#before that it was always graphite

[part-time-potato]

Getting started on I.N!

(reblogging is always welcome and appreciated ❤️)

[vetyr]

hi, i ireally love your work and i don't know if you've answered this before but, what kinds of studies do you do or how did you learn color theory? i wanna get better at rendering and anatomy but im having trouble TT TT

Hi! Long answer alert. Once a chatterbox, always a chatterbox.

When I started actively learning how to draw about 10 1/2 years ago, I exclusively did graphite studies in sketchbooks. Here's a few examples—I mostly stuck to doing line drawings to drill basic shapes/contours and proportions into my brain. The more rendered sketches helped me practice edge control & basic values, and they were REALLY good for learning the actual 3D structure behind what I was drawing.

I'd use reference images that I grabbed from fitness forums, Instagram, Tumblr, Pinterest, and some NSFW places, but you could find adequate ref material from figure drawing sites like Line of Action. LoA has refs for people (you can filter by clothed/unclothed, age, & gender), animals, expressions, hands/feet, and a few other useful things as well. Love them.

Learning how to render digitally was a similar story; it helped a lot that I had a pretty strong foundation for value/anatomy going in. I basically didn't touch color at all for ~2 years (except for a few attempts at bad digital or acrylic paint studies), which may not have been the best idea. I learned color from a lot of trial and error, honestly, and I'm pretty sure this process involved a lot of imitation—there were a number of digital/traditional painters whose styles I really wanted to emulate (notably their edge control, color choices, value distributions, and shape design), so I kiiind of did a mixture of that + my own experimentation.

For example, I really found Benjamin Björklund's style appealing, especially his softened/lost edges & vibrant pops of saturated color, so here's a study I did from some photograph that I'm *pretty* sure was painted with him in mind.

Learning how to detail was definitely a slow process, and like all the aforementioned things (anatomy/color/edge control/values/etc.) I'm still figuring it out. Focusing on edge control first (that is, deciding on where to place hard/soft edges for emphasizing/de-emphasizing certain areas of the image) is super useful, because you can honestly fool a viewer into thinking there's more detail in a piece than there actually is if you're very economical about where you place your hard edges.

The most important part, to me, is probably just doing this stuff over and over again. You're likely not going to see improvement in a few weeks or even a few months, so don't fret about not getting the exact results you want and just keep studying + making art. I like to think about learning art as a process where you *need* to fail and make crappy art/studies—there's literally no way around it—so you might as well fail right now. See, by making bad art you're actually moving forward—isn't that a fun prospect!!

It's useful to have a folder with art you admire, especially if you can dissect the pieces and understand why you like them so much. You can study those aspects (like, you can redraw or repaint that person's work) and break down whether this is art that you just like to look at, or if it's the kind of art that you want to *make.* There's a LOT of art out there that I love looking at, probably tens of thousands of styles/mediums, but there's a very narrow range that I want to make myself.

I've mentioned it in some ask reply in the past, but I really do think looking at other artist's work is such a cheat code for improving your own skills—the other artist does the work to filter reality/ideas for you, and this sort of allows you to contact the subject matter more directly. I can think of so many examples where an artist I admired exaggerated, like, the way sunlight rested on a face and created that orange fringe around its edge, or the greys/dull blues in a wheat field, or the bright indigo in a cast shadow, or the red along the outside of a person's eye, and it just clicked for me that this was a very available & observable aspect of reality, which had up until that point gone completely unnoticed! If you're really perceptive about the art you look at, it's shocking how much it can teach you about how to see the world (in this particular case I mean this literally, in that the art I looked at fully changed the way I visually processed the world, but of course it has had a strong effect on my worldviews/relationships/beliefs).

Thanks so much for sending in a question (& for reading, if you got this far)! I read every single ask I receive, including the kind words & compliments, which I genuinely always appreciate. Best of luck with learning, my friend :)

[foldingfittedsheets]

A basic human skill that people usually lock down around the age of three or four is impulse control. To conceptualize an action and it’s consequences before taking it. Maybe considering how that action affects other people. We then refine it through most of our childhood.

When I was a teenager my hold on this ability became… tenuous. I became a volatile and dangerous creature.

It’s probably not unique to me, but I had a perfect storm in terms of mental upsets. I had just mastered enough basic social skills, so I finally had a strong group of friends when my dad suddenly needed to move for work. Ripped away from my support network, blooming with hormones, I was dragged to Arizona. I was always a child of forests and mist and suddenly everything was hot, dry, and extremely pointy and aggressive.

Additionally to being abruptly transplanted I found myself an object of affection in a way I’d never been before. Lonely and desperate to make friends the only people who wanted to spend time with me had romantic designs. I just wanted to figure out my shit but I had a baby lesbian flirting with increasing aggression in art, a soft boy making heart eyes at me in biology, a senior nerd asking if I wanted to play Halo at his house and could he hold my hand?

Reader, I snapped. I didn’t want this romantic attention but I also didn’t want to be alone. My brain coped the only way it knew how, by simply cutting out decision making. Any action was the right action to take.

It started with the boy in biology. I’d stolen his pencil out of mischief and to my overwhelming fury instead of trying to steal it back he just softened his eyes and chucked me gently under my chin, a gesture so overtly sweet and romantic that I saw red.

I stabbed him with his own pencil.

I honestly and truly have no memory of it. It happened as fast as a snake striking and I was instantly filled with terrified remorse. Unfortunately that manifested as psychotic giggling.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t- I don’t know why- I’m so sorry!” I said, while hysterically laughing. I ended up having lodged some graphite in his palm and had to tweeze it out with my nails while apologizing furiously. (It’s very important to note here that he forgave me and we’re still friends)

That was weird, I thought. Why didn’t I think before I stabbed someone?

The next event was equally catastrophic, and I had even less reason to do it. In gym with two girls I was tentatively befriending, we were warming up running laps. I started racing one of them. At breakneck speed we were sprinting around the gym.

This time, there was a blip of thought before I fucked up. I should get the other girl! I have no idea why or what the plan was but I turned on a swivel and body checked the other girl. We both fell down in immense pain. I think that’s the moment I broke my tailbone. Her knees were horribly bruised and she looked at me in bewildered pain. “Why did you do that?!”

I had no idea. I apologized and helped her up, both of us hobbling like newborn horses, bruised and hurting.

By this time there’d been enough social upheavals that I was reduced to spending time with some girls I had nothing in common with and low key disliked. Sat at a table listening to this girl talk about how she wanted to be a stripper when she grew up I thought, You’d better put the cap on before you throw it.

I then chucked my empty water bottle directly at her face. It bounced off her forehead with a bop! that would have made a sound mixer weep at its perfection.

All eyes turned to me is startlement. I stared back at her, stunned by my own action, just as confused as everyone else at the table as to why I’d done that. One of the girls to my right said, “Were you trying to hit that fly?”

“Yes!” I lied, “I’m sorry, I thought I could hit the fly!”

Everyone laughed at my antics and I joined in rather than admit I had just chucked something at her for no reason.

Things did start to improve after that. I solidified a friendship with the girl I’d raced (who I developed a massive crush on and ten years later would go on to date). My outbursts turned more whimsical rather than aggressive. Like accosting a girl leaving the cafeteria to look deeply into her eyes and say with great compassion, “It’s going to be alright.”

My new friend and I snuck into the van that delivered our cafeterias baked goods and lay giggling in the back. When I’d impulsively hopped in she’d joined me and made it a game.

After a year in Arizona I broke down crying to my mother, an act of great desperation, and we ended up moving back home. My impulse control returned to normal teenage levels and life resumed in a happier state of mind.

[writing-mlm]

Hiii, can we please have more college!damian x male reader? Like a scenario where damian loves to draw reader but reader doesn't know this? Maybe friends to lovers? Idk your pick. The artist and his muse type of thing. Also, i LIVE for soft damian on this blog ong.

Forever my Muse

Summary: Damian has his finals coming up and he wants you to join-- at least that's his excuse to get you into the art venue. An artist needs their muse and for some reason, most of Damian's drawings include you in, naturally, he could fill museums with drawings of you. Pairing: Damian Wayne x Male reader WC: 5.8k

Dust-covered fingers were always something you had associated with Damian. Graphite, charcoal, pastels— anything he used to draw or even paint would inevitably stain his hands. It wasn’t intentional, and neither were the fingerprints he left on your stuff, or the paint you could never remove from your favorite sweater, but that didn’t stop him from apologizing. From buying you cleaning products and a new sweater; never mind it has never been worn in the year you’ve had it, Damian felt terribly sorry whenever he felt he’d stained something of yours. 

But never sorry enough to show you his drawings. 

You’d ask, you’d beg, but he would never give in. He’d show you when he was done, sure. You’d see the finished still-life drawings of whatever object had been in the line of sight, the paintings he’d done of his pets whenever he missed them, and the random sketches he did to loosen his wrist. But, damn, sometimes you wanted to see an unfinished drawing that wasn’t a warm-up. 

Even now, as the two of you are on the campus bus heading towards the music hall, he’s drawing. Sitting across from you on the bus, Damian easily adjusts himself to the movements of the bus as it jerks to a stop. He’s nice like that, you’ve never caught him off guard, he’s never fallen or stumbled in the time you’ve known him. 

Studying him, you wonder if he’s naturally so agile. You’ve seen him in your dorm's gym, during all-nighters you can sometimes see him running around campus, and once you had caught him doing one of those athletic challenges for some guy's video. He won. Of course. 

The bus comes to a complete stop and you look away, double-checking that it wasn’t your stop. It wasn’t. You knew that. But still. The need to check was far too great and you slipped back into a conversation with Damian. Only this time, you’re looking down at your phone to double-check the event and his eyes switch from staring at his sketch to staring at you. 

His eyes flicker between you and his drawing, erasing and adding lines where needed. He catches your eyes traveling up and he looks back down, working from memory as you start up a new conversation. 

Eventually, the bus reaches your stop and he carefully closes his book; he always worries he’d smudge his art, while he follows you out of the bus. 

It’s the end of the semester, ergo, it’s finals week. And for one of your music finals, everyone was to prepare a song and perform it. Truthfully, Damian doesn’t understand why you’d picked him to accompany you. He knows he’s not the best comfort, his demeanor often being the reason people don’t stick around too long. 

But, you reassured him. Telling him that his presence was more than enough for you. Knowing that he was somewhere in the crowd calms you down more than you ever cared to admit. 

The walk to the music hall isn’t short, but you can see the large building in the distance. The size is daunting on you as you see the crowd forming at the entrance. People aren’t allowed inside yet, but performers and their guests can head inside before anyone else. 

“I’m nervous,” You admit, wiping your hands on your shirt. “What if I fail?” You mutter, your eyes desperately searching to find solace in his green eyes. 

“You’ll do as you’ve always done,” He nods, looking ahead as you approach the building. “Exceptionally.” His sketchbook bumps against your folder of sheet music and you sigh through your nose, trying to calm down. 

“I’m so gonna choke,” Seeing your reflection in the glass, you feel as if you’d forgotten everything you learned. Every lesson, every mistake you fixed and learned from, the late-night practice performances with your friends. The song you’d composed nearly slips from your mind as you see yourself, walking in that suit and tie you’d worn several years ago. All of it left your mind and you felt like a beginner again. What even was a solfège?

“I'm trained in CPR.” He opens the door for you and gently encourages you inside, his fingers grazing your back. “You weren’t nearly as nervous for your accounting finals.” He notes, falling back into step with you. 

That’s another thing. Maybe that’s why you were so stressed. Double majoring was hellish. Twice the finals, quadruple the headaches. 

“Those were tests,” You scowl, showing the security your campus ID. “I’m going to be performing a live concert in front of nearly a thousand people. I cannot fuck this up, Damian. This is going to be posted for everyone to watch, too,” You ramble on. 

“Which you’ve done before, no?” He presses the elevator button and your heart hammers. You swear you’re going to pass out. He notices, of course, he does, and digs in his bag to find the fidget cube he keeps in there. 

“I have— thank you,” Taking the cube, he nods. “It’s just… I don’t know. Tests suck.” Rolling your thumb along the metal ball on one side of the cube, you stare at the numbers as they slowly tick down to the first floor. 

“That’s true,” He steps inside the elevator and you follow suit. “But you’ve made it thus far, you can go further.” He squeezes your shoulder as the doors close. There’s a silence in the elevator as it goes up to the second floor where you see your teacher waiting at the door to the waiting room, talking to a pair of students. 

“I can,” You affirm, dipping your head down as you smile. 

“You will.” 

—

You’re fifth in line to perform, watching a singer, dancer, another other pianist, and an opera singer go on before you go on did absolutely jack shit to help you. As you’re announced, you step onto the stage and try your best not to accept that there were thousands of eyes on you. Instead, you smile and wave as you walk across that large stage. Desperately looking for Damian in the sea of people. 

He’s in the front, right in front of where you could see when you glance up from the piano, you find out as you’re standing next to the piano seat. 

Damian’s eyes don’t leave yours, making eye contact with you as you fiddle with the buttons of your coat. He motions for you to stop and then does a breathe in breathe out motion with the same hand. Nodding, you blink away from him and hold your hands behind your back. Focusing on your breathing, you listen to the teacher as you’re done being introduced. 

The applause settles as you bow in, take a seat, and flip the page where your music sheet is. Slowly, you start. As a general music major, you weren’t restricted to just playing the piano. As emphasized by the microphone taped to your cheek. 

You aren’t the strongest singer by any means, you’re good for singing in the shower or on drives but you doubt you’d actually make a career off of your voice. What you hope will carry you is the piano, as you press each key your eyes flicker to Damian. He’s attentive, a smile on his face as you perform. 

Testing the waters, you glance at the people around him and they seem… pleased. Happy. Moved, even. You grin and return to staring at the sheet music. All of the notes flood back to you as you reach the last bit of the song, your eyes closing as your voice reaches a peak, holding a note. Then it’s just the piano, your voice echoing in everyone’s mind as the notes get slower and slower until you end it. 

Applause fills the hall and you stand up, taking a bow. Standing there, even if only for a moment, you can’t imagine why you’d been so nervous.

Collecting your sheet music, you exit the stage and hand the mic to the stage tech before leaving. 

When you’re nearing the exit, you spot Damian holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“When did you have the time to get these?” You laugh as he hands them to you. His eyes merely twinkle, refusing to give up one of his many secrets. “Thank you, they’re dope.” 

“You did it,” Damian reminds you as the two of you exit the building. 

“I did! Ugh!” Grabbing his shoulder with your free hand, you give him a little shake. “Thank you so much, you’re honestly the best. Was it good?” Falling into step with him, Damian doesn’t bother to fix his shirt. It’s hardly even moved, but you know he was detail-oriented in stuff like that. Hell, he hates it when he messes with his clothes. 

“It was mesmerizing.” He promises. “I do believe the woman behind me was crying.” Grinning, you stand at the bus stop, suddenly buzzing with excitement. Wanting to do it again, you start to imagine creating your own side business. Wedding musician, you can see it now. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” He avoids looking at you as he’s speaking. A rare occurrence on his part. But he does his best to look at you after building the courage. “I have an art showing next week. I understand the notice is short and you’re—“

“Send me the details.” You grin. His shoulders drop and he nods, clearly more relaxed. “I hope the attire is fancy. I got this fancy turtleneck I’ve been wanting to wear and slacks from my high school graduation just waiting to be worn!” 

—

With all of your finals out of the way, you finally had time to start removing the items from your dorm. One by one you removed posters and trinkets scattered across your end of the room. Pack your clothes into boxes, and save for enough outfits to get you through your two weeks left on campus. 

Damian was held up from finishing his art showing, unable to see you in person but he was more than happy with a Facetime call. With both your laptops placed in a space away from disturbing you, the two of you worked on your tasks. 

“I do need to be at the showing two hours early,” He tells you as you’re dragging the anti-suicide chairs to the closet, trying to see the top shelf. “But I’ll have arrangements to bring you to the venue.” 

“And my outfit is okay?” You ask, the chair wobbling as you stand on it. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. But hey, you’re not the one who installed a closet tall enough that only Shaq could see the top. “Because I can always swap out the turtle neck for a green button down— the silk one that Maddison made,” Always gave a fashion designer friend. She had used you as a model for of her projects a couple of months ago and with your measurements being unique to you, let you have it after she’d gotten her grade. 

“The button-down would be better suited,” He nods, leaning close to his painting before adding a tiny stroke. “The turtleneck is a little… on the nose.” Leaning back, he checks his reference picture before frowning. It goes away quickly as he picks up a bit of white and dabs it onto a dry brush. 

“I was afraid it was,” You laugh, grabbing a first aid kit from the shelf. Listening to him lightly brush the paint over the canvas, you toss the kit onto the bed and grab what little items are scattered up there. “Holy shit! Do you remember when that frat dude lost his frat ring?” 

“Unfortunately,” Damian glances at his screen, watching as you haphazardly get down from the chair. Nearly tripping, he wonders how you've made it this far in life without breaking a bone. 

“I think I did take it! Look!” Showing the screen, Damian looks almost impressed as you hold up a fraternity ring. It’s a shiny gold, likely fake but engraved with the initials of the Frat house. The two of you remember the guy had been going around to every single campus building with a missing ring poster. 

“What a thief,” He chides, setting his brush down and taking a physical step back from the painting. Harsh glares scan over brush strokes, ripping apart his painting bit by bit before he nods to himself. His glare morphs into a soft sort of gaze and he signs the back of it. 

“Is that your final painting for the semester?” You ask, the ring forgotten about as it’s tossed in a box of trinkets and you’ve moved on to ordering food. Probably Panda Express. Or maybe Chipotle…. really it’s whatever is closer and cheaper. 

“Hopefully,” He sighs through his nose, his paint box clicking shut. “I’ve been drawing and painting these past couple of days. My canvases take up an entire section of the art studio. I’m sure my professor cannot wait for them to dry and get glossed. Which I should probably start doing.” 

“How does that taste?” Setting your phone down, Damian’s face goes sour as he looks at you. “Personally, I think the gloss would taste tarty.” You add. “Or maybe like the frosting for Toaster Strudel.” Picking your phone back up, you continue your order. 

“Neither is correct.” He blinks. “It’s a toxin and filled with chemicals, it most likely tastes as good as acetone does, Hab—“ He pauses, and you look at him wondering what the issue is. “Habits of tasting chemicals shouldn’t be one you pick up.” He finishes his sentence with a bit of force. 

“I just love chemicals. Violin resin is my favorite.” Making a chomping noise Damian huffs. As you’re finishing up your order, you look at him. He’s halfway across campus and judging by the rack of canvases he wheeled over, he won’t be back until well into the night. Eh, it doesn’t hurt to ask. “I’m ordering some food, do you want something?” 

“No, thank you, though.” He shakes his head. “I have food from the court in case I get hungry.” He quickly adds. Humming, you place the order and scan over your room. The only things that need to get packed are things you’re still using. Now it’s just a matter of organizing the boxes and bins so you can still move around your room. 

“After the glossing, what’re you doing?”

“I have to write short summaries for each painting. No less than one hundred words,” He explains as he’s putting on a pair of latex gloves. 

“So, a breeze?” He laughs and nods. 

“I’m afraid I’ll go over the word limit,” He admits, sparing you a glance as you’re lugging a box to a corner of your room. “My paintings harbor a lot of my emotions and they’re far from short.”

“Real as fuck.”

— 

On the day of his art exhibition, you spend extra time in the bathroom. Making sure your hair is neat, and presentable, fixing your outfit, making sure you don’t stink. Anything and everything you could check over, you did. 

This nervous feeling was different from your pre-show nerves. Especially since you don’t even know why you’re nervous. Probably because you’d never actually gotten to see his paintings, at least the ones he was showing. He’d been ultra allusive about those, citing the exhibition would be the best place to view them. But even he was nervous and that’s a lot considering he’s Damian fucking Wayne. 

He texted you two minutes ago saying that the car was going to arrive within the next ten minutes and you rushed out to the front of the dorms. No need to lock the door behind you, since your roommate was busy sleeping and would stay in there until you came back. Plucking at your shirt, you watch a sleek black car pull up in front of you, and Damian texts you that the car is there. 

The ride is long, far too long for your liking anyway. But considering it’s in the middle of the city, it’s not unwarranted. 

The art… museum? What should you call it? The space where the exhibition was being held was a well-known art gallery— that’s the word! The gallery was well respected, talked about within art circles, and incredibly high-brow. Thank fuck you didn’t go with that turtleneck. 

There’s a woman in front of the gallery, greeting everyone who enters. She sees you and there’s a flash of recognition across her face. 

“It’s great to finally meet Damian’s muse,” She smiles as she shakes your hand. 

“His what?” You ask but Damian pulls you inside. 

“How was the ride?” He asks, his eyes darting between his professor and you. 

“Good but what did she mean?” You ask, looking around to see the other people around. Like your performance, it was open to the public and with Bruce Wayne’s son being in attendance, many people had showed up. Including his family. “Bruce Wayne is here?” Your head whips to Damian as you spot him in the crowd. 

“He is my father…” He trails. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Fuck no!” You gasp. “The knowledge of his wealth is burying me as we speak— but this is about you,” Turning to him, you smile. “Where’s your paintings? Those don’t look like your style,” Eyes flicker across the paintings and you can’t see Damian’s strokes, his colors or his lighting in any of them. A sort of pride swells within him, knowing that you’ve looked— studied his art enough to know that the ones around you weren’t his. 

“It has its own section,” He tells you, guiding you through groups of people and halls. “It’s going to be revealed in around half an hour. My professor insisted,” He stops at a section of the gallery covered by a curtain and two security guards. You never knew it was that serious, but damn. 

“Mr Fancy. Why don’t you catch up with your family? I’ll look around?” In truth, you were going to the nearest bathroom and making sure you didn't look stupid. 

“I’m more than certain they’d be more pleased if you accompanied me.” He shakes his head as you raise your eyebrows. “If that’s something you’d be comfortable with, of course.” 

“Sure,” Once more, he guides you past people until he spots his father and brother talking in a corner. 

“Father, Richard.” He calls as the two of you approach. “This is (Y/n).” Richard’s lips twitch as he fights back a smile, the smile only furthered curbed by his brother's glare. 

“Hello,” Waving at the two men, they reach to shake your hand instead. Bruce has a firm grip, probably tighter than it really needed to be but Richard is more than welcoming. He’s more than excited to meet you, although you can’t imagine why. 

“My other siblings are still in Gotham,” Damian explains, physically taking Dick’s hand from yours with a pointed look. “Although I’m surprised you didn’t bring Cassandra, father.”

“She’s here,” He shakes his head, glancing around for the mop of black hair. “In the bathroom, probably.” 

“Is that her?” You ask, looking at the woman in the corner. She’s standing there, downing a glass of champagne before returning to a conversation with a man. She looks like how Damian had described her, although he downplayed how intimidating she seemed. 

“Oh boy,” Dick huffs. “Let me go help her,” Excusing himself, you’re left with Damian and his father. The two of them talking with their eyes. 

“So, Damian’s told me you’re a double major,” Bruce breaks the silence and their weird eye conversation. He talks about you? Glancing at Damian, he’s making a point to look anywhere but you. That’s sorta cute— totally not in a romantic way, totally. 

“I am,” You nod, wishing a man with drinks would walk past you. “Accounting and a performing arts major.” He hums and there’s another beat of awkward silence. 

“From what he tells me, you’re excelling at both. That’s incredibly hard. Do you have any job prospects lined up for when you graduate?” He asks and you shake your head. 

“Not yet,” You admit, picking at your hands. “Since I'm not sure where I’d like to settle after I graduate it’s difficult finding places.” Bruce nods, quickly making sure Dick and Cassandra are okay. 

“Well, if your grades continue to stay or improve, Wayne Enterprises is always looking for accountants, especially one so esteemed.” He smiles at you, that sort of small smile that makes you feel more relaxed in his presence. A fatherly smile. 

“Yeah, praise from Damian is a lot.” Dick grins, leaning his weight on his younger brother. Cassandra agrees, leaning against the wall Bruce was standing in front of. “And he talks about you a ton!” 

“That’s enough.” Damian huffs, pushing himself away from Dick who frowns. “Let’s look at some of the artwork,” 

“You talk to your family about me?” You grin as he’s hauling you away from his family. He looks at you, clearly licking the inside of his mouth before he blinks and gives one strong nod. 

“Of course I do, it would be a shame to hide someone so talented.” He explains and then looks forward, his eyes swimming across the faces around him. “I do believe in your talents and my father is someone who can help them flourish; it would seem awfully cruel if I didn’t at least try.” You go to speak; to thank him but his attention is pulled away by the director of the show. 

“It’s time!” She gleams, ushering the two of you after her. 

There are already people gathered in front of his top secret exhibit, cameras and people wearing PRESS lanyards like the front and sides. Much like a moth drawn to a flame, they find Damian walking and try to hound him, only to be stopped by his family. They’re far more intimidating now but Damian pulls your attention from them and towards him. 

The two of you are in front of the whole crowd, the two guards holding one piece of the curtain and waiting for a cue to open them. 

“We welcome everyone to Damian Wayne’s very first art show,” The director says, her hand ghosting over his shoulder. He takes that as a sign to step forward, barely leaving your side as he explains his art. 

“Through My Eyes is a collection of various pieces I’ve created over the course of two years,” He explains. “The music that accompanies the art are pieces composed by my muse.” His eyes find yours as the curtains are pulled aside and for the first time, you notice the way he looks at you. The way his eyes never seem to want to leave yours, how he takes you in the same way he takes in the art around him. 

Then you hear it. More specifically you hear yourself. 

You hear the piece you’d played during your final, hearing your voice fill the spaces where people aren’t talking. Each key, and each note floods your ears as you turn to see his art. 

It’s you.

All of it. Each painting, each frame has something of you in it. 

“Holy shit.” You breathe, moving to the closest one. It’s a painting of you, wearing clothes you’d only seen in shows like Merlin, holding onto a statue of an angel. It’s almost impossible to not know where the inspiration had come from. After convincing Damian to go exploring with you and some friends, you’d come across a newly abandoned church with a large angel statue. On a dare, you pretended to dance with it. 

Sure, you’d seen the picture before but it was nothing compared to the painting. It looked amazing, you had never looked better. Your features were captured in the best way possible, you’d been posed in a way that made it seem as if you were guiding the angel in a dance. 

The description catches your eye next. 

One Last Dance wasn’t the first drawing of Muse, but it was the first drawing of him that I truly loved. He’d resparked a passion for painting for me. The painting had been on my mind for two weeks before I finally started to work on it, having it become my only focus for the two days that I worked on it became the norm for the next two years of my life. 

Muse doesn’t personally care for the Renaissance era, but it seemed fitting for such a painting. The feeling of dressing Muse in modern clothes didn’t ruin the drawing but it didn’t make sense, in my head their dance is accompanied by the sounds of the wings and their feet gliding across the floor. Just outside is probably a mob, unbelievable of a true angel. Muse would probably say that he was dancing to the sounds of Sleep Token and outside was a bunch of ‘angel fuckers’, but who knows. 

D.W

The next painting was smaller than the first, but it’s a close-up of your face. Your eyes are wide and you’re desperately pulling at your eyelids as a light twinkles inside of it. 

Blinding Gaze came about when Muse had gone to the eye doctor, fearing he was going blind. Turns out he was just extremely stressed to the point of temporary blindness. When we spoke about it, he joked that he was developing powers from that time he drank a sports drink mixed with a crushed-up Tylenol and he could shoot lasers from his eyes. While Blinding Gaze doesn’t follow his original plan of lasers, I imagine developing eye lights could be frightening. 

Blinding Gaze isn’t body horror, although I had intended it to be but I couldn’t bring myself to put Muse into that position. Even if it was completely fake. I did eventually remake the painting how I truly envisioned it, but I still prefer my Muse to the remake. 

Drifting to the next painting, you see yourself, dressed in your favorite smudged hoodie, dancing amongst the crowd. The people are drowned out in the colors of the background, nearly blending in meanwhile you’re ever so present. The light shone down on you in a way that made you seem like the main character in some movie, all eyes meant to be on you. 

A Night To Remember was undoubtedly one of the best moments of college thus far. Muse had been invited to a friend's party and insisted I come instead of remaining in the art room, drowning myself in oils and pastels. Although I’ve put his words in a more friendly manner. I hadn’t wanted to go, the noises and being pressed against unfamiliar faces was hardly something I ever enjoyed. But for Muse, I’d do anything he’d asked of me. 

Glued to him for the night, I found myself unreasonably drawn to him. I do not remember the song, in truth, I don’t remember much from that night aside from him. The way he danced, how he looked at me. How he looked in the room. I resented not bringing my sketchbook, but I would’ve been more out of place than I originally had been. 

Smoothening your shirt, you take a nervous glance around you. You’re unsure about how you feel, it’s a lot. You’ve never truly thought about Damian in such a light before, at least not to your knowledge. Sure, you’ve written compositions about him and sure, if you read between the lines in some songs they’re definitely about him. You and Him. 

Perhaps, without realizing it, you had made him your muse just as he had made you his. 

“I want you to see this one,” Damian says as he walks up behind you, finally free of people asking him questions. The music loops as he does and you count that there’s five songs on the set playlist. Each and every song was one you had created. Your song from the previous week plays again as you stare at him, smiling. 

“I’m your muse?” You softly ask, unable to remove yourself from the spot until you have gotten your words out. Damian dips his head down for a moment and wipes his nose. “You’re nervous,” The small tease makes his eyes roll and he clears his throat, the red settling from his tanned ears. 

“I want you to see this one,” He repeats and grabs your hand, gently guiding you past the people surrounding the room. They look at the two of you, watching as you walk up to a large painting in the center of the room. Clearly a last-minute addition but it seemed to be the focus. 

“Woah,” Is all you can say when you see the painting of you during your final. It’s painted in the same style as your favorite art era. The romantic era where colors were soft, even if they were dark. The painting itself had you in the center, a sea of people at the bottom and there are several ghostly figures of yourself, dancing across the stage leaving streaks of yourself at the top. The floor of the stage was covered in candles. 

“How long did this take you?” You ask, eyes darting between details and finding new ones each time you look. 

“Two days,” He shrugs. Slowly, you look at him and he looks back at you, confused. “I couldn’t sleep until I finished the painting. The way you looked during your final.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “It’s truly beautiful— you’re truly beautiful,” He adds, looking at you. 

“When you paint me like that I definitely am,” You laugh, looking back at the painting. 

“I only painted you through my lens. Perhaps your eyes aren’t as good as you think they are because the paintings truly do not live up to their references. You’re captivating and the way you’ve consumed my thoughts is honestly intoxicating.” His eyes twinkle as you look at each other. You don’t know what to say, honestly. You can stroke your ego a little, you could crack a joke, or you could bear yourself completely to him. But definitely not in a room filled with people. 

“Ah,” Dick breaks the silence. “You know he used to be a junior poet?” Grumbling, Damian looks over at Richard as he’s staring at the painting, sipping sparkling champagne from a flute glass while holding a cracker with cheese and jelly. Gross. Probably, you’ve never had it before. 

“I do believe I asked for a moment alone,” Damian gives a half-snarky grin and Dick shrugs. 

“A whole lotta people here, doubt you’d be alone.” With a sweeping motion, he gestures to the crowd around you. It’s not elbow-to-elbow crowded but you can hear at least seven conversations happening around you. 

“I suppose you’re correct,” He nods, following his brother's line of thinking. “Fresh air?” He asks you and you nod. 

There’s a park in front of the exhibit and it’s mostly empty, save for two kids and their parents but they’re clearly about to leave. Damian heads towards the benches but you pull him to the swings. There are three but one of them is tossed over the bar and you don’t feel like fixing it. 

Sitting with your back to the exhibit, you look over the trees and the playground. The sandpit with someone’s lost doll sitting down, a bucket behind it. 

“What did you think?” He spoke up after a minute had passed. The entire time he watched as you gently rocked back and forth on the swings, tempting yourself to actually swing. 

“You’re amazingly talented,” You hum, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Although, I already knew that. You’re like Michelangelo with everything you pick up.” Glancing at him, you smile when you see his hands. “You still haven’t cleaned the charcoal from your nails.” 

“No,” He blinks, his eyes staying closed for a beat longer than a blink. “Not of my skill level, (Y/n). Of the drawings. That you’re Muse.” He looks down at his fingertips and starts to pick at the bits of charcoal. “That you’re my muse.”

Softly you sigh before looking back to the trees. 

“What is there to think about? You’re my muse, I'm yours.” 

“You’ve written songs about me?” He asks and you sheepishly nod, refusing to look at him. “Which? If you don’t mind me asking,”

“Birds of a feather, I wanna be yours, and Golden hour. There’s more but they’re too embarrassing to admit,” Hearing him take a deep breath, you pick at your fingernails and slowly stop swinging.

“What now?” You ask, finally looking at him. He shrugs and starts to slowly swing. He thinks for a moment before he checks his phone. 

“When are you free? I can make reservations to—“

“Applebees or Red Lobster,” You cut him off and he looks at you, confused. “Applebees is once every so often, birthdays or celebrations. But Red Lobster? That’s graduation or date.” 

“You could’ve gone for a five-star restaurant, you know that, right?” He laughs and you shrug. 

“I heard they’re pretty shit. And I want to fuck up a seafood boil. Oh wait,” Blinking, you try to remember the Red Lobster menu. “Never mind, I don’t think they have vegetarian options. We could do Olive Garden or whatever vegetarian places you like. I’m not picky,” 

“And I am?” He teases and you roll your eyes. “Friday, at five. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to Olive Garden. And then to the movies to watch that new horror movie you’ve been wanting to watch.”

“That sounds perfect,” You nod and nudge your swing into his. 

“Can I admit something?” He slowly asks. “Forgive me if I’m being too forward but…” Watching as he licks his lip, you stop swinging. “May I kiss you?” 

“Yes.” You nod. Trying not to seem too eager, the both of you stand up and you watch as he raises his hands to cup your face. His fingers are warm, gliding across your skin as you hook one arm around his waist while the other holds his shoulder. “Do you want to lead?” You whisper as he looks at you, unmoving. His eyes dart down to your lips and he nods before closing the distance. 

His hands drag a little down your face, his pinky curving under your jaw before moving up into your hair. Slowly the kiss breaks and he dips back down for one quick kiss. 

“He’s been waiting months to do that,” Dick announces and Damian groans. You snicker and look behind Damian. Dick isn’t even looking, looking off into the distance before he’s sure that you’re done kissing before looking at the two of you. 

“Must he ruin everything?” He whispers to you before facing his brother. “I understand you have no concept of privacy, but this warrants that.” Dick frowns at the rudeness before he shrugs and points his thumb towards the venue. 

“They’re asking for you, thought I should come and get you before they spot you.” He explains through a sigh. “Would hate for our little demon’s kiss to end up on the front page. But, yeah,” He sighs and looks over at you. He stares at your face for a moment before he chuckles. 

“Take him to the bathroom, you got dust on his face.”

“It’s charcoal.”

[bluebellhairpin]

Romantic - cw; 141 + alejandro (bc those are all my boys <3) short sappy fluff, marriage mentions. Just me putting some daydream thoughts out to the void <333

Soap is romantic in that he draws you. He has a whole shelf full of old sketchbooks and half of them are filled with you. From mindless, messy doodles to works that took hours. Charcoal and graphite. With his hands he conveys to paper your beauty, and his love is seen in every stroke.

Gaz is romantic in that he always buys you flowers. From single roses to bouquets of carnations, barely three days go by without flowers in your home. Each one seems to speak volumes. He keeps them all, hanging them to dry in the garden shed. He's waiting for one bouquet in particular to join them.

Price is romantic in that he's always ready with a helping hand. You can do things on your own, sure, but he's always letting you know he's there. He always offers. Meals, cooking. cleaning, groceries. he's your shadow - because he cannot have you working yourself too hard.

Alejandro is romantic in that he plays you music. He hadn't touched a guitar in a long time until you moved in together, but he decided to play it once more before it would've gone back to a corner to collect dust. When he saw how your shoulders relaxed, and how you swayed when you recognized the song, that guitar never got dusty again.

And Ghost. The unreadable enigma. Ghost is romantic in that he writes about you. A single notebook stashed away in some dark corner holds his deepest secrets - poems that are all about his love for you. They're sweet, gentle, and they're passionate. Someday he'll read them to you, when he finally write one he thinks is good enough. In reality the first you hear isn't a poem at all. They're vows.

Remember to support your favourite writers! If you liked reading it, reblog it <3

[run-little-hero]

“What surprise awaits me today?” Hero leans against the bars of Villain’s cell, smiling. It’s their daily ritual, something Villain hates to admit they always look forward to. Hero is kind to them.

“You have such high expectations of me. You guilt me delivering them.”

“And you never disappoint.” Hero drops their head to meet Villain’s eyes from outside the cell. Villain smirks like they’re sharing a secret.

They hate that this is the happiest they’ve ever been—behind bars, swooning at the attention of the hero who put them there.

Villain retreats to a small desk in the corner of their cell. It’s littered with graphite drawings, a privilege granted for ‘good behavior.’ Villain scoffs at the irony, but decides not to challenge it.

They return to the bars, slipping a choice drawing through. Their fingers brush against Hero’s as the drawing is passed along. It’s calculated, Villain knows it. Just like the visits—a prescription to keep them from going off the rails and trying to escape. Villain swallows the medicine.

“Beautiful. As always.” It’s a landscape. A recreation of something they sketched years earlier. Hero seems pleased.

Emboldened by their reaction, Villain tests, “When do I get a surprise from you?”

Hero is nothing if not generous. They play along. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise, would it?”

“Give me a hint?” Villain sets a hand on the bar, They shift their weight so the motion is hidden from a security camera in the corner.

Hero isn’t phased by the gesture. “What would you want from me anyways?”

“Hm…” Villain trails. “Something genuine. Something beautiful. That’s what my art is to you, isn’t it? You should return the favor one of these days.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

For a moment, Hero’s hand finds Villain’s against the metal cell before they leave. Villain knows their routine by heart. They know Hero will never return their affections unless they need information or expertise out of them. But they’re content to play along, bask in a bit of that attention.

Villain believes Hero is kind. But at night, Villain does everything to squash the fractional piece of their heart that believes Hero cares for them.

Hero appears outside Villain’s cell late one afternoon.

“Where’ve you been?” Villain asks, approaching the bars. “It’s nearly dark. I thought you might’ve forgotten about me.” They keep their voice light, agreeable.

“I’d never. I just needed to prepare something.”

Villain crosses their arms. “And do I get to know what that is?”

Hero is beaming. “Of course. I tell you all my secrets.” Liar. “Come here.”

Villain indulges them and steps forward. Before they know it, Hero grips their arms and pulls them close. They embrace through the bars of the cell. Villain’s stomach plunges and their eyes dart towards the security camera.

“What are you—“

“I’m looping the footage. We should have about five minutes before it goes back to normal.”

Villain focuses on Hero. “Are you crazy? What the fuck are you—“

“You wanted a surprise,” Hero interrupts. They grip Villain’s side, steadying them. “How’s this for one?”

Hero’s lips crash against Villain’s before they can comprehend the fingers lacing through their hair. They can’t believe this is happening. They give into the desire they’ve been fighting since their first battle with Hero.

They part slowly. Villain keeps their gaze low. “Why did you do that?” They mutter.

“I’ve been thinking about doing it for a while.”

Rationally, Villain knows it’s not the best idea to trust a hero. “We’re enemies. You put me in prison.”

Hero grins. “But, you have to admit. Now we get to see each other more often!”

Despite everything, Villain can’t deny the gesture. “You’re insane.”

“You know, we still have four minutes. Care to do it again?” With a nod from Villain, Hero takes the lead and connects their lips again.

Villain supposes they can figure out what this means for their relationship tomorrow.

—

snippet #12

[literallymechanical]

Alessandro Volta's Electric Eels

Okay so, it turns out that your cell phone battery is a basically a homunculus of an electric fish. 

These are the same thing. Let me explain.

@fishteriously, a paleoichthyologist, told me that Alessandro Volta invented the electric battery after studying electric eels and rays.  This sounded like a fun science factoid!  I wanted to know more!  I saw the claim repeated on any number of pop science articles from the last century or so, but none that quoted from primary sources.

The voltaic pile is one of the most important inventions, ever, of all time.  Before Volta, electricity could be stored in Leyden jar capacitors, which would discharge in a single, brief burst. Volta's pile was the first method of producing a continuous electric current, which launched the modern era of electricity as we know it. His explanation for how it worked was incorrect, but it was still a massive breakthrough.

Batteries use the same principle to this day, just with different materials (e.g. cobalt oxide, graphite, and lithium salts rather than silver, zinc, and brine).

But is it a fish?

This is Volta's first schematic of a battery, or "voltaic pile" – at the time, "battery" referred to a bunch of Leyden jars linked in series, the term wouldn't come to refer to piles until later. "Z" and "A" stand for zinc and silver ("argentum"), with brine-soaked paper disks between. It does look a bit like an eel?

But is it truly?

Surely, if Volta modeled the pile after electric fishes, I’d be able to find a citation!  Wikipedia is usually a good place to start when hunting primary sources, but no luck.  No mention of fish at all.  I trust fishteriously more than wikipedia, however, so I went digging.  Looks like Volta first reported his discovery in a Letter to the Royal Society in 1800.

Found the letter!

Aw beans, it’s in French.  I haven’t studied French since high school.

BUT WAIT. WHAT WAS THAT.

Une commotion électrique? A trembling eel???

Okay so now I NEEDED to read the letter in English. I found an English-language summary published by the Royal Society, but it looks like the only English translation of the full letter was in the appendix of an out-of-print book called “Alessandro Volta and the Electric Battery.”

So I bought a used copy. Let's see what Volta has to say about this:

"To this apparatus ... I have constructed it, in its form to the natural electric organ of the torpedo or electric eel, &c, than to the Leyden flask and electric batteries [battery = linked Leyden flasks], I would wish to give the name of artificial electric organ."

Yes! The voltaic pile was explicitly modeled after electric fishes – torpedo rays and electric eels.  Fishteriously was 100% correct. Volta never even calls it a "pile," it is always "artificial electric organ." A significant portion of the letter is devoted to electric eels and torpedo rays, in fact.

But also, the rest of the letter is bonkers.

He wrote pages on painful experiments with the artificial electric organ – touching it, poking it into his eyes and ears, making other people touch it, generally just shocking the ever loving hell out of himself over and over. He routinely shocks himself so hard that he has to take breaks. And of course, he licks it.

But that's not the best part:

He says that the artificial electric organ can be turned sideways and submerged in liquid...

"...by which means these cylinders would have a pretty good resemblance to the electric eel ... they might be joined together by pliable metallic wires or screw springs, and then covered with a skin terminated by a head and tail properly formed, &c."

There you have it. One of the most important scientific discoveries of all time, and it includes a crafts project for building an authentic electric eel puppet.

In summary, next time you charge your phone, take a moment to thank the soul of the electric fish inside of it.

[a-n-i-m-a-t-i-o-n]

Animation for Jim Hawkins in Treasure Planet done by Danny Galieote. From his Facebook:

"Flashback 2001–Before painting full-time—At Disney…When I animated Jim Hawkins in these scenes, I had to be very present mentally and physically by acting out the scenes before drawing them. These rough pencil scenes are the bare bones of the movie.

For example, the shots with him stuck below deck with the giant spider villain (Scroop), I was listening to the soundtrack to Jaws (by the great John Williams), which always makes my hair stand up

*These were drawn with thick Design Ebony graphite pencils."

[jenscx]

LET ME IN — yu jimin x f!reader

you return to your hometown after being overseas for years. there was no possible way for you to anticipate your old high school sweetheart waiting at the airport.

TAGS — angst, little fluff, exes to lovers, happy ending, high school sweetheart, cursing

WORDCOUNT — 5.1k

the sweater that you had picked out today, feels unfamiliar on your skin. it’s the one which reads, ‘seniors of 2018’. it’s the one you had never gone near, leaving it to rot in your closet. it’s the one that holds the most painful memories for you. how could a piece of clothing cause you so much pain?

frankly, you know why. it’s the one jimin had given to you as you left for the train to the airport. “something to remember me by,” she had stated after pulling it over the top of your head.

you had huffed, playfully asking, “how could i ever forget you?”

your closet had witnessed your stares— or rather glares at the sweater. not until an hour had passed, when you finally heaved a sigh and grabbed it off the hanger that was situated at the corner of the closet. it’s just because it’s comfortable, you had reasoned before. and it didn’t matter what you wore underneath the puffer jacket, it would end up covered.

of course, these were all excuses, trying to deny the very fact that it just reminded you of jimin. and you were very welcoming towards such reminders.

reminders of what?

you shake your head, picturing a blank canvas before the melodic laughter filled your ears. jimin’s laugh.

the screeching of your luggage’s wheels distract you. aeri’s standing at the door, a hand on your suitcase.

“hey girl,” she checks the watch on her wrist, “we gotta go. flight’s at 2.”

you nod, ignoring the fact that you had spent almost two whole hours thinking about the repercussions of returning back to… home? could you even call it that?

aeri seems to notice your inner turmoil, since in the taxi, she places a comforting hand over yours, sending you a small smile. while it didn’t really settle your nerves, you appreciated the effort nonetheless.

the journey to the boarding gate is like a fever dream. your airpods betraying you, randomly shuffling to a girls’ generation song. it was like a cry back to the past, when you and jimin would listen to girls’ generation songs together.

for jimin, you had complied.

you open your eyes, you can only see the back of someone’s head above the aeroplane’s seat. if you keep your eyes closed for too long, you might start to envision a blur of jimin’s perfect eyes, her nose, her lips that were always pursed in disappointment when she caught you and minjeong stealing her snacks…

the realisation that you can’t remember the face that once made you the happiest girl on the planet hits hard. it hits harder than the guilt and misery you felt when jimin, a week after you had left korea, sent a flurry of messages that went unresponded.

“i didn’t know you liked girls’ generation,” aeri comments. startled, you stare at your phone, the lock screen wallpaper being jimin’s back displaying girls’ generation’s holiday night baseball t-shirt. the girl had forced you to buy matching ones with her, you recall bitterly.

“i don’t,” you answer coolly, swiftly turning off your phone. aeri eyes you weirdly but eventually lets you off the hook and leans back into her seat.

the rest of the thirteen hours flight, you busy yourself with work— leftovers from the time before break, drafts of sketches, thesis statements and long-winded essays. while a plane was not the best environment to finish a full drawing, you could at least make some rough sketches. somehow, your pencil graphite gravitates from sturdy, concrete buildings to soft cheekbones, hooded eyes, pouty lips.

shit, you blink, taking in your subconscious sketch of a woman, familiar to your past.

almost instantly shutting your sketchbook shut, you ignore the implications of what your mind was telling you. the crew neck sweater itches at your neck. it’s almost like the words embroidered on the cotton burn into your heart, to always make you remember and recall the time before messy relationships, longing feelings and just enjoying the present time.

time. you didn’t have much of it anyway.

maybe this trip would allow you to make peace with the past. you wouldn’t flinch whenever your friends would talk about league of legends champion, ‘katarina’, or you wouldn’t immediately decline movie night with aeri in fear that one of the actresses would look eerily similar to jimin.

allowing your brain to wander past your comfort zone, you wonder what she's doing now. was she a flight stewardess? did she manage to finally get better at pubg? was her favourite colour still blue? did she still have that sparkle in her eyes when food was brought up?

the last thought makes you chuckle, reminiscing how excited jimin was whenever food was involved. when yizhuo would bring back mala snacks from china, jimin would be gone in a flash.

(so would yizhuo’s snacks, you can’t count the number of times you were forced to lie about who the perpetrator was.

maybe it was worth it when jimin would beam at you, flashing a bright smile that rivalled the shine of diamonds).

with bittersweet memories, you drift off. sleepless nights made up for, by just giving yourself permission to think about her.

you dream of crashing waves, two people on the shore, just sitting down and gazing at the scenery. the sunset’s everlasting in this timeline. like time doesn’t exist and all they did was stare at the deep ocean.

before you even get to see their faces, the announcement rings throughout the flight.

you sigh deeply, catching the attention of aeri.

“you okay? you slept so soundly, i thought you died,” the japanese girl asks worriedly. you laugh, it was the best sleep you ever got, and it was on an aeroplane.

strange how our consciousness works.

“i’m good,” this time you weren’t lying.

you stare at the glass doors, wondering if minjeong had told anyone else to come fetch you. it wasn’t a far fetched thought, maybe the girl had asked yizhuo to come as well. the chinese girl would kill minjeong if she didn’t tell her about your arrival back in korea after what? three, almost four years?

“hey, i asked my friend to pick us up and she might have brought someone else,” you warn aeri.

“oh that’s fun… why do you sound so scared?”

“because, the other girl is a little overbearing,” you scoff, “she might try to climb you, just a warning.”

aeri widens her eyes as you two drag your luggage to the gates.

she gapes, “no kidding? is she a koala or something?”

“something like that,” you shrug.

the doors open. it’s your first step (not really) into korea. the air is the same anywhere else, but the feeling isn’t.

it’s the feeling of uncertainty. the feeling of fear. aeri clasps your free hand tightly in hers, sensing your hesitance.

your gaze glides over the crowd of people waiting for their own family. aeri makes a noise of recognition and she pulls you to the side, you finally spot someone familiar.

“minjeong…!” you call out, voice going silent at the sight of a girl that is most definitely not minjeong.

it’s not yizhuo either, that’s for sure.

“did minjeong get plastic surgery or something?”

you want to run.

“because… that’s not— that’s not minjeong,” you whisper, “that’s yu jimin.”

aeri deadpans, “you say that like i know who the hell she is.”

you want to kill minjeong. and maybe jimin wants to kill aeri with how hard she’s glaring at her.

jimin only trots slowly towards you.

jimin’s eyes dart from aeri’s face back to yours, her hard, cold gaze trailing down to your sweater that has come uncovered by the puffer jacket. your eyes narrow when she raises an eyebrow at you, as if asking you, “why are you wearing that?”

you don’t answer her, because you don’t know either.

“i’m jimin, y/n’s—”

“friend,” you interrupt, quickly turning away to avoid the flash of hurt on jimin’s face.

the mentioned girl recovers quickly, putting on a fake smile, “classmate of y/n from high school.”

“i’m uchinaga aeri, y/n’s roommate, thank you for picking us up!” aeri grins widely, ignoring the deadly lasers pointing her way.

“where are you staying, if i may ask?” jimin’s sharp tone doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“with y/n—”

you cover aeri’s mouth, knowing how jimin gets, “it’s none of your business.”

your roommate makes a noise of indignation and licks a long strip across your palm. you groan, taking it off her mouth and wiping it on her jacket.

“that’s so gross,” you mutter in english.

“your english has gotten better,” jimin notes as the three of you walk to her car.

you don’t know what to say, so you stay silent.

“where do you stay, jimin-ssi?” aeri makes small talk to cover up the awkward silence. you thank her internally.

jimin stares at you through the mirror, “with y/n.”

you bite your lip, nervous at what jimin might say next. you had never told aeri about your complicated relationship with jimin and you didn’t plan to. only because of kim minjeong meddling in, now it seems like everything has to be uncovered again.

“she’s a bad roommate, right?” surprisingly, aeri ignores jimin’s statement and instead continues to complain about you.

you’re shocked, to say the least. you thought aeri would have started blabbing and asking probing questions about your past roommate situation. or maybe she noticed your sullen look.

“i thought four years would have been enough for her to change her bad habits,” jimin says.

you know for a fact she isn’t talking about the same thing as aeri. jimin was even worse than you as a roommate; eating your secret snack stash, never cleaning up the pile of laundry she had in her room and always invading your alone time in bed.

“many things have changed,” you mumble, “i’m not the same as before.”

the car goes silent, jimin probably analysing your words while aeri pouts, confused by the strange tension you had with your so-called friend.

“if you desire something enough, you’d want it to stay the same forever.”

you retort, “change is inevitable.”

aeri says quietly in the corner, “i know the guy who said that, his name is like john, or something.”

struggling to keep your laughter silent, you splutter in aghast at aeri’s sudden general knowledge.

“you’re so strange,” you comment.

aeri laughs, “i know, but you like me for that, right?”

(“—only had a brain the size of a walnut, that’s why the stegosaurus was one of the dumbest dinosaurs!” jimin reads out loud from your bed.

you stand at your vanity, finishing up your skincare, trying not to laugh at jimin’s absurd dinosaur facts, “you’re so weird.”

“you like that about me though?”)

you sense how intimate the conversation feels for the both of you, so you stop answering aeri and instead focus on jimin. her grip on the steering wheel has tightened significantly, eyes burning with something you can’t identify.

“you’re being annoying again, go to sleep or something, it’s a long drive from here to my house—” you halt in the middle of your sentence, finally questioning the very fact of… why?

why is yu jimin here? even if minjeong asked her to, why? the jimin you knew would never do this. the jimin you knew would never give up her sleeping time just to fetch an old friend, who she maybe had something going on with, and a stranger? yizhuo had friends from china who were visiting, and even then, jimin refused to fetch them from the airport. she was the only one in your friend group with a licence so it only made sense to ask her.

you try to bury yourself in the sweater even more. it was fine for now. seeing jimin in the flesh. but maybe you were so jet lagged that you hadn’t made sense of the situation yet.

the only sensible thing to do for now, was to let yourself escape into dreamland and wait for the morning after.

you can only anticipate it would be full of awkward silence, tension-filled gazes, hesitant actions.

it’s difficult to fall asleep. you decide to blame your insomnia on the nap you had during the flight. even when you know it’s because of the deeply asleep body, separated by a thin wall.

you’re sitting upright, staring at the unveiled moon. it’s stunning, not like the sun which literally glares. the moon is calming, easing you into the next day, all while making you feel… loneliness.

how could you feel lonely even with so many people around you?

(“do you think soulmates exist?” you had asked, curious of jimin’s take on such tales.

the girl seems taken aback, but she ultimately replies, “if they do, i think you’re mine.”)

you clench the duvet in your fists tightly, mind grasping at any other thought than of yu jimin. it’s unfortunate that you seem to enjoy the pain and torture past memories bring with how often your brain wanders through them.

maybe it’s time to come clean with yourself.

you were back in your hometown. you were staying in the same apartment as you did before you left. one that you shared with yu jimin; one that you called home.

eyes starting to become watery, you wipe them off and take a seat at your desk. if you were going to stay awake the rest of the night, might as well get work done. pulling out your sketchbook, the first page to be opened is the drawing of jimin from the flight. the realisation slaps you.

how long would it take someone to get over the love of their life?

for you, maybe eternity.

the door creaks open slightly. your head turns sharply, hand instinctively covering the drawing.

“y/n…?”

“jimin,” you inhale, “why are you still awake?”

she doesn’t bother to answer you and instead chooses to sit on your bed. once you notice the pyjamas she’s wearing, you feel daggers stab into your heart. it’s one of your many matching pyjamas with her. you hadn’t touched any of them since you left korea.

“are you dating aeri?” she asks.

you know what she’s secretly trying to ask.

“no, she’s just a friend.”

“that’s what they always say,” jimin scoffs. her tone doesn’t sit right with you.

with a sudden urge to defend your friendship with aeri, you shoot back, “i recall you saying that about lee jeno too.”

your words clearly strike a chord in jimin, her eyes widen, hurtful remarks at the tip of her tongue. yet, she merely looks away. you hate how beautiful she looks in the moonlight.

“y’know, technically we’re still dating.”

“what are you talking about?” you ask, bewildered.

jimin rolls her eyes, “we never explicitly broke up, you only ghosted me. technically we’re still together.”

“stop spouting nonsense.”

the girl only pouts in annoyance. you hate how your heartstrings tug at her cute expression. right now, yu jimin had to be anything but cute.

“and i didn’t ghost you, i was busy.” the lie slips out easily, revealing how used you are to saying it. jimin, of course, doesn’t believe you. she had never.

jimin frowns.

“you always say that too.”

she stands up, walking bit by bit closer to you. your hand grips the sketchbook protectively.

placing a hand onto the back of your chair, jimin smirks, leaning in. you hate how attractive she looks.

her now blonde locks form a curtain around your faces, preventing any outsider to peek in and see what you were doing.

“i think you’re a bad friend,” jimin claims.

“what?”

you can’t take your eyes off her fluttering eyelashes, her red nose, probably from the cold, and her eyes filled with determination.

“you lied to aeri,” she whispers, “since when were we ever just friends?”

a lump forms in your throat. your heart constricts. you can barely even say a word. you’re speechless.

“we’re barely even friends, roommates, probably,” you splutter out.

“yeah?”

“yeah.” jimin eyes you with an amused expression, lips twitching with the threat of a big, wide smile. you realise your words bid you no help, only further supplying as a challenge for jimin— for you to admit that you were more than friends. no words needed to be exchanged about that fact, but you being you, after fulfilling years of ghosting, would never admit that you harboured any sort of feelings for jimin after being the main reason why your relationship fell apart.

you would argue that your absence was just a contributing factor. the real trigger came in the form of lee jeno, a man that you could say with your whole heart and soul, you hated with every bone in your body.

after you had left, with a promise to stay in contact with jimin, you realised how hard it was to maintain your relationship status. and when jimin posted countless instagram stories of jeno, you realised again that maybe it was best to break it off.

never in the duration of your ‘ghosting stage’ had you ever told jimin the real reason for your sudden coldness. madly jealous and insecure, you decided to disappear. disappear just from jimin though.

“i’ve always been curious,” jimin pulls back from your intense gaze, “why you started being so distant, cold and indifferent. tell me, will you?”

“that’s just my personality.” a direct white lie, you decide to tell.

“i was heartbroken,” she ignores you and continues her monolouge, “my girlfriend decides to ghost me, and just me. made me think i did something wrong.”

you lick your lips, suddenly feeling your throat constrict up. no longer was this just banter, the conversation was steering into uncharted territory.

“it wasn’t just you,” you desperately argue, trying to direct the conversation away, “moving to another country isn’t easy.”

“you’re pretending our whole relationship didn’t exist. maybe in your eyes it meant nothing, but for me, it was everything. don’t you know every single day i have nightmares? the craziest thing is that all the demons in my nightmares have your smile,” jimin whispers fiercely, “and yet, i stay faithful to those nightmares, even if i wake up crying for someone who didn’t even bother answering my calls. you may have only been in the states, but it felt like you were on another planet. i was the last person to know you were coming back, even though you promised me; promised that if you were to return, i would be the first person to—”

you can’t control yourself. hearing her words makes your blood boil. the pumping of your heart only accelerates further as you lift up your hand, delivering a heavy slap across her face. how dare she? how dare she act as if everything was your fault? how could she accuse your devotion and adoration for her?

“don’t act like you’re the fucking victim, karina,” you hiss, your words even more painful than the stinging red on jimin’s cheek, “the first morning after, i sent you so many texts, barely even seen. then i see your story. were you acting when you said you were sad about me leaving? or were you happy to finally say that you don’t have a girlfriend anymore?”

jimin cradles her cheek in her hand, eyes narrowing when you finally confess the real reason. you can tell she doesn’t remember anything. her not even knowing what she did that made you feel unneeded only drives the blade deeper into your heart.

“drinking at a club with lee jeno,” you say his name with venom, voice gradually getting louder and louder. remembering that aeri’s only a few walls away, you try to control your emotions. “could you not understand how i felt— you said nothing would come between us and the first week away from home, constantly ignoring me for some guy.”

(“call me when your plane lands,” jimin said, playing with the hem of her sweater on you.

“isn’t it gonna be midnight in korea when i land?”

the girl merely chuckles, “i’ll be up all night just to hear your voice.”)

the realisation strikes you like a lightning bolt.

“this was a mistake.”

“what?”

“this… me coming back. i should have just stayed in the states but fuck, i let aeri convince me,” you run your fingers through your tousled hair, stressed. jimin was going to cause you to have white hair.

the redness on jimin’s cheek is still there. you feel slightly guilty for ruining her clear complexion.

“that was just how i coped with you leaving,” jimin explains.

you purse your lips, placing your open palms on jimin’s chest. maybe she thinks you’re about to cave in since she sighs in relief. however, instead of pulling her in, you push her until her back is touching your door.

“i don’t need an explanation, or an apology,” you say firmly, “i need time alone away from you.”

“you’ve had 4 years to yourself,” jimin states bitterly.

“i’m sorry for slapping you, but please, either show me your actions matching your words, or just get out of my life for good.”

jimin sighs again, this one full of exasperation.

“go,” you mutter under your breath.

the knife drives deep into your already ruined heart as you push her away. the girl scoffs, grasping your open palms into her hands, intertwining your fingers.

“if you insist on pushing me away, i’ll get rid of any possibility of us being together again. just let me into your heart again,” she throws your hands away and slams the door. the loud bang echoes in your ears, but not as loudly as her words. it only takes a few seconds for you to collapse onto the floor, sobs wrecking your whole body.

“morning,” aeri yawns, “i heard a loud bang last night, was that you or is your apartment haunted?”

you drizzle maple syrup onto your stacked pancakes, sending a bittersweet smile to your friend. your night was spent tossing and turning, both guilt and anger consuming you. when the clock ticked at four in the morning, you finally let yourself think about how jimin made you feel. even if she went to drink right after you left, you should have communicated with her instead of ghosting her. you knew for a fact that she was heartbroken based on the numerous texts your friends had sent you.

fuck, you groan into your pillow. getting up from your bed, your eyes roam the room, eventually landing on the sketchbook at your desk. you never finished that drawing on the plane. after considering (or more likely procrastination), you sit down, pouring your hours and feelings into your drawings. countless of them filled up the sketchbook’s pages. the drawings’ subjects all looked eerily similar to jimin. her pointed nose, soft gaze were all captured in the pages. you finally come to terms with it. you were still in love with her. after all, she was your only muse. thinking about her words from before, you knew that she meant them. spending years waiting for someone who was basically a ghost couldn’t have been easy.

you were going to do something about it.

barely getting any sleep last night, you woke up earlier than usual and decided to prepare breakfast. aeri had woken up an hour after, stomach growling and eyes gleaming at the pancakes.

“by the way,” she says, mouth full of pancake, “i’m meeting up with a friend today and she’s bringing someone too. wanna go with me on a double date?”

fate must be messing with you since right as aeri says the words ‘double date’, yu jimin walks in. her hair tousled, puffed cheeks and eyes narrowing. you stiffen, focusing on picking at your pancakes instead. unbeknownst to you, once jimin spots the lone plate of breakfast on the counter, her gaze softens.

“do you know who your friend’s bringing…?” you whisper softly, trying not to catch the attention of jimin.

aeri, although you love her, says in the loudest voice possible, “somi will be your date! i think she’s your type.”

the scraping of the metal fork makes you squeeze your eyes shut, mentally preparing for jimin’s outburst.

“so-mi,” jimin clicks her tongue.

aeri nods, stuffing her face with more food.

she turns to you, “and you’re going on a date with her?”

“double date with me,” aeri clarifies, “don’t worry jimin-ssi, i’ll be there to protect y/n! y’know in college i always had to pick y/n up from her bad dates. her taste in guys suck.”

“seems like her taste in girls has been downgraded,” jimin comments, smirking. you roll your eyes, wanting nothing more than for her to shut up. aeri guffaws, taking out her phone. “i’ll show you somi’s instagram account and you can decide for yourself, y/n,” she says.

you nod, deciding not to say anything in case jimin flares up. somi’s very pretty, anyone would agree. she had her own attractive style and seemed really confident. you liked that. aeri wasn’t wrong to say that somi was your type. it was just unfortunate that your heart was in the hands of another girl.

while scrolling on aeri’s phone, her alarm rings, reading, ‘brunch with yunny.’

“ah! yunjin wanted to meet earlier, just the two of us,” aeri smiles, “text me later if you wanna join!” she stands up from the table. you’re astonished by how fast she managed to finish those pancakes, her stack was evidently taller than yours. jimin glances at you, amazed as well.

“did she inhale those…?”

“i’ve got no fucking clue,” you mumble, digging into your own. jimin only chuckles and you hate how it makes your heart clench up in affection.

the silence is deafening. without aeri, the air thickens with tension between you and jimin, filled with nostalgia and regret. it feels just like last time— you and jimin eating breakfast together at that very same table, giggling about whatever trouble your friends got into the previous day.

“hey, about yesterday—”

“it’s fine,” you interrupt, “is your cheek okay?”

jimin swallows hard, “yes, it doesn’t hurt at all.”

“don’t lie, come here,” you instruct, “i’ve known you for so long, you can’t lie to me.”

she just laughs, showing you the slightly bruised side of her face. you feel guilt wreck you. no matter how angry you were, you shouldn’t have laid a hand on her.

“did you ice it?”

jimin shakes her head. you sigh, getting up and taking an ice pack out of the freezer. it’s too easy for you to return to past habits, moving around the kitchen like it was 2018 and jimin was the love of your life (she still is). wrapping the ice pack in a towel, you inch closer to jimin, holding it to her cheek. she winces slightly and you resist the urge to hold her hand in comfort.

“y/n…”

“hm?”

the girl seems so small now— her posture deflated, eyes barely meeting yours, biting her lip nervously. you have a feeling you know what she’s about to ask.

“are you going on that date with soyoung?” you laugh loudly, catching jimin off guard.

“jimin, her name’s somi.”

pouting, jimin turns away from you, making your hand falter. “hey, i need to ice your face.”

“i won’t let you unless you answer my question.” she’s so childish it’s adorable. the tension has gone, now filled with uncertainty instead.

“i don’t have anyone to spend the afternoon with. minjeong and yizhuo are busy today,” you explain.

“you have me,” she mutters.

ignoring her, you answer, “aeri seemed really excited for us to meet.”

“you spent all your time in the states with her, you should spend time with your friends here,” jimin retorts.

her hesitance to even admit she wants to spend time with you makes you want to tease her.

“oh? you’re right,” jimin perks up like a puppy. cute, you think. “i should text yujin if she wants to go out, remember her? she was our student council president.”

rolling her eyes, jimin swats at your hand nursing her bruise. it’s too easy for you to return to past habits, bantering with jimin like she was the only girl you’ve ever loved (she was).

it’s too easy. between the choice of going out with aeri to meet someone new and staying in with jimin. it’s such an easy choice to make.

you bring the ice pack away from her face, choosing to caress her cheek lovingly instead. she sighs, content, leaning into your touch.

“jimin,” you gulp, “i’m sorry for these past few years.”

her eyes gaze up at you, “it’s okay. i’ve come to terms with it. i honestly wasn’t expecting you to come back.”

“i wasn’t planning to either, but aeri wanted to.”

“good thing she convinced you, huh?” jimin smiles, “at least i know i was the reason for our break up.”

“it’s only a relationship if there are two people,” you say, “it was my fault too.”

her eyes momentarily flicker to your lips, it doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“i know these years haven’t been easy on both of us, but if you’re willing to, i think i’m okay with giving us a second chance,” you confess, “even if you hurt me again, i still want you. i just want you. you’ve always been the only one in here.” you point at your heart.

jimin’s eyes shoot straight up, finally breaking into a wide smile, “seriously? even after what i said last night? i’m not complaining but like… you were pretty angry. i just wanted to know why you ghosted me and i agree, i deserved it. but why the sudden change?”

“i mean,” you shrug, “it was what you said that made me think about this. i didn’t want you to stop loving me, because i’ve never stopped loving you.”

“you love me?”

“i love you.”

“this is so crazy, you went from slapping me to…” she trails off, grasping your chin and bringing you into a kiss. her lips were so, so, soft. you wondered why you even let her go. once your lips met, you felt her sigh before smiling into your mouth. catching your breath, you run your fingers through her blonde hair.

“still going on that date with suki?”

“jimin, you know her name’s somi.”

“whatever, i love you too.”

[ariseur]

hello!! i was wondering if u could a little something where the reader is an artist. they draw very good. so megumi finds her sketchbook sitting sitting on the readers bed and it’s opened to a page with drawings of megumi. he looks thru it and sees everyone from jujutsu high in there as well. reader catches him and gets a little shy. it can be written in whatever form u want. if u want to write it. no biggie if u don’t. thank you!!! love ur work ❤️❤️

LINES OF LOVE — MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ notes - this was meant to be a blurb but it ended up being a whole fic lolol. i hope you enjoyed, this request was super cute i just hope i wrote it well 😭🫶

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ warnings - mentions of megumi kinda snooping in your book despite feeling guilty, you’re friends with yuuji n nobara ( and megumi ), reader is a student at jujutsu high, intended lowercase, lmk if i missed anything (•̀ᴗ•́)و

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ word count - 2483 words, 13372 characters

eyes of jade followed your hands, one clutching your sketchbook as the other moved with the flow of your hand while it gripped the wooden pencil. megumi watched as your eyes darted all over the paper book as his head tilted to the side the slightest bit. he admired you in all your glory, basking in the presence of the sun; your feet propped up on the bleachers, ears mindlessly picking up the bickering of yuuji and nobara fighting about only lord knows what on the race track.

you occasionally looked up at them, hair bobbing as your head whipped back up. as per usual, he observed you — taking in your gestures or small habits you didn’t even know you did, like putting the pencil and holding it in between your teeth momentarily as you thought. after that, your eyes would light right back up and put the graphite to the paper once again. megumi had always wondered what caught your eye, maybe the pretty scenery surrounding the school or your friends ( who were currently fighting over whether ana de armas was attractive or not ), no matter how stupid they seemed to be — you always saw the best in them. megumi noticed that. megumi noticed everything.

he also noticed the way you tilted your head up at him when you had caught him staring at you.

alas, his thoughts were interrupted as nobara stomped her way over to him, poking at his chest as yuuji covered his line of view before they interrogated him, asking who he thought was the hottest celebrity. he huffed at that, eyes narrowing at the two of them as your face was drowned out by their endless whining and shoving.

“i don’t care,” he gritted his teeth.

“eh? what do you mean you don’t care?“ yuuji‘s brows furrowed even more at his answer, only to be elbowed by nobara. “this is a very important question. what, are you gay or somethin’?”

“hey, what’s wrong with being gay?”

“nothing—! he just won’t answer!” she pushed yuuji at his stupid question again, the two butting heads with each other as megumi pinched the bridge of his nose and stood up. he squeezed himself by yuuji as him and nobara bantered on and on about their previous conversation, only to find no sign of you anywhere. his lips twitched into a small pout as his eyes scanned the field, only barren grass and the track to be seen. megumi let out a small, exasperated groan as kugisaki tugged on the neck of his uniform with a firm, “oi, where’re you going?”

megumi began to take in all of your little habits after that point, his gaze always managing to fall upon you to see what you were doing. you guys talked during class sometimes too, maybe an invite to spar with each other or to settle an agreement between him and itadori — so it wasn’t like you two weren’t familiar with each other. it was more like you yourself made your attempts to be more acquainted with megumi, which he did appreciate considering he wasn’t exactly the most . . amiable.

he noticed your efforts of not-so-subtly scooting over towards him, so close your knees practically touched as he tensed at the sudden contact before you would ask him how his day would go. even if he only gave few, curt responses, you persevered and smiled at him whilst you made progress within these chats.

your behavior went on for a few more days, the way you’d always clutch your book so protectively in your hands as your hand flowed along the pages. he had his suspicions of your muses, seeing as how you’d focus on him or certain curses you’d look at from afar for a little bit too long — megumi wasn’t dumb, the only thing he couldn’t understand was why. why you bothered to allow yourself be caught in the realities of the world, capturing them in your drawings.

and then came the end of saturday, the sun a warm glow as it bounced off of your back. you huffed, bumping hips with kugisaki as you walked along the sidewalk back to the school. yuuji and megumi strayed behind the two of you, walking in silence as your breathy giggles filled the air. debriefing the mission, nobara replayed the fight through her head as she mimicked some of the movements you did, bragging on about how cool it was while she made animated fight noises.

“fushiguro? what’re you looking at?” he snapped out of his inner monologue at the sound of yuuji’s voice, questioning what megumi was so intently looking at. brown eyes following his gaze, he looked at you; then back at megumi, then back at you, and back at him. he gasped a bit before megumi hit the back of his head and signaled for him to shut up.

“are you—“

“shut up.”

your head turned around before your eyes narrowed at the sight; yuuji hunched over clutching his head as megumi remained unfazed as usual. you cocked your head, “you okay?”

itadori looked up at you and looked back at fushiguro before beginning to nod his head in affirmation. nobara scoffed, “did you not just see him earlier? i think he can handle something that small.”

“just because i’m strong doesn’t mean i don’t get hurt!”

“you got thrown into a wall by a curse and got back up right afterwards.”

a hand flew up to your mouth to conceal your smile as you snorted at their replaying of the assignment as well. megumi stared at you again, ears perking up and attuning to your giggles. your eyes flickered between the pair before they set on the raven haired boy who’s head was tilted down at the pavement, hands shoved in the uniform’s pockets. your voice called out to him so sweetly as you acknowledged him, “megumi, are you okay?”

he looked up at you, shoulders stiffening at the sound of you saying his name. he muttered out a small, “yeah,” before looking away into the distance — his face engulfed by the gleams of amber provided so gracefully from the sun, highlighting the swirls of color in his eyes. your lips twitched upwards in a meager smile even when he wasn’t looking at you ( though he could still see you out of his peripheral, it made him feel weird and gooey although he’d die before admitting it ), before turning your head and focusing on your way back.

nobara and yuuji shared a look at you two, the first name catching them off guard as their eyes narrowed in skepticism. they shrugged and merely kept walking, talking about what shenanigans gojo’s gonna pull in the next day or two. megumi didn’t pay them any mind, though — the only thing he looked at after they all looked away was you. the way your hair held golden chunks from the sun, the way you messed with a recent scab on your arm even though he told you not to. it was almost pathetic to him, that he admired you so much. little did he know that you did the same.

once you all had reached the school, you had held your hand up and jogged after megumi as you called out to him again, “megumi, wait up—!”

he turned his head, tugging at his collar to avoid some of the heat from gathering below his neck. it especially didn’t help that you looked at him with those eyes of yours, so sweet and careful. “what is it?” he asked, beginning to walk back up to the dorms assuming that you’d follow.

and of course, you did; feet keeping up with the pace that megumi set although it felt slower than usual today ( only because he tried slowing down more for you just in case you struggled to catch up with him, which he, too, would never admit ). you laughed a bit before putting a hand on your hip as you walked through the hallways of jujutsu high. “was just wondering if you could help me with an equation, i don’t really get it,” and with that sentence, he looked at your sheepish smile and the very thin, sheen layer of sweat that formed on the nape of your neck even with your hair tied up.

megumi’s nose twitched as he let out a soft exhale, turning his gaze back in front of him before he stopped in his tracks. you two shared a look in the middle of the hallway before you extended your arm with a free hand, gesturing towards your dorm’s door. he shrugged with a small, “sure,” before you made your way over to the room, a bright smile on your face as you signaled for him to follow.

to megumi; it felt weird being in a girl’s room, alone, that is. especially when the only other person in that room is you. it didn’t feel all so strange though, you made him feel comfortable enough and made enough small talk even if he didn’t exactly like participating in meaningless chats. your smile remained ever plastered to your face, even when you weren’t facing him — he didn’t get it, but it made him feel something. something other than annoyance at the stupidity shown around him.

“ah, shit,” you had said.

he turned, the wheels of the rolling chair beneath him making a satisfying rumble on the hardwood floor. “what is it?”

“i left something in kugisaki’s room, i’ll be right back i swear—! just grab that black book in my shelf, okay?” he followed to where your finger pointed to where multiple sleek, matte books sat vertically pressed together in the small shelf. his mouth opened to ask you which one you meant until he heard your hasty footsteps retreating out the doorway and down the hall into nobara’s dorm. he sighed, ducking down to dust some of the books off, some clearly more recent than others.

he grabbed the three middle ones, hoping those were the ones you were talking about. laying the first one down, the spine crackled as he opened it up — only to be met with eyefuls full of repetitive english words and a few in japanese to the right, likely a language arts notebook.

hands grabbing at the second one, he opened it up only to be met with sketches and outlines of anatomy. megumi quirked a brow at the fine lines, grazing his hands along the shaded graphite and dark, textured contrasts of the pages. some were just doodles, others were full on practicing certain anatomical shapes — and then on the fifth page did he find a drawing of nobara and yuuji, the day at the track field.

he let out a small hum as he squinted at the small comments you’d leave on the drawings; he scanned the small strokes of kanji and kana that lay on the side, in this instance it was, “too silly.”

another page, some of gojo sensei and his odd faces ( somehow so expressive despite keeping the blindfold on most of the time ). another page, just some scenery of downtown tokyo when you guys had an assignment there.

and then he saw himself, his scowl presented to him on the light paper along with a multitude of other faces. that one time he tried to smile with his teeth where you and yuuji ended up making fun of him and took a photo was drawn, along with the polaroid taped to the corner. his thumb rubbed against the bottom corner of the page, before slipping his other fingers under and turning it; only to be met with more portraits of him.

megumi pressed his lips tight together as a familiar sense of when you had memorized this scene, remembering you and him were driven around by ijichi for a while after returning to the school from a mission — you had injured your leg and needed a ride, to which megumi stayed with you the whole time.

he narrowed his eyes at the small note underneath the spikes of his hair.

‘美男, binan’.

and it was like his heart leaped into his throat, he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as he closed his eyes and felt his stomach flutter around a bit. you thought he was handsome, perhaps one of the many things megumi fushiguro was not in his mind; and perhaps everybody else’s. he let out a small huff before closing the book and opening the third one, before sitting in silence defeatedly only to see that that was the book you were talking about.

he opened it up to find meticulous, color-coded notes and scattered equations littered on pieces of stapled graph paper in your notebook.

his head shot up and whipped around to face you as he heard you call out his name with a questioning lilt. the new position he took allowed you to see what he was so worried about; the three books that lay out on the table, your sketchbook being the one of top showing that that was the one he touched most recently.

your face dropped a bit, cocking your head before letting out a small, nervous laugh. “what’s up?”

he stayed silent for a bit, looking off into the corner for a few seconds for turning his gaze back to you and saying, “didn’t realize you were such a nice artist.”

megumi watched as you froze in place, smile still evident on your face as your eyes remained upturned and closed in a warm demeanor. you took a few steps before plopping yourself face down on your bed. he groaned, “don’t be shy, i just gave you a compliment.”

you let out a long string of a low pitched whine as it came out garbled and muffled in the sheets.

your ears pricked with the sound of the hardwood’s surface being rolled upon by the chair, a larger weight dipping the bed down a bit. you felt an awkward hand place itself on your back, patting it a few times before sitting in silence.

lifting your head up to avoid adding too much heat on your face with the soft comforter, you didn’t dare look at megumi. you two merely sunk in the quietude as your face heated up as time progressed. he didn’t know what quite to say, he was flattered and he was glad that you thought all these things about him, painting him more attractive than he really was ( at least that’s what he thought ). he just didn’t tell you that. he just couldn’t tell you that.

but eventually, he huffed, “so,” megumi paused, hesitantly sighing once more.

“do you really think i’m handsome?”

“oh my gosh, megumi.”

𐙚 taglist ; @sad-darksoul @kasumitenbaz @seternic @kalulakunundrum @silly-norman @chxlexauriana

𐙚 requests are closed — june twenty seventh, 2024

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 20

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

Not long after you close yourself in your room you hear the front door close. The house is silent but not calm. While you want everything to just go back the way it was, being alone with your mom doesn’t promise you peace. She never takes it well when she doesn’t get her way. 

You have your table pulled up the bed, doodling random petals and stems, some connected and some not. The sunlight beams through the curtains and shines onto the paper as you scratch the graphite over it. You cup your chin as you bide your time, dreading the inevitable. You’ll have to face her again and you have a lot to atone for. 

The rustle of leaves is underlined by the darting whistle of some distant bird. Along the edge of your vision, you sense movement and peer over at the window, expecting a flutter of wings. Instead, you see a shadow looming in Steve’s window, just across the gap between your houses. You don’t recognise that man; it must be the friend he mentioned. 

You slide the table out and stand slowly, cautious as you try not to draw attention. The man has grey hair like Steve, he’s a little shorter by your measure, and built a bit broader. He turns to lean just beside the window and you carefully tug closed your curtain. You keep forgetting to do that although you can’t even remember opening it most times. 

The noise of your movement draws your name from the front room. You huff and face the door. It’s time. You emerge and go to find your mother on her recliner. She stares despondently at the ceiling. 

“Whatever you said to Steve...” she mutters. 

“I didn’t...” you can’t even finish the lie. You didn’t say anything but you also don’t know everything you did around Steve. 

“I don’t want to hear it. You reel it in,” she sits the chair up straight and winces at the jarring motion. “Whatever you’re up to, it stops now.” 

You look at the floor, “sorry, mom.” 

“Ugh, you’re useless, you know that? If you hadn’t been hanging around like some troll, he would’ve stayed,” she snarls. "If you weren't here, everything would be so much better."

“Mm, but I saw... his friend--” 

“Oh, shut up and go away,” she snaps and reclines again. “Tomorrow, he’s taking me out. Away from you. You can stay and clean up your mess.” 

You back away without another word. She’s only looking to argue. It will be good for her to get out. Somewhere that isn’t a hospital. And she’s right, this place could use another clean, and you could use the distraction. 

🏡

As promised, your mother leaves with Steve. That she’s ready to leave the house before noon is a feat on its own, not to mention how she woke up before you. Still, you made her coffee for her and reminded her about her medicine. Those parts went as usual. 

Alone, you feel lighter but not free. You sweep and mop and make sure all the dishes are done and away. You even make sure to use the old vacuum to clean up your mom’s recliners and the carpet in the front room. A spritz of freshener makes the air a little less stale. 

You finish around one and go back to your room. You take out your pencils and set to work on a new picture. No more amaryllis; you’ve moved on to morning glories. It’s so beautiful how they open with the sun.

You use your colour pencils, some of them so short you can’t even sharpen them, to give dimension the broad petals. You lose yourself in the task, fingertips a medley of hues as you switch between shades and blending stick. You have your forehead in your hand, your shoulders hunched, and your eyes laser focused.

It’s only your name that breaks your reverie. You blink and sit up, the ache setting into your knuckles as they have a moment to rest. You door is open. 

“Hey, sweetie,” Steve says, “we’re back.” 

“Oh,” is all you can utter. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he has a hand on his hip. You wonder if he’s been there a while. “Not to intrude but... could I get a peek?” 

You stare at him for a moment, confused. Then look down at the page. It’s mostly done, you guess. Doesn’t matter, really. There’s worse things to judge you about. 

You set down the pencil and lift the book. He breaks the threshold of your room and crosses to look closer. He carefully puts his hand next to yours, silently asking permission to take it. You hand it over and he raises it closer to squint at the lines. 

“This is beautiful,” he remarks, “you should think about my offer. We could go out and find some good scenery,” He suggests as he continues to examine your work, “and you shouldn’t be all bent over like that. You can always use my studio if you need--” 

“I’m fine,” you shrug. 

“For now, but one day that’s catch up to you. Trust me,” she offers the book back to you. “So... do you only draw flowers?” 

You close the book and pack away the pencils. 

“Mostly,” you answer. 

“Wow, to be honest, I always found them challenging. No two flowers are alike, right? Every rose has different petals, every tulip a different number of stamens,” he says. “So how was your day?” 

“Is my mom here?” You asks, ignoring his question. 

“Yeah, she’s all tired out. She’s relaxing. Still early though,” he checks his watch, “you wanna come over for a swim?” 

You’re flumoxed by the pace of his conversation. The constant pivoting has you off-balance. You’re wholly unready for any of it. Those hours alone have left you in an odd daze. 

“Thanks, but uh, I don’t have a suit,” you say. 

“You don’t?” He clucks, “well that’s too bad. You could just wear some shorts and tank or whatever. No one around to see.” 

“It’s okay,” you rebuff again. “I’m still pretty tired.” 

“Oh, of course, sweetie, maybe another time. Did you take another pill? I know they really get to you.” 

“Erm, no.” 

“You’re going to, right? You need to be consistent, you know? To see if it works.” 

“Right, I know,” you murmur guiltily. You’d forgotten all about the boxes in the cupboard. 

“Now, I’m only looking out for you. I mean, you take care of your mother, make sure she takes her meds, but what about you? Who’s looking after you, sweetheart?” 

You hug yourself and stand. You untangle your arms from around you and push the table back to the corner. He might mean well but you’re just embarrassed. No one does care about you and you’re okay with that. You have to be, you can’t change it. 

“It was rhetorical,” he says, “sweetie, I’m going to look after you. I promise.” He’s pauses as if waiting for an answer, “haven’t I?” 

“Hmm,” you turn to him and push out your lower lip. 

“Haven’t I taken care of you?” He asks. 

You nod, “yes. Thank you...” 

“You and your mom, right? That’s how it’s gonna be. The three of us.” 

What he’s saying, the way he’s saying it, it’s making you uneasy. You tuck your lip under your teeth and let it pop back out. He tilts his head as his eye flicker eerily. 

“Well, I’m going to stay the night to keep an eye on mom. She’s having a bad day. She did a lot so... I’ll get started on dinner and you take your medicine, okay?” 

Your heart pounds in your ribcage. There’s something about his tone. He’s not asking, he’s telling. You look at him in your doorway, noting how he fills the whole thing. Thinking of how you couldn’t get past him or move him, even if you had the courage to try. You reach over to steady yourself with the table. 

“Sure,” you agree softly. 

“You’re not busy tomorrow?” He wonders. 

You blink and shake your head, “n... no?” 

“Good, we have a surprise for you,” he grins. “Big one.” 

“Al--alright,” you resist as shiver. 

“You should dress up nice, too. Maybe that cute little dress you got,” he taps on the doorframe and takes a step back, “I like that one.” 

He winks and spins on his heel, leaving you in a queasy silence. A surprise? What could he possibly mean? 

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, birth control discussion, dirty talk, making out, lots of touching

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: Part Sixteen of Ink & Needle

You and Simon explore Edinburgh before heading to Johnny’s family farm in the Highlands. At the secluded cottage on property, you and Simon finally have the chance to be truly alone.

Chapter Fifteen // Chapter Seventeen

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Green grass. Fall rain. Endless gray sky.

Funny how the simple things, the things you don’t expect, can bring you joy. They ground you in a singular moment, capturing the present like a snapshot. Simon’s head is quickly filling with these pictures. They are consuming. Perfect. A calmness that he often feels just before the first sip of tea.

It took twenty minutes—and all of Simon’s willpower—to pull himself from your arms and out of bed this morning. He would have stayed but this is so much better. This is freeing. A complete separation from the stresses of his life. Since waking, Simon hasn’t thought about a single fucking worry all day.

No 141 Ink. No British Intelligence. No Kit Walsh.

Nothing.

Simon even forgot to care that he didn’t pack or wear a balaclava for this trip.

There has only been you.

You—who is the bright light in the dark that is his life.

It’s raining in Edinburgh, but that doesn’t appear to dampen your mood one bit. If anything, it makes you wilder, and Simon loves watching your intense satisfaction in everything you see around you. Right now, you stand in the middle of a cobblestone street, staring up into the cloudy sky, smiling at the soft rain as it lands on your face.

Simon is on the pavement, grinning like an idiot as you make your way back to him. Before you reach him, Simon presents his hand. You take it without question, the two of you effortlessly coming together.

It is natural. It is instinct.

The connection between his actions and his brain are so seamless, Simon doesn’t realize what he’s doing until after it has already happened. Each movement flows into the next, and it keeps the worries at a distance.

You are right in front of him. You are here and whole and all his.

Nothing compares.

With the rain, Simon sticks to indoor activities. The two of you linger in little trinket shops and old bookstores, explore winding streets, and watch the rain from café windows. You are curious, and this curiosity forces Simon to see the world around him differently. Simon always stops in Edinburgh when he visits Johnny’s family farm, but it’s just another stop to him. Nothing more.

At this point, it is routine, but watching you explore the city with new eyes gives Simon pause. It tells him to slow down, to consider that he can enjoy what’s before him as it is. Because watching you is shifting something inside of him. Not like a knife to the gut that twists and turns, but a healing with thread and needle and a tenderness that he can’t place but feels in his marrow.

When the rain stops and the clouds clear out, you and Simon stop for a sandwich before trekking up Calton Hill. Simon has seen this view hundreds of times. He stays back, allowing you to take it all in. There are other people up here—mostly tourists—but unlike them, you do not pull out your phone to snap photos. You simply admire, and inhale deeply, just living in the moment.

Simon does not interrupt. He does something he hasn’t done in ages.

From his coat pocket, Simon removes a small sketch pad and pencil. Finding a comfortable spot in the wet grass, he starts to sketch, allowing the graphite to lead. Simon sketches, simply existing, until you turn your back to Edinburgh and extend your arm to him, fingers wiggling in invitation.

Simon is the one that moves, taking your hand instead of you taking his. Again, like all the other times today, you step into his space, molding to him as if you’ve always belonged there. Bending down, Simon brushes his lips against the crown of your head before departing.

The drive to Johnny’s family farm up in the Highlands is peaceful. You sleep most of the way, and Simon doesn’t wake you until he pulls into the drive. He parks off to the side next to the tarp-covered quad and shuts off the car. Simon promised Johnny he’d check on the place before heading out to the cottage at the edge of the property.

Simon gently places his hand on your shoulders and squeezes. “We’re here.”

You stir, eyelids blinking slowly before opening fully. Sitting up, you yawn and glance around, realization dawning. “This the place?”

“Cottage is elsewhere. Stopping here first. Promised Johnny I’d look in on the place.”

“You mentioned no one would be here.” You have the passenger door open before Simon can hop out and open it for you. He comes around the front of the vehicle as you shut the car door. “Are we checking on the animals?” you ask, hopefulness in your tone.

Simon chuckles. “Absolutely not. Think I know how?”

“No,” you reply automatically, laughing. Your grin is infectious, and Simon cannot help but match it.

“You have so little faith in me?” he teases, placing one hand above the passenger window, creating a barrier between you and the house.

Simon leans in and grins when he receives the reaction he wants. You’re flustered and sweet, your gaze darting from his face to his chest in embarrassment.

“Never,” you murmur, lips parting slightly.

Your pupils widen and Simon has to swallow down a growl. Just a few more minutes, and the two of you will be where you need to.

Simon pushes off from the car and nods toward the house, walking backward. You follow, clearly eager. The main house is single-level, rectangular, and made of gray stone. The cottage is similar but boxy, housing a single room instead of several.

Approaching the front door, Simon begins lifting the edges of rocks that make up the flower bed with the toe of his boot. Usually someone is always here when Simon comes for a visit and all that’s required is just a knock on the door. But whenever the farm sits empty, a key is placed under a rock, and it is a hunt in finding where it is. The key is never in the same place twice and Johnny always forgets to remind Simon where it might be located.

A flash of metal catches Simon’s attention. He overturns the rock and bends down, snagging the key, jostling the rock back into place with his boot. Simon slides the key into the lock, and the door gives. Simon enters and you follow on his heels.

Simon loves this house. It’s cozy and comfortable. A true home. He’s spent many Christmases here, sleeping on the lumpy sofa and stuffing his face at the large wooden dining table. Hesitantly, you step forward as Simon tosses the key on the kitchen counter.

“Is there anything I can help with?” you ask, turning in Simon’s direction.

Simon shakes his head. “Just checking that windows are locked. I’ll walk the exterior after.”

You nod, slipping your hands into your coat pockets, strolling further into the house. Simon starts in the interior room before moving on to the bedrooms and bathroom. Everything is secure. Nothing is out of place, but the lock in the main bedroom is loose.

“Simon,” you call out. He tenses slightly at your raised voice but you don’t sound nervous or afraid.

Cautiously, he reenters the main room. You’re standing in front of the fridge. When Simon appears, you glance at him, the corners of your mouth turning upward into a bemused expression.

“What is it?” he asks, suddenly apprehensive.

Your head slowly swivels back to the fridge and that is when he notices a small piece of paper attached to it by a magnet.

“Simon,” you begin, reading from the paper. “I’ve stocked the fridge with all your favorites. Harold is taking care of the animals. Heard you’re bringing a lady friend. Hope you bring her at Christmas.” You turn back to Simon, one eyebrow arched in question.

Bloody hell.

The next time Simon sees Johnny, he’s strangling him.

“It also says to strip the bed before we leave if we—” you glance back at the note, “make a mess.”

Johnny, you’re a dead man.

Simon nearly chokes at that last bit. “It doesn’t say that,” he grumbles, striding forward to snatch the note off the fridge. Simon turns the paper over, revealing a familiar sprawling cursive. That is Johnny’s mother’s handwriting. He reads over it and then crosses his arms over his chest, staring you down.

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth as you giggle uncontrollably.

“You’re fucking done,” he says, pointing in your direction before folding the paper and stuffing it into his pocket. Simon tries to keep a serious demeanor but utterly fails. He’s grinning too as he rummages around for the toolbox under the sink.

After fixing the lock, Simon takes a lap around the perimeter of the house. Finding nothing, the two of you return to the car and head out to the cottage. It isn’t far and the dirt road that leads to it borders the pastures.

The cottage is a near replica of the main house. It too is made of stone with a small flower bed out front.

“Is this where we’re staying?” you ask as Simon opens the boot and removes the bags.

“You like it?”

“It’s lovely, Simon.” Your gaze softens. “Thank you.”

His heart stops and then melts, becoming liquid in his chest. “We both needed a break.”

You nod. “We did.” Your glance at the bags hanging off his shoulder. “I can take mine.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, pushing right past you and to the door.

You are not lifting a finger this entire trip. Simon won’t allow it. If you need anything, he will provide it.

Simon has the key in the door before you can form a protest. You’re grumbling behind him, but Simon ignores you, pushing open the door and stepping inside. Slowly, Simon slips the bags off his shoulder and places them at his feet.

Like the main house, the cottage is old. It’s seen two world wars, rebellions, and invasions. While the exterior hasn’t changed much, the interior has been updated to accommodate modern amenities. It consists of one large room and a small bathroom. Across from the entry door, on the other side of the room, is the hearth. It is the focal point of the room, and other than some general upkeep, it hasn’t changed since it was first built. Simon could comfortably crouch inside it and still have room to move.

Simon can build a fire in it, but he cannot fucking cook with it. Johnny’s mother certainly passed on her knowledge but it never stuck. Thankfully, there’s an actual fucking oven. The kitchen area itself is relatively small with limited counter space and a small fridge. Next to that is a tiny breakfast table that segways into a little sitting area with an armchair and sofa that seats two.

Directly inside the door to Simon’s left is the bathroom, and to his right is the bed. Its wood frame is weathered but sturdy.

“This is where we’re staying?” you ask softly, as if you don’t believe it to be true.

“Until Wednesday,” answers Simon, suddenly nervous.

Do you like it? Is it enough?

Simon cannot see your face. You’re turned away from him, walking further into the room. He stands awkwardly near the door, and the only thing in his head is how much he desires your approval. This trip isn’t much, but it’s something.

When you remove your coat and shiver, Simon’s response is immediate. “I’ll start the fire.” Grabbing the wool blanket off the bed, Simon unfolds it and holds it at your shoulders for you to accept.

This time, Simon finally sees your face, and the softness in your features dissolves any doubts. You are happy, and when your gaze meets his, Simon is momentarily lost, delving into your endlessness.

And yet again, Simon’s movements do not register until he is already reaching for you.

He drapes the wool blanket over your shoulders and then wraps you up in it, pulling you against his chest as he does so. Simon does not ask. He does not hesitate. There is no trepidation when he claims your lips. All Simon knows is that he wants this, wants you, and you are here with him.

No one can take you from him.

You open, and Simon advances. The second your taste finds his tongue Simon knows that he’ll slaughter anything and anyone who attempts to steal you away.

They will only know the shape of his fists.

They will only know the flavor of lead.

Suffering will be their sleep and their memory upon waking.

You are too good—too fucking sweet for Simon—and yet he’s never giving you up. Will never drop the addiction. If you leave, Simon can only follow.

The kiss deepens, your fingers finding the back of his neck. You’re smaller than him but you still try to show a bit of force. It’s cute how you’re pulling on him, telling Simon you crave more. Eagerness is pumping in your blood, and Simon is ready to explore that need. To understand and match it with his own.

He wants to fill his lungs with it.

Breathe you in so deep you’ll leave scars.

While Simon would love nothing more than to remove everything beneath the blanket, he needs to warm this place up and put some food in your belly.

Reluctantly, and with harrowing effort, Simon pries your fingers away from his neck. You whimper in response, and that sound goes straight to his dick. The sudden rush of blood is what snaps Simon out of his haze. When he draws back and notices your puffy, pouty lips and blown pupils, Simon nearly submits all over again.

But even that is not enough to completely shatter him.

“You’re distracting me,” he mumbles.

Your smile is gentle. “You’re the one who kissed me.”

Simon reaches up and runs the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip. “Curl up on the sofa. I need to grab wood.”

“Let me help,” you say, tugging on his jacket.

“Rest. I’ve got this.”

Your palm goes flat against his chest before dropping away. It leaves a lingering warmth behind. Backing up, you plop onto the couch, bending forward to remove your shoes. Simon turns away quickly, running his fingers through his hair as if that will calm his racing heart.

He retrieves wood from the pile on the south side of the house, stacking it all next to the hearth. Removing the correct tools, Simon sets to work. It won’t take much to warm the room, and Simon gives just enough life to the fire to take care of other tasks. Given the right conditions, the fire will do what it needs to on its own.

Opening the fridge, Simon snorts. Johnny’s mother truly did stock it. She not only prepped for dinner but left plenty for breakfast, lunch, and afternoon tea. Amongst all that are various snacks.

We won’t need to leave at all.

That is what Simon ultimately wanted, and it’s exactly what he’s receiving.

Simon begins heating the small oven and selects one of the prepared meals from the fridge. Johnny’s mother even left a couple bottles of wine and a small bottle of scotch on the counter. While Simon loves a strong drink, he prefers Kentucky bourbon, but he won’t turn down what’s freely offered.

By the time the two of you finish a bottle of wine and dinner, it’s dark out. Simon shutters the windows, cleaning up the cutlery and wine glasses before joining you on the sofa. The old thing sags under his weight but it’s comfortable, and you lean into him, resting your head in the crook of his arm.

Simon doesn’t feel anything but contentment. He’s like white linen hanging on a clothesline under the summer sun. No cares. No worries. There is nothing but you and him and this cottage for the next few days.

Shifting in his arms, you look up at him, your chin slightly digging into his shoulder. Simon glances down at you, and without hesitation, places his large palm against the side of your throat, his thumb gently caressing your cheek.

“Ready for bed, love?” Simon means sleep, but that idea utterly vacates his brain when you swing your leg over his thighs. Still keeping his hand on your throat, you move from his right side to his lap. The wool blanket is still around your shoulders, and it falls open slightly as you raise both hands to rest against his chest.

“Simon.” His name on your tongue is honey-thick. “You know what I want.”

“I know,” he says, because it’s what he wants too.

Two months. Two months since he first saw you standing in the doorway of 141 Ink. He thought you a phantom, an illusion of the mind that happens to him sometimes. But you were real that day. You were real and fate brought you to him.

Simon has waited three fucking years for you.

And he’s going to make up for every missed second.

His hand drops from your neck only to settle on your hips. Simon squeezes, filling his grip with you, imagining when there will no longer be a barrier between his skin and yours. It’s what he’s been thinking of, what he’s been wanting, but that’s not the whole picture.

You are more than what you can offer him physically, and while that is the final piece, it’s not everything. Simon adores your kisses and kind smiles. He loves your silly jokes, and the sense of peace that comes with your presence. The instinct to protect and possess is a constant thing. It sits in the back of his head and between his rib bones.

A model relationship isn’t something Simon knows. He grew up with violence and made a career of it. Every person Simon has ever engaged with on an intimate level have always been quick and efficient affairs. Simple need fulfillment. Nothing more.

But this? With you?

It’s so much more. It goes beyond the bounds of reason. It is suffocating as much as it is lifegiving. There is no doubt in Simon’s mind about how he feels, only beautiful truth.

Your hands venture away from his chest. One comes to a rest in the muscled dip where his neck and shoulder meet. The other is low, nearly in his lap, toying with the end of his shirt like you want to delve underneath but aren’t sure if you should.

“Do you want me?” you ask, and Simon hears the gentle break.

Do you truly think he’ll reject you?

“Always,” he answers. “Constantly.”

Simon’s hands slide up to your waist, holding tight, drawing you closer. Your head tilts in invitation and Simon matches your movement. The connection is electric and yet completely comforting. This feeling is a tangled web of warmth and anticipation. It courses through Simon’s veins until it buzzes in the tips of his fingers.

Again and again, Simon is lost in you. The craving is unending. You press in, roll your hips, and Simon snaps. Breaking the kiss, Simon grasps the nape of your neck. The gasp you release upon separation heats his blood.

“We need to talk first,” he says.

You whimper and try to return to him, but Simon’s grip is firm. He doesn’t want to deny you this but the two of you need to discuss protection before anything continues.

“Listen to me, love,” coos Simon. Your gaze goes from his lips to his eyes. “If we’re doing this, I want no barriers.”

The middle of your brow creases in confusion. “You have me, Simon. Completely.”

Simon shakes his head. His left hand falls away from your waist and slides over the curve of your ass, dipping between your spread thighs. Pausing, Simon cups your pussy and your eyelids flutter with pleasure.

“No barriers,” he repeats, pressing slightly until you make a sound in your throat that shoots a bolt of need to his dick. “That’s what I want.” Your gaze darts over his face, but you don’t say anything.

The silence is excruciating, and he needs an answer. “Do you want that?” he asks, even as the uncertainty of your answer bites at his resolve.

If you say no, it’s not a big fucking deal. Simon packed an entire box of condoms for this very reason. Whatever you decide, he’ll respect it, but he just needs to know. Because whatever you tell him, the two of you will need to make a plan moving forward.

Simon will fuck you bare. He wants you dripping with him. To see it between your legs and know that you belong to him.

“Simon.”

“Tell me.”

“Yes.”

Fucking hell.

“Yes, what?” he prompts.

“I want you,” you breathe. “No barriers.”

Simon removes his hand from between your thighs. “Are you sure, love? Don’t say yes just for me.” His fingers tighten slightly on your neck, and your eyelids flutter in response. “Not looking to put a baby in you.”

Not yet.

The unspoken words hang in front of his eyes, and Simon freezes.

Fuck.

Not yet. Not. Yet. Why the fuck did he think that? Why is his head even considering that as an option?

Because it’s true, even if Simon has only given the idea a few seconds of consideration. When Amelia showed Simon the photo of you holding Lillian, he couldn’t help himself. He imagined the small infant as yours. The one he’d have with you. Wanting a child is not something Simon has ever entertained, but then again, he didn’t have you in his life.

Pieces of him—pieces that were nothing more than scattered fractures—are beginning to reform. They’re finding each other, fusing, collectively forming the image that is Simon.

It is happening.

Slowly. But happening.

He is finding himself in the void.

“Is that something you want?

 Your question pulls Simon right out of his silent musings. He considers his next words carefully.

“It’s on the table.” Because it is, but only if you want it. “In the future,” he amends, making it clear that is not what he wants at this particular moment.

Even if he did where would the infant go in his flat? There isn’t any fucking room.

You simply nod and say nothing. Simon senses an unease radiating off you but he’s not entirely sure why and it’s unclear if he should push the topic.

“You on birth control?” he asks, deciding it’s better to receive verbal confirmation.

“I am,” you reply.

Simon sighs audibly and squeezes your thighs. “Good.”

You smile coyly. “You’re very sweaty all of a sudden, Simon. Are you nervous?”

Simon swallows and his salvia sticks in his throat. He coughs, almost chokes. “What?”

“Your cheeks are flushed.” The backs of your knuckles graze the line of his jaw. “Haven’t seen that before,” you murmur, almost as if you’re speaking to yourself and not to him.

“Come here,” growls Simon, pulling you in for a kiss to cover up whatever has caught your attention.

You giggle, playfully swatting at him, only to soften with each lingering kiss. Your muscles relax, and you melt into him, lengthening and deepening each meeting until you’re pliant in his arms again.

This is how it should be.

You become absorbed in him, and Simon revels in it. All this time, all these years, Simon believed his need for you was entirely one-sided. But with you in his lap, and your hunger flaring hot, Simon understands that you just as desperate.

Squirming, you tug on the front of Simon’s shirt as if you can pull him closer. “I want you inside me, Simon.”

You say these words against his lips, branding his flesh with your desire. Sweet victory roars beneath his skin like an animal. Simon is going to fuck you senseless. Take you over and on every possible surface.

“How, love?” he replies. “Use your words.”

When you answer, it is with shaky breath. “No barrier. Want you. Only you, Simon.”

Using just his hold on your neck, Simon draws you back to him. The kiss is chaste, more of a whisper against skin. “Can I come inside you?” Simon flexes his hips upward, rubbing his growing need against your covered pussy.

Your own hips answer back, arching into his touch as you beg. “Please.”

“That’s my good girl,” he purrs as he gives you what you need.

Why are these kisses so much sweeter? So much more addictive?

Simon craves another the moment the last one is done, as if the second they stop he’ll lose them forever. This desperation makes a home in his stomach, filling him with a smoldering demand to completely possess every part of you. Like a feral beast, Simon awakens, seeking his meal.

Without losing his hold on the nape of your neck, Simon removes the wool blanket from around your shoulders. He discards it to the side, not caring where it lands. Returning to your mouth, Simon seeks and tastes until everything within him shatters.

He is made of splintered bones, and you are the adhesive glue that will fuse him back together. To achieve that, Simon needs renewal, a blessing of your flesh.

Your top and bra are only simple obstacles. They surrender to him easily, and neither of you gives either item a second thought. It is meaningless now.

There is only bare skin against bare skin.

Simon’s palm explores, running up and down your stomach to the valley between your breasts. Everything is touched. Everything is savored until his blood roars in his ears.

Groaning, Simon forces himself to release that lovely mouth. He aches until he finds you again. Simon’s head dips, lips brushing against your throat. The kisses he leaves along the line of your neck are simple things that slowly shift and ebb, transforming into playful nips that turn to claiming bites.

Your fingers find his hair, threading and tangling, pulling slightly until Simon growls. The hold you have on him is pleasurable as much as it borders on pain. He moves lower, and it’s an odd fucking angle, but Simon doesn’t give a shit. Every inch of you deserves his mouth. When his lips skim just above your right breast, you instinctually lean back, giving Simon better access.

Simon runs his tongue over and around your nipple. You shiver in his arms, fingers lightly digging into his scalp as he teases it to a hard peak. Once stiff, Simon switches to the other, giving it just as much attention.

But it is not enough.

Sliding his hands to the backs of your thighs, Simon lifts you up as he stands. Your arms immediately lock around his neck as your ankles cross behind his back. The fact that he doesn’t need to instruct you in this pleases him.

Simon travels from the couch to the bed, and this one action reminds him of Riot Room when he lifted you in the air and bounced you on his cock. He was observing the expressions on your face as you watched him enter and exit your body. Witnessing that was fucking bliss.

He’ll do that again. But not yet.

At the edge of the bed, Simon eases you down onto the comforter. While your legs come to the bed, your hands take longer to retreat. Your fingers linger, nails lightly dragging across the back of his neck and then down the front of his chest.

Simon lets you have this.

But once you completely fall back onto the bed, Simon’s resolve is absolute.

He doesn’t demand or ask.

Like your top and bra, Simon simply grabs and tugs until you’re in nothing but your underwear. His fingers trace up your bare legs, stopping at your thighs momentarily before his hands drop away.

You’re fucking beautiful like this. A banquet. A feast he’s about to gorge himself on.

Leaning back on your forearms, your bare chest is completely exposed, breasts pushed forward in his direction. Your nipples are still hard and raw from his mouth, and Simon has to bite back a groan at the sight.

There is plenty of time to enjoy all of you. Simon needs to get a fucking hold on himself before he pushes your legs wide and buries himself without a thought for you. His blood is electrified, buzzing until it bounces around in frenzy, attempting to convince Simon to claim you until there is no doubt who it is you belong to.

He needs to slow the fuck down. Wednesday is the day the two of you return to civilization, and neither of you are leaving this cottage until then. There is only him and you and this bed.

Slowly, Simon returns his hands to your legs. He begins at your ankles, roaming up your shins and then your knees, sliding down your thighs to stop at the band of your underwear. He considers them a moment and then roughly fists the fabric. In two quick tugs, Simon has them down and around your ankles.

“You don’t need these,” he says, tugging one last time and tossing them aside.

Much better.

Your lips part and your thighs quiver. Simon’s mouth salivates from that alone. All this time, and you crave him just as much. Pride swells in his chest with the knowledge that you want to be here, and that you want this with him.

“What about you?” you ask, nodding toward Simon.

Here you are, naked and on your back, and Simon hasn’t taken off a single fucking thing. His mind was too focused on stripping you down than thinking of himself.

To answer your question, Simon reaches behind him with one hand, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Yanking it up over his head, Simon tosses the shirt to the side, leaving him in only his jeans and black socks.

“Better?” he asks, extending his hands outward slightly.

You nod, pink tongue darting out just before you nibble on your bottom lip.

Simon draws his hands back to his sides, turning them into clenched fists as a small tremor hits him causing his hands to shake. He’s worked up, and his cock fucking aches, but no matter how much he’d love to spread you wide to pound into you, your pleasure is just as important.

You’re not taking anything until you’re prepped and ready for it.

“Spread those gorgeous thighs for me,” he commands through clenched teeth. Simon watches as you part them slightly, but it isn’t nearly enough. You’re still hidden from him.

“More,” demands Simon, desperately needing to see that sweet pussy.

Again, you part your legs further, feet sliding across the bedding, but it’s still short of what Simon is after. He needs to wide. Completely open.

“No. Like this.” Simon slides his hands between and forces your thighs apart until he can see fucking everything.

The sight of you steals the oxygen from his lungs.

You are glossy. Slick. Wanton.

Fucking hell.

Simon is going to devour you.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @lialacleaf

@miaraei @theshrikeandcanary @coffeecaketornado @childofyuggoth @glassgulls

@wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666 @unhinged-reader-36 @creamwhxre

@pearljamislife @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem

@enfppuff @cinnabeanz @berarenado @rogerrhqpsody @c0pernicus

@josephquinnschesthair @corvusmorte @saoirse06 @therealbloom @ninman82

@no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @knight4xmas @jupiternighties

@darling006 @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @carma-fanficaddict

@beebeechaos @enarien @xxkay15xx @sw33tsnow @kessi-21

@makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @mudisgranapat @heeheehoohoohahahihi

[monzabee]

a not so meet cute – cl16

paper rings, prologue(?)

masterlist || series masterlist ||

Summary: The one where Charles meets his neighbour, who quickly captures his attention.

Pairing: charles leclerc x reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: none other than charles being charles, also might have some cursing, google translate french

Request: “Hii if you’re taking requests could you please write a fic for Charles where he’s your best friend and he asks you to fake date him because he think he likes another girl so he wants to make her notice him/make her jealous kind of thing and you agree even though you love him and during the fake dating he realises that he loves you too and yeah angst fluff and all but a happy ending .If you decide to write this tysm and incase you don’t feel like writing this that’s cool too thanks either way ❤️”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! although i am still working on the first chapter of this new series, i wanted to write a little something for you guys to introduce you to the world i had in mind! i know it was not on the wip schedule, but the inspiration struck so i decided to go with it. ever since i saw the wedding pictures of margaret qualley and jack antonoff, the only thing i've been thinking of was the song, and i though it was the perfect song for the characters i had in mind. so, welcome to the new series, inspired by the request above, so thank you for the anon who put the idea in my mind to create this whole series, and i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

August, 2017

He met Margaret on our rooftop, she was wearing white And he was like, "I might be in trouble"

Charles loves his country, he really does. He’s always been patriotic of some sorts, he supposes. But the one thing he absolutely loathes about Monaco? The heat, no questions asked. The worst part isn’t even the heat itself, per se, it is the fact that his apartment has no elevator and he has to walk up five stories just to make it to his apartment – in the heat. So yeah, even though he is as patriotic of a Monégasque as they come, he definitely wishes he was somewhere else at the moment. When he does make to his floor, however, he’s met with a rather peculiar view, where his new neighbour is yelling at someone on the phone.

“No, I said I wanted the granite counters,” the person specify, fingers clutching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “No!” The man straight up yells, “Ceux en granit, connard, pas ceux en graphite. I don’t think they even come in graphite!”

Deciding to remain silent as he makes his way towards his own apartment, Charles ignores the man standing in front of the apartment opposite of his. Though, he realises that the apartment’s door is open and there is construction going on inside, which explains the drilling sounds he’s been hearing early in the morning and the smell of fresh paint that never seems to leave the shared floor.

Side-eyeing the whole ordeal, he manages to make it to his apartment without attracting the attention of the man – or so he thinks. Just as he’s about to unlock his front door, he feels a pat on his shoulder. As he turns towards the man, there is a curious look on his face, “Hi?”

“Hello,” the man greets, “do you know how i can contact the superintendent?”

For reasons unknown (extreme hangover), Charles’ brain decides to blank out, “Quoi?”

“Le commissaire,” the man clarifies, “savez-vous comment je peux les contacter?” And Charles realises he would have been impressed with the man’s accent if he wasn’t so hangover from the night before. The superintendent, do you know how I can contact them?

“Ah,” Charles nods in understanding, “sure, let me give you his number.”

After the man saves the number he gives to his phone, he extends his hand in a friendly greeting. “I owe you one, I’m Declan, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Charles,” he responds with, what he hopes to be, a friendly smile. Motioning the apartment behind them, he asks, “Are you my new neighbour?”

“Oh, no, no,” Declan laughs, and it’s a warm, almost infectious laugh. It reminds Charles of– well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Declan’s voice draws him back to the conversation, “My sister is, I’m renovating it for her.”

Charles nods in understanding, “Ah, I see. I’ve never seen her around, I don’t think.”

“Well that’d be because she’s as annoying as little sisters come,” Declan laughs again, and this time it manages to get a smile out of Charles. “You know what? We’re actually having a small party at my place tonight, why don’t you come?”

“You’ve just met me,” Charles points out, voicing his confusion, “you really want to invite me to your house?”

“Pish posh,” Declan waves him off, already starting to walk back to his sister’s apartment “I’ll send you the details, bring alcohol!”

Charles tries to come up with excuses to give Declan when he’s a no show at the party, but all the excused he come up with sounding either shitty, entitled or just a mess in general. So he convinces himself to get ready after a much needed shower, and remembers to pick up a bottle of tequila on his way to the address Declan texted him earlier that day. Considering the amount of cars parked in front of the apartment complex, Charles thinks whether it’s going to be a ‘small’ party as Declan put earlier, but he manages to find a place to park his car, nonetheless. Surprisingly, it’s not hard to find which apartment belongs to his new ‘friend’, as the people he seems to keep literally bumping into give him directions which lead him to the top floor – he thinks, like brother like sister, huh?

“Ah, bienvenu, Charles!” Declan greets him as he enters the apartment, filled with more people than he honestly expected; but hey, they are in Monte Carlo after all.

Because he was raised by his mother, Charles replies, “Merci de me recevoir,” but because he is Charles, he finds himself reverting easily to French. Of course, he soon realises that his new friend has no trouble understanding him.

“Of course, ma maison est ta maison.” With a wide smile that reaches his eyes, he takes the bottle Charles offer him and pats his shoulder in a friendly manner, “Good lad, let me put this in the kitchen and we’ll find my sister together. I suppose she’s here somewhere.”

Giving him a firm nod, Charles is suddenly left alone to gaze around the living area. He quickly realises that he’s not the only one who is particularly patriotic as he comes face to face with the Union Jack on the wall, proudly displayed on the wall, seems to tell a story of cultural connections and a home away from home. He’s also, somehow, met with a very eccentric group of people, who seem to be insistent on having him join their various conversation – which he does his best to partake in.

As he chats with a group of fellow partygoers, he notices Declan making his way through the crowd toward him. “Charles,” he says with an apologetic smile, “sorry for that, let’s go.”

As they move through the apartment, Charles catches glimpses of the décor, which can only be described as eclectic, but what he realises that Declan made sure to fill up his walls with all kinds of memories; from photographs of what Charles thinks is his family to his diplomas, to even famous artwork – he’s not sure whether the Warhol he just passed by is real or not, but he supposes it’s probably the first option. They arrive at a corner of the rooftop terrace where a cozy seating area is arranged. A few guests are engaged in animated discussions, while others lounge comfortably, enjoying the ambiance. However, it doesn’t take either him or Declan to realise that his sister is, in fact, not with the group.

Though, it doesn’t take the latter to spot his sister, mumbling with a wince under his breath, and when Charles follows Declan's gaze to find her engaged in a rather animated discussion with a man who looks both frustrated and slightly bewildered by her. “Poor guy.”

“Seems like she's keeping him entertained.” Charles offer, careful with his words, and also quite confused at the man’s reactions to whatever Declan’s sister seems to be saying.

“Eh, sisters.” Declan shrugs, and motions Charles to follow him.

As they approach their corner of the terrace, her voice becomes clearer, and Charles can overhear snippets of the conversation. “I just don’t understand why we can’t print more money,” she says in an airy voice.

The man she's speaking to rubs his temples, clearly grappling with how to respond. “Well, it's not that simple. Printing more money can lead to inflation and devalue the currency.” He takes a moment to think, then, “Think of it like shoes–”

“Okay,” Declan laughs nervously as he places himself between the two, turning to the other man with a kind smile, “I think we’re done here, mate, she’s playing you. She’s an econ major, sorry for that.” Though Charles can’t see the expression on her face, he imagines there’s some sort of a victorious smile as she waves the man away, “Stop emasculating my friends, please.”

“Well choose better friends, and I won’t,” she shrugs, following his brother’s movements as he makes his way back near Charles, she turns towards him as the white dress she’s wearing sways gently in the evening breeze. There’s a surprised look on her face when she realises and they are not alone, “Um, hi.”

With a playful grin, Declan points to Charles and turns to his sister, “This is Charles, your new neighbour, and Charles, this is my sister–”

Bambi.

It’s the only word that comes to Charles’ mind when he sees your eyes and a friendly smile you give to him, “Nice to meet you, Charles.”

His eyes fall down to your extended hand, and he scrambles to regain his composure, taking your hand and shaking it gently. “Uh, yes, nice to meet you too.”

With an unexpected clap from your brother, which has both you and Charles jumping slightly, you turn to him with a glare, “Well, now that you know each other, I’ll leave you to get acquainted. And you,” he points to you which elicits a raised eyebrow from you, “don’t scare him off, and for God’s sake change this music.”

“What’s wrong with ABBA?” You ask with a small pout already forming on your lips.

“We need a change,” Charles watches with a silent chuckle as Declan starts walking back towards the kitchen, “ergo, change it!”

“Well that was an interesting exit,” you mumble, eyes following your brother until he’s out of both your and Charles’ views. Afterwards, you turn your attention back to the man standing in front of you, “What do you think about The Smiths?”

“Who?” Charles asks you, confusion written on his face.

“Not The Who,” you nudge him slightly, chuckling softly, though your laughter dies down once you realise he’s really confused. “I– The Smiths, Charles! To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die,” you softly sing, but he replies with a small shake of his head, and a shrug. “Oh, I love The Smiths! Come on, you have a lot to learn.”

As you grab him by his wrist to guide him back inside the apartment, I might be in trouble, he thinks to himself. And then, you turn around to give him a full smile, with a glint of mischief in your eyes that he can't quite interpret, and say, “I can already feel that we are going to be very good friends.”

And then he knows, he’s definitely in trouble.

[sanhatipal]

"Who killed poor Alice?"

An illustration of Alice's defiance and hatred and conviction all culminating in the event that unfurled before Jack's eyes on that fateful day, 100yrs in the past

I did this as an experimental technique,more under the cut!!

I used to do the multi layer oil pastel scraping technique a lot as a kid,but only for fun,I never considered using it for a serious illustration. But a few years ago,I saw Mochijun use it for a VnC illustration: the one with Louis surrounded by stakes. And since then, I've wanted to try it,but didn't have a subject I wanted,so I pushed it to the back of my mind. Well.... inspiration struck recently,and I wanted to draw Alice this way..the composition was suddenly clear as day in my mind. So I started,the sketch as usual,and inked and coloured Alice with watercolour,as usual. Nothing remarkable here,I almost always use a lightbox for inking, so far it's the same (ignore the extra eyes)

Then...I busted out my old oil pastels. These are 12-14yrs old, haven't been touched at least 11 yrs or more,I have no idea.

Now, instead of removing the sketch from the back,I left it,and with the help of the light box,added in colours according to the sketch

The next step may or may not be done,but I didn't want to risk getting any ink into the paper,so I used a candle to rub the shit out of the oil pastel areas,and removed the sketch

Once I was satisfied that nothing would get past the wax layer, I used ink mixed with acrylic matte medium to cover it up. The medium is important,else it won't stick to the wax at all

Once dried, I rubbed graphite to the the back of the sketch and pressed it on with a ball stylus(a ballpoint pen or back of toothpick can be used) to press on the pattern onto the background

After that, it's just a matter of scraping and scratching with a scalpel until I was satisfied

Finally I sprayed it with some varnish,to protect the ink layer from peeling off(but scanned before that, because varnish scans weird),and adding some final highlights and lines here and there.

So...am I happy? Yes! It's almost exactly as I envisioned! I do feel like I overcomplicated it,I could absolutely achieve this with just paint and ink,no scratching. But hey,I had fun,and I'm happy with how it turned out!!

[luvjunie]

twirls my hair if you’re taking request uhhh— what about reader with tattoos like a full sleeve and piercings and maybe big hair like a fro, braids something that makes her stand out— basically she’s just real intimidating and popular too fast for her liking she just transferred school and the guys are trying to pounce on her but miles 42 is the one that catches her eye?

— a fresh start

pairing: e-42!miles x fem!reader

summary: it’s your first day at a new school, and surprisingly, making a friend isn’t as hard as you thought it’d be. wc: 1,853

a/n: changed this up a little i hope you don’t mind! 100% unintentional but when my mind wanders i follow it 😭

Back at Brooklyn High, you were always told by teachers that school wasn’t a venue for your ‘personal fashion show’, but that it was a place for learning. And while you agreed, it wasn’t your fault that you looked the way you did… Well, that’s a lie. But you loved your look, and so did your peers.

While your hair was big and somewhat distracting to others, your dad always told you it reminded him of what your mom’s looked like the first time he met her, so you never bothered to change the way you styled it, no matter how much you dreaded putting it in bantu knots or doing a twist out every three days.

As for your face full of piercings, that was all you. It was something your dad didn’t favor at all, and he definitely didn’t understand how it was ‘a way for you to express and be true to yourself’, but that was the explanation you gave him, and eventually he accepted it. Though begrudgingly— it was still acceptance, so you took what you could get.

The first piercing was your eyebrow, and you’d done it in your bathroom when you were fourteen with a safety pin. One look at yourself in the mirror made you forget all about the throbbing pain radiating from your face, and just a week had passed before you were already thinking of another. You swore to your dad that it’d be the only one, and that you just wanted to try something new; until you wanted to try your belly button, your septum, and both of your nostrils. After that, It’s safe to say that everywhere you went, attention followed.

Expressing yourself through your clothes and accessories was just a part of who you were. And back at Brooklyn High, you were proud of the way you looked.

But you weren’t at Brooklyn High anymore.

The uniforms were drab at Visions academy. Every girl wearing the same two articles of clothing as the other; the same sad story for the boys. And to keep it a buck, if you were comparing visions to your old school, the atmosphere here sure looked a lot like a jail. And if not for the small loopholes you’d managed to locate in the dresscode, it would’ve felt like it, too.

The searing heat of curious eyes followed you the moment you entered the building, and you began to wonder if choosing to stand out on purpose was the best idea after all. It seemed at Visions, that came naturally for someone like you.

For a few reasons other than the ones you could change in five minutes, you didn’t fit in here. Not in the slightest.

With a wavered sigh and your books glued to your chest, you continued on to your first block, tuning out the whispers that were far from hushed.

It took you a little longer than the six minute passing period to discover your History class within the ginormous fluorescent halls, and when you finally stepped foot into the dimly lit room and noticed the Crash Course video playing on the projector, it dawned on you that they were already well into the lesson.

Almost everyone’s head lifted to look at you when you entered. Almost everyone’s head but a kid who was face down, drooling on his desk, and another whose gaze remained welded to a sheet of paper the graphite of his mechanical pencil was scribbling against. The familiarity of crisp parts and blue magic-sheened cornrows stood out to you first, and a small sense of comfort finally washed over you— for a moment.

The video on the projector paused abruptly, and your teacher appeared to be the exact opposite of dazzled at your late arrival. Great.

“Nice of you to join us, miss…?”

“Y/n, sorry…” You cleared your throat and smiled more like grimaced apologetically, the chain clipped to the waistband of your skirt serving as an idle fidget. “Got lost, real big school.”

Mr. Benson, as it read on your printed class schedule, adjusted his glasses when he went to jot something down onto the paper below him. “Alright, y/n. You can sit next to…”

You watched as a few kids straightened up in their seats, attempting to look uninterested enough to play it cool, yet noticeable enough for the teacher to remember they existed and place your seat next to them.

“Morales. Raise your hand.”

The boy in question quietly clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, pencil clacking against the wood of his desk when he set it down. It looked like his concentration had been broken, and instead of raising his hand, he lifted his head from where it was damn near nose deep in whatever he was doing, and just stared at you.

His slowed blinks gave you enough grounds to take a gander that he was the ‘Morales’ in question.

A stunted breath and a silent nod later, you made your way through the aisle of desks and smoothly slid into the one a pin-filled backpack had just been removed from.

You’d be crazy to not let your curiosity get the best of you, especially now that you were this close to where the brooding energy was coming from. So once your teacher unpaused the video, you stole a peek over at your new desk neighbor, and noticed that his right arm was now strategically placed over the geometric sketches on his paper.

Seeing as it was already mid-year and you were new to the huge school, you figured it’d be in your best interest to try and make at least one friend. You opened your mouth to introduce yourself to him, until a light tap on your shoulder from behind stole your attention.

“Umm, excuse me?”

You turned around to meet the freckled face of the boy who was sat behind you.

“Hm?”

“Yeah, sorry, but I can’t see over your hair. It’s kinda… in the way.”

It wasn’t necessarily what he said that bothered you, it was how he said it, and the fact that he barely stifled a laugh when he did.

Reclined in his chair with his arms crossed, Miles fought to hide the scowl threatening to twist his lips. The desks in this class were staggered, specifically to avoid the very issue of heads blocking the line of sight, meaning there was no way your hair was actually hindering his view.

“O-oh… Sorry, it does that. Sometimes.” Flustered, you nervously tried to press your hair down a little without ruining its shape, the one that took you a whole hour to achieve just this morning.

Miles assumed you were the girl his classmate was blabbing about just before the bell rung, remembering the brief yet detailed explanation of ‘fresh face, big hair, decked out uniform and kinda cute’. Poking fun at you must have been his pitiful attempt at flirting.

Miles suddenly spoke in your defense, eyes remaining on the screen in a bored daze.

“It’s not her fault you 5’2, James. Drink some milk when you get home, maybe you’ll have a growth spurt.”

You sent an inquisitive glance his way and kept it there. You hadn’t thought about what you expected his voice to sound like, or that the first time you’d hear it would be because of him defending you, but this was definitely a pleasant surprise. His voice was so smooth it put silk to shame, and it was a bit low, too, as if he’d just woken up a few minutes ago. Yet it didn’t sound as if he’d quieted his voice on purpose; something that led you to believe he was usually this soft spoken.

“Shut up, Miles.” James grumbled.

“Ain’t my fault you can’t flirt for shit. I’m tryna help you out.”

Some surrounding students close enough to hear the retort had snickered, and a laugh managed to leave your mouth before you could prevent it, resulting in a loud “SHHHH!” from the front of the class.

“That’s funny?” Miles’ hazel eyes floated over to you, swirling with mirth and pinning you in place.

He was joking, but his tone probably didn’t give off that vibe, seeing as you were gawking at him like a deer in headlights.

“I’m messin’ with you,” A small grin played on his face. “I’m Miles.”

“Oh,” an awkward chuckle relaxed your shoulders. “Y/n.” you responded quietly.

“Yeah… I know.” There was a hint of a chuckle beneath his voice. It seemed you’d forgotten that you revealed your identity to everyone just minutes ago.

But you couldn’t help it, you’d never seen a boy quite this pretty before, with lashes long enough to make you jealous and a smile you were certain owed its beauty to genetics, and not an expensive set of middle school braces.

He had six freshly done straightbacks with curved parts, and two clear beads hanging onto each tail that sat a little below his shoulders. It was then that you noticed the medium sized, gimmering stud he sported on his ear, and you deemed it safe to assume his other ear had the same. Cute.

Still feeling the heat of your eyes on his temple long after he’d averted his attention, Miles curiously glanced back at you, then teasingly nodded his head towards the front of the room.

“Pay attention,” he whispered, that same molten look in his eyes. “I don’t share notes.”

—

Class went by in a bit of a haze, to no surprise. It was extremely difficult to pay attention when the fear of your possibly-misshapen fro was on your mind. Today happened to be the one day you’d decided you didn’t need to bring your pick to school, the image of it sitting on your dresser emitting a disappointed sigh from you.

The tinny screech of chairs brought you back to the present, where class had been dismissed and students were shoving papers into their backpacks and shuffling out the doorway, all in a hurry to their next block.

Miles stood up from his seat, appearing to be in no rush.

“I like your hair, by the way.” he observed randomly. “Cool piercings, too.”

The compliment eased your nerves completely. It was genuine, as if he knew you were still thinking about what happened earlier.

“Thank you,” Tucking your notebook away, you looked up to see him sling his backpack over one shoulder. “for defending me earlier, too.”

“S’ no big deal.” he shrugged, but it was, to you.

“Cool braids, by the way.” you parroted through a lighthearted smile.

“Thanks,” Miles’ eyes panned to the floor when he felt himself grin. A habit of his you’d already managed to pick up on in your short knowing of him.

“I’ll catch you later.” He deemed with a two-fingered salute, other hand burrowing into the pocket of his pants.

Rising to your feet, you gave a small wave and watched as he headed out into the crowded hallway with the others; feeling a little less nervous to come to history class tomorrow.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

A Hint of Lovely Oblivion

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader 

summary: After a week of sleeping terribly, Frank makes an effort to help you get the rest you deserve.

warnings: Swearing, fluff, caring Frank, this is not medical advice

a/n: I wrote this for my lovely bestie @madschiavelique who wanted some Frankie comfort. As someone who deals with insomnia pretty regularly, this was very cathartic! I hope you all enjoy. A huge thank you to my other bestie @gracethyomen for beta-ing and helping me plan this fic!

w/c: 4.6k

Inhaling deeply, the frigid air of the room made your nose twitch. Sliding as deep as you could into the blanket pile while maintaining your seated position, you bit your lip, shifting the pad of paper on your lap and craning your neck once again. While your duvet provided an excellent shield to lock in heat, your shoulders inevitably poked out whenever you weren’t fully horizontal, leaving your body to sit in a temperature regulation purgatory; your consciousness rumbled uneasily as the hair on the back of your neck refused to flatten, your brain torn between making you shiver or letting you sweat. The position was far from comfortable—but being awake all night made comfort an unattainable goal for you anyways.

It had been days since you’d slept through the night. You were no stranger to insomnia, you’d been cursed with it your entire life, but lately it had dug its malicious claws into your chest with the violence of a starving feral animal. Your bed, which used to be a haven of rest and relaxation, was now a space that you avoided at all costs—the wonderfully soft pillows and warm blankets mocking you as they sat untouched well into the night, fatigue never overtaking you when you needed it to. For the first few nights of your ongoing battle with sleeplessness, you’d crawl under the covers anyway, praying to any deity listening that the weight and heat of the fabric would force your eyelids to close—but it never did.

Sighing as your pencil tip snapped, you closed your eyes, letting your breath rest in your lungs for a moment before exhaling again; apparently your frustration with your own hormone production created a physical pressure on the lead of your pencil. Picking up a fresh one from your nightstand, you did your best to clean up the smear of graphite from the impact of the broken point.

Turning your attention back to the subject of your sketch, you chewed your lip to stifle a smile. Despite the thick curtains your partner had insisted on, a sliver of moonlight illuminated the massive man slumbering beside you, quietly snoring away—completely oblivious to the inspiration he'd given you. The feather-light moon beams shone through his tousled hair, creeping down over his face, which was adorably mashed against his singular pillow. Considering that he'd turned up a handful of hours ago drenched in other people's blood, it was downright ironic to be calling him “adorable” as he slept—but you couldn't shake the giddy feeling that always bubbled up when you saw his face so lax with sleep. His expression was so uncharacteristically peaceful, it never failed to make you happy.

Sure, not sleeping sucked. You'd be plagued with jaw-cracking yawns and mild memory loss in the morning, just like yesterday and the day before that. Having the opportunity to watch Frank sleep soundly, didn't make up for the fact that you'd accidentally put orange juice in your coffee yesterday, but it made the build up of irritation much easier to bear. Which is why you'd decided to memorialize it in your sketchbook.

Studying the map of shadows on Frank's handsome face, you scratched the pencil over the thick paper, the rasping sound soothing the constant buzzing in your brain. Scrunching your nose as you tried to smooth out the sketch in front of you, you nearly jumped out of your skin when he spoke.

“Why're you up, darlin'?” His voice was rough with exhaustion. Noticing your wide eyes and ragged inhale, a large hand slid up to rest on your thigh. “Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya.”

”It's alright, Frankie. I wasn't paying attention.“ You tried to laugh, but the sound died in your throat.

His hand stroked over your leg as he waited for you to answer his question. Instead, your eyes remained trained on the book across your lap, pencil moving fluidly through the silence. Tracing a thumb over your warm skin, Frank frowned. “Ya didn't answer my question, sweetheart.”

“Hmm?” Your tone was innocent, but the way your eyes remained glued to your work was enough to tell him you had definitely heard the question.

Squeezing your thigh with a yawn, Frank tried not to groan as he dragged himself up to sit next to you. His movement finally captured your attention, your brow furrowing as you set your pencil aside. “What are you doing?”

Giving what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug, Frank slid an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your temple. ”Sittin' with my girl. That a crime now?“

Smiling despite the guilt flaring in your chest, you shoved at his solid torso feebly. ”Go back to sleep, Frankie. I'm sorry I woke you. I can—“ Shuffling in your seat, you tilted towards the edge of the mattress, fully intending to relocate to a different room so that Frank could go back to bed. Foiling your plan, Frank's arms held fast against your teetering, pulling you flush against his chest.

”Don't you dare.“ He growled, chin resting atop your crown.

”Frank! I didn't even finish my thought,“ You wriggled against his hold, your brain torn between reacting with endearment or annoyance over being imprisoned by his strength. “Let me go, you...you...butthead.” Whining at your own lackluster insult, you buried your face in Frank's neck as he chuckled.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Ain't gotta go for my throat like that.” Frank murmured smugly. You could envision his shit-eating smirk despite it being out of your line of sight.

”Shut up,“ You muttered, a tiny smile gracing your lips against your will. Your body trembled as Frank shook with rumbling laughter. Drawing you into his arms, Frank set your legs over his lap, positioning you towards the windows. The gusting heat from the vent closest to your bed ruffled the fabric covering the panes, the pale glowing rays of moonlight fluttering over your knees as the drapes shifted. It created a mesmerizing dance of light and dark, captivating you.

”Ya gonna tell me how long you've been sittin' here starin' at me or did ya wanna keep pretendin' you were asleep?” In defense of your ruthlessly persistent boyfriend, it has been said that the third time’s the charm. His tone was as delicate as his gruff voice allowed, the muscles of his jaw and throat rippling against your scalp as he spoke.

Eyes falling closed, you focused on the warmth of Frank’s body surrounding you as you willed the tears pricking your eyes to back down. Another unfortunate side effect of sleep deprivation—your emotions started to go haywire over the littlest things.

It wasn’t that you thought Frank would be angry. Well, it wasn’t the biggest anxiety on your mind, at least. It was more the fear of burdening him with your own issues at all hours when you knew a good night’s sleep was practically a miracle for him. The first night at home after a few weeks away always seemed to make it come easier, but other than that Frank rarely rested. The mere thought of forcing him to sit up with you, especially on the one night this week he’d get a full 8 hours, grabbed your guilty conscience by the throat.

Giving a halfhearted shrug, you caved. “Dunno. Slept for a few hours when we went to bed. Then I got up and...” Trailing off, you gestured to the bed in front of you, which was clearly not being used for sleep.

Frank withdrew from the embrace and your pounding heart sank. You set your jaw, waiting for the frustrated scolding…but it never came. Instead, one calloused finger landed underneath your chin, tilting it upwards as he spoke. “You been awake that long?” His eyes shone with concern, boring ferociously into yours.

Nodding miserably, you swallowed the overwhelming shame crawling up your esophagus before speaking. “I’m sorry, Frank. I tried to sleep, but I just couldn’t—“

Cutting you off with a tender kiss, Frank’s hand moved to cup your cheek. “Nothin’ to be sorry about, honey. Ya shoulda woken me up.”

Looking up at him with glossy eyes, you bit your lip, ”You deserve to sleep uninterrupted. I didn't want to be the one to take that away from you.“

Frank chewed the inside of his cheek as he was overrun with waves of adoration and sympathy for you. How he'd managed to end up with such a considerate partner, he'd never know. Especially when he didn't consistently return the gesture.

He'd come home yesterday and practically collapsed into your arms—ignoring how unsteady your balance seemed when you dragged him into the apartment, blaming it on his own weight. You'd patched him up sweetly, as you always did, and Frank hadn't thought twice about the fact that you'd had to leave the room three times to get the gauze, assuming your memory had just been shaken by his battered appearance.

Was he truly so wrapped up in his own bullshit that he hadn't noticed the sunken crescents underneath your eyes? They were so prominent now, stark sepia bruises on your otherwise even skin. It must have been days since you slept properly. Beside himself with worry, his thumb traced the indent under your left eye. ”Shit sweetheart...“

”I'm—“ You started to apologize, but it stuck in your throat when Frank shook his head.

”Hey, none of that. Don't wanna hear it, ok?” You nodded in response to his gentle command, sitting there quietly as he schemed. “Are you tired at all?”

The pitiful shake of your head seemed to make up his mind.

Unwinding from you, he raised his arms above his head in a stretch, moaning as his back popped with the movement. Your face scrunched in disapproval, making him grimace sheepishly. “Sorry, honey. Guess I was stiff from drivin' all day.” Without waiting for your response, he slid out of bed. Your brow furrowed as he strode over to the dresser, pulling a shirt over his rumpled hair.

“Get dressed, darlin'. I have an idea.” He called to you over his shoulder as he rummaged for a clean pair of pants. Sighing, you abandoned the bubble of heat surrounding you in bed and headed for the closet.

Despite your grumbles and evident confusion, the two of you were dressed and on the road before the sun even peeked over the horizon. With one hand settled in yours, Frank kept his gaze trained on the road ahead, trying not to laugh at your exasperated questioning and adorable pout. Dragging you out of the house at this hour might not have been his brightest idea—since he normally tried to remain on your good side—but hey, he’d gotten this far without you chewing his head off.

Frank could hardly be considered a morning person, but you were practically nocturnal. Leaving the house before dawn was probably high up on your list of personal hells, but staying in bed when you couldn’t sleep wasn’t a good idea. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Curtis’s agitated tone.

“For the last time, Frank: staying in bed will make it worse.”

Way back in the day, during his first trip home after going overseas, he’d bugged Curtis relentlessly about his own sleep issues. Maria was tired enough raising a wandering toddler and an imaginative kindergartener, she didn’t need to worry about a restless marine to boot. He’d tried every suggestion under the sun, but sleep still evaded him. Tour after tour, night after night, he’d lay beside his wife in their bed and stare at the ceiling until his alarm went off. After his family died, well…it didn’t exactly get easier to rest.

Despite scouring the internet, a few libraries, and the expanse of Curt’s brain for any possible cures, his sleeplessness persisted. It was a torture he endured for years, and an anguish he wouldn’t wish on anyone but his worst enemies.

Finding out that you also dealt with insomnia was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, not having to explain his fickle moods and constant absence from the bedroom was a welcomed relief. On the other, seeing the symptoms of sleep deprivation in someone he cared about was an agony worse than an infected bullet wound.

He knew what you were going through all too well, which meant he was determined to try and help. Getting you out of the house was just the first step of his admittedly too-detailed plan.

His lips twitched with a smile as he spotted the building. Turning into the ragged asphalt lot behind the restaurant, he turned his attention to you.

“We’re here, darlin’.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, you remained unimpressed. “A diner?”

Letting out a bark of laughter at your obvious disdain for the activity, Frank pointed a finger at you in warning. “Hey, don’t knock it til ya try it, sweetheart.” His exaggerated stern expression broke through your apprehension, your lips turning upwards into a fond smile.

“There’s my pretty girl.” Frank pressed a kiss to your temple, heart swelling as you leaned into him. “If ya wanna go home, just say the word.”

Biting your lip, you glanced out the window at the electric blue awning extending from the glass doors. The yellow lamp lights lining the sidewalk reflected in your wide eyes as you stared. “No, we can go. I, just…can I ask you a question first?”

“Course, honey. Anythin’.”

“Why here?” Your question was soft, but genuine; your curiosity was outweighing the contempt you’d previously shown for his choice of destination.

Running a hand through his hair, he gave a one-armed shrug. “Fuck, well... ya know I’m no stranger to the whole…not sleepin’ thing. And, uh, back in the early days, when it was real bad for me, I’d come here. We– er– Maria and I, we took the kids here a couple of times. Dunno, wanted to remember the good times, I guess, and it became a sort of tradition. Thought it might help you too.”

With a stuttering inhale, you reached for his hand, stroking a finger over his knuckles as you looked up at him shyly. “Thank you for sharing it with me. I didn’t mean to be rude about it, I’m sorry.”

Squeezing your fingers, he could feel heat creeping up his face. “It’s nothin’ sweetheart. Ain’t gotta worry about that.”

Glancing back out the window for a moment, Frank could see the gears turning in your head as you turned back to him with a tiny grin.

“Lead the way?” You asked tentatively.

“For you, sweet girl? Always.” He pressed a kiss to your hand, his stubble scratching at the skin of your fingers.

Frank ushered the two of you inside and into a booth in the back of the diner. The restaurant was lacking in customers, as could be expected given the early hour. While the inky black sky was broken up with dim streetlights outside of the building, the inside was flooded with fluorescent lights--so bright that you had to shield your eyes with a limp hand for a few minutes.

Once your vision adjusted, you had to admit that the energy in the diner was quite nice. The chipped linoleum tiles that lined the floor were a gorgeous cobalt blue. Along the ceiling, large chunks of the roof had been replaced with thick panes of glass, allowing you to watch the clouds float by, the darkness of the night contrasting beautifully with the intense lighting. You and Frank were seated on a worn vinyl booth, the strips of fabric alternating between silver and black. Similar booths wrapped around the space, almost twinkling as you looked at them.

“So,” Frank pushed a mug towards you. “Whaddya think?”

“It's nice.” You murmured, pulling the warm cup closer to yourself. Somehow you'd missed him ordering himself coffee and you a tea in your distracted state.

Frank cocked his head at you, lips turned up in a smug smirk. ”’S that so?“

Smiling into your mug as you took a sip, you retorted. ”Shut up.“

The drink was warm and, thankfully, unsweetened. It's crisp flavor relaxed your shoulders as you sipped, settling your anxious stomach.

“Hope mint is a’right.” Frank spoke quietly, a blush creeping up his face as he studied his own drink.

“You remembered.” You breathed out, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it tightly as your eyes prickled with emotion.

“Course I did.” Frank huffed, draining the rest of his black coffee. You shuddered in distaste and he chuckled, rubbing a thumb over the back of your hand. “You hungry at all?”

Shrugging noncommittally, you worried your bottom lip between your teeth. Frank sighed, but didn't push further on the subject, which you were very grateful for. You'd never explicitly spoken to him about the effect your insomnia had on your eating habits, but--being the observant partner he was--he'd clearly picked up on it anyways. Once your day started with little to no sleep, it was like all of your bodily functions forgot how to...function. Hunger and thirst cues were practically impossible to read, your body and brain battling each other ferociously at every turn. Which, of course, just exhausted you further.

Scrubbing at one eye with the heel of your free hand, you grit your teeth to keep from groaning. Dwelling on how miserable you were going to feel today wouldn't solve anything, it would just worsen your mood.

”Head botherin' ya?“ Frank asked, brow folding in concern as he watched you knead at your forehead.

”No more than usual.“ You cracked a small smile, hoping that didn't sound as sad as you thought it did. “Just...frustrated with myself.”

“I feel ya, sweetheart. Not sleepin' ain't any fun. But I have some ideas, so don't you worry your pretty little head about it, ok?” Frank tangled his fingers with yours, his gaze earnest.

“You get ideas?” You scoffed, grinning when Frank rolled his eyes in return.

“Ya know what? Just for that, I ain't gonna tell ya about 'em.”

“Nooo,” You whined, taking Frank's massive hand in both of yours and pouting at him. ”I was just kidding. Please tell me.“

”Hmm, I dunno. First you insulted the diner, then my intelligence. Seems like you don't want my help, sweetheart.“  Frank withdrew from your grasp, pretending to sulk into his coffee.

Giggling at Frank’s pout, you reassured him. ”No, I do! I do!“

With a sad little shrug, Frank glanced forlornly out the window.

“Please Frankie,” Pleading with your gaze, you tried to keep a straight face.  “You're my only hope.”

Dropping his startlingly believable moping act, Frank cackled. “Ya think you're real clever, don't ya?”

Smirking into your tea, you gulped down the last remnants with a shrug. ”Maybe.“

After your countless apologies for insulting his intellect, Frank finally explained why he'd encouraged–forced–you to leave the house before sunrise. Apparently he'd heard that staying in bed while awake could perpetuate the cycle of sleep deprivation. And, though you were loath to admit it, it seemed to help.

The little excursion definitely lifted your spirits, if nothing else. You were able to admire the sunrise and mess around with Frank without your anxiety skyrocketing because of the city crowds.  It was nice, and you told him such–even at the risk of over-inflating his ego.

His next activity, however, was not as pleasant.

“Are you going to have me carry you around the apartment next?” You groused, hefting the bedframe up so that you could adjust your rapidly loosening grip on the cold metal. This much physical labor on an empty stomach and no sleep was not what you’d had in mind for a relaxing day with Frank. He, however, was insistent on moving the furniture in your room immediately upon your return home. 

“You offerin'?” Frank smirked at you, pretending to set the bed frame down. His eyes glinted with a humor you didn’t share over the current situation. 

“Fuck no.” You muttered, glaring at him until he lifted the majority of the weight once more. Frank laughed deeply. 

“Set it right over here, darlin’. We gotta move your dresser and then we’re all done.”

“You know, if you hated the layout of my room so much, you could’ve told me months ago.” Instead of waiting until I was already reaching my limit. You thought to yourself, not vocalizing that particular vulnerability. 

“And have you put me out on my ass for bein’ so forward? I’d never, sweetheart.” Frank chuckled, adjusting your bed as you collapsed against the mattress with a huff. “I’m teasin’, honey. It’s an old trick Curt told me about. All the rearrangin’ is supposed to help your brain remember how to sleep, or some shit.”

Rubbing at your forehead as the ache that had been plaguing you all day made a sudden resurgence, your limbs instinctively curled into fetal position as a small whimper escaped your lips. 

“It’s helping it remember to bother me is what it’s doing.” You grumbled, gritting your teeth as the pain ebbed and flowed. You knew the more you thought about it, the more it would torture you–but the stabbing sensation was all that your fatigued brain could focus on right now. 

Frank snorted, sitting beside you gingerly and caressing your hunched back with an open palm. “‘M sorry, sweet girl. Let me get ya some meds and you can lie here while I finish movin’ shit around.”

Your body felt like it was aimlessly floating, untethered to the Earth and hurrying to escape the pain so viciously attacking it at the moment. You were so tired. Every blink was a reminder of the heaven that had been ripped from your delicate grasp hours ago because your body couldn’t even function in the way it was designed to. Brow scrunching, you burrowed under the covers with a sigh.

“Ya better not be sleepin’ on me, honey.” Frank murmured as he stepped back into the room. 

“Course not,” You mumbled. “Would never…”

“I know you’re tired, darlin’, but ya gotta stay awake until it’s dark. Naps will just make ya feel worse, trust me.” He trailed a finger down your arm, taking your hand and placing some painkillers into it. Waiting patiently until you begrudgingly dragged yourself into a seated position, Frank smiled softly at you as you popped the pills into your mouth. Holding the glass of water out to you, the Marine squeezed your leg as you drank, tucking his chin over your head as you collapsed wearily into his side.

“The big bad Punisher takes naps? Hard to picture, Frankie.” You teased, your voice morphing into a satisfied hum as he threaded his fingers into your hair. 

Frank scoffed, kissing your crown before returning the jest. “Maybe I should take the vest off before closin’ my eyes next time.” 

You giggled, burying your face into his neck. His warm flesh felt wonderful on your pounding head, soothing the pain behind your eyes with each measured breath. “Do you cuddle your guns like teddy bears?” The question was overtly ridiculous, but Frank loved you enough to entertain it anyway. 

“Course. What else would I do with ‘em?” He asked coyly. 

Looking up at him, the corners of your lips lifted as he pressed a line of gentle kisses down your nose until he reached your lips. 

“If I turn on the TV, are ya gonna pass out on top of me?” He murmured, his stubble scratching your face as he spoke. 

“Wouldn't dream of it, love.” You smiled, pressing a kiss to his sturdy jawline before he stood up to grab the remote. 

If someone would’ve told you a year ago that your next boyfriend could make a bad insomnia week feel tolerable, you never would’ve believed them. But here you were—lying on your stomach completely topless as Frank massaged a lightly scented lotion into your back—feeling pretty comfortable with the whole arrangement. 

After you’d failed to stay awake during the movie you’d picked out, Frank had carted you around town on various errands: picking up groceries, going to the bookstore, and even taking a quick walk around the park to feed the ducks, which he knew you loved. Your body still ached, and your mood still waned, but overall, it was a good day. And all the credit belonged to your incredible partner. 

Groaning appreciatively, it felt like you were melting into the mattress as Frank tenderly stretched your taught muscles, unraveling the knots of stress that had been building up all week. 

Chuckling, Frank pressed a tiny kiss to your bare shoulder. “Glad it feels good, sweetheart.” 

“No, it’s awful,” You lied. “You clearly need more practice..” 

Frank snorted, “Noted. How’re ya feelin’?” 

“Tired.” You sighed, rolling over as Frank handed you one of his tees to sleep in. 

“I bet. We’re on the last leg, sweetheart, almost there.” Frank’s large hands eagerly wrapped around you as you nestled into his side. Cupping your face with one palm, the fingers of his other hand threaded into your hair, detangling it carefully and brushing it off of your face. 

Biting your lip in frustration, and to keep from sighing again, you nodded. Attempting an understanding smile, you poked him in the chest. “I know. Thanks for putting up with my cranky self today.”

“Sweetheart, you can be snappy with me as much as ya want if it means you’ll sleep through the night.” Frank smirked, squishing your cheek as your eyes suddenly blurred with tears. 

“I love you.” You whispered, going limp in his hold as he settled against the pillows. 

“I love you too, darlin’. So much.” Resting your foreheads together, he kissed you delicately and your lashes fluttered. 

“Frankie?” You looked up at him with your practiced ‘doe eyes’ expression that he could never resist.

“Yah?” He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Can you read to me?” Batting your lashes, you watched with satisfaction as Frank’s expression softened, your eyes taking in the exact moment he caved to your whims. 

Straightening his posture stoically, he reached over to grab your new book from the nightstand with an exasperated huff. “Oh, I see. This was all a scheme of yours to get me to read to ya? ‘S that it?”

“No…” You giggled, nuzzling into him as he cracked the novel open.

“Sure, sure. You’ll be hearin’ from my lawyer, sweetheart. Think ya owe me compensation.” He winked at you, eyes lingering on your face.

“Honey, before ya drift off, jus’...” Sighing, he stroked a thumb over your cheek. “Just know, if all this doesn’t work, cause it ain’t a cure all, ya know–”

Laying your hand over his, you gave him an encouraging look. He inhaled sharply, thinking about how he wanted to phrase the sentiment. 

“I want you to sleep, darlin’, ya know I do. But if it doesn’t happen tonight, we can always try again, ok?”

Startled by the affection in his tone and his beautiful promise, your face went slack as you nodded. Eyes flitting over your gaze, he nodded curtly once he decided you understood. Returning his attention to the book in his hands, he cleared his throat before beginning to read. His rumbling velvet tone soothed you, your eyes falling closed almost immediately. Here, in the safety of Frank’s arms, surrounded by his beautiful voice and reassured by his adorable promise, you finally felt at peace. Though you knew sleep might continue to evade you, the anxiety you’d felt about your insomnia didn’t feel quite as all-consuming tonight. Whatever happened, Frank would be there. And, for now, that was enough.

Thanks for reading!!