#my hand is still covered in graphite

[violetnshenanigans]

Drew Griffin again :)

[vigilskept]

behold: a rogue trader 🤲

[daisyprayers]

Willow 🌿

[vin-taege]

muse (m)

summary: Erik is having trouble sketching a design for a pin-up tattoo. No matter how many references he looked through, he just couldn't get the pose right. Luckily, his girlfriend is there to be his real-life model.

genre: fluff, smut

pairing: erik campbell x reader

CW: p in v, unprotected sex (stay safe irl!), spitting, choking, spanking, light degradation, light dumbification, pure filth, lowkey biting kink, erik is a bit of a sadist, aftercare!

words: ~4.4k

"I'm going to get carpal tunnel." Erik shook his wrist, the motion unable to contain the pain from his pinched veins. The house was empty, save for him and Bobby. The rest of the family went out for a grocery run, while the two of them were restricted either by college or by work.

"That's not good," Bobby grimaced, barely glancing up from his chemistry textbook. "You won't be able to jack off properly."

The blunt end of a rubber eraser hit the younger boy square in the head. Rubbing the sore spot, he shot a displeased look towards his 'attacker,' only to be met by a shit-eating grin. 

"Oops, it slipped."

Still feeling his brother's pointed glance, Erik let out an exaggerated sigh. "Okay, I'm sorry. I'm just stressed because Mark won't get off my ass for this project."

"Aren't you guys allowed to use reference sites?"

"Yeah, but I'd rather not slowly burn my eyes out of their sockets. Also, I think I’ve gone through every picture Pinterest has. The frat boy who wants this tattoo keeps asking for updates every thirty minutes and he’s busting my balls."

To say this specific tattoo design was kicking his ass was an understatement. Drawing was both the easiest and the hardest part. Erik was skilled enough to go from neo-traditional to realistic at the drop of a hat, but the amount of work it took—plus his shit working posture he swore he’d fix—was out to knock a few years off his life. The more he drew poses again and again, the sloppier they looked. He groaned in frustration, balling up another piece of paper.

"Why don't you ask ___ to model for you then?" Bobby picked up a highlighter, aggressively running it across what Erik estimated to be an entire paragraph. He almost didn't hear what Erik hastily mumbled under his breath. "What was that?"

"I don’t want her to feel conscious, okay?" Erik huffed. "Plus, I’d get a bit… distracted from drawing, and the whole point is to draw."

Bobby screwed his face in disgust. He shook the mental picture of whatever his brother and you do underneath bed covers and went back to focus on studying for his finals. What he didn’t know was that his off-handed suggestion truly stuck with Erik.

Erik tucked his pencil and graphite stick back into their case, carefully wrapping the latter in tissue to prevent it from making a mess. Even though he had an iPad, he still preferred to draw traditionally—one of his quirks you loved. He was so particular about small details like texture and shading control, loved the feel of wood rather than smooth metal.

He looked back at his phone, scrolling through his mess of a gallery. A mixture of personal pictures, pose references, playlist screenshots, and shitpost gathered under the “all photos” tab—not that he bothered to ever sort them into proper albums. He aimlessly scrolled, not exactly sure what he was looking for. Finally, he was hit with serendipity.

It was a picture from two weeks ago. He had been working late as the shop closer and texted you that he’d spend an extra hour over time. You had whined at him over a brief call, rightfully so, since he had planned for that night to be a movie night.

“Erik, I got all pretty just for you,” he could almost see your pout through the phone.

“You’re always pretty, baby.”

“That’s not my point!”

“I know,” he sighed. “I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you when I get there, okay?”

After a few more bouts of apologies and a reluctant “I love you,” that’s when he got the picture. You were kneeling in front of the mirror, your free arm planted on the ground. It pressed against your chest, making your cleavage more pronounced. In between your thighs, behind your hand, he could faintly see the shimmer of lace panties��the ones he picked out for you after you made him listen to the Brat album. The only thing covering you up was his favorite leather jacket, the thick fabric embracing your frame while still showing your silhouette.

And damn, all the memories of that night hit him once more. How he fucked you in his jacket, how breathy your voice got, pitching up when you were deep in subspace, how much you begged him to fill you up. He could feel his dick twitch in his pants.

“I need to go. You’d be fine here by yourself, right?” Erik hastily chucked his things in a ratty. leather satchel. You had gotten it for him three birthdays ago, and at this point, the leather’s got a bit of chafing, while the straps were filled with a row of button pins. Erik refused to use anything else to carry his things.

“Uh, where are you going? Mom and Dad are gonna come back soon for dinner. They texted, like, just ten minutes ago.” Bobby shifted from his position on the couch, moving to toss his textbook aside and catch up to Erik, but he had already gotten his boots on.

“I’m taking your advice.” Erik paused at the doorway, making eye contact with a confused Bobby. In a second, everything clicked for the younger sibling. He cringed, gritting his teeth together.

“Tell her I said hi, at least,” Bobby awkwardly waved at Erik, watching as he trudged off like a man on a mission.

────୨ৎ────

“Bobby says ‘hi,’” was the first thing Erik told you when you opened the door. You chuckled, both in confusion and surprise. Just this morning, Erik had texted you that he’d be preoccupied all day just trying to make a draft for that one client; some frat boy in an on-again-off-again relationship who wanted his girl as a pin-up on his thigh. Which is why you didn’t expect to see him at your door this evening.

He licked his lips at the sight of you. One of his old band tees hung around your frame, barely covering the top of your thighs. Black shorts peeked beneath the soft fabric. You moved to hug him, squeezing his body against yours.

“Kiki! I thought you forgot about me.”

You laughed as he rolled his eyes, the curve of a smile ghosting his lips. With one arm wrapped around you, he brought a hand to cup your face, leaning in to kiss you deeply. You could taste the faint menthol from the hard candies he substituted for cigarettes. He was trying to quit after promising you he’d take care of himself more.

He shifted to grip your jaw firmer, using your small gasp as an opportunity to slip his tongue in. You moaned quietly, feeling his jeans rub against your thighs. Just as you felt yourself getting wet, he pulled away, teasingly grinning at you.

“How could I ever forget my girl?”

Your cheeks heated up at the pet name. Shaking your head, you stepped aside to let him in and closed the front door.

Erik basically lived part-time at your apartment. He knew where you kept your cups and plates, memorized what brand of detergent you used, and knew just the right way to twist your shower knob so that the water was the perfect temperature. He plopped on his usual spot on your couch, with you following close by. He patted his lap, an invitation for you to take your favorite seat.

“How’s the pin-up job going?” you asked once you settled down. His hands automatically landed on your thighs. You took his satchel, digging around before you procured his sketchbook.

“It’s shit, babe. I’ve been getting artist’s block since that guy left the shop.” He watched quietly as your eyes scanned over his failed sketches. He never wanted to admit it, but a small part of him still felt nervous whenever you looked at his drawings. Subconsciously, his thumb traced small circles onto your skin. “I actually came here to ask you for help with something.”

“Mhmm?” you hummed, only half-listening to him. No matter how many times you viewed his sketchbook, you were always awe-struck. Erik’s shop was mainly known for piercings, but on the rare days he’s given a task of a tattoo job, he always kills it with his artistry. Strong shape language, vivid colors, fluid composition—he was such a ridiculously good artist.

“Baby?” Erik chuckled, bringing a hand up so he could swipe your lips with his thumb. You scrunched your face up in surprise, bringing your full attention back to him. “I said I wanted to ask if you could help me with this drawing.”

You smiled sheepishly. “And what exactly do you want me to do? Is this one of your brilliant plans?”

“It’s not a heist this time, I promise,” he snorted. He fell silent for a moment, an uncharacteristic beat of seriousness washing over him. He took a deep breath. “You can always say no to this, and I swear I wouldn’t mind. I just really need a burst of inspiration right now and I keep fucking up the poses. And then I figured… I have a smoking hot girlfriend…”

He trailed off, wiggling his eyebrows at you. You cocked your on brow, laughing in disbelief. “And what, you want to paint your ‘smoking hot girlfriend’ like a French girl?”

He chuckled, pulling you closer to him. He hooked his chin over your shoulder, craning his neck to plant a soft kiss beneath your ear. “Only if she lets me.”

“Hmm…” you pretended to mull it over. “Only if you ask politely.”

“Please, will you, the queen of my heart, model for me?” He widened his eyes slightly, working his charm through his baby blues. You could feel his fingers brush higher on your thigh, his nails catching the hem of your shorts. 

“Fine, pretty boy.”

“That’s my fucking girl.” He bit your shoulder lightly, making you yelp in surprise. You twisted your torso, smacking him lightly on his chest as he laughed. You got off his lap, moving to the smaller plush chair next to the sofa.

“How do you want me?”

“I’d normally say hands and knees.” You shot him a glare, met only by an unabashed grin. “But right now, just sit pretty on the edge there. Bring one leg in front of the other and bend it like—yeah, that’s perfect. Now put your… right hand on the couch and extend it.”

You let him pose your arms, making small tweaks in your position. His touches were light, though lingering. Your skin burned each time the pads of his fingers came into contact with you. When he was satisfied, he took a few steps back, cocking his head a little to the side to take you in. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered under his breath.

You giggled, eyes darting to your oversized shirt, then back to him. “Do you want me to take this off?”

Without waiting for an answer, you peeled the fabric off smoothly before returning to your static position. You shivered a little as the cold air hit your bare breasts. Erik’s jaw hung open, his eyes darkening. He closed his mouth, swallowing thickly. Going back to his spot on the couch, he leaned back, opening his thighs wide. He set the sketchbook on top of the leg, planted on the couch.

“Don’t move, doll. Can you handle that for a few minutes?”

“What if I accidentally squirmed a little?” you batted your eyelashes innocently.

He snickered. “I’ll make sure you’ll regret it then. Wouldn’t want me to bend you over for a spanking now, do you?”

You pressed your lips in a thin line, clenching around nothing. Wetness stuck to the fabric of your panties. You wanted to rub your thighs, grind on the couch, but Erik’s watchful eyes froze you to the spot. His gaze would flicker between you and the paper, silence taking over the living room except for the music he’s set in the background. 

Just from the first song, you recognized the playlist: Erik’s Witching Hour. Also belovedly known as his sex playlist.

Humming to the tune, you tried to distract yourself. Erik’s gaze was heavy on you, piercing into your soul. It wasn’t self-consciousness per se—it was yearning. The room felt hot, despite your nipples hardening from the cool air. Your clit throbbed, demanding to be touched underneath your slick-ruined underwear. You could faintly hear Erik’s pencil scratch against the paper.

It was after whole minutes of silent concentration that you decided to play with him a little. Leaning your head backwards, you stared at the ceiling in faux boredom. “Wait so… you’re going to put a picture of me on another guy’s skin?”

“Bring your head back down, doll. And no, not exactly. I wouldn’t put you on that asshole. I just need a feel for the pose.”

You rolled your eyes, listening to his request. For now. For another moment, none of you spoke until you started swinging your legs back and forth. “Yeah… I was thinking of how this complete stranger was going to have my body on his for what—the rest of his life? Didn’t know you were into that.”

His expression hardened, jaw tensing. He called your name out quietly, an edge present in his voice. “Stop moving.”

You raked your gaze over him, stopping at the seam of his jeans. His sketchbook covered his crotch, but you could see his knuckles turning white from how hard he gripped it. You bit your lip, swaying lightly from side to side. “The idea of it is hot, no? Like, I’m branding someone almost.”

He said your name again, voice firmer this time. “I’m giving you three seconds to shut up, and if you don’t, I’m not going to be gentle with what I’m gonna do next.”

Your eyes lit up. You were really winding him up now. If there’s anything Erik loves, it's always a good chase. 

“One.”

You spread your legs slowly, angling your hips down to the chair.

“Two.”

Erik had already set his pencil on the table. He leaned forward, bringing both feet to the ground, eyes burning into yours. You could practically see the outline of his cock through his jeans now.

“Three?” you finished for him, rocking your hips slightly. Your thighs tensed as your clit finally met its sought-after friction. Without another word, Erik made his way to you with two big strides. You grinned at him as you felt a hand on your throat, fingers roughly pressing into the points of your jaw.

“Just can’t fucking help yourself, huh?” he whispered. He ran his thumb over your mouth, parting your lips. You suckled on his digit, twirling your tongue around him. He slipped his other hand underneath your shorts, tracing your slit through your panties. He groaned, feeling how soaked you were. “Have you been this wet since we started? Is that why you’re so fucking needy?”

You nodded, hips chasing after his touch when he brought his hand away. His thumb pressed down on your tongue, prying your jaw open. He leaned over, spitting into your mouth. He let your jaw go, watching with hunger as you immediately swallowed.

“I was just… curious about your work?” It came out more as a question. You bit your lip, trying to prevent the smile from spreading on your face. Erik narrowed his eyes at you.

Two firm hands gripped your waist, pulling you up and spinning you around. You felt pressure on the back of your knee, making it bend. Erik pressed a hand on your lower back, forcing an arch. You were kneeling on the sofa now, hands stabilizing yourself on the backrest. He grabbed the hem of your shorts, almost tearing the fabric as he yanked them down your thighs, alongside your panties. He took a moment to take in your wetness staining the black lace, before bringing his eyes to your dripping cunt.

“Are these the ones I got for you?” He ran a finger through your slit, collecting your fluids. He brought it to his lips, groaning deeply when he tasted you.

“My favorite,” you wiggled your ass. Immediately, you felt your left cheek sting, hearing the sharp smack first. Your mouth dropped in a silent moan—too shocked for any sound to come out.

“I’ll teach you a thing about branding,” Erik said, winding up his arm before bringing his palm down on your right ass. He watched the flesh jiggle, waiting for the redness to spread on your skin. He spanked you again, letting his fingers catch on your cunt. You squeezed your eyes shut, yelping in both pain and pleasure. “Since you seem to like it so much, I’ll make an example out of you.”

You bit your lip, too stubborn to let him hear you moan. Your nails dug into the couch as you took blow by blow. The skin was stinging, made worse when you felt the tip of Erik’s nail on the swell of your eyes. A whimper left your lips as he carved a crooked “E” on your flesh. The skin puffed slightly, making the letter even more visible. 

“You’re getting off this, you little freak,” he chuckled breathlessly. You panted, rocking back and forth as he wound circles around your clit. “You’re so fucking wet and I haven’t even gotten my cock out.”

“Fuck you,” you rasped out, trying to force more friction. His touch was light, teasing. You were about to turn your head back to spout more swears at him, when you felt a sharp smack against your cunt. You let out a strangled cry, bringing your thighs together.

“Oh, did that hurt? Poor baby,” he mocked you, forcing your thighs apart with his hands. Two fingers rubbed your slit up and down, barely dipping into you. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Erik.” His name came out as a breathy whine. “Stop teasing.”

“Only if you ask politely,” he mimicked your words from earlier.

You groaned, throwing your head back in frustration. “Erik, please just fucking put them in already! I need your fingers so bad, baby, please. Please—fuck!”

You inhaled sharply as Erik slipped his fingers knuckle-deep into your cunt. He brought them back and forth, angling his hand until he hit the spot that made you see stars. Your breath stuttered, arms almost giving out. Erik snaked his other hand onto your neck, fingers pressing lightly against your throat. He guided you forward, letting the backrest hit your collarbones, your arms bent on top of it.

“Yeah, that’s it.” His voice mixed with the playlist and the squelching noises your cunt made. Each push of his fingers made you tense more, a coil winding up in your stomach. Your mind was clouded, taken over only by his scent, his touch, his voice. Your eyelids fluttered, sinful moans loudly leaving your lips.

“You’re gonna be a good doll and fucking follow orders this time.” He was bent over you, whispering harshly into your ear. He caught the bottom of your lobe, grinding it in between his teeth. Tears sprang from the corners of your eyes, a broken moan wretching its way out of your throat. “I know you’re getting close. You’re gonna make a mess all over my fingers, then you’re gonna kneel all pretty there and take it like a good girl when I fuck you, okay?”

You nodded your head, too lost in the pleasure to think properly. He let go of your throat, grabbing a fistful of your hair instead to yank your head back. “Can you talk to me, or are you too fucking dumb right now?”

“Erik, p-please. Yes, please fuck me, please let me cum, p-please,” you stuttered out, yelling as your orgasm hit you. You ground back into his palm, shaking as more slick gushed out of you. He continued to pump his fingers, slowing his pace as you rode out your high.

Taking big gulps of air, you placed your head on the chair’s backrest, thighs still trembling. You could faintly hear the clinking of his belt, followed by heavy fabric falling down. Your breath caught in your throat when you felt the cool tip of his prince albert poke slip in between your folds. “W-wait, Erik—”

“What’s your color, doll?” he murmured against your back, pressing soft kisses up your spine. He stopped the trail at your shoulder, biting and suckling on the skin until it bruised. You can’t imagine how much more marks your hips and ass had. He waited patiently for your answer, rubbing your waist soothingly.

You finally managed to catch your breath. “G-green.”

“That’s a good girl,” you could feel him smirk. He pressed a kiss on the crook of your neck, then entered you in one fluid motion. You let out a broken cry, feeling his piercing brush against your cervix. He stayed buried to the hilt, grinding his cock impossibly deeper into you.

“P-please,” you begged him. His hand found its way place back on your neck, fingers carefully placed so that he wouldn’t be pressing down on your windpipe. He gripped your hips firmly. Once he was satisfied with his position, he thursted into you. Slowly, cruelly.

He pulled out, leaving only the tip in, before pressing flush against your ass. You gasped each time, his cock expertly nailing your g-spot. Erik grunted, breathing heavily each time he thrust into you. Your cunt clenched tightly around him, greedily taking in his thick cock. No matter how many times you fucked, the delicious stretch always surprised you.

Erik could feel you getting close again. Your uneven breathing, how tight you had curled your toes, the steady stream of moans spilling from your lips—half of them profanities while the rest was his name. “Does my doll want to cum again?”

“M-mhhmm,” you gasped in between moans.

“Gotta do better than that, doll.” He applied light pressure to your throat, starting to quicken his pace. 

“C-cum! Erik, w-wanna cum, fu-fuck—please!” you mewled, barely hearing him give you permission. For a second, you blacked out, cunt spasming around his cock. Your mouth opened in a silent yell, moans caught in the throat he held. Your body went slack, drained by the powerful orgasm he forced out of you. The only things holding you up were his hands on your neck and hips. He used your body as leverage, pulling you into him as he snapped his hips.

Erik kept thrusting into you, following an animalistic rhythm. He plowed on, making the sofa creak, lightly bumping your cheek into the upholstery each time he bottomed out. You were barely coherent—the only thing you knew was that you felt so fucking good. Small ungh, ungh, ungh’s, was the only thing you were capable of saying. 

“Look at you. See, you could listen for once. Staying still like a pretty doll while I use you. You’re such a good girl. You’re gonna let me fill you up, won’t you, doll?” He moaned, voice breaking towards the end. His thrusts were getting sloppier, shallower. He was getting off on his words as much as you were. It always turned him on how fast he could reduce you to a mindless mess, cock-drunk, eyes glazed over.

“Y-yes, please,” you squeaked, voice already raw. He snickered lightly, moaning wantonly behind you, already starting to lose control.

“That’s my good girl. Good fucking slut,” he growled, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. Hot spurts of cum painted your walls, Erik grinding slowly into you, coaxing more of his seed to spill out. You clamped down on him, cumming for the third time as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. After milking himself in your cunt, he stilled, draping his body over yours, pulling you close.

He hooked his chin over your shoulder, pressing soothing kisses on your cheek and neck. When your breathing went back to normal, he slowly pulled out. You sighed at the emptiness, clenching as his cum dripped out of your spent cunt. He stared for a moment, entranced by the mixture of fluids. His focused snapped back to you when you groaned, limbs already sore.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered. He took you into his arms, gently lying down on the larger couch with you on top of him. He ran his fingers through your hair, lightly scratching your scalp. You hummed in contentment, feeling so so tired but also so full.

“You did so well for me. You’re always so good to me, baby.” His voice took a softer lilt, always the polar opposite after rough sessions. His touch felt warmer, lighter, more afraid to break you. “You can go to sleep if you want, okay? I’ll be here.”

With his reassurance, you let your eyes flutter shut. It didn’t take long for you to doze off, cheek pressed against his chest. He kept on playing with your hair and drumming his fingers against the base of your spine. He only stopped once he was sure you were deep into your slumber. 

────୨ৎ────

You woke up in your bed, way past dinner.

Bleary-eyed, the first thing you saw was Erik sitting by your desk, his back turned to you. You glanced down at yourself, discovering that you’ve been dressed in fresh clothes—one of your sleep tees and the boxers you stole from him. You stretched your limbs, wincing at the slight soreness in your lower half. Erik turned to you, hearing the rustling of your covers.

“Hey,” he smiled softly. You patted the empty space next to you, pouting at him. Your stomach grumbled, but you could hardly care. You just needed him close.

He climbed into bed, taking his place next to you under the covers. “You gonna stop being an asshole now?”

You snorted loudly, laughter like tinkling bells in his ears. He watched fondly as your eyes scrunched up. “Hello to you, too.”

“Sit up and drink some water, okay?” He took the glass placed on your nightstand, bringing it to your lips. You gladly accepted, the water quenching your parched throat. “I’ll order some takeout for a late, late dinner.”

“Did I get to help with the tattoo?” you murmured, still drowsy.

“I think I got it down, baby,” he smirked, pecking your lips. He wasn’t going to tell you that he never got a proper sketch because he kept staring at your tits. To his merit, he did try, but just got so distracted. It was going to be a problem for future Erik. Presently, Erik just wants to eat takeout and be with you. 

[valeisaslut]

Possibly cannon that collide Ellie draws some of her album covers?….. or even some of her singles😗😗

NONNIE. OMG. YOU JUST REWIRED MY BRAIN. I'VE BEEN ON PINTEREST FOR AN HOUR STRAIGHT. it’s SO canon now. also took a little bit of freedom and added so much more stuff!

COLLIDE ROCKSTAR!ELLIE'S SKETCHBOOK

collide ellie isn’t just a rockstar—she’s an artist in the most chaotic, sexy, VERY EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED way imaginable. like yeah she can shred onstage and yell into a mic, but she also stays up at 3am in hotel rooms with a pencil clenched between her teeth, sketching like her life depends on it.

her art style is raw and unhinged—scribbly pencil lines, charcoal smears, ink-stained fingers. it’s messy and moody and SO her. her sketchbooks are war zones. pages torn, corners bent. sometimes it looks like she attacked the paper in a blackout. other times it’s so delicate you feel like you’re intruding just looking at it.

she’s done some of the Fireflies’ most iconic album and single covers:

but here’s the real kicker: she’s got a private sketchbook. not the kind that gets left on the tour bus or tossed into her duffel. no. this one’s hidden. zippered into her guitar case or shoved between mattress and box spring.

and it’s full of you.

you think ellie’s moody and mysterious? babe. she’s sketching the curve of your spine, the indent of your hip, you mid-orgasm in obsessive, excruciating detail like she’s trying to exorcise it out of her system.

not just one drawing. we’re talking a series. a full-blown, chronological, positionally accurate collection of "you riding her into next week." some from memory. some from quick glances in the mirror. some from angles you don’t even remember being in.

her sketchbook is like if a horny Victorian painter had access to lesbian sex and insomnia. it’s less “study of the human form” and more like, “i’m losing my mind over this girl and the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth is compulsively drawing her bare pussy.”

she loves drawing your tits. like, spiritually. artistically. carnally. your thighs too. your eyes. the curve of your back. your collarbones. she’s got whole spreads dedicated to each. and in the margins? little notes. deranged notes. written in her messy handwriting around the edges like she's documenting rare wildlife:

“shaky hands here. she said my name when she came. HOT. why can't i sketch that.”

“draw this angle again but darker. deeper shadow. more tongue.”

“bite marks from earlier. left side deeper.”

“she bit her lip right here. fuck.”

“she always arches like this when i touch her there”

“don’t forget: her thighs shake right before”

“this one’s from that night. THAT night”

“do a side-by-side of the mirror reflection next time”

and the occasional pure chaos like “looks like a renaissance painting if you squint” or “god i’m so fucking in love with her KILL ME” or just "im so down bad."

sometimes they’re messy and fast, like she was racing to capture the memory before it slipped. sometimes they’re painfully detailed. shaded with love. and lust. and obsession.

meanwhile, jesse saw a single page once and practically had a religious experience. he didn’t even mean to. he was looking for a setlist, flipped to a page, and BOOM: a full-frontal, beautifully rendered graphite version of you doing...things. his brain blue-screened. he stared for 10 full seconds and went–

“jesus, your girl looks like THAT??”

ellie almost passed out when she saw it. tackled him to get the sketchbook back “GIVE ME THAT—IT’S FUCKING PRIVATE!! FUCK OFF!!!”

she didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day and jesse still won’t make eye contact with you in certain lighting. he's kinda traumatized. but very impressed.

you’ve never seen these. she won’t let you. and if you even joke about it she turns bright red and buries the sketchbook under some old band tees, mumbling “they’re not ready,”

the only ones she’s ever shown you are the soft portraits—your face in the morning light, your hand curled into a pillow, the crease between your brows when you’re asleep. they’re beautiful. you love them. but you know she’s hiding more from you.

and then there’s the other pages. the ones she won’t even talk about. the ones never meant for anyone to see.

they’re raw. brutal. jagged lines and too-dark shading, like she pressed the pencil hard enough to tear through the paper. fractured self-portraits that barely look like her—hollow eyes, clenched teeth, limbs twisted or missing. some of them look like they were drawn during a full-blown breakdown, like she was trying to bleed something out.

eyes. strangers. cameras. flashes. everywhere. watching her. judging her. lines scrawled in the margins like “it’s my fault” and “i will never be enough” and “i never stopped seeing it.”

drawings of joel. not always his face. sometimes just his boots, the outline of his shoulders. him playing guitar in the backyard. once, a pair of hands—his—holding hers. the page next to it was blank, but smeared with something darker, wet-looking.

there’s nightmare stuff too. scratchy renderings of dark woods. of hands reaching. of her own face split down the middle. of you, once, too far away to touch.

“can’t forget what it felt like,” she wrote next to a sketch of her alone at a table, head in her hands, white powder ghosting the edge of the frame.

sometimes, she draws her heart. anatomically correct, messy and weirdly delicate—and cracked. stitched up with tiny letters. your name. again and again. “hold it together,” she scribbled next to one. “don’t let her see.”

you found one like that once. just a glimpse. and she snatched it out of your hands before you could ask anything. just shook her head and mumbled “it’s not for you.” like it would hurt you if you saw it too clearly. like she’s afraid of what it means.

she writes her lyrics in the sketchbook, too—tucked in the margins, between drawings, like they just spilled out of her without thinking. half-finished verses. little poems for you. stuff she’ll never sing out loud but still needed to write down.

“you look at me like im worth something.” “you showed me what real love is.” “don’t know how to be gentle, but i try for you.” they’re raw and messy and heartbreakingly sweet. and they live right next to sketches of your body—like loving you is this chaotic, overwhelming thing she has to get out of her system by every means possible.

she posts her sketches on instagram sometimes, but never the real ones. just a hand in motion. a mouth caught mid-laugh. a silhouette. something cryptic. mysterious. artsy. the comments always go insane: “who is this??” “this looks like album cover material omg” “is that y/n??”

but you already know.

her art is another language entirely—one made of ink stains and graphite dust and pages warped from being clutched too tight. it’s the truth, stripped down and shaking. it’s everything she can’t say out loud. and through every smudged line, every fucked-up detail, every sketch she hides from you—

she’s still telling you.

IMPORTANT: all of these drawings are from Pinterest—credits and deepest respect to the incredible artists behind them. their work captures so much raw emotion and intimacy, and truly helped bring the vision of ellie’s sketchbook to life. nothing but love and admiration for their talent! <33

[moodient]

<- masterlist

imagine artist!reader and modern!ambessa were in their lovely home, ambessa was on the phone with a client, explaining policies and arrangements for their new project. she sat legs spread, arms on both sides of the sofa. she was completely immersed in the conversation, nodding her head whenever they agreed and rolling her ring around finger..

you found her absolutely gorgeous, well she could be sleeping and you would find her stunning but right there.. she looked ethereal, heavenly.. the way the sun shined on her skin, glowing and perfect. you quickly ran to grab a graphite pencil and a easel. you plopped a seat far from her, just so you go capture the entire look.

she looks at you, confused for a second until she saw your pencil and easel. she smiled and went back to listening to the client now babbling about some sort of way to make more income but ambessa only replies with, "mhm." or "sure." she's absolutely listening but her inner thoughts were more focused on you, the way you looked so concentrated, dedicated to making sure every stroke was perfect. capturing her knowledgeable and allowing eyes, her kissable nose that scrunches up whenever she's upset or disgusted. her lips that was always knew how to make you melt. her face.. filled with age and experience but also joyful, prideful and elegant.

after a while, ambessa ended the call and places her phone beside her. she stays silent allowing you to stay in your element until she hears you drop your pencil.

"drawing me again, sweetheart?" she says, looking at you but her body is still in the same position. you've yelled at her before when she would move positions and she now knows not to do but she still found you being angry absolutely adorable.

"what can i say.. you're my muse." you shrugged, getting up and walking towards her. you gave her a small peck on the cheek and held her cheek. her eyes were soft on you, absorbing your appearance. your hair was a bit out of control and your face was covered from you smearing the graphite on your forehead and cheek, wiping off the sweat that was once there.

she looks at you in adoration and endearingly. she sugarcoats it but she absolutely loves it when you draw her, you draw her almost calculatedly, the distance between her eyes were perfectly, lips perfectly rounded. nose, broad but strong. and the outfit you always drew was caressed with wrinkles and extreme detail.

"can I see this drawing, gorgeous?" she asked. you nodded excitedly and keeping it turn from her until you got close. flipping it over, again.. you captured her perfectly, she looks absolutely godsent and you couldn't keep your excitement hidden once you saw her smiling at it, admiring it even.

"you always draw me beautifully, honey. i love it." she said, in admiration. you always loved her compliments whether it's your life or your drawings and even sketches that look like chicken scratch.

"can.. I draw you honey?" she asked holding the drawing in her hands. you looked at her a bit shocked but you nodded.

"go ahead, baby. draw me like one of your french girls~" you teased, switching spots with ambessa. before you sat, she gave you a endearing kiss.

"you're my only girl, beautiful." she said, before sitting and sketching you out.

[ikwon1c]

Oh Mom

my entry for the gd & top writing event! oh mom has always had that soft tug on my heart, so i wanted to write something angsty and a little aching TT

make sure to read all the other amazing works too!

pairing: choi seunghyun x y/n

summary: an overworked idol meets a quiet girl at the park. he doesn’t know she’s running out of time — only that being with her feels like breathing again.

tags and warnings: idol x reader, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, eventual grief, mention of terminal illness, quiet intimacy, unspoken feelings

The rain had stopped, but the world hadn’t noticed yet. A soft sheen still covered the sidewalks like a second skin. Drops clung to the underside of tree branches, fell in lazy intervals from the eaves of the park’s old stone gazebo, and pooled in forgotten corners of concrete where the city always seemed to sag.

Choi Seunghyun walked with his hood up, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, boots splashing quietly through shallow puddles. It was the kind of day that didn’t ask anything of you. No expectations. No noise. Just gray skies and the sharp, clean scent of petrichor that made it easier to breathe than usual.

He liked that — the quiet. Lately, life didn’t give it to him much. As he turned a corner along the park’s edge, he caught sight of someone.

At first, she blended in. Just another figure on a bench, head bent low, still as the stone behind her. She was hunched over a thick sketchbook, one leg drawn up, the other dangling. Her hoodie was oversized and soaked at the hem, black cotton heavy with dampness. Wisps of hair clung to the sides of her face, and her sneakers — cheap ones, canvas and torn were darkened by water. She looked… tired. But not in a fragile way.

In a fierce way. Like someone who didn’t care what the day had done to her, so long as she got to finish her drawing.

He passed her once.

Slowed, glanced back.

Something in her stillness pulled at him.

The second time he walked by, she still hadn’t moved, but her pencil had. He could hear the faint scratch of graphite even through the hush of the park. No music, no phone, no distractions. Just focus. He stopped without thinking.

“You’re blocking my light.”

The voice was soft, flat, and low. The kind that didn’t rise just because someone else was nearby. She didn’t look up, didn’t even pause her hand.

“I—sorry,” he said quickly, taking a half-step to the side.

She added something to the page, then finally lifted her head. She looked right at him. There was no recognition in her eyes. Or maybe there was but not the kind he was used to. Not the flare of excitement, the gasp, the scramble for a phone.

Just… calm. Cool, clear eyes taking him in like a stranger on the street. Like he was nothing special. This caught him off guard.

“You always draw in the rain?” he asked, glancing at the soaked sketchbook.

“You always interrupt strangers?” she countered, deadpan. He blinked then let out a short laugh. It sounded too loud in the stillness.

“Touché,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “I was just curious.”

“That’s dangerous,” she said, closing the book slowly and resting it in her lap. “Curiosity.”

There was a strange steadiness to her. The kind people usually lost by adulthood, if they ever had it to begin with. Something quiet but sharp, like glass that hadn’t shattered yet. He gestured vaguely toward the sketchbook. “Was that supposed to be me?”

Her mouth tugged at the corner. “If it was, you wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“That bad, huh?”

“That abstract,” she corrected. “But your nose is interesting. I might use it later.”

He laughed again — for real, this time. “Thanks, I think?”

Her smile was faint. Faint, but real. He watched her for a moment.The way she sat like she belonged to the space around her. Not claiming it. Just existing in it without asking permission. There was something rare in that. Something oddly comforting.

Most people in his life demanded something. A reaction. A performance. Even when they didn’t realize it. But she didn’t ask for anything. Not even his name.

“Do you draw often?” he asked, still standing a few feet away.

“Only when I feel something,” she said, running her thumb along the edge of the page.

He hesitated, then dropped onto the far side of the bench, keeping a respectful distance. She didn’t seem surprised. Or bothered.

“And what were you feeling today?” he asked.

She looked up — not at him, but at the canopy of blossoms overhead, petals trembling with the occasional gust of wind.

“Like something’s ending,” she said after a moment. “Even if no one else knows it yet.”

The words settled into him, low and quiet. He didn’t know why, but they stuck.

They didn’t speak much after that. A few murmured observations. A moment of laughter that lasted half a second longer than it should have. But mostly, they shared a silence. The kind that lets itself in like an old friend. The kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

Time worked in a different way, as if passing slow ripples.

Quietly, she closed her sketchbook. She tucked it into a worn canvas bag, pulling the strap over her shoulder with the practiced motion of someone used to leaving.

Seunghyun sat forward slightly before he could stop himself.

“…Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked. He didn’t mean for it to sound like it mattered. But it did.

She looked at him then and her eyes softened, just a little. “Maybe,” she said.

And then she walked away, her wet sneakers slapping softly against the pavement, leaving him there beneath the tree.

Still seated.

Still wondering who she was.

The next day, he didn’t come looking for her. Not exactly. He told himself it was just another walk. The same park, the same path, same need to breathe without being recognized. The same pull to silence the world inside his own head.

But his steps led him back to that bench — the one beneath the tree, half-wilted now, its petals losing their grip on the branch.

She was already there, wearing the same hoodie. Holding the same sketchbook. Same stormy sort of stillness that made her look like she belonged to the rain.

He approached without speaking. Let the moment fill itself. This time, she didn’t pretend not to see him. She looked up briefly, gave the smallest nod — just enough to say yes, you can sit here again and returned to her sketching.

He eased onto the bench beside her, keeping that same polite distance. A stretch of space between them, like an invisible line neither had acknowledged yet.

“I didn’t think you’d be back,” he said quietly.

She smirked. “Why not?”

“You seem like someone who disappears.”

She paused her pencil mid-line.

“I do,” she said. “Sometimes.”

There was no apology in her tone. Just truth. She wasn’t trying to be cryptic but there was a weight behind those words. A hint of something he didn’t know how to name yet. He nodded slowly and looked away.

The breeze picked up. A few loose petals drifted between them, catching in the folds of her hoodie. She didn’t brush them off.

“What are you drawing today?” he asked.

She tilted her sketchbook slightly, just enough for him to see. The page was rough — pencil strokes layered like noise, almost angry, like she hadn’t decided what she was trying to capture yet. Shapes, shadows, no center.

“It’s… complicated,” she said.

He studied it. “Looks like a brain.”

She let out a surprised laugh — short and soft, the sound catching like a hiccup.

“Yeah,” she said. “Kind of does.”

They sat with that for a moment. His eyes drifted to her hands. Stained faintly with graphite, nails bitten short. Her knuckles were pale, a little too bony, but steady.

“You’re an artist?”

She hesitated.

“Sometimes,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m good. Doesn’t really matter anymore.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

Another pause. She turned a page in her sketchbook, blank again. Her fingers hovered over it but didn’t move.

“I guess I’m just… drawing for now. Not for later.”

He glanced at her. She didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared down at the empty page like it might judge her. She talked like someone who wasn’t planning too far ahead.

Not in the dreamy, poetic way artists sometimes did. No — hers felt different. Like she was making peace with the fact that ahead wasn’t guaranteed. And something in his chest twisted.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t pry.

She didn’t owe him anything, and he wasn’t sure he could handle the answer if she gave it. So instead, he said, “I get that.”

Her eyes flicked sideways, curious.

“Drawing for now,” he repeated. “I used to write music like that.”

“Used to?” she echoed.

He leaned back against the bench. “It got harder once it became about everyone else.”

She studied him for a beat. “Then write something for no one.”

“I don’t think I remember how.”

She looked down, brushed a petal off her knee.

“Maybe you’re supposed to forget. So it hurts when you remember.”

The words were quiet but they hit something raw. He stared at her, unsure what to say. She didn’t look at him. Just turned the page again. Back to a blank canvas. And then, “What’s your real name?”

He blinked. “You don’t know it?”

“I do,” she said. “But I want the one you give when you’re not onstage.”

“…Seunghyun.”

She nodded. “Nice to meet you, Seunghyun.”

Silence followed. She didn’t give hers.

Their quiet afternoon stretched in silence.They didn’t leave together. Didn’t trade phone numbers. Didn’t promise to see each other again.

But as he walked away, he realized something strange. He hadn’t thought about his schedule in over an hour. Not the next appearance. Not the next shoot. Not the pressure. Not the noise.

Just her voice.

Her laugh.

And the way she said “drawing for now.”

Like now was all she had.

It was a Tuesday again. No rain this time. Just the heat of an early spring sun breaking shyly through leftover clouds. The park looked different in the light. Too green, too alive but the bench remained the same. Same cracks in the wood, same old cherry tree losing its last few petals like secrets slipping through time.

Seunghyun sat there before she did. He arrived ten minutes early, not that he told himself he was waiting. Just that he needed air. Space. Something that wasn’t polished white floors or fake laughter echoing through dressing rooms.

His manager had called him three times before noon. He didn’t answer. They were on break between schedules — technically just forty minutes. Enough time to eat. To rest. To reply to three weeks’ worth of ignored messages from label execs. Instead, he asked to be dropped off on a corner near the park and walked the rest of the way.

He checked the time again.

Twelve past.

He wasn’t anxious.

Not really.

Just…

Waiting.

And then, there she was.

Same hoodie, sleeves fraying more than before. Her walk was slow today — not limping, exactly, but careful. Measured. He noticed it right away. How she paused just before sitting. How she exhaled like gravity hit her harder than it should.

“Hey,” she said, offering him a tired half-smile.

“You okay?”

“Just late,” she said. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “You’re the only thing I’m not late for these days.”

That surprised her. She blinked, then turned her head to look at him more directly. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Guess I don’t know.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching a little boy chase pigeons across the path until they scattered in a flurry of feathers.

“Busy day?” she asked.

He nodded. “Always.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I kept the hour for myself.”

She smiled — not wide, not bright, but soft. Like something inside her had been reassured. “That’s rare, huh?”

“Rare as peace.”

She leaned forward, pulling her sketchbook from her bag. The cover was more bent now, the corners softening from wear. She didn’t open it right away. Instead, she said, “You don’t talk like the person people think you are.”

He turned to her, curious. “What do they think I am?”

She tapped the pencil against her lower lip in thought. “I don’t know. Controlled. Sharp. Cold, maybe.”

He raised a brow. “And what am I really?”

“I think,” she said slowly, “you’re just… tired of pretending you aren’t soft.”

His mouth parted slightly — a breath, a blink and he found himself laughing, low and honest. “You always say things like that?”

She just shook her head, smiling. Instead, she opened her sketchbook and started drawing — right there beside him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hand moved slowly today. Less certainty. He could see the effort it took in her wrist, the faint tremor at the edge of each line.

He wanted to ask if she was sick. Wanted to say, Tell me what you’re not telling me.

But he didn’t.

Because the way she leaned into the moment like every minute was already borrowed made him afraid of what she might confirm if he asked.

So instead, he leaned back against the bench, let the wind stir his coat, and sat beside the girl who wouldn’t give him her name.

And for the first time in months, maybe years…

He didn’t feel like T.O.P.

He felt like himself.

And somehow, that mattered more than anything waiting for him outside the park.

They didn’t mean to meet every day.

It just happened.

The way light finds the same windows every afternoon. The way two songs accidentally harmonize when played too close together. Familiar without intention. Constant without promise.

For weeks, the park bench beneath the cherry blossom tree became their quiet little world.

Seunghyun started rearranging everything for it, subtly at first. Pushing back a meeting by thirty minutes. Skipping lunch breaks. Telling his manager he needed “a walk” whenever he felt his chest tighten too much under the weight of appearances.

He didn’t tell anyone about her.

Not because it was a secret.

Because it was his.

Some days, she brought tea in a little thermos, still warm. Other days, she brought music, an old cassette player with only one working speaker. They would sit, knees not quite touching, listening to lo-fi jazz while she drew and he watched clouds pass between buildings.

One time, he showed up in sunglasses and a mask, breathing heavily from running across town.

“You’re late,” she teased without looking up.

“I’m early everywhere else,” he muttered, collapsing beside her.

She reached into her bag, handed him half a sandwich. “Then this is your reward.”

He ate it without question.

Another time, it was raining again — light and misty. She showed up anyway, even though he didn’t expect her to.

“Thought you hated getting wet,” she said as she shook out her damp hair and sat beside him.

“I hate missing things more.”

She swallowed.

Didn’t know what to say to that.

So he just leaned back and let the light mist of water run down his face, pretending he didn’t hear the way his voice cracked a little when he said it.

Instead, he filled in the blanks with quiet hopes he didn’t dare say out loud.

He started writing again. Lyrics he wouldn’t show anyone. Scribbled lines in a notebook she once teased him for carrying. He didn’t care.

It was the first time music made him feel something since… he couldn’t remember when.

Days passed when the rhythm changed. It started with a missed day. She wasn’t there. He waited for an hour, walked a slow lap around the park, and left.

The next day, she came. Apologized softly. Said she had an appointment that ran long.

He didn’t ask what kind. He wanted to but something in the way she clutched her sketchbook tighter than usual told him not to.

The meetings became more spaced. Every other day. Then every three. Then silence.

He started getting pushback from his team.

“Hyung, you can’t just disappear during press season.”

“We’re about to finalize the comeback schedule. You need to be in the room.”

“Where the hell are you always going in the afternoons?”

He argued. Loud. Frustrated.

He didn’t even try to explain it to them. They wouldn’t understand.

It wasn’t a girlfriend.

Wasn’t a scandal.

It was… her.

And he was afraid if he didn’t see her, she might vanish completely.

One day, he stood in the hallway outside the meeting room, fingers clenched so tightly around a coffee cup it cracked.

“I need an hour,” he said.

“You need to be here,” his manager snapped. “Just one hour — then the press call, the shoot, and the label dinner. Please, hyung.”

He almost walked out anyway. But he didn’t and he hated himself for it.

Weeks followed. No more walks. No more sandwiches wrapped in napkins, still warm from her hands. No more laughter soft enough to make the world feel gentle again — laughter that came not from his stage persona, not from a punchline, but from those tiny, in-between moments when her guard dropped and her eyes sparkled.

Just gone.

It wasn’t loud. There was no final goodbye, no moment where he could say, Please stay. Please wait. It was just absence.

That slow, unbearable silence that creeps in when something sacred vanishes before you even realized it mattered that much.

He stopped writing.

Stopped sketching, too. He hadn’t picked up a pen in days. Every page he touched ended up torn or thrown. The notebook in his bag was bent and water-stained, warped with effort and failure. The words came wrong now. Hollow. Like echoes in an empty room.

All that remained — all that he could hold was a folded piece of paper tucked behind his ID in his wallet.

The sketch.

She gave it to him the last time they saw each other, nonchalantly, like it was nothing. “You’ll hate it,” she’d said, pressing it into his hand with a smile too wide to be casual. “Don’t unfold it until you’re alone. Promise?”

He took it out more than he should’ve. Late at night. Between interviews. In cars. In green rooms where the lights were too bright and the silence too sharp.

The paper had softened along the folds. A corner was beginning to curl.

The drawing itself was done in pencil, clean and textured — more detailed than any of the sketches he’d seen from her before. Not rushed. Not abstract.

It was him.

Not T.O.P, not the performer but him. Hair tucked under a beanie, eyes cast downward, lips just slightly parted. Caught mid-thought. His own gaze looking past the viewer, like he wasn’t sure where he was anymore.

It was how he looked when she saw him.

And now, all he had was the version of himself she left behind. He stared at it for what felt like hours. So long he forgot to blink. His eyes burned, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not while something so real stared back at him. Something that remembered. Something that looked at him the way she did without asking for anything.

A sound rose in his throat — tight and unfamiliar.

It wasn’t quite a sob. Not yet. But it cracked something open in his chest. A seam that had been splitting slowly ever since the first day she didn’t come.

The ache became a flood. And before he even realized what he was doing, he was on his feet.

He didn’t take a car.

Didn’t grab a coat.

Didn’t tell anyone.

He just ran.

Out the studio doors, down concrete alleys and dim-lit sidewalks. The city blurred. Cars honked. Strangers turned to watch the man in the hoodie sprint across a crosswalk with panic in his eyes and no destination on his lips except one.

The park.

The goddamn bench.

Their bench.

His lungs burned by the time he got there. He stumbled across the worn path, gravel crunching under his shoes, heart thudding louder than the wind through the trees.

But she wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t.

She hadn’t been there for weeks.

Someone else was.

An older woman sat in her place, knees close together, fingers folded around the strap of a plain black shoulder bag. She looked like she’d been waiting — not for him, but for something quieter. The kind of waiting that knows it won’t be answered.

She turned when she saw him approach.

And he knew.

He knew.

She had her eyes but it was softer, worn by grief.

But her eyes.

The breath rushed from his lungs before she even opened her mouth.

“You’re Seunghyun,” she said softly.

He nodded once. He couldn’t speak.

“She talked about you,” she said. “A lot.” Her voice was warm. Gentle but unbearably tired.

He blinked fast. The sketch in his wallet felt heavier than ever before.

“She waited here for you… for days. She really believed you’d come back.”

A tremor started in his fingers. He curled them into fists.

“I wanted to. I—I tried—”

The woman smiled faintly. Not with blame. But with that tragic kind of kindness only grieving mothers seem to know how to give.

“She knew,” she said. “She never held it against you.”

From her bag, she pulled out a small envelope. It was soft at the edges, slightly yellowed, with a faint bend down the middle like it had been opened and read over and over.

“She wrote this in case she… left before you came back. She asked me to give it to you.”

She pressed it into his palm. Her hand lingered there for a moment — a squeeze, light and trembling.

“She wanted you to know,” she said, voice breaking for the first time, “that meeting you made her feel like she was still living.”

And then she walked away, one hand pressed to her chest, the other wiping her cheek as she turned and disappeared down the path where cherry blossoms had already begun to fall again.

He sat on the cold bench.

Alone.

The envelope was warm from her hand, but it chilled the moment he opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, carefully folded. And a pressed cherry blossom — browned now, but still intact tucked gently inside the crease.

He opened the letter with trembling fingers.

Her handwriting.

Small. Neat. Certain.

“Seunghyun,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t know if time will let me see you again. But if you’re holding this… then I guess I already know.

You made the time I had feel like it mattered. Even if you didn’t know the whole truth.

His throat closed, a knot forming in the space between his heart and his breath.

I didn’t tell you I was sick because I didn’t want that to be what you saw. I didn’t want to become a ticking clock in your eyes. I didn’t want your kindness to come from pity. I just… I wanted to be soft. I wanted to be seen the way you saw me, a stranger with messy sketches and too many opinions about clouds.

You always showed up like you didn’t even realize you were saving me. Every time you sat beside me, every time you took that hour… you gave me life I didn’t think I could still feel. And then one day… you stopped. And I understood. But I still waited. Every day. Because even if you didn’t come, you gave me something worth waiting for.

The ink was smudged in one place — a water stain, or maybe a tear, now dried into the fibers of the page.

Don’t blame yourself. Please. I didn’t need you to fix anything. I just needed to feel like I was part of the world again.

And you gave me that. For a little while, I forgot I was dying.

His hands began to shake, the letter trembling like it carried the weight of her voice.

I hope that someday, in some corner of your heart, you’ll remember me as something light — not heavy.

That would be enough.”

Love,

Y/N

Below the signature was a second sheet, tucked gently behind the letter.

A portrait.

The same one she once gave him — unfinished then, just a sketch of outlines and beginnings, barely enough for him to recognize himself.

But now…

Now it was complete.

She’d drawn him with such unbearable softness. Shading carefully along his jaw, his cheekbones. His mouth was curved into that faint smile he only wore around her — the one that happened when silence felt safe. His eyes were darker in the portrait, shadowed, thoughtful. Alive in a way he hadn’t realized she’d memorized.

She’d finished it.

Even knowing she’d never get to hand it to him.

Even knowing she wouldn’t see how his breath would hitch. How his hands would tremble. How his heart would shatter. Seunghyun didn’t cry the way people do in films. No fists pounding against walls. No dramatic gasps.

He just sat there.

Completely still.

Hands curled tightly around the paper, fingertips pressing too hard, as if the more he held it, the more it might undo time.

His throat burned. His chest felt hollow like something vital had been scooped out and nothing was left to keep him upright but grief. The ache that had been building for weeks finally gave in. Broke.

Tears slipped from his eyes — quietly, steadily without effort or warning. They fell onto the paper. Onto her lines. Onto her name.

He bowed his head, pulled the drawing gently to his chest, and held it there like it was the last warmth left in the world. And he whispered something, not to himself, not to the sky, but to her. To Y/N, who had been gone longer than he realized.

“I’m sorry I was late.”

His voice cracked like a violin string pulled too tight.

“I should’ve come back sooner.”

The wind blew softly through the trees, catching the edge of her sketch and fluttering it like breath. The sun dipped low enough to spill gold across the pavement, warming the very bench where she once sat, knee drawn up, sketching him like a secret.

Seunghyun closed his eyes.

He saw her there. Just for a second. That faint smile. That stupid hoodie. That softness she never let the world take from her.

He opened his eyes again. Through everything trembling inside him, he made her a promise. A real one.

“I’ll write it for you,” And this time… he meant it with everything he had left.

[writing-mlm]

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

Forever my Muse

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

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

But never sorry enough to show you his drawings. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will.” 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, a breeze?” He laughs and nods. 

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

“Real as fuck.”

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you hear it. More specifically you hear yourself. 

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

It’s you.

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

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

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

The description catches your eye next. 

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

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

D.W

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Softly you sigh before looking back to the trees. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s charcoal.”

[stottlemorgan]

Sketches & Scowls | Arthur Morgan x Reader Fluff

Summary: Arthur encourages your artistic journey but you lack patience. Word count: 952 Tags: Fluff, can potentially be read as platonic too imo! Author's note: I'm thoroughly pissed off whilst learning to draw so take this, dear hearts. If only Arthur were here with me to stop me from throwing my sketchbook through a damn window. I'm pretty sure this is gender neutral! Lmk if it seems any different and I'll change the tags.

A scowl curls your upper lip and the weight of your frustration drags your brow south as you attempt to will a tear through the paper of Arthur's sketchbook. Bound betwixt the leather cover that rests snugly in the dip of Arthur's closed thighs is a gallery of beauty; countless paradigms of how graphite should be used to capture one's visions. The subject of your current envy is a drawing of yourself.

The slight dampness of early spring cools your rear through your clothes as you and Arthur sit together on a hill of green and lupine. A flurry of warmish wind rustles through the thicket further up the hill, pulling a chittering consonance from the birds inside. The afternoon sun casts a pretty glow upon Arthur's portrait of you, upon the perfect likeness he has achieved within such a short time. You can plainly see the way he has skilfully sketched your countenance, the shapes both rigid and round that make up your face, the subtle dips and marks that pepper your skin. Though in this moment, you're appearing to be all ridge and lacking any semblance of the tender grin that had graced your features when he'd requested you still yourself while he drew.

"Try loosenin' your wrist up a little," Arthur's eyes flit to your hand which seems to be on the verge of snapping the poor pencil within its grasp. He blinks and raises a brow, tempering the amusement in his voice, "And maybe show some kindness to your tool, hm? If you break it, you ain't gonna be able to use it."

Your glare drifts up to his eyes which are laden with their usual sympathetic amicability which has only furthered over the past weeks of trying to teach you how to sketch. As you hold one another's gaze, Arthur notices your hand reluctantly shift in his blurred periphery to mirror the way he is holding his own much shorter pencil. He can't resist the chuckle tickling his chest and the smile tugging at his lips as his heart fondly responds to your grousing.

"I hate this, Arthur," you spit, tipping your head down to look at your own sketchbook, the one which Arthur kindly gave to you from his slender collection of spares. Scattered across the centrefold are multitudes of sketches, messy and incredibly amateurish, though Arthur describes them as "Charming". Your most recent is your fifth attempt at a portrait of Arthur. You were almost smiling as you shaded about his eyes and crows feet, though the excitement quickly faded the more you scribbled and was replaced with a steaming exasperation. You feel that it looks like an awkward caricature, perhaps an oddly set doppelgänger donning the scar on his chin and the mole at his cheek. Arthur's voice sounds out into the air, a lilt of understanding and compassion about it,

"You're just frustrated. It's okay, you're learnin' somethin' new-"

"I hate this," you repeat with increased fervour, sighing. Arthur sighs along with you, but warmer and gentler; he tilts his head toward you and he looks at you with a raised reprimanding brow before peering down at his sketchbook,

"I been doin' this since I was a kid. It's not somethin' you just pick up in a few weeks. Takes time 'n' practice. Jus'... Think about how you learned to ride, hm?"

"You ride better than me-"

With a scolding click of his tongue, Arthur lifts his pencil and knocks the wood softly against the bridge of your nose to which you scoff and swat his hand away.

"This ain't about me. Now, how long'd it take you t'learn to ride?"

Your head lolls sideways towards him and you roll your eyes, your voice dragging on with infuriation, "I'm still learnin'."

Arthur makes a gruff sound of triumph.

"Exactly, you're still learnin'," he shifts fully sideways to face you, nestling his pencil between the halves of his sketchbook and placing it beside him in the grass before leaning an elbow on his bent knee.

"Drawin's like ridin'... Kind of. S'one of them things you ain't gonna master in a lifetime. Screwin' up's part of the process."

"Yeah, well, it'd be nice to not screw up once," you grumble, huffing and smudging your fingers over the unsightly Arthur's chin, marring the already wonky line of his jaw. Arthur rolls his eyes and slaps a palm to your back, rubbing large circles as he speaks with a firm affection.

"Now you're just bein' sour. Maybe I shoulda drawn you all mean lookin' like you're bein' right now," He moves to nudge his knuckles into your jaw, gently pushing your face and drawing your focus from your sketchbook in hopes of swiftly popping the bubble of self-loathing that had begun to form around you.

"Put'ch your book down an' lie back with me for a bit," he instructs whilst taking the sketchbook and pencil from you anyway, setting it atop his own and tugging you to lie down next to him in the grass, "It'll give your eyes a rest an' we can decide on whether we're settin' up camp here for the night."

Despite the sigh that slips from you, you let him pull you back, and as you do, you feel your head slowly land in the cradle of his underarm. You tilt your head, glancing up at him as he tips his hat to rest more comfortably on his head, a shade falling over his closed eyes.

"I think I'll give up on drawin' for today," you murmur, studying the faint raise of his brow and feeling the arrhythmic padding of his fingers against your shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm, m'happy to settle for lookin'."

Tags for my sweethearts: @thundermartini @pinescent-and-gingerbread @arthurmorganist @thesweetestapplepie @zae-heeyyy

[akairawrites]

When the silence breaks | Damian Wayne x Reader

At Gotham Academy, no one asks too many questions—especially when your past is too heavy to carry out loud. Y/n L/n is no exception. The daughter of a once-feared mob figure, she hides behind sharp eyes and graphite sketches, trying to stay invisible while the weight of her childhood still claws at her spine. When a school project unexpectedly pairs her with Damian Wayne, the two begin to orbit each other in quiet, careful steps.

Previous | Next

The dining room was exactly what Y/n imagined it would be—long table, heavy drapes, a chandelier that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the 1800s. But somehow, it wasn’t stiff or cold. Maybe it was the way the lights were dimmed just enough. Or maybe it was the fact that only one end of the table was set—two places, close together. Intimate.

Alfred stood at the sideboard, placing the last covered dish onto a silver tray. “I hope you don’t mind something simple tonight, Miss L/n. Master Damian insisted you liked grilled vegetables.”

Y/n blinked. “I—what?”

Damian was already pulling out his chair. “You ordered it three times last month when the academy brought in food trucks.”

She sat slowly, watching him as she lowered herself into the seat. “You pay that much attention to what I eat?”

“I pay attention to everything,” he said plainly.

Alfred coughed into his hand. “He means that in the least unsettling way possible, of course.”

Y/n actually laughed. “Good to know.”

Dinner was… quiet, but not awkward. The food was simple, like Alfred had said—roasted vegetables, warm bread, lemon rice, and grilled eggplant topped with just enough seasoning to make it feel like a secret family recipe.

“Okay,” Y/n said after a few bites. “This is better than the dining hall.”

Alfred gave a small bow. “I do my best.”

There was a pause. Y/n looked over at Damian, who was eating methodically, like it was a checklist.

“You always eat here alone?”

“Most of the time.”

“No giant dinners with Bruce and the whole Wayne family?”

His expression didn’t change. “They’re not all around much anymore.”

Y/n nodded, sensing something behind the words but not pushing. Instead, she looked around the room. The walls were lined with oil paintings—nothing too extravagant, but definitely old. Familiar. Warm in that untouchable kind of way.

“Do you ever draw?” she asked.

Damian hesitated, then shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I used to be good at it. But it stopped feeling like mine.”

Y/n met his eyes. “That’s the worst feeling.”

Something passed between them then—quiet understanding. Not pity. Not sympathy. Just recognition.

Alfred returned with tea and something that resembled spiced shortbread.

Y/n took a sip, letting the warmth settle. “This place… it’s quieter than I thought it’d be.”

Damian gave a small nod. “It’s easier to think here.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you ever get lonely?”

He didn’t flinch. “Not often.”

That made her smile. “You really are something else.”

“I’ve been told.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer. Then Ivy leaned back in her chair, her eyes still on him.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Neither are you,” Damian replied, voice soft. “But I think that’s the point.”

They wandered slowly after dinner, the manor dim and echoing with the creak of aged floorboards beneath their steps. Damian walked beside her, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed for the first time all day. Y/n followed, gaze shifting from portraits to old suits of armor, to bookshelves lined with titles in languages she couldn’t read.

“Okay,” she said, pausing by a tall stained glass window. “This place is either haunted or enchanted. There’s no in-between.”

Damian glanced at her, expression unreadable. “I’d say both.”

She smirked. “Not comforting.”

He led her through a small gallery tucked between wings—a long corridor filled with black-and-white photos, most of them of the Wayne family over the years. Bruce as a boy, young Alfred in uniform, Thomas and Martha Wayne standing in front of an old car.

Y/n slowed, her eyes landing on a photo near the end. It was small. Framed in silver. Damian as a child—maybe five or six—standing stiffly beside Bruce in a training yard. He looked… angry. Tense. Like he didn’t know what to do with the softness in the way Bruce’s hand rested on his shoulder.

“I’ve never seen this one,” she said quietly.

“It’s not for show,” he replied. “Not many people come up here.”

She glanced at him. “So why bring me?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then, simply: “You listen.”

Y/n took that in for a moment. No sarcasm. No bravado. Just quiet honesty.

She looked out a nearby window. The sky was almost completely dark now, the horizon a thin wash of deep blue over the distant glow of Gotham.

Her voice came gentle. “I should go. My mom’ll worry.”

Damian nodded. “The car’s waiting.”

They walked back in silence, the hush of the manor following them like a shadow. At the front steps, the limo idled under soft exterior lights. Alfred stood nearby, offering Y/n a small nod and a paper bag.

“For the road,” he said with a faint smile. “There’s more shortbread in there than anyone could reasonably eat in one night, but I trust you’ll manage.”

She grinned. “Thank you. Seriously.”

Alfred’s eyes flicked to Damian, then back to her, something knowing in his glance. “Anytime, Miss Y/n.”

Damian walked her to the car himself, stopping just short of the open door. For a second, he didn’t say anything. The cold crept in through his sleeves.

“Come back tomorrow.”

Y/n looked up at him. “To finish the project?”

He nodded once. “And maybe something else.”

She tilted her head. “Are you asking me to hang out?”

His lips curved ever so slightly. “Don’t push it.”

Y/n laughed under her breath and stepped into the car, settling into the seat with the paper bag in her lap.

Before the door shut, she looked up at him one last time.

“I’ll come back.”

Then she was gone, the car disappearing into the dark curve of the road.

Damian stood there for a moment, the lights from the manor flickering behind him, watching until the car disappeared.

And then—quietly—he turned and walked back inside.

The heavy front door shut behind her with a quiet click, the moment Y/n stepped inside, the silence of the manor slipped off her shoulders like a coat—and what was left was the stale quiet of this house. She tossed her keys in the bowl near the door, still holding the crinkled paper bag Alfred had packed for her.

The house was dim except for the soft overhead light spilling from the kitchen. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon cleaner—like someone had tried too hard to make it feel like home.

“Y/n?” her mother’s voice called from down the hall. A moment later, she appeared in the doorway. Hair tied up. Slippers. Eyes tired but alert.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her tone sharper than it needed to be.

Y/n stiffened. “Working on a project. School.”

“At this hour?”

“I lost track of time,” she said quickly, already starting past her.

“Was it with that boy?” her mother asked, following her into the hallway.

Y/n turned slowly. “His name is Damian.”

Her mother crossed her arms. “And you were at his house?”

A beat passed.

Her mother stepped closer, lips pressed together. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Y/n didn’t answer—just raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Her mother swallowed. “Your father… he’s been asking to see you.”

Silence fell between them, immediate and heavy.

Y/n stood still for a moment. Then laughed once—quiet, cold. “You’re kidding.”

“He wrote again last week,” her mother continued, voice trembling at the edges. “Said he’s been trying to reach you. Through the lawyer. Through the warden. He wants to talk.”

“No,” Y/n said flatly.

“You don’t have to say anything now—”

“I’m not saying anything ever,” she cut in. Her voice didn’t rise, but it was steel. “He doesn’t get to ask for me.”

“He’s still your father—”

“No,” Y/n said again, louder this time. “He’s a man who tried to break me into something I never asked to be. And you—” she stopped, jaw clenched, forcing her voice to lower. “You watched it happen.”

Her mother’s eyes shone. “I was scared.”

“I was a child.”

The words hit hard, echoing in the quiet foyer.

Her mother wrapped her arms around herself like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “I thought… maybe it would help. Closure. Answers. I thought maybe you’d want to look him in the eye and tell him what he did to you.”

Y/n’s voice cracked, low and sharp. “I already know what he did.”

Another beat. Y/n looked down at her own hands—ink smudged, knuckles tight.

“I went years without him touching my face with anything but the back of his hand,” she whispered. “You want me to sit across a table and give him closure?”

“I want you to take back your power,” her mother said softly.

Y/n’s eyes met hers, and for once—just a second—there was something raw there. Tired. Unforgiving.

“I already did,” she murmured. “I left him behind. You should’ve done the same.”

Then, quieter, as she turned for the stairs:

“I have school tomorrow.”

Her mother didn’t stop her this time.

And when Y/n’s bedroom door closed upstairs, it didn’t slam.

But it felt like it had.

The sky over Gotham was overcast, clouds hanging low and heavy like they hadn’t made up their mind about rain yet. The school grounds buzzed with the usual half-awake chaos—students rushing in, voices rising and falling, the occasional drone of a late bell overhead.

Y/n stepped out of the car Alfred had sent. She hadn’t asked him to—but it was waiting again, same as yesterday. No driver in sight. Just a silent gesture of you’re not doing this alone.

She pulled her coat tighter around her and headed toward the main entrance. Her sketchbook, a little more worn around the corners now, was tucked under one arm. She hadn’t drawn anything since last night.

Not after that conversation.

“Morning,” came a voice from the steps.

Damian leaned against the stone railing near the school’s main doors, as if he’d been there a while. He was wearing the same uniform as everyone else, but it somehow looked sharper on him—less like a dress code and more like armor.

Y/n stopped beside him. “How early did you get here?”

“I don’t sleep much.”

She gave him a look. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“It’s supposed to be honest.”

She smiled—barely—but it was real. “Thanks for the ride.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stood there for a moment in comfortable silence, students streaming past them like they weren’t even there. Damian watched her closely, like he could see last night etched into her face.

“You didn’t draw,” he said quietly.

Y/n blinked. “How would you know?”

He tapped the edge of her sketchbook. “The corner’s still folded the same way as yesterday.”

Her chest tightened—not at his observation, but at the way he said it. Like it mattered.

“I wasn’t in the mood,” she said, voice quiet.

He nodded once. “You don’t have to be. Just don’t stop.”

The bell rang again—sharper this time. They didn’t move.

After a beat, Y/n said, “Let’s go before we get caught loitering again.”

They walked inside side by side, shoulders brushing once in the crowded hall.

The hallway hummed with lockers slamming shut, the low murmur of early gossip, sneakers squeaking against the tile floors. Ivy walked just a half step behind Damian, sketchbook pressed to her chest. Her eyes were still a little distant—yesterday lingered in her like a shadow that refused to lift.

“Y/n.”

The voice cut through the noise, too familiar.

She turned toward it just as Max stepped out from a cluster of students by the lockers. He had that easy, lopsided smile that always looked like he was either flirting or trying to win an argument before it started.

“I didn’t see you yesterday,” he said, walking up.

Y/n opened her mouth to respond, but before she could his eyes flicked to Damian.

Something shifted. Not obvious—just a flicker behind Max’s expression. That subtle tightening around the jaw, the way his hand flexed slightly at his side. He didn’t look directly at Damian, not at first.

Damian didn’t even blink.

“She was with me,” he said simply. Calm. Completely unbothered.

Max’s gaze snapped to him now, tone edging cooler. “Right. The new guy.”

Damian’s eyes were steady. “You’re very observant.”

Max looked back at Y/n. “So… was it a date, or?”

Y/n raised a brow, unimpressed. “It was a school project.”

“That took all day?”

“It’s a big project,” Damian said flatly, his tone giving nothing. “You might’ve heard of it if you spent more time in class.”

Max let out a breath of a laugh, but it was thin. “Right. Well, I’ll see you later, okay?”

Y/n didn’t answer. She just gave a tight nod and turned to keep walking, Damian naturally falling into step beside her.

Once they were out of earshot, Y/n exhaled. “He’s… persistent.”

“He’s irritating,” Damian corrected.

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

He gave her a sidelong look. “Should I be?”

She smiled, amused despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

They reached the classroom doors a few moments later, the buzz of the hallway dimming behind them. Inside, the other students were already gathering supplies for the assignment.

Damian reached for the handle, then paused.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

Y/n hesitated. Then nodded. “Getting there.”

And with that, he opened the door and held it for her like it wasn’t a big deal.

But somehow, it was.

The classroom was quiet, the usual hum of voices dulled by focused work. Pairs of students sat at their stations with scattered materials between them—paint jars, graphite sticks, tablets, notes. Morning light filtered in through tall windows, casting wide amber streaks across the worn wood floor.

At the back of the room, Y/n sat hunched slightly over her sketchbook, one leg curled under her on the stool. Her pencil moved steadily, looping through strokes and lines—but Damian noticed it first: the way her grip tightened, the way she paused between lines just a second too long.

She was drawing, but not here.

Damian set down the drafting pen he’d been using and watched her. Quietly. Without pressure.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low enough to stay between them. “You’re somewhere else.”

Her hand slowed, hovering over the paper. A pause. Then a quiet, resigned breath.

“I talked to my mom last night,” she said, not looking at him. “She told me my father wants to see me.”

Damian didn’t react right away. He just let the silence hold. Let her decide if she wanted to keep going.

Y/n’s eyes stayed on the page, on the lines she hadn’t finished yet. “She said he’s been writing. Asking. Like he deserves to ask anything of me after everything.”

“What did you say?”

She let out a dry laugh. “No, obviously. But… it still messed me up. He’s still there, you know? In the walls. In the things I can’t stop remembering.”

She finally looked up at him.

“And she just stood by. For years. Now she wants to play the part of someone who tried.”

Damian’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t know if I can forgive that. I don’t even know if I want to.”

He nodded once, steady. “You don’t owe her that. Or him. Forgiveness isn’t some moral checkbox.”

Y/n’s lips parted slightly—surprised not by the agreement, but how calm and firm it sounded from him.

“I used to think there was strength in burying things,” Damian continued, watching her. “In silence. In distance. But it just… sits inside you. Festers.”

Y/n looked down again, pencil moving faintly now, lines softer. Her voice was quieter. “So what do you do with it?”

He thought for a moment. Then said, “You let it teach you how not to become them.”

That hit her harder than she expected. She blinked, the sting behind her eyes sudden but familiar.

A moment passed, the quiet stretching between them again—but this time, it felt… easier.

Damian leaned forward slightly, his voice low but certain. “You’re not her. You’re not him. And if it means anything—I see you, Y/n. Not the version they tried to carve out of you.”

Her breath caught just a little. Then she looked back at him and smiled—soft, tired, real.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

They returned to the project—side by side, the silence now full of something else entirely.

This will be the last chapter of this story that i will be posting on tumblr if you want to read the whole thing it will be on Wattpad the next part is already up.

(My user is the same)

Taglist

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[skzstarl0ver]

𝐿𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒴𝑜𝓊'𝓁𝓁 𝒩𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹 ⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Hyunjin x reader / best friends to lovers / one shot / fluff, soft

♡ no warnings ♡

enjoy xx (open for request)

Hyunjin was always sketching.

In cafés, on rooftops, between rehearsals, even during movie nights when everyone else was half-asleep and buried in snacks. You never questioned it—it was his way of breathing. Where others talked or danced or wrote, he let his pencil say everything for him.

You just didn’t know it had been saying your name all this time.

★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★

It started on a Sunday, quiet and golden. He was in the kitchen humming lowly, sleeves pushed up, trying to make banana bread from scratch (“It’s therapeutic, don’t laugh,” he’d said).

“Can you grab my sketchbook?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward his room. “Black cover, thick one. It’s on the shelf.”

You knew the one. Everyone did. It was his favorite—his private one. The one no one dared to touch. He carried it everywhere, but never let anyone peek. It was sacred.

So when you slid it off the shelf, it felt... wrong. But he’d asked. So you did.

The book flopped open in your hands, the pages spreading gently.

You froze.

It was your face. Your expressions. Your hands mid-gesture, eyes half-lit by sun, mouth caught in a soft laugh. Dozens of portraits, all you, sketched in graphite and watercolor, each one more intimate than the last.

But they weren’t just portraits. They were pieces of you that only someone who truly saw you could capture. The way your fingers curled when you were nervous. The tilt of your head when you listened closely. The way your gaze drifted to the left when you were deep in thought.

Then you noticed the writing.

Tucked along the edges of the pages, between sketches and shadows—tiny, handwritten notes.

You smiled today and I forgot how to breathe for a second.

The light caught her face like she was made of something softer than this world.

If I believed in soulmates, I’d think she was mine.

You turned the page too fast. Your hands were trembling.

I think I’m falling in love with her. Quietly. Permanently. And I can’t tell a soul.

Each one felt like a thread pulling at your chest. You didn’t know whether to smile or cry.

You had no idea he felt this way. He was your best friend, yes—warm, quiet, steady. He brought you coffee without asking, played you songs he thought you'd like, stayed up to listen when your anxiety kept you up. But he’d never said it. Never even hinted.

Or maybe he had. Maybe the drawings were the hints.

The sound of footsteps snapped you out of your daze.

“Hey, did you—” Hyunjin stopped in the doorway.

He saw the sketchbook in your hands, open to a page with a half-finished drawing of you sleeping on the couch, blanket sliding off your shoulder. The note on that one read:

I wonder what she dreams about. I hope it's something kind. She deserves kind.

Silence stretched like a wire between you.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It opened. I—I didn’t know.”

He didn’t move. His jaw was tight, but his eyes were soft. Not angry. Just… exposed.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “I gave it to you. Maybe part of me wanted you to see it.”

You looked down at the book again, at the tender lines and unread letters.

“I don’t know what to say,” you murmured.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“But I want to,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “I just didn’t realize... all this time, you were telling me in ways I wasn’t paying attention to.”

He swallowed, then nodded once.

“I didn't want to make it weird,” he admitted. “You’re... important to me. I didn’t want to risk that.”

You let out a breath, still holding the sketchbook close.

“I’m glad you told me this way,” you said gently. “Because now I can tell you something, too.”

Hyunjin looked at you, silent.

“I don’t know if I have the right words like you do. Or the right drawings. But I’ve felt something too, for a while. I just... didn’t know you did.”

Something softened in his expression. Like relief.

You closed the sketchbook and placed it carefully on the bed beside you.

Then, without overthinking it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his waist. He stiffened—only for a second—before pulling you in, his hands resting lightly on your back, like he didn’t want to wake from something he’d only ever dreamed.

The smell of cinnamon lingered on him. His heartbeat was quick beneath your ear.

“Next time you write something about me,” you said softly, “let me read it before it ends up in a sketchbook.”

He chuckled under his breath.

“No promises. Some things are still easier to draw.”

You smiled against his chest. “Then draw me again. But this time, with you in the picture too.”

this fanfic was kinda short I hope yall still liked it xx

[effietrinket1619]

For the Lantern Family TikTok saga 

Jess having a whole series where she hands Kyle random art supplies to see his reaction to them, which can either result in an interesting lesson in how to use said supplies, such as more high quality art supplies, or absolutely hilarious rants about art supplies such as Roseart or those cheap watercolors that every elementary school art room had.

oh my GOD YES!!!!

(artists, forgive me for any mistakes in the following answer because i am so painfully unfamiliar with literally every medium. my medium is words </3)

it starts when kyle, eye visibly twitching, keeps breaking the leads off the new graphite pencils he got and then goes and rants to jess about it who's already got the content wheels turning in her brain. is she shamelessly profiting off of using her fellow lanterns for clout? absolutely. but they're just making it so easy.

so she starts a new thing and it takes off almost immediately. her audience are very accustomed to hal's charm, looks and cluelessness but watching jess lob a packet of art supplies at kyle's head while he's peacefully doing other things and watching his expression change before he goes on the rant of a lifetime becomes endlessly entertaining too.

when jess nearly clocks him in the temple with a set of roseart, she practically delights in the way his eyes narrow as purest wrath sharpens his expression. the ensuing rant is both hysterically funny and also very enlightening to a lot of people as they hear from someone who went to art school about the logistics of cheap supplies and why they don't work as well. he's halfway through recommending better products when jess asks him about actually affordable options.

kyle has some locked and loaded. he grew up with a single mum and they weren't exactly well off so of course he has some other choices which he's happy to talk about as he idly screws around with some shading and gradients using the cheap pencils. he just says that there are better products out there that'll get the right kind of result.

jess asks if he could actually make things with these pencils. kyle shrugs and says he probably could, so she shoots him with a, "Prove it." and how could he possibly resist?

this evolves into videos of kyle being given a Thing that he has to make art from. the thing is literally anything. jess once hands him a bucket of water and a paintbrush with a grin and he goes wild anyway, painting a weirdly decent picture of an octopus on the pavement. it lasts all of two minutes before the sun cooks it away but it happens.

they use whatever:

condiments (that video ends with several plates covered in mayonnaise and an extended clip of john sighing in disappointment right at the end)

those cheap ass markers kids use (we call them textas over here) from school (kyle goes the extra step by using guy's face as his canvas while he's asleep to make it extra dangerous. the result is a spectacularly colourful butterfly that guy's unaware of until hal teasingly points it out which ends in a very funny filmed chase where jess literally climbs a tree to avoid guy's wrath and kyle has to jump into the lake)

eyeshadow (hal sits still as the disgruntled but eventually appreciative model for this one because he's the face of the channel and jess has to shoot down multiple collaboration offers from...unsavoury individuals. kyle never realised how fun makeup is and will be doing this again)

bones (no one knows where jess got these bones and no one is willing to ask. kyle puts together a sculpture that hal insists has a resemblance to soranik despite kyle's stubborn refusal to admit anything)

literal clay and ochre (kyle stares at jess blankly for a moment but when he figures she's not joking, he gets to work and manages to emulate styles of paintings found on cave walls on actual cave walls for 'authenticity', although kyle strays from the traditional muses and goes for weirder, more aliens shapes and creatures. he gives them strange names too, like 'kilowog' and 'larfleeze'. jess treats this like it's completely normal. the fans are convinced jess's family is just a bunch of fucking cryptids at this point.)

and it's a hit! kyle's not the main attraction of the channel but he's certainly not an unwelcome addition. he's a little awkward on camera at first but his passion bleeds through with basically everything he talks about and does and people find that very endearing. kyle's not entirely sure how to handle this newfound fame considering he has a better grasp on the implications than hal, but he thinks he's pretty chill about it (he's not) and he's handling it like a pro (debatable). jess is just here for the chaos.

[yeet-me-dad-dy]

The Arcane - Chapter Six - Old Wounds

Summary: Viktor gets a little look at the things that haunt you, and you and he work on the designs for his back brace.

Characters: Viktor x Male Reader (Doctor Raven) x Jayce eventually maybe

Warnings: Nightmares

Words: 1,947

You were lying on your back on the hospital bed in your lab, tossing a small metal device into the air while you considered Viktor's dilemma. You had managed to get all of the scans you needed within a week, and while it was a grueling and often painful process for him, he hadn't complained even once. After receiving the scans, you had studied them until your eyes burned, mind racing with questions, theories, and ideas.

You caught the device and set it on the mattress beside you, then rubbed your tired eyes. Vampires didn't need as much sleep as humans, but they did still need sleep; six or seven hours each week. You had managed exactly thirty-two minutes for this week, and exhaustion was beginning to set in. You knew you needed to rest, and you honestly had tried, but calming your racing mind enough to fall asleep was an achievement not often reached.

You sighed and closed your eyes. If you could just get five minutes… Your consciousness hung in the abyss between waking and sleeping, and then, slowly, you began to drift off.

The trees were burning, the snow was stained red. Everywhere you looked, bodies with missing limbs and guts spilling from their bellies littered the battlefield, the heat of their corpses sending steam rising into biting midnight air. The blood painting your hands and face and drenching your clothes was pleasantly warm...

“Doctor?”

You whirled around, eyes blazing, teeth bared, to see a skinny young man with golden eyes reaching toward you.

I know you, the little voice in your head said. You’d known all of them. It didn’t matter. You lunged, teeth meeting the soft flesh of his throat.

“Doctor!”

You bolted upright in bed, eyes wide and searching, chest heaving. You weren’t sure where you were. Octagonal room, blue walls, tall ceiling… Familiarity sparked in your nightmare-addled mind.

The lab. You had fallen asleep in your lab.

There was a gentle touch on your shoulder, and you jerked away. That same skinny young man from your dream was watching you with concern. You looked him up and down, allowing your mind to match the face to a name.

“Viktor…” you breathed.

You flopped back onto the bed, covering your eyes with your arm, and pulled in a few lungfuls of air to steady yourself.

“What time is it?” you asked.

“Just after dinner,” he said quietly.

You swallowed hard, then tossed your legs over to sit on the edge of the bed with your back to Viktor.

“I came to show you the sketch of the back brace I’m working on… and to check on you. It seems it’s a good thing I did.”

“The brace, yes…” you mumbled. “I’ll need to take a look at that.”

You rubbed your eyes, ran a hand down your face.

“Are you alright, Doctor?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, I just… had a bad dream.” You rose suddenly, smoothed down your shirt, and rounded the bed to stand beside Viktor. “Let’s see it.”

You couldn’t seem to look at him, not without remembering the look of fear in the eyes of his dream-self and the feeling of your teeth sinking into his flesh. He handed you a piece of paper. Drawn in graphite were sketches of a mechanical back brace from different angles, as well as smaller drawings of individual pieces and some of the more technical aspects.

“Hmm…” your gaze flit from one drawing to the next, intrigued. “Have you eaten?” you asked, glancing at him for only a moment.

“No. You had been bringing me my dinner, so I was waiting for you. That’s why I came to check on you. You’re not usually late.”

You chuckled dryly.

“Sorry…”

“It’s alright. You needed sleep.”

“If only I had actually gotten some…” you let out another dry chuckle.

You returned his sketches to him, retrieved his file from your desk, then gently led him out of the lab with a hand on his lower back. You could feel the metal medical corset beneath his shirt.

“Let’s head down to the kitchen. We can talk about your design while you eat.”

He looked as tired as you felt as he shuffled along beside you. It must have been a long day for him, too.

“I thought vampires don’t sleep,” he said as you called the elevator.

“We don’t sleep much, but we do sleep. Seven hours a week is fine.”

“An hour a night,” Viktor nodded. “Or do you prefer to do it all in one lump?”

“Honestly, I’m lucky to get three hours a month.”

“I know how that feels,” Viktor sighed.

There was a comfortable momentary silence before he spoke again.

“Do you want to talk about your dream, Doctor?”

You considered a moment.

“There’s not much to talk about… There were a lot of bodies and a lot of blood. People I knew and loved.”

“I see.”

The elevator dinged and let you off on the bottom floor of the academy, where you wound your way through the wide halls to the kitchen. Viktor had a lot of questions he wanted to ask you, but there were certain things that there was never a good moment to bring up. Doctor Sammor had said “I know what you’ve done.” What did he mean by that? Was he referring to the unsavory ends of the people you’d tested your blood on, or was there something else? He’d gotten a glimpse of a darker side of you that day, and he knew nothing of your past. There was no telling what kind of things you’d done in your long life. What kind of horrors you’d seen… or perhaps even caused.

The kitchen was empty, but there were a few people in the cafeteria still doing school work. You made Viktor a sandwich with some carrots on the side and poured him a glass of orange juice, then sat with him at an empty table in the corner near a big window. Thankfully, the sun was on the other side of the building and couldn’t reach you here. You spread the scans of his body and his brace design out in front of you so you could see them all at once. You both gave the spread a once-over. Viktor’s eyes lingered on the x-ray of his spine.

“How does one go about straightening a spine, exactly?”

You pulled the x-ray closer.

“Rather forcefully. Two straight metal bars bolted to either side will force it into a more natural position.”

“That sounds… unpleasant.”

“Yes, but don’t worry.” You offered him a comforting smile. “You’ll be asleep, and you’ll be given the best pain medication available to help you through recovery.”

“And you’ll be the one doing the surgery?”

“Yes. Unless you’d rather have someone else?”

“No. No, I think I’d be most comfortable if it’s you.”

“I don’t think I could trust anyone else to do it,” you admitted. “I have about one-hundred-and-fifty years more experience than the most experienced doctor. I was around when this surgery was still in its testing stages. I know what to do, but I also know what not to do.”

“I know I’m in good hands,” Viktor smiled.

You returned the smile, eyes lingering on his lips before turning your attention to the sketch of the back brace.

“The problem with our current methods is that it doesn’t leave much flexibility in the spine. The bars are rigid, so you won’t be able to bend. I’m hoping we can design something to replace the bars that will allow you more movement.”

You pointed to the main sketch.

“Honestly, this design looks really promising. This long spine piece here is articulated, right? One piece for each vertebrae… That could definitely work.”

Viktor nodded.

“Yes, and then the panels on the side and the chest piece will keep my ribs where they need to be.”

“Good,” you grinned at him, excited at the prospect of giving Viktor something more functional to wear.

The two of you lingered in the cafeteria for quite some time, going over the details of the sketch and the scans, tossing around ideas for different designs, and making sure that you could both work with what you’d come up with. The moon was well into the sky by the time you finally got Viktor to drop his pencil. You stretched and pushed yourself to your feet. A sharp pain ran up your hip and you stumbled forward, catching yourself on the edge of the table.

“Are you alright, Doctor?” Viktor asked, hand hovering just inches from your arm in case he should need to try and catch you.

“Yes,” you chuckled dryly and composed yourself.

“You are in pain,” he stated plainly.

You sighed and massaged your hip.

“Only sometimes,” you smiled softly, trying to reassure him. “Usually when I move too quickly.”

“Have you considered a cane?” he asked.

“I have, but I feel like I don’t need one enough to warrant getting one. I just need to move more carefully.”

He hummed, thoughtful.

“May I ask what causes the pain? I thought vampires were supposed to heal their injuries.”

You nodded and crossed your arms over your chest.

“We do heal, but sometimes old wounds still hurt.”

He was watching you with great interest, waiting for you to tell your story. You sighed and cleared your throat.

“It was during the Blood War,” you started. “There was an explosion and a building fell on me. Crushed me. I healed, yes, but I still have problems with my back and hips. Some days are worse than others.”

“I see.”

He felt stupid for not realizing that you were actually in the war four-hundred years ago. Had you been a doctor then, too, or had you been a warrior, fighting on the front lines?

“Viktor?”

“Hmm?” he blinked a few times. “Ah, sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“That’s alright.” You touched him gently on the shoulder.

Usually, he was averse to being touched. Your touch, though, he had come to find comfort in.

“Let’s head home, shall we?” you asked. “You need sleep.”

He chuckled and allowed you to lead him out of the cafeteria.

“I’ll sleep if you promise to, as well,” he said.

You sighed, but nodded.

“I’ll try.”

Viktor lived right across the hall from you, which it took you far too long to realize. You’d only figured it out when he was exiting his apartment at the same time as you one morning. You thought you could smell him in the hallway when you came and went, but you figured it was just his scent lingering on your clothes. To say you were delighted that he was so close was an understatement. You stopped him before he disappeared into his home.

“One more thing, Viktor. I almost forgot to tell you. I’m going to be heading up north in a few days to harvest more Snowbell root. I’ll be gone for… maybe two months?”

“Oh…” He didn’t like the thought of you leaving, though he couldn’t place exactly why. “You’ll… be safe, I hope?”

“Of course,” you smiled. “I’ll try not to be gone the whole two months, but those flowers are a pain to harvest, and even more of a pain to find.”

“I understand. I’ll be fine while you’re away, Doctor, you don’t have to worry about me.”

You nodded. You were worried. What if something happened while you were gone? What if he needed you and you weren’t there for him?

“Goodnight, Viktor,” you smiled.

He touched your forearm gently, mimicking a gesture he’d learned from you.

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

[stariikis]

colour your smile

synopsis ; when riki picks up a paintbrush, two problems surface. for him, it's fear of being unable to portray you perfectly. for you, you have no idea how to counter this fear of his. this fear that is a constant state of unrest in his mind.

pairing ; artist!nishimura riki x muse!reader genre ; fluff, established rs wc ; 1097 warnings ; kissing and implied mental disorders

It’s pretty difficult for Riki to encapsulate all your beauty into a painting. 

He’s tried, time and time again. Sat you down in his allocated ‘art studio’ room, a tiny part of the house where the grey walls are splotched rainbow. Watercolour palettes lie uncovered all over the room, one sitting just beside your boyfriend on the wooden bench he’s parked himself on. 

In front of him is a blank canvas – tainted only by the strokes of graphite that sketch the outlines of your features. Wispy hair that partially covers your eyes, your button nose quickly drawn into a nub, and your smile accurately depicted, eager and wide. Riki captures the very essence of who you are, with little effort at all. 

It doesn’t look difficult to you, because he makes it look effortless. Like with one snap of his fingers, he can churn out another portrait of you. But it really seems like he does. To Riki, however, it’s not so easy. He tilts and turns his head, muttering dissatisfied remarks to himself. More often than not, he spends more than an hour sketching you and touching up ‘mistakes’. ‘Mistakes’ that you never even saw. ‘Mistakes’ that look like nothing in your eyes, but make all the difference to your perfectionist of a boyfriend. 

“You know what?” You murmur, slightly tired of having to endure another few hours of him scrutinising your portrait. “Why don’t you just try to paint freely? Without thinking about the quality. Keep your focus on me, paint as if you have nothing to hold you back.” 

Riki finally draws his eyes away from the surface of his canvas. He meets your gaze, looking remorseful as he does so. “I wish I could. But then I’d see all the errors and feel guilty. Wouldn’t you?” 

You slide closer to him from the opposite side of the wooden bench. You gently tug the paintbrush from his fingers, placing it beside the watercolour set that looks horrifyingly dry and crackled. “Are you scared?” 

Deep emotions. You take his hands in your own.

You feel them surging deep inside his veins, the whimsical vibrancy of colour flowing along the current. His imagination is running wild but he’s restricting it himself. Out of fear he’s going to mess up. Afraid it’s going to turn out worse than expected. When he looks away, running a hand through his hair and nodding, you’re hardly surprised. 

“Relax.” 

You whisper into the silence. 

“It’s going to be fine.” 

His fingers start to tremble. 

“Your beauty is too complex to be depicted in a simple painting,” he finally speaks, inhaling deeply from his own confession. “Everything looks grey — it looks so plain and so boring, and your smile there – so not you. I have to make this you, I have to do you and your beautiful smile justice.” 

“One hue off the right colour of your hair already scares me to my depths. Everything is so colourless and bare and empty I can’t even tell these strokes apart.” He runs his fingers along the bumps on the wall, forest green fading into baby blue and a harsh strike of vermillion. “I don’t remember how these came about but I remember they’re strokes of frustration.”

“Frustration?” You urge him, patiently. He’s still distracted, rambling and refusing to meet your eyes. But he’s an artist, and you’ve already resigned to putting up with episodes like these for a while now. At the same time, you understand. In your own way, you are an artist too. The only difference between you and Riki is,

you’re bold and daring. You see all the shades the rainbow has to offer. You complete your pieces without a second thought. Of course, they’re never top quality, but they’re satisfactory to yourself. 

Riki is hesitant. He sees in black and white, occasionally shades of grey bleeding into borderline brown. He feels it’s his duty to reflect and duplicate everything about his object perfectly. Like looking into a mirror, it should properly align with reality. It should elicit appropriate emotion. It should reflect all his object’s best qualities. He should be able to make them shine. 

And when he doesn’t, he lashes out. 

“What if?” He scrunches the apron hanging over his thighs. Lost in thought, you wonder whether he’s coming back down to earth or if his head is still in the clouds. Worrying and worrying and worrying. “What if I can’t do it again?” 

“You need to free yourself…” 

Ironically, you know what he needs the most to free himself, is a long, warm embrace that calms his mind. Bring him back down. Teach him to breathe again. You lean back to snatch the paintbrush and palette, holding it in front of him. His gaze clears and begins to transfix onto the materials in your hand. “This is what you came to do. Is it not?” 

He takes it with a shaky hand and blank stare. 

“I think it looks pretty,” you kiss his cheek quickly and slide back into position. “That’s your intention. I know. I look pretty there.” 

Your heart aches for him. Will he ever shake off his overbearing perfectionism and learn to enjoy the talents and skills he’s been blessed with? 

With adoring eyes, he turns back to the canvas and thankfully begins working on it. You hope the profound sparkle in his eye has signalled a change. Everything falls into routine, and you’re stuck breathing in the same scent of must and dried paint for the next few hours. 

Luckily for you, Riki seems to have let the weight evaporate from his shoulders. He can finally take smiley glances your way to compare his portrait and you. He can lean back with a pleased and impressed glimmer in his orbs. Every once in a while, he gives you and kiss and thanks you for staying so still and remaining so patient. 

You know his words carry more intent than he wants to let show. 

“You like it?”

Three hours later, he finally spins the portrait around and lets you have the first look as the muse. Though many portraits of your face have lined his walls since you started dating, you’re pleasantly surprised to feel something different. Though the paintings may all look similar. Same face. Same eyes, nose, ears, cheeks, hair, moles in the same spots. There’s a hint of confidence emanating from the mish-mash of colours. 

And Riki looks satisfied. 

“I can finally see the colours,” he rasps in excitement, cutely clapping his hands together. “I could finally colour your smile.”

i just got diagnosed with chronic migraines (i'm having one rn but it's because i'm not sleeping) so this is pretty self-indulgent. i am riki riki is me. ALSO. riki's aotm i'm shitting tears

more of my works >

[glassrowboat]

🎲 muehehehe get diced >:3 🪐

Anatomy. Welt Yang.

Prompt: 13. Kiss to the chest

Word Count: 1,500+

Thank you for the ask, Stardust <3 Now we just gotta fan over Welt together

The mattress hit your knees as you stepped backward, the cushions something you barely had the chance to register the comfort of before you were tripping over your own two feet and falling backward. The form on top of you doing little to help. Rather, it was only making it worse as Welt fell on top of you with an over exaggerated oof! Hair askew and glasses nearly falling off his nose from the game of tag you two were playing only minutes before around his room.

Having ducked around the desk, the trashcan full of crumpled up paper, a giant stuffy March gifted him as a thank you for helping her on their last shared Trailblaze mission, and lastly workout equipment.

All over one pencil.

His favorite, or so, Welt claimed. Apparently, it had the perfect grip, so it sat comfortably in his hand. To draw, it proved the best one was familiar with the materials they used. Like how every painter has a favorite medium as either watercolor, gouache, ect, seeped into the bristles of their brush.

Graphite covered the side of his hand, staining it a metallic gray you had grown accustomed to seeing in him when he slipped the gloves off and sat before the sketchbook he kept. One that was nearly falling apart now, bindings getting looser with every time he pried it open to add another drawing to the collection. If not that, to slip pages of your own horrendous attempts at doodling him away for safekeeping.

Despite your protests to simply crumple the paper up and toss it away as the garbage you saw it as, Welt insisted otherwise. Said it was something precious to keep, memories embedded in the scribbles that could barely resemble a human face. Nothing like his art. Not from what you've seen, at least.

You had seen him make circles and lines into something more than what you could see them as. A circle turned into a head, a box into a ribcage, a line, and another line paired together to make tweezers. It was only when that item was added did it click in your mind he was drawing the picture he took of you earlier that day plucking your eyebrows. For some reason.

“I believe this means you owe me my own materials back.”

“Now why would I do that?” You asked, trying to hold out your arm even further so Welt couldn't slip it out of your hold. To pluck it from your hand like one would a loose string on a shirt. Or, as is the case with the two of you, his scarf. Though, it's not like your effort could do much against the man who could, quite literally, make the item float out of your hand and back into his own.

Surely that had to be classified as cheating.

“Are you going back on your word from before, honey? I distinctly recall you saying you could wait for me to finish what I was working on.”

Yet here you are, still trying to play keep away.

“Yeah, but then I got bored.”

A sigh. One that brushed against your skin from how close he was. Like this, you could even make out the sparkle in his eyes. Or it could just be a speck of lint on his lenses. One of the two. “I suppose that's fair.”

“Exactly. So….” You trailed off. Honestly, you weren't expecting to get this far, so it wasn't a surprise you found your own words to be suddenly falling flat. “Well, if you are so intent on focusing on art, why don't you teach me something?”

There, interactive. An olive branch offered to his outstretched hand, grasping something you can do together.

“Teach you?” Welt repeated, mulling over the words as they rolled over his tongue. “I can work with that.”

The pencil was pulled from your hand before you could even whine in protest as he pulled away. Leaving you to place it on his sketchbook only to return shortly after. Mattress creaking once again as hands, now free to do as they pleased, slid along your cheek. Thumb right under your eye.

“You're a hands-on student, aren't you? If I remember correctly…”

“I am.”

Welt muttered an “excellent” as his thumb brushed through your lashes. Your eye squeezed shut on instinct, but this didn't seem to deter him at all. “Then we can start with our first lesson now.”

“That being, professor?” You didn't miss his eyebrows burrowing ever so slightly at the nickname, but still you smiled up at him like nothing was wrong.

“Basic shapes. We can start through profiles as an example.” His touch moved to the eyebags you had been sporting that morning, running along the colored hue of the skin that gave away your bad sleeping habits. Again. “The head is not perfectly rounded, but the shape that resembles the dome of the skull the best is still a circle. Eyes are round under the lid, also best drawn using a circle first.”

“I'm getting some real creepy imagery here, teach.”

“I can understand that. It might have been easier to pull up images instead to give you something to see. To lead by example.”

“But?” You asked, head tilting ever so slightly as you watched Welt silently mouth words.

“But first, let me ask you something. When I ask you to pick something round, specifically on the human body, what do you think of first?”

Well, your first thought was balls, but you were going to keep that one under a tight lid. Maybe even in a trash can. Though that does risk the chance of Stelle rummaging through and finding your secrets.

Second? Well, that was easy.

“The callous on your finger.”

Accrued from hours, days, years even of leaning over pen and paper and letting the images in his mind come to life. Something that's not perfectly round, but it always caught your attention nonetheless. Your own fingers ran over the bump anytime you hold hands.

“I think of a ring.” Before you could question him on that, Welt slid his thumb over your lips. It was second nature to press a kiss to it, just like it was second nature for him to smile at the gesture. “Or that earring you always lose and I have to find for you.”

“No need to call me out like that.”

“Ah, I apologize.” The look in Welt's eyes was enough to tell you that even if he was sorry, he still knew he had a point.

“Yeah, yeah, what else? I can't learn to draw from circles alone, professor.”

“This 'professor’ is beginning to think the student is in a rush. Now that's no good way to get A’s in my,” He took a moment to look around the room again, taking in the place you two shared and made your own on the express, “class.”

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry.”

“Your tone tells me otherwise.”

You bit your lip, trying to stop the smirk that was hoping to overcome you.

“As for more lessons, there are topics we can focus on.”

As he spoke, Welt's hand slid down your neck, tracing the hollow where the skin met your collarbone. Your shirt shifted ever so slightly out of the way, brushing against your skin the same way he was as his lips fell to meet yours.

“Anatomy, for example.”

“Now that's a big step from shapes.”

A giant leap, actually. You couldn't even draw a perfect circle, but here he is suggesting something that you've seen even him struggle with. Reference photos had been pulled up countless times as he drew. It was that, or, you'd find Welt standing before the mirror to see how his body shifts in this new pose. He's even asked you to indulge him once or twice and move along with how he places you, pen in his mouth as he chews on it to help him think. Or so he claims.

“No need to worry, we can start small. Besides, did you not just say you can't learn to draw from circles alone?”

Ahh, your own words. What a great way to turn them around and shove them back in your mouth. Something to choke on for fun.

“And what is this something small, professor?”

Fingers toyed with your shirt, unbuttoning it as Welt looked up at you, making sure this was okay. Just like he always did. With your nod, he continued, undoing the top three until the tank top you were underneath was peaking out.

“It's simple. Simple enough that I can show you.” Welt said. His lips met your chest, heart thrumming under him, beating wildly in an attempt to escape and give him what has already been his since the moment you first saw his smile at a stupid dad joke. Of all things.

“But something tells me this will be easier to do without these clothes in the way. Do you mind, honey?”

And of course you didn't mind at all.

[heldbybarnes]

artist!reader helping bucky see the world in color again after spending so much of it in the dark😭

AHHHHHH. I almost didn't write this it was so adorably painful.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

----------

He told you once that the world looked gray.

You’d asked him—half asleep in the orange haze of a late afternoon sun—what his favorite color was. He’d shrugged, then said, “I don’t really have one. Everything’s just… dull.”

And your heart ached.

Because Bucky Barnes had survived the worst kind of darkness, and even though the war was over and the trigger words had lost their grip, there were still pieces of him trapped in grayscale. Still corners of his mind where the light couldn’t quite reach. Still mornings when he’d wake up and stare at the wall like it might swallow him whole.

So you painted him a sunrise.

Not a small one. A massive, untamed canvas that took over half your apartment’s living room. Layers of warm tangerine and coral bled into lavender, soft gold kissed the corners. You didn’t show it to him right away. You let it dry. Let it breathe. Let it become what it needed to become.

And then, when he came over one evening—wet hair from the shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up, boots tracking the rain in—you pulled the sheet off with a quiet sort of reverence.

“This is how I see you,” you said.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Like he didn’t know what to say. Like his brain couldn’t reconcile the softness of it all with who he believed himself to be. His fingers twitched at his sides.

You didn’t push. You never did. Just watched as he stepped closer, eyes wide, lips parted.

After a long moment, he whispered, “Why?”

You shrugged. “Because you deserve to know that even after everything—there’s still beauty. And you’re a part of it.”

He didn’t answer. But he kissed you like you’d given him something holy.

It became a ritual after that.

You’d paint while he sat nearby, reading or cleaning his weapons or just watching. Sometimes you’d hand him a brush. Sometimes he’d take it and do nothing with it but hold on, like touching the same tools you used might anchor him in the same world.

He liked mixing colors. You’d catch him quietly swirling blue into white or smearing charcoal into sienna until it looked like a storm. He never painted anything recognizable. Just shapes. Moods.

You never made him explain them.

One night, you turned to find him staring at your palette like it had all the answers.

“I used to dream in color,” he said, barely above a murmur. “A long time ago. I’d see my ma’s apron—she had this one with little red cherries—and I could smell her cooking. Steve’s sketchbook was always covered in graphite, but he’d draw with these colored pencils I gave him once. And then…”

He didn’t finish. You didn’t make him.

Instead, you slid your stool over and dipped your fingers into a pot of gold paint. Gently, you pressed a fingertip just below the corner of his eye.

A shimmer of color on a war-worn face.

He let out a broken breath. Then he did it back—dipping into a pale blue, swiping it along your jaw.

You smiled.

On your birthday, he gave you a painting.

It wasn’t framed. Just a thick canvas, roughly textured and chaotic. The strokes were messy and the colors didn’t blend right, but you could see what it was—an outstretched hand holding a bouquet of wildflowers, each one jagged and imperfect and real.

“They’re for you,” he said, voice tight. “They don’t grow right. Not for you. But they’re yours.”

You didn’t need them to be perfect.

You saw what he couldn’t: the effort behind every stroke, the thought in each crooked stem, the courage it took to try. It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever made for you. Because it was him. Messy. Earnest. Still learning how to believe he could create something soft.

You stepped forward, one hand sliding around the back of his neck, the other resting over his heart.

“They’re perfect,” you whispered. “Just like this.”

He kissed you then, forehead to forehead, breath trembling against your lips like he was scared it would all disappear if he looked away too long. You held him until his chest stopped heaving, until the shaking in his hands stilled.

After that, he started bringing you little things.

A crumpled leaf he said looked like burnt umber. A photograph of the sky when the clouds parted just right. A piece of sea glass he found on a walk, edges smoothed into softness.

“I thought you'd like this shade,” he’d mumble, cheeks pink, as if you might laugh at him.

You never did.

Instead, you’d place each treasure on the shelf above your workbench, letting them gather like proof of his healing. Proof that the world was becoming more vivid through his eyes.

One night, wrapped in blankets and tangled limbs, you traced your fingers down the center of his chest and said, “You know, I think you’re made of color.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” You kissed the dip between his collarbones. “Carmine for your anger. Indigo for your grief. Ochre for your steadiness. And maybe… maybe there’s a little blush pink in there, too.”

He groaned softly, trying not to smile. “Don’t make me blush, sweetheart.”

“You already are.”

He rolled over and pinned you to the mattress, laughing into your neck, but there were tears in his eyes.

Because for so long, all he’d known was red—blood, fury, war.

But now you were showing him how much more there was.

How many shades a heart could hold.

The first time he said “I love you,” it was in your studio. You had paint on your hands, music low in the background, your brush still mid-stroke when he stepped behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist.

He pressed his lips to the crook of your neck and whispered, “I love you.”

Just like that.

No fanfare. No trembling buildup.

Just truth.

You turned in his arms, searching his eyes, and found no gray left in them—only deep, clear blue and the faintest ring of gold where the light caught.

“I love you too,” you breathed, and the world bloomed around you like a garden in full color.

Years later, when people asked him about you—about the strange, lovely artist he followed like a sunflower tracks the sun—he’d say the same thing every time.

“She painted me back to life.”

And maybe he was right.

But you knew the truth.

He’d always had color in him.

You’d just helped him see it.