.

“What d’you think?“ He asks. “MacTavish-Riley or Riley-MacTavish?”

Ghost’s eyebrows pinch together as he looks down at the journal. On one side, there’s several doodles of interlocked rings and barely legible initials and the rough outline of a couple—presumably them—slow dancing in the middle of it all. The other side contains a plethora of scratched out and rewritten John MacTavish-Riley, John Riley-MacTavish’s, and a few with Simon’s name as well.

He has to keep himself from gawking as his heart climbs in his throat.

“Is this your way of proposing?” Ghost wonders quietly.

Soap shrugs a shoulder in his best impression of someone acting casual—but Ghost can see the slight tremor in his hand as he holds out the journal.

“Maybe it is.”

Ghost’s eyes jump from the pages to Soap’s face and back as if trying to reassure himself he wasn’t imagining it all.

But when the words don’t magically disappear, nor the earnest look on Soap’s face, Ghost takes a deep, centring breath, then huffs.

“Riley-MacTavish sounds better,” he mumbles.

Soap snorts with good humour, returning the journal to its rest against his thighs. “‘Course you’d want your name first, you bastard.”

“Get a second opinion, then.”

Soap is grinning again, more to himself than anything, as he resumes his sketches. He shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says. “You’re right, does sound better.”

Ghost can’t understand how such a big conversation could’ve been made so simple, but he supposes he could always trust Soap to make things easier.

Simon and John Riley-MacTavish. He thinks he may have to toy around with that thought in his own head, too.

[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

How would you design a winged humanoid with pterosaur wings? Would it be similar to bat wings? And could they launch themselves or gallop like pterosaurs can?

I'm answering this with the assumption it's about a winged humanoid who still has "normal" arms alongside the wings. If you go with typical pterosaur wing anatomy, the membrane would go down to the knees and also include another membrane between the legs and tail, which is not ideal for humanoid character design, especially if they're supposed to wear clothes lol. So for the sake of character design, I'll suggest what I did with bat wing humanoids and say the wing membrane ought to attach to the tail instead of the legs.

(image description: two digital sketch pages of simple humanoid figures with pterosaur wings. on the first page, there is also a simple outline sketch of a pterosaur in flight, displaying the shape of the wing arms and long torso. around it, humanoids in standing, crouching, and flying positions share the pterosaur's anatomy with the wing membrane attached to the thigh. in the second image, the humanoid has been redrawn with the wing membrane attached to a tail, and their human arms have been redrawn quite small, further forward and lower down on the torso. their thighs are also much shorter than their lower leg.)

folding the wing, they should be able to bend that long "finger" inward to cross their wingtips behind their legs. it's also good to note that pterosaur wings have a unique shape! the longer bones that really carry most of the membrane are actually very long hand bones and a singular extra long finger, while the other fingers are shorter and poke out funny. this is very different from bats and birds, who tend to have longer forearm bones and very small "hand" bones. also bats have several very long fingers and one extended thumb, usually.

you could make a pterosaur winged person walk on their wings, if you just shorten their legs and give them more of a forward slope in their torso, but it's not necessary. They can still do the cool pterosaur launch though! I'm picturing, like, they run forward and sort of throw themself toward the ground and then launch upward with their wings and legs simultaneously.

(image description: four simplified sketches showing the process described above, of a pterosaur winged person running forward, dropping down, and jumping upward with a push of their wings and legs. in the final sketch they are flying with fully spread wings. the wings have been colored red for visual clarity. end description.)

sorry for the very long delay in clearing out my inbox! holidays had me distracted.