#another one of my stupid sketchbook things

[l3mmingue]

i feel like batter would say this if u spoke french to him

[mewkwota]

The wireless connection is working perfectly.

Although this probably isn't the best indicator if Lan is standing exactly 2 feet away from his brother, right? So he would go to repeat "How about now?? :D" while inching farther and farther away.

[jupiter-reimagined]

ive reached a funny number in my sketchbook collection: number 34. i have something really funny i could do in this one

[houseofceline]

My Pretty Girl - T.N.

Steal My Girl

Pairing: Ravenclaw and sort of ditzy but talented Reader x Slytherin notorious playboy Theodore Nott

Warnings: None (yet ;))

Summary: Theo's friends get to meet you for the first time.

< 2

__________________

Perfect. 

You clapped your hands in satisfaction after taking a little study break to organize all your fabrics by color. The plan was originally to go to the dining hall to grab a quick snack, but your messy little studio set up in your dorm easily distracted you on the way out and made you change your plans. 

Your fingers flipped through the pages of your design sketchbook. A small smile formed on your face as you traced your sketches. 

Fashion. 

The only thing that you felt competent in. You didn’t have to try to make things look good. It was the only thing that came natural to you. You could plan an entire outfit for any occasion faster than you could even list the ingredients in a simple potion. You weren’t going to become a doctor like both of your parents, but you thought it’d be better to do something you’re good at rather than forcing yourself to study materials that you’ll never be able to understand. No matter how many times they tried to persuade, or threaten, you to change career paths, you never strayed far from your dreams. The dreams that kept you happy when you were scolded for wanting to stay home and draw instead of going with your father to work.

At least you will never have the chance to mess up a surgery. That would be worse than the invention of jeggings. 

The door swung open and your roommate walked in. You furrow your eyebrows upon her presence, wondering why she would be back so early from her date with Cedric. 

“How’d your date go?” You closed your design book and walked towards your bed before flopping onto it. 

So comfy. 

Cho sighed before rolling her eyes, “stupid last minute quidditch practice.” 

You giggled as your stomach growled. Maybe you should’ve gotten a snack before you decided to clean. 

“Dining hall?” Cho offered her arm out. 

You jumped up from your bed and happily skipped over to her and took her arm. 

“I’m famished,” You exclaimed in desperate need of having anything in your stomach after the oatmeal bowl for breakfast. 

“Me too, Cedric had promised me pastries from a bakery in Hogsmeade before I got canceled on,” Cho grumbled as the two of you walked in a pair towards the hall. 

Pastries. Croissants. Ugh you missed home. France has the best pastries. Now you were craving a chocolate croissant. Not that croissants are the only pastry in France. 

“Next ti- ow,” you rubbed your head after the harsh impact, stumbling a bit. 

“Watch where you’re going next time mate,” another boy came up and landed a harsh slap on his back. 

“I’m so sorry, are you okay?” The boy in front of you questioned frantically while trying to hide the fact that he was searching your head for any bruises. Theo might kill him if he made a bruise on his “pretty girl”. 

“I‘m okay,” you waved your hands in front of your face, kind of nervous that people were starting to look.

“Hello y/n,” The other boy came up and offered his hand out. 

You were confused on how he knew your name despite the fact that you didn’t know his, but still shook his hand. 

The boy chuckled at your confused looking expression. He could understand why Theo had called you pretty instead of his usual “she’s hot”s that the group would receive when talking about girls. 

“I’m Mattheo, Riddle,” he winked, “Nott’s friend. And this is Lorenzo.” 

You made an ‘ohh’ face in recognition but you remained surprised at the fact that you were even linked to him. 

Cho nudged your side. You looked over to her and was met with a raised eyebrow. You were as equally as confused as her. You and Theodore had only interacted once and it was during that one potions class, the day Cho had to skip due to sickness. You had no idea why his friends knew about you or were even talking to you.

But nonetheless you offered a warm smile towards the two boys, “nice to meet you.”  

“Nice to finally meet you too,” Lorenzo returned the gesture. You liked him, he seemed nice. 

Cho cleared her throat while clutching her stomach. You had forgotten what the two of you had even come to the hall for. 

“Well, enjoy your meal!” You waved them goodbye as Cho dragged you to the Ravenclaw filled tables and out of their sights. 

“Who are you losers bothering,” Theo scowled and smacked the two boys on the back. 

“We were just getting acquainted with our best mate’s girlfriend,” Mattheo teased as Theo raised his arm pretending to hit him, making Mattheo duck. 

“Girlfriend? Please, you and I both know I don’t do none of that,” Theo rolled his eyes and the trio walked over to their table. 

“Lucky her, you’re not exactly boyfriend material yourself,” Enzo replied as they took their seats grabbing their lunches before quidditch practice. The first game between Slytherin and Gryffindor was coming up, they needed all the fuel they could get before Malfoy made them run what felt like 100 laps during practice. 

“What are you talking about? I'm the epitome of it,” Theo replied confidently as he took a bite of his sandwich. Sandwich was a bit dry, Italians do it better.

“Right, someone bring Hannah over for questioning,” Mattheo laughed as Theo glared at him.

“We never dated, I don’t owe her anything.” 

____________________

“IT’S SO COLD!” You let out a high pitched scream as a huge gust of wind blew right into your face. You had a sweater that you knitted yourself on, paired with a skirt and black tights along with a designer scarf you had searched the whole country for. It was late October, but you hadn’t expected the weather to drop this low. Maybe you should’ve worn your winter coat or opted for a bigger scarf. Or maybe you shouldn’t have come at all. That was the original plan until Cho had managed to convince you to attend. You didn’t really understand quidditch. The whole game seemed complicated to you, plus the whole flying really high and the possibilities of students getting hurt didn’t sit well with your stomach. But you came regardless and it seemed to make Cho very happy. 

“I KNOW BUT WE HAVE SUCH GOOD SEATS!” Cho screamed over the loud clapping and cheering that signaled that the game was about to start. Loud screaming, another thing you weren’t a huge fan of. 

“HERE!” Cho screamed as she took her earmuffs off and placed them on your head. 

“YOU MIGHT NEED THEM MORE THAN I DO!” She yelled before turning her attention back to the game. 

One by one players in either red or green began to fly out. Everyone you were cheering as if it was a competition to see which side would be the loudest. 

“GO HARRY! YEAH!” You heard Cedric shout from the other side of Cho. 

You didn’t know any Gryffindors that well but since you were in a crowd of people all supporting that team, you didn’t want to stand out so you decided to clap along. 

You recognized a few Slytherin players, the faces of the two boys who you had bumped into a few days earlier were spotted flying on broomsticks. You secretly clapped for them as well. 

The mixture of red and green made your heart happy. Christmas. Your favorite holiday. Only two months to go! You couldn’t wait until you get to start putting together presents and drink peppermint mochas with your friends. It was all so exciting! 

Focus on the game! 

You scolded yourself. You look up and frown as you see players begin to grow aggressive. You frowned as a Gryffindor player tried to throw one of those flying balls at Lorenzo. 

You knew it was part of the game but the fact that someone had almost harmed the nice boy made you want to reach for your wand. 

“Yay go Enzo!” You cheered and clapped as you watched him dodge them with ease. A few Gryffindors side eyed you and gave you nasty stares but it was hard to pay them any mind with the distracting colors of ketchup and mustard wrapped around their necks. 

Theo wanted to thank Berkshire, he really did. He wanted to thank him for providing him the strength to throw bludgers at Gryffindors. What was he doing stealing your attention like that? Last time he checked Berkshire was busy trying to ask out a Slytherin a year younger than them. He needs to leave you alone, you were his friend first. Maybe he should throw a bludger and knock Berkshire off his broom. 

Would that be a Slytherin or Gryffindor point?

[d-emeter]

Johnny Mactavish who realizes he likes his girls a little bigger when he visits a museum for the first time — plus-sized!fem!reader x Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish

CW: mid/plus-size reader! this is absolutely far from body neutral, talk of bodies/body image

Some love for my curvy gals🫶🏻

Johnny's first encounter with the beauty of the female form is as expected, almost stereotypical — staring at the pictures in the playboy magazine he stole from his older cousin. Usually hidden under his mattress, only coming out in the dead of night with a flashlight in hand. The girls are pretty. Scantily clad, sultry expressions, and Johnny quickly learns that this is what is considered hot. He sees girls like this in films, too — films shown to him by that same cousin, God forbid his ma ever found out he watched it — and he hears his cousin and his friends drone on and on about how sexy Megan Fox is as she bends over the hood of a car. Desperate to impress the cooler, older boys, he joins in too. This is what he should find hot.

It is what he thinks he finds hot. That is, until his final year of secondary school. He's freshly turned eighteen, overeager to enlist (his ma had insisted he at least finished school before he did), and taking what he thought were the easiest electives to try and coast through to graduation. He finds he actually really enjoys art class, unlike most of his mates who had the exact same plan he did (he's particularly talented at drawing anatomy, and tries not to preen too much when the teacher compliments him for it to avoid teasing).

Said mates and him are fucking around during the busride to the school-mandated museum trip, none of them particularly excited to spend the day between what they deem boring paintings and sculptures. Well, Johnny is actually quite curious — his family never really took him on trips like this — but he pretends to be just as annoyed as the others.

Find a work that calls to you, and use it as a drawing exercise in your sketchbook. That was the assignment. Johnny's friends take the easy way out — beelining towards the modern section of the museum, finding the paintings that are simple squares of colours. He's planning on following them, but then his teacher lays a hand on his shoulder and points him towards another hall — classical sculptures. He's torn, not wanting to be left out of his friends' fun, but also not wanting to disappoint his teacher. He decides to follow the direction of his teacher's outstretched finger.

He's surrounded by white marble and plaster. The genuine old-as-fuck sculptures are displayed on a plateau in the middle of the hall, the plaster copies piled along the walls. He wanders, pausing here and there to sketch a hand, or a nose. And then he spots her.

It's like he's hypnotized, body moving of its own volition, bringing him towards his object of fascination until he's face to face with her. His eyes flick down to the plaque on the floor — Venus. She's a goddess of... something (he wasn't paying attention during that class, okay?). It doesn't matter. The first thing he notices is that she looks nothing like the girls in the magazines, or films — no, her body is softer. Well, it's not really, it's plaster, but she looks softer. There's a roundness to her shoulders, a fullness to her thighs, a pudge to her tummy, the skin in rolls where she's bent to the side. Hot, is the first thing that comes to mind, but then he shakes his head at himself. No, hot doesn't do her justice — she's beautiful. Gorgeous, stunning. He scoffs; she's tucked away in a corner, like she isn't the most breathtaking thing he has ever laid eyes upon. He spends the rest of the afternoon taking down every detail in his sketchbook.

—

Johnny's been searching for her. Or, rather, for that pull he had towards her, all those years ago. He knows it's stupid. His Venus was perfection in plaster, she was made, without faults. No woman can measure up to that, not a real one. And yet he searches. He flirts with the curvy girls, the ones that rarely get any attention among their group of friends. He enjoys the way they react; some fluster, some flourish, none of them expecting his undivided attention. He takes home pretty, plump birds from bars, spends a night worshipping them. Nothing about it is not real, per say. He finds them attractive, frothing at the mouth at the way his hands sink into soft flesh and roam wide curves — but they're not her. He searches.

And then he finds.

It's the day you come waltzing into his life. Or, more realistically, you come waltzing onto base. Price was getting a new secretary, courtesy of Laswell. Johnny hears the comments — she's a pretty thing, young, and smart. He doesn't think much of it. There's plenty of those walking around base.

Then he catches sight of you and — bloody Jesus. You are young, and you are smart, but you're not just pretty. You're beautiful. Plush in all the right places, sending Johnny into overdrive, an incessant need to get his hands on you as soon as possible. It's out of his control, the way his legs carry him over to you until he's face to face with you. He's already decided he'll worship you, if you'll let him.

His goddess. His Venus.

[caitlynspistol]

the varsity jacket

based on this post by @the-curious-butterfly bc apparently my brain can not read something cute and NOT create a whole scenario/fic in my mind-

now on ao3!!

-----

It’s because Red has nothing else to do, okay?

She’s free after class on the days that Chloe has practice, and it’s not like she’s like those goody two shoes to start on her homework a week before it's due (unlike someone she knows) or have any other friends to bother, so that is why she is on the Tourney field. She would never admit it to herself but she misses her roommate sometimes, especially when they don’t have all the same classes and Chloe doesn’t look at her or treat her differently because she’s from Wonderland; Red misses Chloe, and coming to see her practices before they head off to their dorm together afterwards has become a highlight of Red’s week.

She has a favorite spot: the seventh seat from the left in the second row, one that is not too close to the field so that dirt doesn’t shower into her face whenever the players skirt by, and one that is not too far so as to not make out each and every one of Chloe’s expressions while she leads and directs her team members. Red loves how expressive Chloe is, how smart her eyes look when they sparkle in elaborating strategic plays and how strong and confident she seems whenever she stands in that way with bent knees demonstrating the correct way to hit the ball.

She likes to bring her sketchbook sometimes just to capture those moments.

Chloe seems to have noticed how Red has a favorite spot. She glances Red’s way at the beginning of practice every time, Red trying not to grin whenever Chloe would make an excited hop when she would wave back. When the breeze first turns chilly and the weather starts getting more cold, Chloe lends Red her varsity jacket, claiming that it would be on her conscience and she would feel bad should Red acquire a cold at one of her practices.

Red didn’t even have the time or energy to complain. She can feel her cheeks heat up in embarrassment and that weird fluttery emotion in her chest she’s noticing recently around Chloe and her stupid affectionate gestures when Chloe wrapped it around her shoulders, the entire school’s eyes on them as Chloe patted her arm. 

“There you are, Princesse, don’t cause too much trouble without me, okay?”

Red watches her run back to her team with a slackened jaw, the jacket unnecessary as the name Charming burns a hole into her back.

Since then Chloe has never failed to leave the damn thing on Red’s spot. She would arrive with her black sketchbook and deck of cards to fiddle with, to a folded blue varsity jacket saving her seat. Red wonders fleetingly why nobody ever moves it because teenagers can be quite a selfish crowd, but after it happens the fifth time, she casts it out of her head.

Occasionally the jacket would reveal a surprise. There was one time where Red had removed it to discover a note, one that said “you didn’t take the trash out today” with a little sad face, another where she found chocolates waiting for her that left an uplifting smile on her lips.

Red would shuffle her cards and send one out to the field to circle around Chloe to show her appreciation whenever this happens, secretly adoring the excited giggle it would induce. 

Red loves the jacket, loves wearing it every time Chloe leaves it out for her. She worries that it’s stenched with her perfume with how often she wears it but Chloe never seems to mind so she eventually stops too.

Especially when the whole school knows to stay the hell away from Red’s favorite spot on the bleachers. 

It’s reserved.

[poeticallyspiteful]

hiii! could you please write a regulus black x potter! reader? maybe something like reg and reader secretly going out and getting discovered by James?

thank you!! have an amazing day 💗💗

his muse (pt. one)

regulus black x reader

fluff / angst

cw: unedited as always 😌, a sex joke but it’s a titanic reference lol, marauders being overprotective, kissing, cuddling, someone may threaten to pull out someone’s teeth and put them on a necklace (it seemed like a very regulus threat), artist!regulus because 🥰

summary: you’re the honorary little sister of the infamous marauders; what happens when they catch you with a certain someone?

notes: hey love, thank you so much for the request!! just so you know, i don’t like to write readers to be related to another character, because i want my readers be able to relate to the ‘reader character’ without altering their preferred fancast for another one based on things like race or ethnicity. that is totally on me for not putting that in my request post and i will do that asap, but i hope you enjoy this anyway <33

more notes: i did get just a tad bit carried away and decided to divide this request into two parts, just to make it less overwhelming for me and y’all as well. anyways, enjoy <333

“oh reggie, paint me like one of your french girls,” you giggled, draping yourself dramatically across regulus’ pristine sheets.

he looked up from his sketchbook, brow furrowed in a way that made you want to kiss him until you both passed out from lack of oxygen.

god, you loved him.

“what?” he asked.

“nothing.”

evan and barty had both left the slytherin dorms, off to some place or another, giving you the perfect opportunity for some alone time with your lovely boyfriend. you’ve made sure to do this at least once a week since you started dating in your fourth year. now that you’ve reached sixth year, the tradition had only grown more cherished; precious were the moments spent with someone you’d been otherwise forbidden to see.

“he’s dangerous, (y/n),” sirius insisted, only just finished with his dramatic act of fake vomiting. you had made the grave mistake of assuming your friend would have a normal reaction upon hearing who had asked you to the yule ball.

“a slytherin, (y/n), how could you?” james moaned, collapsing onto the auto-man like he was faint in the heart. “you have been my little sister all my life—”

“you met me when you were twelve and we are not related,” you corrected.

james feigned offense. “how dare you question our bond? blood does not matter! we are family and that is that, young lady.”

“leave her alone, the both of you,” remus laughed, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you to his chest. “our little girl had to grow up someday.”

sirius looked appalled. “not with my bastard, slimy, death eater of a brother—”

“he’s not a death eater, we’re fourteen!” you exclaimed, pouting dramatically at the older boy. “just one dance, i promise padfoot, if it’s that weird to you, i’ll never see him again.”

you lied.

sunlight peaked in through the curtains, the golden rays hitting regulus in such a way that made him look angelic. so focused on his sketchbook, glancing up every few moments to gaze at you like you were something to be revered.

you sat up in his bed, fiddling with the hem of his sweater that lay around your mid thighs; though you loved to, you rarely got the opportunity to wear reggie’s clothes, given sirius would recognize them in an instant. so, you took advantage of these moments whenever they came your way.

you loved wrapping yourself in the soft, strong, warm smell of him: minty cologne, sea salt, and pine trees. the scent was practically woven in the fabric, making everything feel so much softer, so much more him.

you did have a couple shirts and sweaters you’d stolen over the years, but they remained in your dorm at all times.

well, mostly.

it was a moment of stupidity. a dreary saturday morning, a hogsmeade trip, and you had slept in. naturally, you had to rush out of your dorm to get to breakfast in time; but, you didn’t need to change, did you?

why not wear the sweater you had slept in and save yourself a little time?

so, after changing into more appropriate pants, you made your way down the breakfast and sat in your regular spot; in between remus and james, and smack dab across from sirius.

he noticed his brothers favorite sweater the second you sat down.

“what’s that?”

you’d barely sat down by the time sirius spoke and continued making your morning coffee as the group grew silent around you. finally looking up, you glanced between your friends in confusion.

“what’s what?”

you lifted your sleeve to rub your nose, breathing in quickly through your stuffed up sinuses; stupid fall allergies.

you froze as the familiar sent cooled your insides, eyes darting over to the slytherin table across the great hall.

oh.

that’s ‘what’s what’.

“who’s jumper is that, (y/n)?” james asked, arm draping over your shoulders to tug the sleeve on the other side. “doesn’t look like one of mine—”

“or mine,” sirius chimed.

“or mine,” peter chirped, though you hardly stole borrowed his sweaters anyways (too scratchy).

“it’s mine!”

you were surprised to hear remus’ leap to your defense, as you knew damn well the sweater wrapped around you wasn’t his— still, you weren’t about to question it.

“mhm,” you hummed, taking a sip of your coffee, hoping the boys didn’t notice your shaking hands. “i don’t know what that third degree was about, but i stole this from moony a month ago.”

“what’re you thinking about, lovely?”

regulus was suddenly just inches away from you, sketchbook tossed to the side, instead opting to look at his muse more close up.

“nothing,” you mumbled, smiling as he dipped down to kiss your collarbone, working his way up to your lips with featherlight kisses that made you wish you could stay with him forever.

though at this point, everything he did made you wish you could stay with him forever.

“you’re beautiful,” he whispered, eyes scanning every curve and point of your face like a work of art; his work of art, his muse.

he’ll never get tired of that word.

you breathed in deeply, the smell of him practically making you glow like some sort of protection charm; you’d never felt safer than you did with regulus near. you felt untouchable with him, like nothing could ever hurt you.

“what are you doing here?”

lovely.

a grating voice to disrupt your terrible day.

“hey,” severus called. “i’m talking to you.”

you spun around, glaring at the greasy haired boy across from you with as much contempt at you could muster. “piss off, severus!” you shouted; you’d never bit back like this before, but the shocked look on his face was worth it. “really, cornering a younger student in an empty hallway? pretty cowardly, don’t you think?”

before you could debate the consequences of your actions, severus’ hand was gripping your cloaks and you were shoved up against the wall.

“you filthy little—”

just as quick as snapes hands were on you, they’d been torn off, and you scrunched to the ground. regulus shoved him up to the wall opposite you.

“defending your little mudblood, huh?”

“shut your filthy mouth about her or i swear on merlins grave, i will rip every single one of your teeth out and put them on a necklace like a string of fucking pearls,” regulus bit, baring his teeth, an emphasis to the threat. “you got that?”

that night, you ended up in a very similar position to where you were in now; wrapped up in your lovely boyfriends sweater, curled in his arms, and having sweet nothings whispered in your ear.

“y’know, i mean it when i say you are beautiful,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your temple as he spoke, breath fanning over your face. it tickled, but you didn’t care; you just wanted to hear his voice. “breathtakingly gorgeous, inside and out.”

“really?” you teased, nuzzling your nose further into his chest, arms wrapped around his torso.

“really,” he laughed. “i could stay like this forever.”

you pouted, pulling yourself half on top of him. “but my daft friends just have to get in the way, don’t they?”

you hear a gasp from the doorway.

“did you just call us daft?”

[hh0320]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧, 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐞?

part five of the velvet opiate series. part one. part two. part three. part four.

pair. rockstar! hyunjin x fem! reader (+ felix, minho, chan) | genre. visual gothic rock band, romance, hurt/comfort, toxic skz, set in the late 90’s-early 00’s | warnings. profanity, smoking, drug and alcohol abuse, mature themes, mental health struggle, mention of self harm, use of pet names, flawed characters, unprotected sex, blowjob | word count. 9.9k

a/n: guys! the love on the previous chapter was insane 🥹 thank you so much, there’s no amount of words that can describe what your support on this story means to me. i wrote this story high off NANA, and to this day it remains my favorite thing i ever wrote, only for what i did with hyunjin’s character. i’m ashamed it took me this long to find it in me to finish it, but it never once left my mind or my heart. hope you enjoy, and don't be shy to lmk what you thought! 🤍

tags. @ughbehavior, @marshmallow12435, @hyvnfilms, @adoreweb, @yoongihan.

The day the girl goes into labor, Hyunjin locks himself inside his childhood bedroom with a bottle of Chardonnay, a hair clipper, two grams of heroin resting in the pocket of his jacket like some sort of twisted inside joke, and—

Felix. Felix who dropped everything and followed him here.

It had been three years since he last stepped foot in this house. His actress mother and her prized trophies, her golden awards tucked away in shelves Hyunjin could never reach, would’ve never tried to. A place had been carved out for him there, and it had always been far away from her, even as a child, perhaps most especially as a child.

Jealousy and self-loathing turn him inside out, make him sick with agony, shivering all over, bile rising up his throat again and again and again, head begging for a momentary taste of the relief it once sought out and found so easily.

Felix is there to deny him every single time. When a whole night passed like this between them, then and only then, did Hyunjin trust himself enough to lay his head on the singer’s lap without the intention of offering himself up as collateral. The line has been blurred, but it has never been crossed. It needs to stay that way. 

(It will not.)

As he stares up at the face bursting with a thousand constellations, expression soft and honest, another angel defiled, he understands Felix’s love would only carry him so far.

He’s utterly alone in this body. Him and his inside pocket. Five steps away.

To see everything again, through the eye of a needle. To pull out his heart and feed it to anyone willing. When he dares to fall asleep, popped vessels burning red with blurry vision, he sees you protected—protected—from him, arms of a man that will never be important enough over you, perpetually pulling you away, his house on the hills, his house the red terror, and his life screaming, burning alive on a pyre of his own making.

So, his lifeline abandoned. She is near but she is away. She does not want him, not the way he wants her—her words, her doing— cannot bear to stare at the scars on his arms, refuses to talk about the ones on his neck, now that she knows, now that the shadows cannot hide him anymore, and he has to live with this. Has to live, when he desperately seeks to crawl back to the familiar hole, enveloped by the crimson walls, under that staircase where he found the light he’d been looking for all his stupid onerous life.

This is it, then. I’m losing my fucking mind, he thinks. 

Things slip away; they melt when they should not, and freeze over like hell, a place he remembers almost dying in, being saved from. He barely makes any sense half the time, and he sleeps the rest of whatever day it is. He can’t stomach anything but cigarettes, and his fingers picked up a piece of coal at some point and haven’t stopped smudging themselves black over empty sketchbooks that manifested themselves as if summoned.

It was similar ones his mother burned in front of him once, in the garden, a mother he remembers beautiful he remembers ugly, her glutinous ambition and poisonous appetite for more, always more more more; she punished her son for existing when he should not, then walked herself back to her powders and her pills, in that cursed bedroom with the men walking in and out, in and out, constantly, like customers in a grocery store, getting whatever they needed and leaving at once, open doors and greedy hands.

His mother had been a popular actress once, this simple fact was never to be forgotten, repeated, and after him—

This, whatever it was. The pink room. The money. The doctors. He got sent away for nothing. Punished for much less than that. When his crayon pictures turned to embers in the wind, as he watched them fly away from him so easily in the summer heat, he decided: 

There really must be nothing in this world that would stay for him.

This was beyond anything. Beyond all. Hyunjin without his drug was something unrecognizable, something that needed to be fiercely guarded and pinned down, sharp words that cut through steel, wretched sobs that shook foundations and shattered everything standing.

Minho was right. This was not something Felix could just do on his own. He’d never locked himself in with the demons and stayed, he merely left Hyunjin stranded and prided himself on remaining safely on the other side, where nothing ever reached or touched him, a comfortable distance that allowed him to retain his light. I found him twice, he tells himself desolately, but he might as well have been sleeping. What you did was, you called an ambulance. What you had was a version of the man you wanted that had nothing to do with the man in front of you now, and each time he chipped away, you convinced yourself you loved him a little more, because he couldn’t do it himself.

And that has been enough for you.

Felix, will you ever drop your choking hands from your own neck to realize you loved only as far as you could see? A selfish love, a petulant, bitter need. When Hyunjin kissed you, he meant you’re my soul, as I recognize it. My other half, hidden. When you kissed him, you tried desperately to drag him to your side, wailing notice me, notice me. I’ve been standing here. If my flesh is strange and unwanted, skin me alive. 

When he eventually looks up from the sketches littering the floor, three days later, a dark, dark nightmare with seemingly no end, there’s clarity in his gaze, a realization that makes him bubble over with terrible laughter that quickly brews into a category four storm, threatening to damn everything in its wake.

Felix kneels beside him and takes his face in his hands, the only way he knows how, and pushes lifeless blonde hair back, clearing a path for the destruction to occur, no intention of damage control. Nothing he could’ve done differently.

“I can’t stop being that boy drawing those pictures,” Hyunjin admits roughly, staring right through the singer. “My mother’s son.”

“This is yours,” the light soothes. “Your talent, your sketches. She had nothing to do with it.”

With a shake of his head, he’s erased every word Felix ever uttered. With a single touch he lit him on fire. And when his mouth, dry and pale, presses against his neck in hiding, there’s not a single fucking way Felix wouldn’t die for him.

“My talent is useless. I’ve drawn her over and over, and she still won’t come to me.”

Chan takes a seat at the chair provided for him, and slumps forward, hands meeting in front of him. He’s clearly nervous, the apprehension of his first solo interview since his band’s hiatus dawning on him all at once.

The questions had been reviewed already, he knew this. It would all go by quickly and then it’d be official. Velvet Opiate parting ways with their label.

Bang Chan was now owner of all the rights to their recorded music and their name, though that credit belongs entirely to Hyunjin. Still, his band members were not with him at the moment. In fact, they refused to be anywhere near each other, except the ones that couldn’t seem to survive without the other.

The twins had been MIA for a month now. Minho had disappeared off to some private island, his last phone call letting Chan know—letting, not asking—about his two cats, and the whereabouts of their food in his very secluded house in a gated community that he will have to drive four hours to get to, never mind the fact he doesn’t even fucking like cats, never has—

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bang, I’m a big fan,” the interviewer stood in front of him, hand extended, polite smile.

Chan refuses to shake hands without looking at faces. So, when he looks up, he doesn’t expect to get the living fucking lights knocked out of him. This woman standing in heels in front of him—

He’s fucked her. He remembers.

“The pleasure is all mine,” but as he says it, he can make out the mischievous glint in her eyes, the taunting curve of her lip.

The way she’s going to dig through him with a shovel.

“Let’s start with the most recent news. Your lead guitarist, Hyunjin, is expected to have a baby boy any minute now. Congratulations are in order, from everyone.”

Chan lifted an eyebrow, but nodded. “I’ll pass it on.”

“I can’t help but ask, though,” he noticed the scorpion tail before it stung, “why instead of spending his time with the mother of his child, he chooses to haul himself up in his childhood home with Lee Felix?”

In retrospect, it could’ve been worse. They could’ve learned about the heroin, or the overdose. Yet, somehow, the public trying to tear Felix away from Hyunjin seemed a death sentence on so many levels, that all the red bells in Chan’s head went off at once, blazing angry and loud.

He had no idea how to answer that, and storming off was not an option. Not one he could afford anyway, not after the shitstorm winter had been.

“I wasn’t aware gossiping had become so audacious. My team chose you based on reputation. Are you trying to change our mind?”

The interviewer’s eyes flashed. “If the public wants to know, Mr. Bang, we have to oblige.”

“This isn’t public information. If you want the exclusive, contact my band member about it.”

Chan defended. That’s what he did, all his life, for all who were close to him. But even in his fight to do so, he couldn’t help but also wonder—what was Hyunjin doing staying as far as fucking possible from his newborn son? His flesh and blood?

When was he finally going to deal with his life head on, as it happened?

“Understood,” the woman concluded, in a clipped tone, clearly disappointed she couldn’t get a rise out of the drummer. “So, then, what is the new direction for you?”

Chan could definitely answer this one. The words felt so good simmering up his chest, a fuck you to all the years of tour buses and depressing hotel rooms, a goddamn dictator making all the decisions for him, for all of them—

“A fucking break.” Finally, finally.

It’s to the news of his son being stillborn on TV for everyone’s entertainment that Hyunjin grabs the clippers and shaves himself bald, the blade nearly drawing blood. When his eyes fall on the jacket, he thinks, surely now. Surely this time. The phone starts ringing. Felix answers to Chan in miserable tears. Yes, he’s here. No, not yet. How did they know so fast? How did they fucking know?

The faux halo descends in yellow strands, no longer attached, deaddeaddeaddead, the harvest of a two year effort, the metamorphosis of a charlatan. I was never meant to have anything. Just as well. I know this. His arm moves over and over, until the top of his head is smooth, until his roots are once again dark and recognizable, originating from the mother, the constant ache of abandonment. 

He smiles in the mirror when he’s done, your necklace bumping against his collarbone, heavy and desolate. Passes his palm over the nakedness, feels the scratch, the itch, the relief. Again, and again. And again. Again, again, something’s wrong now—

“Stop, what the fuck—stop, fucking stop!”

There’s warm liquid trickling down his forehead, where he smashed his head against his head. Felix runs over, curving around him, attempting to grab his arms and restrain him, all the while pleading and reasoning. The guitarist slumps and falls to his knees, immobilized, glass digging into translucent skin, but still, the hands don’t stop, they hit wherever they find, whatever they reach, even if it’s Felix, especially cause it’s Felix; Felix who won’t leave him alone, Felix that came with him despite the rift between them, Felix that has this disgusting notion of love for him and has convinced everyone it’s real, and that it’s enough.

How can it possibly be? How can it be?

“If you had even an ounce of self preservation, you’d leave right now.”

Two chests rising and falling together, breaths synchronized. They’ve never been left this close, never witnessed how well they fit together. Someone must’ve seen this. No one ever said anything. Cannot cross this. Will not do it. Hyunjin swallows metal and rams his elbow at the black haired boy’s ribs. There’s no sound made, no retaliation, no indication of pain. He always took whatever Hyunjin gave. The desperation used to make him sick.

Felix only let go enough to grab him by the nape and crush their mouths together. Hyunjin flashed his teeth like a cornered animal and spat his tongue out, pushing at him roughly and punching him square in the jaw. The singer knows this very well. The violence. The denial. If it meant it kept Hyunjin alive for a little fucking longer, he’d do it. He’d go through it a million times.

“I know what you brought with you,” Felix wipes at his mouth, as he watches the taller man scramble to his feet, furious and disoriented. “Bring it out. I wanna see.”

“Over my dead fucking body.”

In his bloody state, Hyunjin had to lean his head back against the wall for balance, hands balling into fists, coming to cross one over the other. This was familiar, the game between them. Felix brought his legs up, arms hanging over the knees, exhausted from sleeplessness, heartbroken by his twin’s reaction to the news. As fucked up as it sounded, he didn’t think it was so much the loss itself—more like what it meant, and what he had to let go of in the process.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” A challenge. “If I wasn’t here.”

Hyunjin had no reaction to the accusation of death. He’d wanted it for so long, after all. “You should’ve never come in the first place. I’m not myself.”

The singer hums, chuckling to himself, looking up with defiance. “And what is that?” He asked, feigning naivety. “Yourself? Is it the shit you carry in your pocket? The black stains on your shirt? The anger in your fist? What the fuck is it, Hyun?”

The man on the other side shuts his eyes, lets the shame wash over in intermittent waves. Perhaps, he’ll drown. Perhaps, there's some other way to do this, to end it. He wonders if his mom still keeps her tool satchel in the last drawer of her desk. Thinks it impossible that he’d remember that, when the features of her face are wiping themselves clean from his memory.

No way out of this without hurting the boy at his feet. A mistake.

“Let me be, Felix,” Hyunjin’s voice is but a faint whisper, raw with barely contained emotion. “Let me be.”

“No.”

“We’re done. The dream is over.” 

The quiet resignation pinches at Felix’s heart, warning him there’s something very final about the way he says that. He thinks back to the tour, all the self destruction then, the all consuming need for this funeral of a life, for it to get as dark as possible. Velvet Opiate fed on this misery, it was true, but what the singer hadn’t realized—it all stemmed from Hyunjin himself.

He had been the ultimate muse.

And this was the true curtain call, on his terms, stage one.

“There’s no dream, darling,” Felix coaxes softly. “It was all real.”

The blood has dried by the time Hyunjin reaches for him. At first he thinks nothing of it, as his hand extends, as he brings him up at eye level. Hyunjin’s face has always been delicately hand drawn, meticulously sculpted. There’s not one thing that’s changed about that, nor about the way Felix marvels at the sight of him, the organ tirelessly pumping, tightening the size of the very same fist that has hit him thrice now.

When he connects their lips this time, it’s nothing like all the times before. This is the one where Hyunjin shows him that he wasn’t crazy. That it could be possible, that it was never fake or wrong or one sided. Desire courses through him unfettered, and would it be so bad to drop dead right this moment? For all the fight of survival, all the big talks and the things left unsaid, the images that haunt day and night, Felix suddenly cannot find a single good reason for it. This will never happen again. Never again.

Hands twisting around fabric, hips digging into hips, arousal evident, and the walls are closing in, they’re shrinking, the room spins—Hyunjin crashes Felix up against his childhood dresser—now empty, no more than occupied space in a ghost house—and the wood sighs, as they do, into each other, panting, foreheads resting together, gazes smoldering; as the buzz cut scratches at Felix’s jaw when lips suck at his throat, and when a hand, a hand, Hyunjin’s hand travels down and buries itself deep within, when it wraps around and pumps and stops time itself.

What did Felix know? Maybe this was a dream, maybe it’s been nothing but a dream this entire fucking shitshow, cause why else? Why else would this be happening? Hyunjin has never done more than kissing. He’s never even—

“I love you more than I could ever love myself,” imperceptible almost, except the singer is so tuned into the man consuming his soul it would be impossible to miss. “I’m so fucking sorry, Lix.”

Like a shadow, Felix watches his bandmate rush for his jacket, long limbs and silver piercings, dressed in all black, the earliest possible image he’s had of him, eternally captured to look like this; ready for the proceedings, the burial, the six feet under at any moment—he watches as Hyunjin never looks back once, as he grabs whatever he can, and slams the door shut, turning the key forever, locking Felix away, but taking the demons with him.

Every.single.one.

It plays in slow motion up until the door, when Felix finally resuscitates and runs to rage against the wooden surface, screaming, filled with seething betrayal:

”Don’t fucking do this, Hyunjin. Don’t fucking do this to me!”

And if Hyunjin hears him—he has no tears left for anyone anymore.

Thirty-two steps to the office. Forty-eight for the front door. Him and his inside pocket, reunited once again. 

For the last time.

Hyunjin will never not destroy himself, not ever. It’ll always be one thing for another, no matter how harmless, how insignificant to someone else. He locked that door. He kept the angels away, he drowned in that house.

Help is right outside, left inside, knocking softly, whispering patiently, and he curses it every time. Doubt. He’ll never be able to see this fucking thing through—getting clean, being sober. Doubt is his secret lover in this alien hotel room. He hides it well, holds it near his chest, cultivates it with alcohol and paint brushes, speaks to it after everyone has gone to sleep. The terrifying images he draws stare back at him from every corner, faces cradling their heads in sorrow, open mouthed girls forever stuck in the loop of screaming bloody murder.

This isn’t normal, even by his standards. And despite the madness, despite the sickness nesting in between his bones, your soft voice is heard again beyond that veil where he can never reach you, relentless, gentle, a ravaging fire spreading through his veins—

“You’ve no more left, huh?” 

A screeching giggle, pulling him abruptly from the gates of Heaven, away from you. He doesn’t even react to the voice, just keeps flicking the useless blue lightning painted on his forearm, teeth pulling tighter on the rubber tube, willing it to work, to absorb faster so that he can crawl back between your legs, bury his head in your soft mound, beg for forgiveness, exorcize the thought of another man, a better man, one that doesn’t need to shoot up diluted shit in his bloodstream to feel any goddamn sort of emotion.

Don’t fucking crash. Don’t you fucking crash.

He feels fingers running down his face. He didn’t realize when he slipped off the couch. A hazy arrangement of human body parts is cooing at him, pretending to care. He’s had this one for too long, he thinks absentmindedly. He should kick her out . . .

“Poor baby, it’s okay,” she mumbles against his earlobe, sucking cartilage in her annoying mouth. “Do you have any leftovers for me? I’ll make you feel good afterwards, I promise.”

The hands are everywhere now, like a thousand little spiders, crawling over his abdomen. Where did his shirt go? Hyunjin blinks slow, attempting to gather his thoughts, to push the woman off and find his cellphone, to call you, to call—

“Leave me,” he rasps, reaching for a half empty bottle of Merlot next to him. “Please.”

No more needles, selfish prick . . . The words mangle in his brain, out of reach and rotating. He’s not quite sure if they were said or thought, and that makes him laugh. Is he deaf now, then? Or able to read minds? He’d read yours like the Bible; pore over every sentence, memorize it, learn it by heart so that he’d be useful to you, so that you wouldn’t even have to waste a single breath trying to explain—he’d already know.

If only he had more time with you, and not these handful of memories, straining themselves thin for his selfish pleasure. Love has always punished Hyunjin. It hasn’t offered itself freely once, not even with Felix. 

Felix—

“But then who would you have left, hon?” The woman is sliding down the carpet, pulling the rest of his clothing off him. He distantly thinks he’s not in the mood for a blowjob, his cock doesn’t get hard when he’s this high, he’s not even really in the room right now. . . 

“You’d be all alone,” he hears, clearest of everything.

Alone. His hand, somewhere else, someone else’s, wraps around the padlock. He’d never be alone again. The key. The key to unlock him—it’s around your neck. You hold the missing piece, the thing for all other things. That singular thought spurned a million others, but before he even finished speaking your name, a hot mouth had started working his length, a manicured hand pressing down on his stomach, the other pumping his shaft.

Something stirred low inside him, but it was hiding behind a wall of numbness. He couldn’t feel anything. Hyunjin struggled for breath, bucking his hips reflexively. It took five whole minutes to realize there’d been a cigarette in his left hand, burning itself dead, ashes falling all over the girl’s hair.

He shoved her head down his cock until he heard the familiar choking sound, and further still, until she was hitting against his thighs, until her nails were scratching his skin raw, and she was turning blue.

He came to the sight of her humiliation, drool dripping down her chin, face red, makeup smeared, eyes glazed. Now she was as pitiful as him, a good for nothing whore that thought she could play a rockstar out of his drugs and money and get away with it by keeping him compliant with sex.

He’s lost too much to fool himself again with that narrative.

Hyunjin ordered her to get the fuck out, out, now and lit himself another cigarette. Feeling was starting to come back to his body, which meant it was over already. The emptiness that followed this part of his life was the loudest it’s ever been, worse than his mother leaving, worse than the look in Felix’s eyes as he left him behind in a house he did not know—

Close to that night in the alley with you. 

You can’t pretend it’s rock bottom again, if you’ve been there already. You should know better.

The Merlot smashes against the balcony door, the sound a lot like sharp relief ricocheting inside his chest. Dizzy, he walks over to the glass barefooted, and stares at the mess of broken shards, before crouching down to pick the biggest one.

The blood is immediate, thick and dark, and everywhere.

Huh.

Chan’s never been to Red Lights before.

When Felix brought him here, he thought Hyunjin had reverted back after the news. That they’d have to drag him away from a gruesome scene, or find him buried in an empty bottle of something or other. Chan had grown accustomed to the myriad ways of dealing with pain.

Chan had hope, despite the hollow expression on his bandmate’s face. They went through the worst of it, there can’t possibly be anything worse than that. What Chan can’t understand is that there is more than one death.

And then, Felix spoke, after the deafening silence in the car. And he crushed any belief he’d ever held.

”I don’t know where he is,” he admitted, disconsolately. “But it’s not anywhere good. And he’s back on it.”

Back on it. Back on it? After everything? Nothing could’ve prepared the drummer for the resentment that grabbed ahold of him right then. It was unlike anything else. 

He almost turned his back.

Almost.

“And we’re here for her,” he concluded. “Because he hasn’t put her through enough bullshit.”

Felix pretended to be guilty easily enough. “She broke it off with him. Brought a different fucking man to our concert, front fucking seat, messed with his head. She has a part in this as much as anyone.”

“He’s our responsibility, Felix. Ours!” Chan grabbed the singer by the shoulders, exasperated, trying to shake some sense into him. “You’re being fucking petty. We need to leave this girl alone, and deal with it ourselves like how we always have.”

The black haired man glared daggers at his group’s leader. Chan could blissfully put it all into perspective and carry on with his structured fucking life, but Felix was reckless and heartbroken and scared fucking shitless. They’d never lost track of Hyunjin’s whereabouts so colossally.

Every nerve connecting him would not settle until they found him again. And they would. Find him. Even if he personally had to call every single hotel in the city. Even without you.

“He’s gonna really do it this time, you know?” Felix casts a single look at the bouncer, who immediately recognizes him and opens the door for them to pass through. “No more of this. Not here.”

The establishment remains the same as it always has, though it’s evident it’s a slower night tonight. Chan looks around once while the singer goes straight for the bar, requesting you by name. The bartender blushes bright pink upon realizing who he has standing in front of him. The neon lights hide everything.

“Right there,” he points to his right, in a booth deeper than Felix has ever sat at. Chan is already making his way towards it. “Hey, are you the dude from Velvet Opiate?”

The unearthly thrill of excitement that rushes through him everytime he gets this exact moment will never stop feeling like the very first time. In the frightful abyss that being in love with Hwang Hyunjin is, it’s easy to forget sometimes—that Lee Felix shines brighter than anything. That his name alone can incite this type of reaction.

So, Lee Felix slaps a hand on the counter and brings the guy’s neck level with his mouth, then gives him an open mouthed kiss, the gesture electrifying.

“Yes, the fuck I am, baby.”

And don’t you fucking forget.

At the table, the drummer excused himself and prodded for your attention. You looked away from your client to face Bang Chan in the flesh, after all these months.

“There must be trouble in hell to come all the way over here.”

Chan chuckles, nodding for you to follow him somewhere more private. 

“There’s always trouble,” he commented, indulgently. “We‘ll pay your boss generously for your time. Please.”

You patted the curious man’s thigh twice, whispering something in his ear, before slipping away from the booth and extending a waiting hand towards a staircase. The music boomed sultry and slow, the bass hypnotic.

“We can talk upstairs,” you motioned with your index finger. He arched a brow, and turned for Felix, who was barely coming over.

Your eyes avoided him as soon as you spotted his presence. Chan could not help his gaze from traveling down your tight body. Little black skirt, breasts spilling over an even tinier shirt. No wonder Hyunjin was this enamored. No wonder he’d damn himself to the furthest edge of the world.

Chan cleared his throat, noticing Felix’s amused stare and pointedly staring at his shoes for the rest of the way.

When you open the door to an old office, he slips right in and leans against the desk, arms crossing over his massive chest. You still have your professional expression on. He appreciated your work ethic. It can’t be easy working at a place like this, being as beautiful as you.

“What did he do now, then?” You get straight to the point.

Felix draws in a sharp breath, shoving both his hands in his jeans’ pockets. Chan sighs, gathering he’ll have to be the one to explain.

“First things first—I do want you to know that we’ll understand if you want nothing to do with this. Hyunjin is—”

You cut him off with a shake of your head. “There’s nothing you could say that would make me turn away. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Felix jumped at the chance to be an absolute fucking asshole.

“He’s using again.”

Necrotic silence. It looked like you got punched in the stomach, but the hard lines on your face were trained against such things. Both were accustomed to this look. It was very abrupt, the force with which they discerned which parts made you stand out to Hyunjin, the importance of you. Why you’re familiar to them, although they’ve never spoken a single word to you.

Your sighing breath carried such unfiltered sadness. You looked so small to Chan, then. Tired. Foolish, even, in the way you cared, just like the rest of them, without cessation, just one constant line, perhaps since before you even met the guitarist. After all, weren’t you also a victim of your heart? Didn’t you also act against your better judgement?

The drummer respected you at that moment. You reminded him a lot of himself, strangely.

“How long did he keep his promise?” You ask very politely.

Chan feels sorry for you.

Felix scoffs, lifting one side of his mouth, the bitterness churning his face. “There’s no such thing—”

The well built leader slaps the back of a hand against his vocalist’s chest, measuring him with a crafted look the band submits to every time. “How long was he clean, you mean?” He addresses your question. “Longer than he’s ever been before. Almost two months.”

Your gaze shifted to the blinds covering the single window of this cramped space. You blink  at it for a long while, before you nod once to yourself, slowly, like a newly awakened child, coming to a mutual agreement with your heart's terms and conditions. Such an open book, Chan thinks. It’d be so easy to love this one. It was all right there, staring them both in the eyes.

He dialed their driver’s number and brought it to his ear, ordering him to turn around and be up front in five minutes.

“What if I called him?” You ask, your hands trembling. 

The twin bristles, head tilting in savage outrage. “This crosses your mind now?”

“Felix.”

“No!” He shouts, overtaken with incredulity, lunging for you. You gasp and cower away from him, backed into a corner. “No. She had the choice to fucking stay. If she’d stayed, he’d be sober. He told me,” his eyes turn back to you, turbulent and severe. “The night you gave him that cursed lock. If you won’t have him, he’d—and he did. He fucking did, and I thought okay, that’s the fucking end of it, surely, now, we’re done, this is the last time,” he laughs to himself, and rubs a hand roughly over his mouth in irritation.

“But it wasn’t,” he continues. “Because of what you did. Because you played him, and thought yourself innocent,” his hand reaches for your arm, nails digging into your skin with the intent to hurt. Your face freezes in fear. Chan shoves between you, and brings you behind him, but there is no stopping Felix now, the hate and jealousy pouring out of him like a nasty rainstorm. “He was so happy after you left his room that day. It nearly killed me, but I—at least, at least,” his face is wet, his mouth contorted, “I’ve never seen him smiling like that. Never. I thought if that’s what he wants, fine. Fine. 

“With that same smile, he told me you ended it. But you loved him, I thought. I thought—do you know how much I love him? How long I’ve waited?”

“Felix, that’s enough,” Chan’s authority cuts the tension in two, makes his bandmate bite his tongue and storm out the office at once, rocking the door frame behind him with the force. “Enough,” he repeats to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose, before he turns to witness your sobbing shoulders, shaking with enough guilt to flood an entire city.

“He’s right,” you say through choking breaths. “He looked at me with such honest relief, and I only thought about myself. I thought if I walked away then, I would be able to control the damage before it was too late. The man—the man doesn’t matter, he was never important,” your fingers shoot-out to hold onto Chan’s jacket, something to tether you back to earth. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

The drummer puts his arms around you and holds you as you cry yourself dry. 

“You wanna know a secret?” He murmurs at the top of your head. “I’ve never let myself admit it, because I want to see him fight this and win it. More than fucking anything . . .” Chan braces himself, closes his eyes. “If he’s meant to go that way . . . If we’re the ones holding him back, then . . .”

You shake your head vigorously against him. He nods, accepting the terrible truth and shoving it back down in the deepest, darkest parts of him. Then, he pulls back and stares into your bloodshot eyes, beautiful and scared. His fingers around your arms feel like they’re holding you up entirely, like without this small, comforting touch, you’d cave to a heap on the floor.

“If you think you can handle it, call him,” he implores you. “I know he’ll answer if it’s you. Just—”

”I know,” you reply quietly, wiping at your cheeks, but you meet his gaze steadily, and you nod. He nods back. “I’ll come down as soon as he tells me where—”

“Anything,” Chan corrects, taking a step back, a little more confident in your strength now. “Come as soon as you hear anything. We’ll be in a black van, parked in the back.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats, more to reassure himself. “Thank you.”

When he pushes the door open and climbs into the vehicle, Felix is drinking cold tequila straight out the bottle and doesn’t spare him a single glance. His anger is palpable.

Chan sighs, leans into the leathery seat and extends a hand out; a truce.

Felix obliges.

What you’re doing is irreversible. You know this, and yet you press the buttons anyway.

He’s never been sober with me. He’s promised me a thousand things, and they’re all worth as much as nothing. And yet, you love him just the same. You couldn’t love him any less, any more. Because he saw you when you didn’t. Because he came back and his soul had already introduced itself to yours. Because he’s never once been selfish with you, when all else has done nothing but demanded.

He’s hurt you, and he’s let you go twice. Because his song broke your heart. Because it’s impossible to move on from someone who’s claimed you whole.

These are the reasons you stay on the line. You slide down the wall by the door, and bring your knees very close to your body. You’re cold all over. This is a Hyunjin you’ve never met, one with no mask, one you cannot look in the eye and determine his lies from his truths, so this will be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do.

Above all, you want him to be okay. You want him to be conscious and you want to hear his voice, despite your refusal to be near him. Please. Please. Please be okay.

“Angel?”

Your tears are instantaneous. They come in an avalanche, and there’s no way to stop them. Your fingers cling onto the key hanging from your neck, hugging it tightly, thanking whatever god is listening for the raspy voice on the other line.

“Angel, why are you crying?” His worry murders you. It pierces through your lungs and sends you into anaphylactic shock. You think, I won’t make it downstairs. I won’t make it anywhere.

“Are you okay?” You manage to choke out. “Hyunjin, are you okay?”

You’ve never heard such empty, suffocating silence. It makes you want to throw up.

“I’m alone,” he responds, finally. He sounds exhausted, drained of all that made him glow on stage, all that made him indispensable. “Sweetheart, I think I’m dying.”

Your heart stops. Your body pins itself straight. No. No—

You scramble to get up from your miserable place on the floor, trip over the carpet and throw open the door, running down the stairs, the siren blaring, blasting, red red red. You see nothing, you hear nothing else, your feet take you through the bar, through the back room, towards the exit sign, the big, heavy door—

“CALL 119!” You scream at the abyss that greets you. The neon lights do not reach this part. You’re blind walking towards the men waiting for you. “Please, he’s—he’s—”

Chan tosses the door open, staring at you wide-eyed, mouth opening in horror, sensing what you’re insinuating, sensing it’s bad. Felix treads behind him, phone already in hand.

“Hyunjin, please, please t-tell me where you are,” you stutter helplessly, frozen in the middle of the parking lot. “We’ll get you help, okay, you’ll be alright, what—what’s wrong? Hyunjin, what’s wrong? Please.”

“Listen to me,” he says calmly, like he’s come to terms with something, like this is somehow going according to plan. “I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

You can’t help the wretched sobs that wreck through you. Can’t help the sheer terror that grips you.

“I want to see you,” you beg. “I missed you so much. I want to see you. Please.”

Hyunjin’s breath catches, labored. You hear rustling of sorts, like he’s adjusting or moving.

“Not like this,” he refuses you, for the first time. Something collapses in your chest. “Not like this.”

You tug at your hair, desperate, and look at Chan. He seems to be hanging off every word you utter, close enough to hear if he strained, but far enough to give you a semblance of privacy. The singer isn’t blinking.

“I don’t care! I don’t care, Hyun, please. Please let me. I love you. Tell me where you are.”

His deep voice cracks, and you hear him laugh breathily. It must be the heart breaking, the thing banging inside you. It’s stubborn, in distress. It’s frozen you solid.

“Finally, I get to hear that,” he rasps. “It sounds nice.”

You cry harder, your knees giving out. Chan runs.

“If you die now, how will you get to hear me say it in person? I’ll say it as many times as you’ll accept it. Because I do. I do. I love you. I was born to find you, to meet you under the stairs, to have you live inside me. I need you, Hyunjin. You can’t die on me, you—”

He’s crying. The breathy moans are tears. You’ve no voice to say such a thing to anyone. This is for you only.

“ ‘I tried so hard to bear it . . . I even put out my hand . . .’ ” His singing is for you, too. The raw way in which he utters the words, like they’re physically heavy to carry in his mouth. You sink into his broken voice, let it drift you ashore. “ ‘But what it all comes down to is; Let me hear your voice more . . . I still want to be here.’ ”

Relief floods you weak. You drop your head and cry out, laugh, then cry some more. His band members stare at you confused, anxious. You don’t know in what state he’s in, but this, this changes everything. He wants to live. He admitted it. Which means he’ll fight, which means he’ll try, over and over and over, no matter how many times he fails.

”I only want you,” he says quietly. “I only ever wanted you, angel.”

You nod to no one, you do it again and again. Your heart beseeches to reach him, to reunite with his once again, to never part as long as you both live.

“Tell me where. I’ll be there.”

A hotel six minutes away from you. You don’t know how to keep the guilt from eating you alive. Felix doesn’t know what to do with himself, after he’s informed the ambulance of the location. He meets your gaze once, his expression shuttered and astray. Chan calls security and gives them strict orders to not let anyone go up that room until you’ve talked with Ηyunjin yourself. Regardless of the situation. He does not argue with the singer when he passes past you and goes back inside the bar.

A jacket brushes your shoulders, smelling of birch tree. You look at the male left behind.

“I’ll take you and stay outside till the paramedics go in,” he says. Chan is older than you, but at that moment he looked older than anything else on this earth. You two communicate silently for a few moments, his gratitude and your conviction battling not to overspill, before his arm prods your body forward gently. “Come on.”

In the car, new fear shakes you.

What if you don’t have six minutes?

Minho is found dead in his indoor swimming pool eight hours before your time zone.

Gun in his mouth, the maid walked into something horrible, something she could not begin explaining to the American officers. I had spoken to him on the phone yesterday, she said in her testimony. Normal day. He was very kind. He said not to worry about coming into work today, but it’s my job, you know. I clean. I make sure everything is tidy. I didn’t know anything like this would happen.

No note, no messages to anyone, no indication. 

Except the rings on his nightstand. The engravings:

I’ll find you after, on one.

I’ll be waiting, on the other one.

What he never managed to give to her.

The next day, newspapers all around the world print, 

‘ LEE MINHO, bassist of VELVET OPIATE, DEAD by SUICIDE, aged 26. ’

There’s a lot of blood in the bathroom. Even more in the tub, where you find him.

His hair is buzzed and bleached, piercings that hadn’t been there before. The staff that opened the door for you is on standby, along with a security guard Chan brought here, both standing right outside the suite. You hadn’t noticed your attire, your uniform being second skin and unimportant, but the woman’s eyes had drifted and they had judged.

No one knew what was happening in here, only that medical help might be needed. A lot of girls like you must’ve come and went through these doors, to get a condescending look like that, and you don’t even want to think about the accidents that must’ve already occurred.

You don’t dwell on it. You can’t.

Hyunjin is shirtless and smoking, cradling a torn up arm and sporting a busted eyebrow. His eyes are closed, like he’s sleeping. You go to him slowly, moving quietly so as not to disturb him. He’s a painting, even like this. Unreal. Untouchable.

You love him so heart wrenchingly, you think you might be the first one to die, after all.

”Hello, angel.”

Your eyes meet. Cigarette hanging limply from his mouth, he opens his other arm wide, smiling softly, a man patient for a hundred years, acrylic. You smile back and get in the tub with him, kneeling between his legs, letting the blood soak through your clothes too, all to feel his arm finally wrapping around you like all those times before. 

Times not as hard as this. Times that will never come again.

“You made me wait,” he mumbles, the smoke curling above your heads.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He kisses the top of your head, and settles you better on top of him. Your ear presses against his heart, the tune sounding a lot like home, a drum beating rampant in your ribcage as well. Could’ve done this from the beginning. He would never let it near me.

“Don’t apologize. You’re here now.”

He smells like wine and metal. You lean into the smell, allow yourself to relax, to close your eyes. The fluorescence of the light overhead enters through your lids, shadows dancing.

“Hyunjin?”

“Hmm?”

“What happened to your arm?”

A brief pause. He takes a long drag of the stick in his mouth, exhales, his fingers threading through your hair, bringing you closer if that’s possible.

“I cut the ugly part off. The one you don’t like,” he says.

You’d have to ruin this perfect peace, and betray his trust. You couldn’t postpone it any longer.

“It doesn’t hurt?”

Long fingers moving on your scalp, back and forth, back and forth, his jaw a puzzle piece on the crown of your head, his smoke and his rings. Too familiar. Achingly so.

“I don’t feel it anymore,” he shrugs it off. “You’re here.”

You open your eyes and look up at his face. His lips are pale, chapped. Nevertheless, he’s handsomer than ever. Just a little lost. A little sad. When he feels you staring, he lifts his head and stares down at you, gaze impossibly intense, burning with a hunger you’ve never truly realized.

“You keep saying that,” you break the trance, shy under his scrutiny.

Hyunjin sighs and it reverberates down your entire body. His bloody hand comes to lift your chin up, to inspect and clarify as only he ever does.

His eyes drop to your mouth. You blink.

“A dream, isn’t it?” He rasps. “You’re not real.”

You humor him. It’s better this way. 

“I’m not real.”

His smile is most beautiful then.

He fists your hair and brings your lips together.

The cigarette falls.

Hyunjin on stage in three, two, one . . .

Good evening, we’re Velvet Opiate!

No. Wrong place. Must go back.

Before you call Chan, you check the drawers, pockets and pots; under carpets, the mattress, inside pillowcases. You smash his phone and flush all the powders found down the toilet. You clean up the glass, and make the bed.

You throw the satchel with the tube tied around it away, and you wipe the blood from his face as best as you can. Then you do the same thing to yours.

He wakes up as you bring the cellphone to your ear, and scatters out of the bathtub to stop you, long legs bumping, a scary sight painted in crimson. The look on his face is terrifying, like he can’t believe you’d ever possibly deceive him.

The words lodge themselves in your throat.

“What the fuck did you do?” He demands, your phone snatched, taken hostage behind his back. “Sweetheart, who were you calling?”

Your face crumples at his tone. “Chan,” you whisper. “We called an ambulance . . .”

Hyunjin rubs a hand over his face, lightning flashing in his dark eyes as he restrains himself from reacting and answers the call back, turning his back on you. 

You remain still, holding your breath. You remember—quiet—as the paparazzi snapped pictures of the two of you, all those months ago, the violence with which Hyunjin had erupted then, a part you haven’t been introduced formally to until now, and you’re sure you want nothing to do with.

“No fucking hospital. Do you hear me? You want them to send me to looneyville? ‘Cause that’s where the fuck I’ll end up once they see these holes in my arms . . . The doctor, Chan, the one we pay for, remember? Don’t fucking give me that shit, I’m fine.” His head turns your way slightly. “She’s here. Look, just—no hospital. Send them away, make up a fucking excuse. Call Park.”

He throws the phone in the sink behind you, and walks up to you in two long strides, making you back up against the tiled wall. He looks more awake than he did earlier, like the high has worn off completely now. 

His palm comes to rest above your head, eyes boring into yours. Something shifts immediately and the danger is gone, replaced by a tenderness and longing that twists like a knife between your ribs.

“Please, don’t ever do that again,” he murmured, connecting his forehead with yours. “I can’t lose you now. I won’t fucking stand it.”

You nod, understanding the implications.

“I didn’t know what to do when you—we thought you were—”

He shushes you, hand coming to caress your hair, to silence your fears. “I know, angel. But you called. You called before I did anything else. My highs get bad sometimes, I—it feels a lot like death. It’s . . . Nothing you need to worry about.”

You hear all that he does not say. “Tell me,” you plead. “Let me in, Hyunjin. You can’t keep me at arms length. I’ve seen you now. I’ve seen everything.”

He went to pull away, gaze torn, but you kissed him before he could move any further. 

You weren’t exactly sure what happened then. Hyunjin groaned in your mouth, and lifted you in the air, wrapping your legs around his torso, walking out the bathroom with his teeth grazing your neck, his hold possessive, his need ravenous.

”I’ll disgust you,” he says, jaw clenched, as he lays you down on the bed. “You’ll run.”

”I won’t.”

”You will. No part of me should touch you. I don’t deserve a single fucking inch of you.”

His fingers move your skirt up, your panties to the side. You moan when he laps the wetness between your lips, sinking his middle finger in your tight hole once, twice, three times, mouthing kisses on your breasts, repeating your name like a prayer.

It doesn’t take him long to bury himself inside your cunt. He’s done it before, taken off the same clothes, touched between the same thighs. This time it’s primal, it’s pure need and self-hate that drives him. You welcome him with open arms, wrapping around his shoulders, lifting your hips to meet his every thrust. He fucks into you with vigor, like he missed you, like maybe he won’t get another chance at this.

You want to show him. Want to tell him. Want him to understand.

“Hyunjin . . .” You trace the lean muscle, the beauty marks, avoid the chopped skin of his forearm. “I love you.”

He shakes his head and bruises your lips purple, lifting one thigh over his shoulder, the position unbearably deeper, his cock ramming the same spot over and over, until you can do nothing else but chase after the release, after what he gives you—look at you, look at you, taking me so good, so fucking good, angel, come on, let me see you, open your eyes—your hips move of their own accord, meeting his halfway, aching hole squeezing around him, all the distance and pain transforming into blinding orgasm.

“There you go, sweetheart, fuck,” hand coming to push sweaty hair out of your face, to lay on your cheek, mouth on yours, over and over, two points connected, and him, so beautiful, so so beautiful, pistoning into you harder, faster, head dropping, voice thick, groaning as he shoots ropes of white cum inside your awaiting pussy.

“I love you,” you say again, expecting he’ll not accept it.

He pants heavily, his weight a steady reminder he’s here, he’s alive, he’s alright. You pass your own hand over his buzz cut, find you don’t miss the long hair one bit, now you can see his face better, his eyes, the way they look at you, like you’re the only moving thing on this standstill planet.

“Are you okay?” He asks, concerned. “I was selfish with you, I should’ve—”

You press a finger against his lips. “It was perfect. Don’t ruin it.”

He pulls you to his chest, cock still nesting inside you. You’re careful not to rest on his wounded arm, even as he doesn’t seem to mind it. For a long time, it’s only your breaths in the dark room, the white of the bathroom the only source of light. Your mind replays the events of the past hour, and cannot process any of it.

It feels surreal.

Hyunjin senses you slipping from him, and kisses the side of your head, bringing your body over his, the stretch inside you incredible, his length twitching and hardening.

He ignores it.

“I’ve never had anyone say those words to me before,” he admits in your hair. “No one. You’re the first.”

Your heart breaks all over again. “Is that why you don’t want them?”

His mouth lifts. “I want them. I want all of them. All of you.”

“You have me,” you say confidently. “You’ve had me all this time.”

He begins making love to you again, slowly this time. His eyes are unfathomably sad, incredibly tired, dark circles prominent. Risen from the dead and given himself another day, another chance.

“But you won’t stay unless I quit for good,” he whispers, a lover’s whisper. “And I don’t know how to do that, angel. It keeps pulling me back, no matter what I do.”

You bite back your moan to answer him. “I’ll stay,” in his ear, the best kept secret. “I won’t leave again.”

Hyunjin fingers the key dangling around your neck, wrapping it around his digits tightly. “My lifeline. I swear to you. I swear.”

You meet him in the middle like this too. And when you cry, he cries too and hugs your entire frame to him, breathing in what he has missed so. A melody builds in his mind, fingers suddenly itching for his guitar strings.

And then you say,  “I want you to live, Hyunjin. I want you to live.”

And it rages against his entire being. The replenished rejoicing of a beating heart and the rest of the world. Despite death, despite death, despite death.

In spite of it.

The remaining members of Velvet Opiate organize a concert in memory of their lost friend.

Forty thousand people show up. Chan cannot get through any of the songs, Felix refuses to sing a single word. But it doesn’t matter. Hyunjin perfectly executes all his riffs and solos. He moves around the stage, commanding the crowd and thinks of the way Minho would surely curse the other two for acting so fucking sappy.

He knows this best of all. Death is a reprieve, it should not be feared. Saying that, he refuses to bow down to it yet. He can mourn and touch the casket, he can even throw the dirt on top of someone who he would follow into a burning house and not picture it was himself instead, for once—this is the kind of person Hyunjin is becoming because of you.

Steadfast, determined. He cannot get stuck again. He will not live in darkness anymore.

They do all the popular songs, and even some fan favorites, speaking in turns about Minho’s legacy and his quiet resilience. Chan mentions his womanizer ways which have caused many scandals for them over the years. Felix talks about what a pleasure it was to record material with him, how he’s never met anyone more professional than him, a real fucking spirit.

Hyunjin saves his memories for last.

In front of the same people who may have spat at him before, he rubs his newly bleached hot pink head of hair, and fidgets with the pick between his fingers. The dome is lit in red, the cheers resounding.

“Minho was a troublemaker by nature. He did whatever the fuck he wanted unapologetically. He loved fiercely, and he did it all while playing some damn good bass for this band,” he looks at his own guitar, the void it had created in his gut when he wasn’t able to play. “He never questioned a day in his life, he was the best one out of all of us—Bang, don’t look fucking offended, the guy is dead—” Chan lifts his drumsticks in defeat, and chuckles.

“He’ll pay you a visit for that one,” Felix jokes, tears streaming down his glittery face.

“He saved my life,” Hyunjin continued with a bittersweet expression. “Countless fucking times. And I think that calls for the only song he never got sick of playing, yeah?”

Sound all around. Chan started, followed by Felix’s new accessory—Minho’s customized bass and all that it entailed to keep rhythm during a song of theirs. He practiced day and night, stayed in the studio to learn all the minor tweaks and complexities the late bassist embellished the tracks with. He had a long way to go, and it’d never be the same, but the band refused to hire a new person.

It didn’t feel right. No one could replace a Velvet boy.

Hyunjin joined after the intro, leaning into the mic, looking out at the sea of fans and really seeing them, for what felt like the first time since they started having shows. Truly sober and present. It hasn’t clicked for him quite yet—how he’ll be able to keep this up, to not fuck it all up and lose everything from under his feet.

Minho’s passing shook him like nothing ever had. If he tilts his head a little to the side, and looks out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he can make out the familiar impassive expression, his best friend, the flickering of his fingers over the thick bass strings. Like before.

But there’s nothing there. Not really. If he trails his gaze backstage, though, past their new manager and staff, the light shining there gathers all his attention, and he sees—

You. 

“This next one, I wrote . . . dying.”

Looking back at him with shiny eyes, an emotion he’s not yet ready to decode. 

It wouldn’t matter, either way. He’s dedicated his entire life to you now.

“I met someone in a dark room, and molded around them. She decided I was worth knowing to the bone, defenseless and naked. So I wrote this for her.”

Can’t see anything but your sweet face in that tub smearing his blood with yours, hear nothing but the way you whisper his name in the dead quiet of night, as he makes you cum again, and again, and again.

He brings the silver padlock around his neck to his lips, and kisses it. He calls out your name.

He plays the new song he wrote for you.

You run to him. He waits, arms wide open.

All is still.

[everythingbridgertonbxm]

Then Another

Benedict Bridgerton can't seem to stop kissing his spouse.

A/N - All the kissies. 885 words.

💋

Benedict had always supported your love of writing, one of the many reasons you fell in love with the man and one of the many reasons the man fell in love with you. He usually happily sat with you as he did some simple sketches and you wrote.      

Tonight is different. Benedict appears to have given up his usual hobby of making charcoal meet his sketchbook, though you do not question it. Instead you take your usual place on the settee, leaning against the armrest and making quill meet paper. That’s when Benedict finds a different hobby for the evening.    

He slowly reaches for the hand which is holding your paper steady, and lifting it–lips meeting skin before he quickly glances up at you.     

Damn you Benedict Bridgerton for getting my heart racing so quickly. You look down at him as he glances up at you, a sweet, though mischievous smile which only has you blushing. You let out a smile as he kisses your hand again. “Ben, I have a few things I would like to write down. I had an idea that came to me on our promenade at an earlier hour,” you say to your husband.    

“My dear, don’t let me stop you,” he responds cheekily, not letting go of your hand. He places another kiss on your hand, and then another and then another before offering a smile reserved only for you.  

You are unsure how to respond to your husband, your heart thumping a bit quicker. “Ben, I will be needing my hand back,” you muster out, watching your husband place more kisses to the back of your hand. You blush profusely when he looks up at you for a moment, those stupid puppy-dog eyes.    

Moments later he places a kiss on your wrist, then another, before slowly making a trail of kisses up your arm, teasing your skin rendering you speechless. You find yourself in a place somewhere between wanting to giggle and gasp. You finally find your voice. “Ben, I truly wish to be able to express my words before they slip my mind and I do need both arms and hands for that.”   

He reluctantly nods, letting go of your arm and stepping back, before a smile breaks his face. “Then I shall find another place to kiss.” He leans in towards your face, one arm on the armrest behind your head and the other around your waist.   

You and Benedict had been married for nearly eight months and his hand finding your waist still had your heart beating like mad. You swear your face is entirely red, which the second-eldest Bridgerton seems to ignore.   

“Perhaps this is a good place.” He leans in, placing a gentle kiss on your lips, then another, then another, strategically not allowing you to speak. His lips then move along the side of your mouth before tracing up to your cheek, then another on your other cheek, then another on your forehead.     

You find your voice again. “Benedict, that is not–” You are cut off upon letting out a sharp breath when his kisses find the edge of your jaw. You lift your chin, as if on instinct inviting his lips to find your neck.  

He quickly obliges, trailing kisses along the side of your neck which is when you know you will not be doing any writing this evening. You find just enough time between kisses to place your paper and quill down which Benedict understands as a surrender to getting any work done.     

“Benedict,” you whisper when he finds a particularly sensitive spot. You can feel his breath, warm on your neck and you know he is smiling. Your heart is racing and you are amazed it hasn’t sprung forth from your chest.    

He places another kiss on the spot, then another, and another before finding the bit of skin behind your ear. You feel him remove his hand from the armrest and place it on your hip pulling you up from the settee, keeping you balanced as his lips find yours again. You smile as he places a soft kiss on your mouth, then again. The next one is a little bit more passionate, and he pulls you towards him, not leaving a single bit of space between the two of you.     

“Perhaps we should move this to the bedroom so we do not have to move ourselves,” you offer between kisses, and smiling. You laugh as he does not respond, instead hastening to grab your hand and pulling you down the hall of your home and towards the bedroom. He quickly pulls you in, shutting the door behind him before taking your face in his hands.   

Your heart is racing and you can’t help but smile as he places another kiss on your lips, then another, then another, and another before he slowly backs you up towards the bed. You let out a laugh as you fall onto your back, Benedict falling on top of you. Benedict continues to smile, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck, then another on your neck. You don’t stop giggling for the rest of the evening, as he finds every possible place for his lips to meet your skin. Always finding a place to kiss, and then another.

[xxsquiddkiddxx]

hiiii could I request smth w John Bender where he's kinda infamous in the school. Reader and him are maybe assigned on a sculpting project together or something like that, and because of his reputation he expects her to hate him, but she's nothing but nice to him and feels for him because she sees the signs of abuse. One day he seems in an even worse mood than normal and is pretty bruised up (though trying to hide it) and after school when they walk out together she privately broaches the subject, causing him to involuntary have a breakdown/panic attack, which she comforts him through

With some romantic fluff at the end?? Idk ahhhh sorry this is so specific I feel awkward typing this all out 😭 no worries if you can't and have an amazing day/night!

A/N: Wait omg I actually love this???.?? I'll TOTALLY do this!!!!!! Idk how well it'll be cuz I haven't watched Breakfast Club since mid August... but I'll do my best. (Also ty so much for being specific! Helps me out A LOT more!)

Art Class ~ John Bender x !Artist! Reader

Pronouns for Reader: She/Her

Relationship type: Platonic to romantic

Genreal Idea: (Y/N) and John are working on an art project together, and things seem to be going smoothly. A friendship even seems to be blooming. However, one day something seems... off. And (Y/N) seems determined to figure it out.

Content Warnings: John might be out of character, accurate PTSD representation from someone with PTSD, abuse mentioned (but not seen in action), swearing. It's a fic that takes place in the 80s. What do you expect???

(No particular POV)

☆Day 1: Assignment☆

John wasn't exactly the best at art. Shop? He pretty much had that class DOWN. Art? Not so much. So he decided to bite the bullet and just get the class over with. It was only a half-year class anyway. And he needed it to graduate. And in his mind, if he could graduate... he could get the FUCK out of that house. It was a win for him.

He took his spot in the back of the classroom, sunglasses on his face, and leaned back slightly in his chair. He found himself zoning out, wrapping himself around his own head. The thing that pulls him out of his thoughts is the sound of someone clearing their throat. He lifts his sunglasses up slightly on one side, just enough to see who it was. It was a girl with (H/C) hair and (E/C) eyes. Someone he INSTANTLY recognized as (Y/N) (L/N)

He didn't know the girl personally. He just knew OF her, if that makes any sense. He had another class with her, but he couldn't tell you what class it was. His school schedule mostly just blurred together if he was being honest. But every time he'd stolen a quick glance at her or whenever she was just simply in his line of vision, she always had her nose in either a book or a sketchbook. No in between. Occasionally, she was seen doing homework, but the rest of the time, it was drawing or reading.

"Can I help you?" He asks, a little snappier than he'd intended. Before he had a chance to mutter a quick apology and try again, she speaks.

"We were assigned to do the sculpting project together?" She says, unfazed by the snappy tone. It was the first time she'd ever spoken. Or... at least the first time John had ever heard her speak. Not nessicarily what he expected, but- God that sounds so fucking weird.

"Oh," He says, feeling kinda stupid. She just sits down, setting her bag down beside her, fishing around for what he assumed was her sketchbook. He decides to speak again, hopefully making some form of small talk to make up for the snappiness of before. "(Y/N), right?" He found himself bewildered at his own behavior. He normally never found himself feeling bad about his attitude or behavior. And here he was, feeling like a douche for slightly snapping at her.

"Yes," She says. "You perfer John or Bender?" She asks, grabbing a pencil and sliding it over to him, John stopped it with his forefinger. "I hear people call you both."

"I don't care." He says simply, watching her grab her sketchbook.

"Alright, John, it is." She says. "So, were you paying attention to the teacher, or do you have any idea what we're doing for the next..." She thinks for a moment, tapping her pencil eraser to the paper. "Week or so?" John's silence speaks more than if he'd simply said that he didn't. "We're doing a sculpting project." She says.

"Ah, I see." He says, twirling the pencil in his fingers.

"So I was thinking we could possibly get a rough idea before we actually dive in, yeah?" She says, flipping through her sketchbook. John gets some glimpses of her art, mesmerized by her work. She flips to the next blank page, writing at the top "PROJECT IDEAS".

The two plan, and by the two, (Y/N) mostly talked, and John just kinda nodded and went along with it.

At the end of class, (Y/N) gave John her phone number so they could stay in contact about the project. And the two went their separate ways for the day.

☆Day 3: Even More Sketching, Some Potential Friendship Forming☆

"How the hell do you understand this?" John asks, cracking his knuckles. "I barely understand 90% of this class." The girl in front of him simply chuckles.

"I've done this for a LONG while, John." She says. Most people just called him Bender, so hearing her call him John made him feel... nice? He didn't know, feelings are weird, and that wasn't a rabbit hole he really wanted to go down today.

"I've noticed." John says as the two work. "I hardly ever see you without that little sketchbook of yours." The two continue to work before John breaks the silence between the two.

"Ya know... I don't actually hate this." He says quietly, mostly to himself. (Y/N) hums in response.

"You say sumthin?" She asks, looking up at him. John feels heat rise to his face as he clears his throat, making up something on the spot.

"I-I said that I'm surprised you don't hate me." He says smoothly, covering up his little embarrassing moment.

"Why would I do that?" She asks, her eyes going back down to the large(ish) lump of clay infront of her as she rolls up her sleeves. The two converse back and forth while they do their project.

"Hey, so I was thinking." (Y/N) says before class ends. "Since we are a tad behind, we could possibly stay after school one of these days to get some extra work in."

"That works for me." John says, hand in his pocket. "When were you thinking?"

"Would you be able to do Thursday?" She asks. John thinks for a moment.

"Yeah, I can do that." John says.

"Sweet." She says as the bell rings. She puts the stuff they were using away and grabs her bag. "See ya."

John, left slightly speechless and red faced, blinks a few times before mumbling a "Yeah, see ya."

☆~☆

John was practically counting down the hours until he'd be able to work with (Y/N) after school. The fact that he was counting the hours down both disgusted and fascinated him. It was an odd combo that he really wasn't familiar with, nor had a desire to be familiar with.

(Y/N) had been nothing but the kindest soul to him. Did it make sense to him? No. Was he gonna ruin it by saying something? ... Also no.

☆Day 6: After School Work and a Walk Home☆

(Y/N) instantly knew something was up the second she set her stuff down. The air felt thicker around John, who was clearly pissed. The two didn't really talk, as (Y/N) detected he wasn't really in that mood. However, this didn't stop her from sliding a little slip of paper towards him.

John unfurled it: "You good? You seem a lot more angry than norma." John bit a small corner of his mouth until he could taste his own blood before responding verbally.

"It's not any of your business." He responds. The girl simply sighs softly, the two going back to the project. A few bruises poke out from under John's jacket sleeve, and (Y/N)'s heart instantly aches. She knew EXACTLY what was going on.

At the end of class, (Y/N) puts stuff away before asking John: "You still down to stay after?" She asks, her voice a bit softer than normal. John simply mumbles a "Yeah, whatever" and is out of the door.

☆~☆

(Y/N) sat on a desk as she ate a granola bar, waiting for John. Sure enough, there he was. He tossed his stuff at his normal desk, not really caring if anything was damaged.

"Ya know, we can reschedule if you're not doing the best." She says, doing her best not to sound rude or condescending.

"I'm fine, (Y/N)!" John says, slightly snappier than normal. "God, will you get off my back, please?" (Y/N), taken slightly aback, simply nods her head and the two get to work.

☆~☆

The two walk out of the school in silence. John feels like an absolute dick. He shouldn't have snapped at (Y/N). He's mad at his dad, not her. He can't bring himself to apologize though.

For once, it's (Y/N) who breaks the dense silence. "John, you don't have-"

"For fucks sake, I'm FINE, woman!" He snaps, turning to her. "God take the fucking hint?! Try that!" (Y/N) blinks a few times. She takes a lot, but that wasn't something she was gonna take. Regardless of what he was currently going through.

"Listen, John. I get you're in a bad mood. And you don't have to tell me why." She says. "But it's obvious you're not-"

"I'M FINE, (Y/N)!" He says, his voice shaking with unnessicary rage. "I'm fine! Fucking PERFECT even!" His hands shake with the rage. "So PLEASE! For FUCKING FUCKS SAKE! Get OFF of my ass about this 'You're not fine' shit. I'm PERFECTLY FINE!"

"Oh, clearly." (Y/N) says, hands on her hips. "Because someone who's fine acts like this."

"Oh my fucking god." John groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Are you ACTUALLY braindead? Did you NOT hear me?"

"John," The girl says, trying to be as calm as she can. "I can literally SEE the brusies-"

"Oh my god, you fucking win! You fucking win." He says, practically whirling his jacket to the earth, revealing a shit ton of bruises and marks both old and new. "There, my old man whipped me to shit last night cuz I forgot to do something exactly to his liking. SATISFIED?!?" The rage in John's voice scares both (Y/N) and himself... but mostly himself.

The look that (Y/N) has on her face brings him damn near to tears. It's a look not of disgust or fake sympathy. But of actual concern, maybe even actual care. He's trying to look everywhere, BUT her face.

"John..." She whispers softly, her fingers moving to his arm, but instantly drawing back. John sighs, extending his arm out to her. Her soft fingers trace each mark softly, almost a feather light touch. "You don't deserve this."

"Well clearly, I did." He mumbles, turning his head to the side. (Y/N) drags her finger down his arm softly to his hand, where she squeezes gently.

"No, you don't." She says, looking him in the eyes. "John, I may not have known you for a super long time. But I know for a FACT that you're a good person under the tough guy exterior." John stays quiet, his eyes not leaving the girl in front of him. "You DON'T deserve this." She gestures to every mark that she could see and the ones she probably couldn't see. "And I'll be DAMNED if I listen to you act like you don't deserve the dirt under my shoes." Her other hand moves to his shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. "Last time I checked, no human being deserves this. And if you need ANYBODY, SOMEWHERE to get away for a bit, my door's WIDE open, just call me, talk to me, hell even send me a letter. I don't care. But I'm here-"

"(Y/N)..." He says softly, his fingers wrapping around the hand (Y/N) had hers in. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

"Of course, John." She says softly, going up on her tiptoes to lightly brush her lips to his cheek. "Contrary to belief, I do have a-"

"You missed." He says.

"I-I'm sorry?" She asks. John simply chuckles before pressing his lips against her own.

A/N: There we are! Hopefully, I did the idea justice. I loved it sm. I'm not nessicarily good at romantic fluff (I don't tend to experience romantic fluff often if ever XD) so hopefully I did it alright. I feel like I put a bit too much of myself into John during his little meltdown, as that's how I was during my first PTSD episode. I APOLOGISE FOR HOW LONG THIS TOOK FOR ME TO GET OUT THO 😭😭😭😭

[slashingdisneypasta]

Cruella De Vil x Fem!Reader || Drabble

Plot: Cruella always demands you show her your outfit before you go anywhere in public with her, so she can dictate whether you change or not before she's seen with you.

Today you refuse.

Warnings: Degradation, control issues, yelling, poking the bear, bratty behaviour, etc. Cruella is a mean, controlling mommy with explosive tendencies. But what did you expect. Also reader is... a bit of a brat and into it.

As soon as you turned up in her office, ready to go out to the function Cruella invited you to, you do not want to show her your outfit. Every single time she takes you somewhere, she always has you take off your coat and do a turn for her- and she decides whether you have to change or not. And of course... usually, your outfit's all wrong and she just has to pick something better for you. You think she just likes treating you like a barbie doll.

Cruella De Vil; A stressful, controlling, maniac woman. Its a wonder how you put up with her. How you actually like her.

Tonight though, you're really not in the mood for it; You just want to get this ball over with and get into bed. So, you tighten the knot around your waist holding your coat securely around your body and immediately stretch at the door to reach hers for her off the ornate hook. "We should get going now. We don't want to be late, like last time- Shit."

That was the wrong thing to say. That was the W R O N G thing to say. You knew it the moment you said it. The only reason you were late last time, after all, was because Cruella made you change. And you just reminded her of it. Wincing, you gently pull her coat up and off the hook. Lower your heels to the ground again.

When you peak at her, she's still behind her desk. She hasn't made a single move to get up. A sketchbook still sits open in front of her and a red marker is still between two fingers, the knuckles of which are pressed against her right temple; expecting. She raises a perfect thin eyebrow at you, her eyes as sharp as the talons securely glued to her red silk gloves. "... Well?? What are you wearing?"

"A dress." You tell her, stern. Determined not to do the stupid dance she insists upon. What are you? A teenager? Her sycophantic little intern? No. "Its blue. Pretty. Now lets go- "

She rolls her eyes, sighing. "Oh darling, lets not waste anymore time then we will already when the pretty little dress you chose out of that pitiful little single-door closet of yours is inevitably horrible. Now take off the coat."

"There's nothing wrong with my clothes! I can pick them myself!" You cross your arms tightly over your chest. "And I'm not changing."

At this, the blatant disobedience you were expressing, her eyebrows creep all the way up her forehead. A faint, disbelieving grin tickles at one corner of her lips like a ghost. "... oh?"

Its a dangerous 'oh'. An 'oh' that leads you to believe she wants to hear more of this from you. Its the 'oh' before you say something dumb, and she tears you apart with her words and you end up taking off your coat for her, feeling lousy and full of hot shame.

... but you were prepared for this when you walked in. You knew there wasn't even a sliver of a real chance that you would get her out the door before she remembered to check your clothes. You knew their would be a fight. So instead, you don't say another word. You just look back at her, arms crossed, a stony look on your face. A silent, stubborn yes. You heard me, crazy lady.

Cruella's eyes narrow and the shimmer of a smile dissipates into a nasty scowl, no longer amused at you. "Take... off... the coat."

You cant help the stupid, horny part of your brain from flickering to life at her being mad at you. After all, you like her for a reason. And its not because she's such a sane, comforting person to be around. But you do your best to ignore it. Or what? "No."

For a moment she manages to smooth out her expression, but you're no fool. You know the crazy bitch. And you can clearly see the hailstorm roaring behind wide, 'innocent', blue eyes. "... Darling, it is a Friday evening and I don't particularly want to go to this stupid party at all, but I have to. So be a good girl for me, hm?" When her voice suddenly raises, you're expecting it. That doesn't mean you don't still flinch. "-And take. off. that bloody coat!"

"No!" Make me.

"For gods sake, if you cant listen then you're going straight home. Do you want that??"

Yes. What are you gonna do about it?

... but you don't want to let her down. Fuck. In the end, you want to support her. You give a sigh, and you're about to say as much- tell her you'll do whatever she wants but you're going to talk about this later- when she says something that stops you in your tracks. Changes your mind immediately.

"Or are you just a filthy brat??? Hm??? Respond. Or are you dumb, too?"

Oh fuck.

Your crumbled resolve pulls together again, and you straighten your shoulders, raising your chin. "... You know what?" Promptly, you drop her coat on the ground. Watch her eyes flick down to where her very expensive fur now lays crumpled on the floor, disbelief written all over her face. "Maybe. What are you going to do about it?"

[yearningandstillnotlearning]

A r t .

- B.E.

Blurb :p | no use of any names for the characters, just “she” and “you”

a/n: first fanfic posted ever im so nervous | this was my yearning from some months ago i decided to make it into something more | please comment on your opinion on this im nervy

Not fluffy nor sexual but a secret third thing (sensual)

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Have you got colour in your cheeks?

Leftover snack packets and crumbs of cookies and sugar littering the couch of the living room, clock read 12:38AM, its past midnight, yet for two girls with a sleep schedule as theirs, the night is still young, too young.

Family and friends long gone, others went home others went on dates, and another stayed behind to cherish this very moment.

Are there some aces up your sleeve?

Have you no idea that you’re in deep?

Laughs had hit the walls hours ago when they were once gathered up to 7, and even now at 2 laughs are still bouncing back and forth. Sneaky giggles and stupid jokes, unexplainable videos that just seem so funny when its late and for once youre not alone.

Energy drinks on the floor next to the bed and an annoyingly bright light hitting at the side to make up for the lack of sun, yet thats the last thing to bother you right now. Theres nothing that could actually bother you right now, not when you finally have her in front of you.

Ive dreamt about you nearly every night this week

Sketchbook in your lap, pencil in your hand and coloured pencils scattered along your side on the bed, criss crossed bodies mirroring each other face to face.

Even if your face wasn’t able to stay in one place. Even if your face couldn’t handle the urge to heat and melt your makeup off in the process, even if you couldn’t handle looking at her, as much as you couldn’t handle her looking at you.

How many secrets can you keep?

Your heart thumping in your chest the same way it does when you’re at a club next to the speaker, body shook with the beat of the speakers and the bass, and you couldn’t tell if its from the amount of energy drinks you’ve consumed this evening or her presence.

But this is better, oh this is way better, theres no eardrum-breaking noise, or people squished up together, stomach-stirring drinks, uncomfortable heels. None of that.

This is simply adrenaline in itself, it was the excitement pumping in your veins.

Cause theres this tune i found that makes me think of you somehow and i play it on repeat..

Emotions thumping at your heart and in your veins causing your blood to rush to your face, cheeks burning red, but the colour showed at your ears, palms so sweaty you hold your sketchbook carefully to not wet and bend the paper. Neck and collarbone stained with red rash spots, just how into her are you?

Shes not stupid now, you tell that to yourself to sleep better at night. She has noticed everything, a simple blood rush is nothing. The way you look at her when everyone is talking laughing and you’re quiet? When your choice of “recharging” your social battery is looking at and through her? When you’re alone and suddenly your voice drops to just above a whisper, sweeter than any sugarcoated candy? When you doodle her and her only out of so many people, there are 5 other people with you two, yet who do you draw the most? You spend all your effort and time on her, enjoyably so.

Until i fall asleep,

A hand picking up your own has a wave of goosebumps sent across your body, a wave of heat while doing so. An amused laugh breaks your gaze, from the mixed hands, up to her own stare.

Shes staring at you, and you’re wishing she would stare nowhere near you. The fear in your brain banging like a migraine, wordlessly telling you she sees it all, and the very same fear in your body, giving her all the confirmation she needs. Her eyes softening as her one-sided laughter dies down, and you’ve yet to actually see her. So far you have been too caught up in your own thoughts to see in front of you until now.

A hand holding your burning one to her also heated cheek, and a twinkle in her eye right between that blown out pupil and icy blue cloud that dances like the stars do on the dark night sky right outside the window.

“I knew you felt it too, Im not crazy to like you”

spillin’ drinks on my settee.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 12 - Gate

@jegulus-microfic July 11, Word count 993

He stared up at the main gate into Hogwarts, seeing it up close for the first time. It was his first Hogsmeade trip as a third year, and he’d decided to walk back to the castle alone. He’d seen the gate as the thestrals pulled the carriages through them, travelling to and from the Hogwarts Express. But he’d never had the time to leisurely admire the ironwork and the stone winged boars that adorned either side. They were some of the ugliest things he’d ever seen, but he could admire the craftsmanship that had gone into carving the stone. 

He found a comfortable place to sit and pulled out a sketchbook to draw them. He didn’t have much in the way of drawing materials. His mother would throw a fit if she found him devoting his time to such frivolous things. So he was stuck with an unlined notebook and a quill that he quickly transfigured back into the muggle pencil he’d snuck out and bought. He’d use them until they were nothing but nubs and sneak out again to get another one. It wasn’t worth buying more than one. If he suddenly had an abundance of quills, someone might end up borrowing one and they’d start asking questions. 

This one was about half used. It would last him until Christmas, he hoped. He put his pencil to paper and began.

He was lost in his work and didn’t hear the approach of a group of students. 

“Hey, Sirius, isn’t that your brother?” Peter called after the bounding boy in front of him. 

“Huh?” Sirius spun around, bringing James Potter with him, who was in a headlock under Sirius’s arm. “Oh, yeah, it is. Oi, Reggie!” He bellowed. Regulus startled and drew a thick pencil line straight through his drawing. He growled at the mess and used his wand to erase the offending line. 

“Go away,” He sneered at his brother as he tried to hide what he was doing, but Sirius was too fast. He snatched the notebook out of Regulus's hands and flipped it open. 

Sirius stared down at the first drawing in the book. It was of the window in the Slytherin Common room when the giant squid had a tentacle creeping across the glass. He flipped through the pages, his brow furrowing more and more. He finally looked up.

“Does Mother know about these?” Regulus thought he heard a touch of concern, but with Sirius, you never knew if it was genuine. 

“No, and nor will she, especially from you,” He snapped, getting into Sirius’s face, and jabbing him with his pencil in the chest. Sirius set his jaw and glared into his brother’s eyes. 

“Wow, these are really good,” Regulus’s head snapped to the person who’d spoken, forgetting all about Sirius. “No, really, they’re beautiful,” James smiled at him, his head at an odd angle as he peered at the upside-down picture in Sirius’s hand. 

“Where do you get the pencils from?” Sirius asked, holding up Regulus’s hand. Regulus snatched it back.

“I sneak out and go to the post office down the road,” Regulus confessed, daring his brother to say anything about it. 

“Wow, Reggie, I’m impressed. How has she not found them yet?” Sirius asked, eyes still on the pencil in Regulus’s hand. 

“I only get one at a time. Now can I have my book back? I want to finish before dinner,” Regulus held out his hand for the notebook. Sirius looked down as though he’d forgotten he still had it. James grabbed it and handed it over. 

“Here,” He said, a big stupid grin on his face. Regulus grimaced. 

“Thanks,” And opened his book back to the page he was working on and continued from where he’d left off. 

“Come on, I’m hungry, let’s go see if we can charm the house elves before dinner,” Remus said quietly, putting an arm around Sirius and leading him away. 

“Remus, I just watched you eat a week’s worth of chocolate. How can you still be hungry?!” Sirius barked out a laugh, but let Remus lead him through the gates and back towards the castle. Peter followed them, chuckling at Remus’s look of shock at Sirius’s statement. 

“They really are beautiful,” James said, leaning over to see the final touches Regulus was adding to the boar’s wings. “Do you really only have one pencil?”

“Yes,” Regulus answered curtly. Why was his brother’s replacement for him still hanging about?

“Alright then, see you around,” James said awkwardly. Regulus nodded at him and he left.

The following morning, an oddly familiar owl landed beside him with a messily wrapped parcel. He took it from the owl, who flew off hooting happily and opened it. Inside was a copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. 

He already had a copy, and he hadn’t ordered a new one. He examined it. Something was off. He took his wand out and waved it over the book. The book shuddered and fell open. Inside was a brand-new pencil set. They were all different degrees of hardness. From the thickest dark graphite to the lightest tips that would barely leave a mark. He ran his fingers over them, marvelling at them as they knocked together, making a clicking sound. 

A note was tucked underneath the pencils. He plucked it from the box and read the words written there in a messy, heavy hand. 

‘From your not-so-secret admirer. I hope I’ll get a peek at whatever you create from these. Enjoy, James.’ 

He couldn’t believe that the boy he’d never shown anything but contempt for would send him such a thoughtful gift. But right now he didn’t care. He took out his notebook and started sketching the black lake and mountains surrounding it with his brand-new pencil set. It was already looking better than anything he’d ever drawn before. Maybe he’d send it to Potter as a thank you. Maybe not. He’d decide later.  

[morganski-19]

The One with the Cafeteria

Fourteen Years Ago

Eddie sits at an empty cafeteria table. Pulling out his crumpled lunch bag, only a few snacks and half a squished sandwich inside. He takes out the pretzels, popping a few in his mouth while he draws something in his sketch book. Trying to decide what the best way to draw the creature he’s thinking of.

A group of football players pass his table. Bursting out in laugher after a jumbled whisper. Eddie tenses his shoulders, having a feeling it’s about him. With his hair that’s a mess that falls right below his ears, the way he dresses outside of the town’s boxes. He’s not exactly fit to be the popular kid.

Still, he could go without the passing remarks. He already was held back one year, he didn’t need more scrutiny.

A tray is placed gently across from him. He doesn’t think anything of it. Better to ignore the torment before it happens. But when he takes the chance to see who’s in front of him, it’s anything but the people who like to make fun of him.

This time it’s the girl that sits in front of him in math class. Nancy Wheeler.

“Hi,” she says with a soft smile. “You’re Eddie, right?”

Eddie cautiously nods. “Yeah.”

A person like Nancy Wheeler still never sits with Eddie Munson. He wonders why she’s really here.

“All my friends are in a different lunch period, and you had an empty table, so I thought I could join you.” She looks nervous, fidgeting with the sides of her lunch tray. “Would that be ok?”

Eddie shrugs. “As long as you’re good at avoiding random paper balls, then yes.”

Nancy furrows her brows. “Paper balls?”

Almost like she summoned them, a wadded-up piece of paper hits the back of Eddie’s head. He goes back to eating like nothing happened.

“They actually throw shit at you? What do they think this is? A fucking movie? Think of something original for once.”

Eddie snorts. “I don’t think their brains are big enough for original.”

Nancy laughs. “You’re funny.”

“And you’re committing social suicide just by talking to me. So, you’re either extremely brave or extremely stupid.”

She tilts her head to the side. “I could be a little bit of both.”

“Nancy Wheeler, full of surprises.”

“Why do they throw stuff at you anyway?” She asks after a short silence. “It seems so random, I’ve never seen them do that before.”

Eddie takes a deep breath. “Not everyone here is that accepting of the gay kid whose dad’s locked up and got held back a year. People start rumors, now the town hates me.”

Nancy makes a face, Eddie bracing himself to get hit with another piece of paper. Or an insult.

“Well, I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t know enough about me to make that decision.”

“And you don’t know enough about me to assume that about me. I don’t hate you because you’re gay, or your dad’s in jail, or that you’re repeating your sophomore year. I don’t know enough about you to hate or like you, but I’d like to.”

Eddie puts down his pencil, crossing his arms. “Like to what? Hate me or like me? Gotta pick one, Wheeler.”

He’s frustrating her, finding joy in it. A different joy than the insults he slings back at the homophobes that ends up with blood running out his nose. A joy that will end up making both of them laugh like nothing else matters. The joy of a friend.

Eddie could really use one of those.

Nancy rolls her eyes. “I guess we’ll have to see about that, won’t we.”

“I guess we will.” Eddie shuts his sketchbook, sliding it back into his bag. “So, what really happened to the people you eat lunch with?”

“Ditched me for their boyfriends, or changed over the summer. I always heard starting high school would change things, just didn’t know it would happen so fast.”

“Oh fuck that, you don’t deserve people who treat you like that.”

“No, no I don’t.”

They spend the rest of lunch talking, laughing. Each day finding each other at the empty lunch table. Talking through the halls if their heading the right way. Pairing up for the math project. Even though Nancy is ten times smarter than Eddie is about this, but she still picks him anyway.

Slowly, they start picking each other more. Spending time outside of school as well. Getting sick of the cafeteria and finding a quiet spot in the library. Becoming the friends both of them deserved.

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or taken off) @slowandsteddie, @annieofhearts, @cacdyke, @ubpd, @captain--low,

@thespaceantwhowrites, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @anne-bennett-cosplayer, @lunaticparisianlady,

@apomaro-mellow, @dolphincliffs, @dragonmama76, @maggiebug417, @stevesbipanic,

@fearieshadow, @eightpackdiaz, @au79burger @bookworm0690 , @practicallybegging,

@potato-of-the-lord, @autumncrocusandladybug, @estrellami-1, @ilovecupcakesandtea, @gregre369

@my2amgaythoughts, @ellietheasexylibrarian, @emmabubbles

[yourstruly9489]

Distortion Fanart (michael centered)

(saturated version on the left, og on right)

This is long, so a break before closeups start!

Closeups:

Text reads "The Distortion" (the o has a spiral inside of it)

More closeups but the doors on the left page are open, left to right, top to bottom:

Text reads: That was very stupid

Text reads: I am the throat of delusion incarnate

Text reads: There has never been a door there, Archivist

Text reads: How would a melody describe itself, when asked?

Text reads: "MICHAEL" That is a real name

Text reads: Does your hand in any way own your stomach?

Text reads: My very existence, tied to my pointlessness

Text reads: Did you notice which door she left through?

Text reads: I am not a "who," Archivist. I am a "what"

And that's the end of the closeups :D

All the text inside the doors are quotes from Michael Distortion btw. The only exception being "MICHAEL" bc Jon says that, but Michael does respond by saying "That is a real name" so I think it counts as a Michael quote. At least enough to be included.

I'd also like to thank a couple members of the "michael enjoyers" community for helping me come up with enough quotes. I do not remember your names, but thank you :D

The decision to make this spread was fairly impulsive. It started by me doodling spirals on a scrap piece of paper while trying to design a birthday card for a family member. While doing so, I thought, "why not fill a full page in my sketchbook with spirals?" And that turned into "I could make it into a Distortion spread."

And so, we have ended up here with a full Michael Distortion spread.

It was lots of fun to do, and has possibly gotten me out of artblock. Although, trying to come up with 9 unique doors that weren't yellow was quite the pain. Alongside the 9 different spiral patterns inside said doors. (although a couple of the spirals are copies of another)

And now a couple fun facts.

I am currently listening to "More Doors For Me" by elybeatmaker. I thought the song would be fitting.

I have only watched the first 14 episodes of TMA, and none of the TMAGP episodes. Everything I know about TMA is from my sister and Tumblr. For this reason I did only Michael, bc I know him far better than Helen. (she appears less in fanworks)

This spread took me five days. This is because I was either busy, or didn't have the motivation to work on it. The doors took the longest.

There is so much tape. The black background on the left page is black construction paper taped in, the spiral patterns underneath the doors were taped in, the doors themselves were taped on, the yellow door was also taped in, along with the hand and the wrist, both separately taped. It's a good thing I want a thick sketchbook.

My sketchbook's paper is a bit thin, so you can see the spiral behind the yellow door on the back of the next page. (I have since drawn over it, so I don't have a pic)

Each door has a separate color chosen to be the main color of said door. The colors include: Pink, Red, Orange, Yellow, Lime, Green, Light Blue, Blue, Purple, and Brown. The only one that is a normal door color (brown) has Michael inside it.

If you look closely at the right page, you can see where the lines start to get uneven in the background spiral.

I really like the idea of showing someone this spread and have them randomly open the doors, just to see a surprise Michael. :)

Materials used: generic pencil (for the initial sketch) 05 Micron pen random Prismacolors a cool multicolored lead pencil I don't know the brand of kingart twin-tipped brush pens Sipa fineliner pens scotch tape X-acto knife kid scissors black construction paper yellow cardstock A5 Fabriano sketchbook that I hate with a burning passion

Since you read this far, have some bonus Michael doodles!

^This one was variations of a scene from a dream.

^This one is from a doodle page I have laying on my desk, hence the scribbles nearby. I did not color in the lines (yes, that is nendou from TDLOSK to his left) This was also the first time I ever drew him.

I love giving him spiral cheeks :)

[pandulce135]

Hi hi! Can I ask for Donatello x a fem reader who finds out this normally goofy and bubbly cinnamon roll is actually really smart, but has been hiding it because she's worried that people won't like it? Can either be friends to lovers or established relationship, go wild!

Notes: It's been a month but I finally did it! I really did my best here, I kind of struggled but like, I hope I can get at least a 3.5 stars out of 5 haha. I'm gonna start naming my fics like early 2000's FOB songs starting now.

Warnings: reader labeled as 'stupid' and 'dumb,' acceptance of a negative role, reader looked down upon, not really proofread, lmk if I need to add anything else.

Word Count: 1.8k

~~~~~

So Smart, So Dumb: The Role That Was Given

You bounded into the Lair of your turtle friends. A soft smile was planted on your lips as you made the walk through the dim and, quite frankly, disgusting sewers. Not that you would expect them to be clean by any means. Just a few years ago, you never imagined yourself taking frequent walks through the underground tunnels of trash water to get to your friends. Now you knew these tunnels like the back of your hand, not that you’ve made it all that obvious.

There were subtle things you did that made both your book smarts and street smarts nearly unknown to your friends. Mikey seemed to be the only one to begin to pick up on your small habits. How you always hung around in the middle of the group when walking through the sewers but knowing where each path led, your seemingly limitless questions about Donnie’s tech and the Hidden City, how you even asked questions to no one just to realize you knew the answer all along, and how you knew completely random fun facts. You even Googled a large number of ‘how to’s recently. Sure, there were things here and there that you genuinely didn’t know, but now you had the reputation of ‘pretty and pretty stupid.’

Less work for your brain when in life or death situations. That was arguably the smartest move of all- to work smarter, not harder. You nearly laughed when you thought that.

It may have bordered on manipulation, but what the turtles and April didn’t know won’t hurt them.

It wasn’t long until you finally made it to the Lair. The opening that held the boys’ huge skate ramps and was their general hangout spot held three of the four turtles. You spotted Leo lounging on the beanbag reading a comic, Raph was doing a set bicep curls on his bench, and Mikey was laying on his plastron and doodling away in his sketchbook. The youngest was the first to notice your arrival.

“Hi, Y/N!” He smiled his big goofy smile in your direction, which caused your own smile to grow.

“Hi, guys!” You waved enthusiastically.

“Y/N! What are you doing here?” Raph put down his dumbbell with a grunt before turning to face you.

Leo chuckled, his eyes not moving away from the comic. “They’re obviously here to see Donnie.” The smirk in his voice was as clear as day and you couldn’t help but let out a nervous laugh. Your hands flew to hold onto each other behind your back as you rocked back and forth from your toe to your heel.

“He said he needed help with something he’s working on.”

There was a pause before all three of the turtles in front of you bursted out laughing, halting your movements. You watched as they laughed at the thought of you actually being of use to Donnie. Sure it was an assumption on the situation, but there’s not much else it could be.

They finally finished, each of them wiping away a stray tear. “Hardy har. I’m glad I could be amusing to you boys, but I have to go before Don starts spamming me with texts.” As if on cue, your phone buzzed in your back pocket. You pulled it out and looked down at it. Sure enough, it was him. You faced the screen to the boys. “That’s my cue! Have fun doing… whatever.”

You entered Don’s lab just as another message was sent through to your phone. “Don, I’m here,” you announced with a chuckle, which caused him raise his head from what he was working on on his desk to you.

“I heard you speaking with my brothers, but I needed you here urgently.” He was suddenly standing and moved away to focus on a few pieces of material on the table behind him. Some thick pieces of metal.

“My normal job?”

“Yes, your normal job.”

Your normal job was handing him the tools he asked for. When you first started this for him he assumed you would know nothing about the tools he was working with. He was shocked when you were able to differentiate the phillip screwdriver from the flathead and star. At that point, you had earned the title of ‘the dumb one’ but said you were willing to help him. No one else volunteered so he cut his losses and allowed you to help him.

So, you made your way over to his desk to sit down on his massive chair. You were the only one allowed to sit in it. It was like a reward for helping him out.

“So, whatcha workin’ on?” You asked as you spun around in the chair in half circles, bouncing side to side with the help of your feet as stoppers.

“Oh, only my next big scientific advancement. Once I finish up this bad boy, I’ll be the next Einstein with my own Nobel Prize!” Donnie exclaimed, holding out his hand for a tool. “The drill please.” You spun in your chair to grab the drill off of his desk and set it to the forward option. You pressed the trigger twice quickly to make sure it functioned before handing it to Donnie.

His response didn’t answer your question, so you looked down at the construction drawing on Donnie’s desk. It was for the piece of machinery he seemed to have his mind set on building. It didn’t even have a title. A glance at the materials and measurements made you furrow your eyebrows.

“Don, I don’t think your measurements are right. Are you sure you measured everything correctly?” You asked, not moving your gaze away from the paper. You started working on your own measurements on the sheet of material next to you.

Donnie produced a loud gasp from somewhere behind you. “You dare doubt my measurements?” He sounded utterly shocked and nearly betrayed. “Scoff! When will you learn, I am always precise and correct when it comes to such-”

“You didn’t take into account the actual width of the material in your measurements,” you cut him off to show him the numbers you produced. You noted how his eyebrow twitched and how his stance stiffened as soon as you spoke over him. “Sorry I cut you off, but you probably wouldn’t have let me show you otherwise.”

Upon processing your words, Donnie let out a breath and loosened up. “Fine, let me take a look.” He snatched the papers from your grasp peered down at them. His eyes narrowed at the one with your measurements before widening slightly. “Wait a minute.” With movements so fast you could hardly register them, Donnie grabbed a measuring tape to measure the width of the material. “Holy mackerel, you’re right!”

You laughed at his reaction. “Don’t act so shocked, Don. It was an easy mistake to fix, and an even easier one to make. I’m glad I was able to look it over.”

“You act like you’ve made the same mistake before.”

“Adding measurements together in a workshop environment is difficult sometimes,” you sighed but you shot him a smile anyways. “But you’re doing amazing, sweaty.”

“Oh, shut up.” He couldn’t help but smile at your words. You noticed how you seemed to have such an effect on him. “You’re a lot smarter than you let on.”

“Yeah, that’s the goal.” You laughed as you leaned back in his chair and he furrowed his drawn on eyebrows at you.

“Wait, wait, wait… what?” He dropped what he was working on. “You were just acting stupid this whole time?”

“I have a reputation to uphold. ‘Pretty and pretty dumb,’ right?” You began swinging your feet back and forth. You noticed as Donnie tensed up again. “You guys aren’t able to stay quiet about anything.” You laughed out again, but it was obvious that is was more forced. “Plus, it’s just easier to do as told than come up with any plan in a life or death situation. It wasn’t that I was like, playing you guys or anything. I was just… filling in the role you guys gave me. I think I did a pretty good job.” You gasped. “Oh, I could totally be an actor, what do you think?” You looked at him with raised eyebrows and an expectant gaze.

“What do I think? I think you’ve had plenty of opportunities to show us how smart you are and prove us all wrong! Why on Galileo’s good Earth would you not do that?” Donnie nearly shouted and you frowned. “I, personally, would not stand that!”

“I’m not you, Donnie,” you stated blankly, a firmness taking hold in your voice. Donnie grew physically uneasy. “The reputation stuck. I didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of such a revelation. Especially now. It’s easier to just… let you guys think I’m a silly, goofy idiot.” You ran a hand down your face. “Let’s be honest, it was so much easier for me, the most.”

“Oh…”

“Oh,” you mocked. “It’s such a shocking revelation that I’m decently smart, I know,” a sarcasm seeped its way through your voice as you leaned your elbow on the arm of Donnie’s chair. Your head rested on in your hand. “Let’s just… get back to work on your ‘next big scientific advancement.’” You turned in the chair to face the tools again.

There were a few seconds of silence before he spoke up. “No.” You sat up straight at Donnie’s word.

“What?”

“Let’s do something else.”

You turned around to see the materials that were supposed to be used to create scientific greatness were all discarded on the table that was now behind Donnie. He stood in front of your sitting form and planted both hands on the arms of the chair.

“How about pizza and a movie? My treat.”

You raised an eyebrow as you stared up at Donnie. “Really?” You suddenly smiled. “You sure it’s not just an apology?”

He pulled away from the chair and turned to the the side with his arms crossed over his plastron. “Psh, as if… maybe… it is…n’t.”

“Oh, Donnie!” You gushed as you clasped your hands together, most of your negative emotions left in few seconds of the past. “So you can be thoughtful!”

“Hey, I’ll show you thoughtful!”

“Really?”

“Let’s just go, you dum dum,” Donnie grumbled out with flushed cheeks before pulling you out of the chair and dragging you out of his lab. “And yeah, I guess it’s my way of saying sorry,” he muttered, holding onto your hand with a tight grip as you followed him.

Your soft smile returned to your lips. “Thanks, Don.”