#On shitty paper that smudges everything

[kairiscorner]

hihiii pookie :DD!!

tw// mentions of depression

i'm wondering if you could maybe write a comfort fic about miles 42 with a reader who hates asking for help even when theyre clearly suffering in silence because they were taught to just 'suck it up' and deal with it alone as a kid?

you dont have to write this if you dont feel comfortable with it <33

Thank you pooks :33!!

hi pooks @jrrantss <:DD oh man, okay so i was kind of that kid back then too (though i was a big crybaby) it's like the adults around me didn't fully comprehend why i was feeling the way i was, so in response to that, they basically condemned crying at home or in front of them. i'm sorry if you went through something similar or, hopefully not, something worse ;-; i hope this provides you some comfort, and in a way, might also let you know you aren't the only one going through stuff like this. i'm here for you pookie, all the time <:)

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

you can be honest with me. – miles 42 x reader (angst + comfort)

nothing went your way this week, hell, you couldn't even remember a week in your life when anything felt right, when you didn't feel that you were holding yourself back from letting go of everything that felt wrong, awful, and just... painful. you were too good at keeping secrets, too good at lying about how you really felt; and that was something you hated about yourself, how you found lying as your first nature, not your second. you lied to people when they'd ask you if you were doing okay, if your day was going alright–you always gave them the answers they want to hear, that you were fine, that nothing was wrong.

but when everything just comes crumbling down, and the cracks in your facade begin to show and become more obvious... you get more and more defensive, more and more angry, more and more... scared and worried about these feelings that are hurling themselves at you so quickly that you can't even begin to understand why they're affecting you so badly–why people can see the bare you now if you just turn your face to look at them or open your mouth to speak; and your boyfriend was the first person to see you this way, vulnerable, yet trying all you can to avoid that vulnerability while you're crumbling down.

"hey," miles calls out to you in a soft voice as he sees your back turned to him as you kept working on your assignments, hunched over at your desk with your brows furrowed together and your lips curved into a scowl. you had been avoiding him for a few days now–at least he thinks you might be avoiding him–and have acted very distant, very... out of it recently. you didn't turn your head around to face him, which prompted him to continue talking, hopefully so you could find a reason to face him and his worried eyes. "you've, um... you've been busy lately." "uh-huh." you hummed as you tapped the end of your pencil against your desk impatiently, racking your brain for the answer to the questions written down that all seemed to blur together as the shittiness of the previous days just irritated you even more, and the worst part was... you couldn't hide the fact you can't mask ot anymore.

miles' face contorted as he got more and more worried about you, not knowing why you were acting starkly different than the usual you, or the only you he was familiar with. he extended his hand out to you as he walked over, looking at your cluttered up papers on your desk and the smudged up marks on the paper from your erasures. "...is something wr–" "everything's fine, i'm fine, i'm just peachy!" "you don't sound very convincing." he said, his voice returning to his nonchalant, cool tone as he took a small glimpse at your face before you turned away from his field of vision.

he sat in the chair next to you and wrapped his arm around you in an effort to comfort you. "cielo, sonething's up with you. are you... are you sure you don't wanna let me help?" he asked you with a soft voice, hoping he didn't overstep any boundaries as you slowly turned your head to show him a bit of your face. there were tears in your eyes, though you didn't dare let miles see them fall down your face; there was a sob stuck in your throat, but you didn't dare let miles hear it escape your lips. you had been there before, being severely troubled for more things than just homework–but never had you been advised to do anything than the age old phrases you've heard all your life as a kid: 'get over it.'

you took in a deep breath and tried to tell him what those words you've exhausted yourself from saying all the damn time–that you don't need any help, that you've got this, that you're okay... but your body's betraying you right now. it's betraying you for turning your back on your own feelings, but that... was never your fault, never. as you let out the breath you've been holding in, the hot tears came streaking down the ends of your eyes, your scowl morphing into a sad frown as you felt yourself slowly come undone and all the raging thoughts in your mind boiled down into one thought right then and there: 'fuck no, i am far from okay'.

you had one tear come down, then two, then... a whole waterfall of tears came pouring down your eyes as you finally released that sob you had been desperately keeping in. you had released it out into the air as it mingled with miles' shushing and gentle whispers as he held you while you leaned against him, wailing as you tried telling him how nothing had been right lately. you choked out in broken cries how you desperately wanted a way out of everything horrible that's been happening but you didn't want anyone else to be bothered by your 'stupid, insignificant problems'.

"i just... want to be okay... but i can't even pretend to be okay for at least one damn day." "please, stop pretending, mi vida. it's hurting me how you... how you think it's strength to rake up everything by yourself... when you clearly need help." miles said with a cracked voice as he felt himself choke up at your melancholic state. you cried even more out of guilt that you saddened miles, but he kissed your forehead, cheek–your whole face as he murmured words of reassurance, of love, to you to calm you down and comfort you. "you're not alone, not anymore... i don't care if some idiots in your life want you to deal with alone, never to bother them–you're never a bother to me, got that?" he mutters to you as he holds you close, letting you sob into his shoulder, your sobs getting louder and louder all the while. he shushes you and rubs your back gently, kissing your wet cheeks as he keeps reminding you that no matter what you're going through, what problems you're having, he's always going to be there for you–be the help you'll need, one way or another.

"please, don't be scared, mi vida... you can be honest with me. i promised to love you with all my heart, protect you, and... always be the help you'll need."

he whispered to you as he looked into your eyes and gently wiped your tears away and leaned his forehead against yours, hoping you would be more lenient, more understanding towards yourself and your own needs; and that you wouldn't hesitate to ask him for help. because even if you don't ask him to, he'll be there to help you, be there to guide you, be there to comfort you the best he can. because he loves you, and knows you deserve more than what you think you deserve, that you deserve... the best of the best, and nothing less.

tags !! @ii01vq @luvstarrstruck @maxoloqy @k4tsu3 @solecitoszn @toneystank-3000 @fiannee @popeheywardssecretgf @lovefrominaya @onginlove @meowmoraless @q2ie @zalayni @anikaluv @conitagray

#earth 42 miles morales #earth 42 miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles morales x you #earth 42 miles morales x y/n #earth 42 miles morales comfort #earth 42 miles #earth 42 miles x reader #e42 miles x reader #miles 42 #miles 42 x reader #atsv #atsv comfort #atsv imagines #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse x reader

[mylarena]

i dont see enough soulmate aus so. inspired by this post by @hyperfixationwizard, soulmate au where drawings and ink on skin show up on ur soulmates skin (not scars bc there would be so fucking much going on with that and im not gonna write abt itdgthfgh)

anyways. soap has always love doodling- with anything. pencil, pen, crayon, marker, whatever he could get his hands on. he’d doodle on anything and everything. the walls (when he was a kid, mainly), paper, cardboard, desks in school, napkins... but by far, his favorite was to draw on his own skin. the thought of his work showing up on someone else, someone he was practically made for and they for him- something that they could share, something that they could keep secret and hold close to their chests- it was enough to make him giddy.

so, he doodled. a pretty flower he saw on his walk to school, curling around his wrist. a bird perched on the bench across from him at the park, taking flight on the back of his hand. the stray cat that hung out on his porch, draped across his thigh. sometimes if he didnt have a notebook with him, messy schematics and notes for devices- no, ma, thats not an explosive, he swears- scrawled on his forearm.

he never sees anything from his soulmate- he checks every single day for any new marks, any words, but he never finds any. still, he keeps drawing. it doesnt usually get to him, the fact that his soulmate doesnt give him responses, but sometimes he cant help but think too much. he wonders if his soulmate likes the drawings, which leads to the thought of them not liking them, or finding them annoying, or if they think theyre bad.

one day, he caves under his thoughts and writes his first question to his soulmate, right under a bundle of primroses- “do you want me to stop?”

he waits anxiously for hours, not knowing if he’ll be able to feel the reply, or if he has to look for it, or if there even will be one-

then he feels it- a sort of pins-and-needles sensation on his left arm. he frantically rolls up his sleeve and his eyes are immediately drawn to the letters that appear on his skin. once the writing stops, he stares with wide eyes at the single word left behind- shaky, smudged, and a bit runny in some spots-

“no.”

and so he doesnt stop.

he keeps drawing, slowly moving from small little doodles of primroses on his arms and songbirds on his hands to sprawling meadows that wrap around his forearms and ravens spreading their wings across his thighs. sometimes he adds words- always short encouragements, positive quotes, or funny thoughts he has. he never gets responses, but he knows that his soulmate is still around by the occasional ink smudge that appears. anytime one appears, he incorporates them into a drawing. sometimes its a silly little doodle, and other times he spends hours creating beautiful, complex landscapes centered around them.

for years, his soulmate holds their silence. soap doesnt mind. he knows that they appreciate his art and words. at least, thats the thought he holds onto. he never holds it against his soulmate- the whole not-responding thing. hes well aware that he can be a lot to handle; hes heard it constantly from the majority of the people in his life. he just hopes that maybe his soulmate can tolerate him more than most.

he was 14 when things changed.

he had gotten home from school, completely ignoring his parents in the kitchen and opting to power walk to his room. it had been a shitty day; he had overslept and missed the bus, causing him to be late to class, and then some dickwads from the year above him decided that he was a good target to snag lunch money from, (really? stealing a kids lunch money? why would they pick something so fucking cliche? god, get some fresh material,) and to top it all off he got a shit grade on his book report.

as usual, his solution to a bad mood is to draw, get his emotions out on a page instead of letting them linger in his mind. unlike usual, though, he decides to bypass his notebook and instead grabs a pen, chooses a clear spot on his arm.

it took a while, but he finally ran out of steam to continue- it had been nearly two hours since he began. he was about to walk over to his bed and flop face down into his pillow when he felt it- the pins-and-needles of words being written that he had only felt once before. his eyes zeroed in on his arm, right under the drawing he had finished.

“two goldfish are in a tank. one turns to the other and asks, ‘do you know how to drive this thing?’”

soap snorts, more due to the situation than the shitty joke itself- and rushes to grab his pen again. no chance he was letting this opportunity slip by.

“why was the strawberry crying?”

“why?”

“because he was in a jam.”

and so the night continued like that- they exchanged shitty jokes back and forth for hours that night, up until soap was called for dinner.

#myposting #soaptag #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #soap x ghost #ghost/soap #soap/ghost #ghoap #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ive been writing this all day and its not actually finished but!!! #mydrabbles

[unicyclehippo]

'halcyon'

dictionary definition: halcyon - adj. denoting a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful; n. 1. a mythical bird said by ancient writers to breed in a nest floating at sea at the winter solstice, charming the wind and waves into calm / 2. a tropical Asian and African kingfisher with brightly coloured plumage.

//

the halcyon of home, by nancy wheeler

robin stands for a long minute at the newspaper stand, eyes locked on those words, that name.

'this isn't a library,' the vendor tells her. she's about as old as robin's mother, with wrinkles all around her mouth from frowning and the tight squeeze of her lips around a permanent cigarette, which she stubs out on her ashtray before lighting another. 'buy something or piss off.'

'charming as always, mrs. k. i'll take one of these.' the vendor grunts. rings her up and holds out a hand for the coin. robin hesitates, pulls a bigger note from her wallet. 'actually, make that three.'

mrs. k - who still, after six months of seeing robin every single morning, refuses to divulge what the k stands for - frowns. 'they're all the same, kid.'

'yes, i know.'

'and i'm not cheatin' you on the flyers either.'

'i didn't think you were, mrs. k.' she's still eyeing robin like she's insulted her deeply and since this was the cheapest coffee around - far from the best, but definitely the cheapest - robin hurries to explain. 'it's - my friend. she wrote this article. front page, can you believe it?' true, it's a small newspaper and also true, it's the tiniest square robin has ever seen squeezed into the bottom right, on the footer, proclaiming MORE ON PAGE FOUR but that's nancy wheeler's name in print, first page.

'oh,' mrs k. croaks. 'well, fine. good for her. three buck sixty.'

robin counts every precious coin out into her hand. has to dig into her jacket pockets for the last few cents but finally she has enough and she scoops the three copies into her satchel.

'here.' mrs. k slides a styrofoam cup of coffee onto the bench. 'had to drain the pot,' she lies, and robin beams.

'you're my favourite.'

'i'm married,' she retorts, and blows a stream of smoke in robin's direction.

robin laughs, stepping out of the cloud with her prize in hand. she gives mrs. k a jaunty salute and as she hurries down the street to class, she does so with an honest-to-god whistle.

the first copy is, of course, hers to read. the second, she carefully snips out of its page and stuffs into an envelope, slides it into the front page of the book she's been meaning to send to nancy for three weeks now, along with a quick note of congratulations. the third she spends far too long organising but finally everything fits in frame - the whole front page of the newspaper, date and headlines blaring from the title, and the more contained page four that has all of nancy's meticulous, rigorous article indelibly stamped on paper.

she takes a polaroid of the set-up - the cheap wooden frame where leans against the wall on top of her bedroom dresser (she's not allowed to hang anything in this apartment), the pages arranged side-by-side within it - and slips that inside the envelope too. sends it off with that evening's post. when she gets home from the post office, robin settles down on the squashed balcony, paper on her lap, another equally shitty coffee in her hand, to read it again. she drags her fingers along nancy's name, that irrefutable proof of victory, and her fingers come away smudged grey with ink.

there is no one around to see her lick her finger and turn the page.

#st tag #short prompt #ronance #robin my beloved

[pizza-is-my-buziness]

I love your fic so much I’ve been keeping up with it every time it posts! If you’re still taking prompts for small fics, persnaps something about the shadyside killers (Sarah-Cyrus-Harry-Isaac-Billy-tommy-Ruby-ryan-or-Sam, or some or all or nothing, take your pick) + the word “kind”? No worries if not!! Thank you have an awesome day

Thank you so much for your kind words! It means a lot to me to know that there are people who enjoy my writing! It makes me so happy!

And thanks for the prompt! I really hope that I was able to get the vibe that you were after? I went a lot more abstract with this one I think...especially in terms of using the word. I wanted to play around a bit with your mention of the Shadyside Killers...so hopefully this worked out okay? Thanks again!

“I thought I might find you here.”

Without looking away from the screen in front of her, Sam reaches over to pull her bag out of the chair next to the one she’s currently occupying, suggesting that she, too, had thought Deena might find her here. Deena sits, hooking an ankle around the leg of Sam’s chair, a not-quite-touching gesture that will just have to do for now. The Sunnyvale Public Library is about ten times nicer than the one in Shadyside and therefore about ten times more crowded, which means that there are plenty of eyes belonging to people who are likely willing to gossip. So, for a while, there’s just this: Sam the intrepid investigator and Deena her dutiful assistant. At least until it’s time for the assistant to provide the ride home, which often takes the least direct route possible.

Deena leans over Sam’s shoulder -another just close enough gesture that lets her smell Sam’s floral shampoo and see the smudge of ink against her cheek- to study the microfiche on the screen. For the past few weeks, this has been their sort of routine, a supplement for secret weekend dates. Secret library research sessions, which are slightly less romantic in Deena’s opinion but do come with the added benefit of Sam’s brow furrowed in concentration and the rather embarrassing side effect of the smell of old books and ink making her pulse start to race. It’s becoming slightly awkward to have to use the library at school these days.

“Finding anything?”

“I think so,” Sam says and she turns her head to reach for the notebook open beside her, the gesture little more than that to anyone who might have happened to glance in their direction, but her lips ghost against Deena’s cheek thanks to their closeness and the feeling of being in on the joke rather than the butt of it is enough to make Deena smile. “There are a lot of articles here about the choir competitions from that year.”

Deena looks at the notebook that Sam has given her, the reimagined version of Josh’s own Shadyside Killers wall of fame. Deena is certain that once upon a time her brother would’ve seethed with envy over the articles and notes that Sam has managed to dig up over the past few weeks, but his enthusiasm has waned recently. Which is understandable, given, you know…literally everything.

Judging by the articles and anecdotes Sam has complied, she would’ve been an impressive addition to Josh’s nerdy chat rooms.

“Here.” Sam taps the screen and Deena looks up from the notebook open in her lap. “March of 1965. The choir teacher talks about giving Ruby a solo and how good and sweet she is.”

The collection of decades and decades worth of Shadyside daily papers might be the closest Sunnyvale has ever gotten to acknowledging the existence of their neighbors in any concrete way. It’s impressive, and even a little touching, to see so much history stored and cataloged and kept so carefully, all these stories of everyday life scattered amongst all the shitty parts of living in Shadyside. The unemployment, the crime, the references to the grass being far, far greener on the other side of the county line. Looking at the article Sam has found, the grainy black and white photo of the Shadyside High choir department, is just further proof of the inevitability that had once been as much a part of Shadyside as any of the rest of it. In a few months, the star singer would be on the front page of the paper instead of hidden toward the back, that same smiling face stuck beside a headline detailing her gruesome murders, along with the chilling detail of how she’d sang and smiled while bringing down the razor blade.

“Yeah,” Deena says softly and there’s a tightness in her throat, a chill in the base of her spine, that she feels guilty for but still can’t shake entirely. It’s hard not to think of Ruby as the ghost that had stalked past her, smelling of roses and earth, the razor in her hand winking in the fluorescent light. “I think Mrs. Lane still has the trophy from this one, right?”

Sam nods, tapping the keyboard to start the commands to send the page to the bulky printer in the front of the library. The librarians have long stopped giving Sam strange looks as she hands over the change to collect the papers, clearly no longer interested in why this seemingly cheerful Sunnyvale girl is so adamantly interested in the history of the Shadyside Killers.

“Yeah,” Sam nods, scrolling through the rest of the paper just in case some other story might be lurking around, just waiting to be uncovered. “I think that was the one she showed us the last time we went over there.”

It had been those visits, first awkward and initiated by Ziggy but now slightly less so and easier to sit through, that had started this whole project, this desire that Deena tries to understand in Sam to comb through years’ worth of old newspapers and files for information that hadn’t made its way to Josh’s murder wall in the basement. Because while Josh had been focused on the killers themselves, Sam has been carefully excavating the tiny details of their lives before a Goode placed their names on the wall and traded their lives over for his own. Sam had asked Mrs. Lane about Ruby, the tentative question the first thing spoken after several minutes of uncomfortable silence during that first visit, and once the woman had seemed to determine that Sam was genuinely interested, not just fishing for gossip the way so many had done before her for decades, she had opened up, a weight seeming to leave her shoulders one word at a time.

Then it had been Sam wondering aloud, her head pillowed on Deena’s stomach and Deena’s fingers in her hair as they’d lain Deena’s bed and listened to music, about the other killers, the ones they’d seen and the ones they hadn’t, whose voices had brushed the edges of that darkness that had settled over her, a tapestry of whispered voices in the black. “Cyrus,” Deena had found herself saying, the words escaping her lips before she could really even think about them, “I remember…he was…different. Kind. Gentle. Everyone seemed to really love him…before…you know.” The memories had been uncertain, ill-fitting in her mind and belonging to someone else but still there nonetheless.

She wonders if they’ll always be there, these memories of Sarah Fier’s that sometimes bump against her own without warning or invitation. Wonders if that’s how it is for Sam, too, to have that shared consciousness of all Goode’s other chosen victims still lurking at the edges of her mind, slipping out from time to time like the vestiges of a nightmare.

Sam had nodded, sat up, the weight of her an immediate loss that had left Deena feeling half-empty. “I bet they all were. Before…” There had been something in her eyes, a flash of sadness masquerading as anger. “But all anyone remembers about them is that they were murderers. Not…people.”

Deena had propped herself on her elbows, studying the spots of color in Sam’s cheeks, the blue of her eyes, the messiness of her hair that had been caused by Deena’s own fingers, all things that she wanted to hold on to for when Sam was home again, and her room felt too empty and too quiet. “Yeah, sure…but I have a feeling no one is going to be that interested in talking about stuff like that.” She’d shrugged. “Helping old ladies cross the street or whatever isn’t as interesting as hacking people to death with an axe.”

“It could’ve been me,” Sam had pointed out, taking Deena’s face gently between her palms, their eyes meeting. “It would’ve been me, if it hadn’t been for you. And you wouldn’t have let anyone forget about who I was before.”

Then had been those first articles, teased out easily enough from the newspaper archives sixteen years before. And then further back. Boy Scout fundraisers. Choir competitions. Baseball games. Kiwanis Club meetings. Things left behind by people who wouldn’t be remembered as anything but blood-thirsty killers, no matter how many articles Sam found and printed and cataloged away in her notebook.

Just like Sarah Fier, who would probably never stop being the witch who had cursed an entire town even though Nick Goode had been arrested for murdering a few people who would likely be forgotten in a few years anyway. Stories never die.

Deena flips through the pages of Sam’s notebook, the printed articles glued and taped in place, coupled with Sam’s own scribbled notes in the margins. “Have you decided what you’re going to do with all this stuff?”

Sam frowns, looking away from the screen in front of them. “I…” She presses her lips into a thin line, shaking her head. “I know it’s a waste of time, it’s-”

“It’s not a waste,” Deena says and their knees brush against the desk. “It’s not.”

“It feels like it matters.” Sam’s voice is quiet, her gaze on the hands in her lap. “I know what it felt like to…to just feel like there wasn’t anything left…like I was going crazy and the only thing that would make it stop would be to…”

She doesn’t finish, doesn’t need to.

“Like who I was didn’t matter anymore.” Sam’s gaze lifts, eyes searching Deena’s. “It was like all those parts of me were just gone. You helped me remember who I was...but they didn’t have anyone to do that.”

How would people have talked about Samantha Fraser if they hadn’t been able to break the curse and stop Nick Goode? Deena is certain no one would’ve bothered to remember the soft, shy sound of her laugh, or the kindness in her eyes, or that flash of fire in her that hasn’t been entirely stifled despite her mother’s best efforts.

“I know,” Deena says, and her fingers settle against Sam’s wrist.

“Maybe it…still matters. Even if it’s just us who know.”

Deena nods. “It does. Like with Sarah. And Hannah.”

It might be impossible to erase three hundred years of stories, to force the people of Shadyside to realize who the real Sarah Fier was, but maybe it counts to have a few people who know the truth. Maybe that matters.

Like with the articles. The stories. The little moments of gentleness. The proof of the moments before that last moment that changed everything.

It matters.

It has to.   

Sam nods, smiling. “Exactly.” She reaches for the notebook in Deena’s lap, flipping toward a few blank pages left untouched in the front. “I thought if you wanted to write about her, you could. Sarah, I mean. You don’t have to, if you don’t…I mean I know it’s not easy to…have to remember. But if you wanted…”

“Yeah,” Deena says softly, glancing at the empty lines, wondering how she could possibly put into words the things Sarah had shown her. “Maybe.”

Sam takes her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Let’s go. I think that’s enough talk about murderers for today.”

“It’s early,” Deena points out, even as she stands, picking up Sam’s bag and sliding the notebook inside among her textbooks and folders. “What are we going to do with all this extra time?”

Sam slings the bag over her shoulder, fingers brushing Deena’s wrist as she lets her hands fall back to her sides. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

#sameena #sam/deena #one word prompts #sam fraser #deena johnson

[anendlessholeonwhichtoscreaminto]

A real core memory of mine is when i was like 6 ish and at some point my grandmother from my father's side gave my parents a 100smthn notebook that was filled with excercises to practice my handwriting.

Have a vivid image of me doing that shit on this glass table we had while black ants were crawling up it and on my hand. I tgink it was that and some school assignment where i drew eyes on the letters that i got my ass beat and had to redo everything

Like just running a shitty eraser thru it, tearing the paper up w the side of my hand smudged w graphite

Pretty sure its why i prefer pens over pencils

Handwriting is still shitty so i missed out on precious hours of playing with my batmans and choking on my mom's engagement ring for nothingg

[saltypiss]

I feel like this opinion will frustrate many, which to be fair, it's written satirically but the opinion given is honest, not the humorous emotional detail. Was gonna add it to a thread on "how to trigger a fanbase with one sentence" and my dumbass read too quick and the input was "an opinion that would upset a fanbase" okay here you go lil fella don be med:

Honestly paper drawing is it's own form of art and in general writing on paper has it's benefits. You're eventually going to need to write on paper with a pen or pencil. So it's something you need to learn. I see the perspective that it's everyone's start, so if you're learning to draw, do it on paper.

These days we should be using tech more. Yes I know, dystopic, blah blah blah, but I grew up not knowing I was neurodivergent, it'd been great if I could just do alt+z instead of making this smudgey or overly outlined mess trying to fix something. In general you do not want me to send you a letter over a text, that's not a comment on humanity or you personally, nobody wants to read my chicken scratch.

As a kid, learning to write on paper wasn't hard, but I can safely say my attempts have always been shit unless I dedicate a long time to writing. It's chicken scratch that is legible but only after I explain why my ks look like H's sometimes. I prefer the bottom slant to be attatched to the bottom of the top slant, unless it's K.

Point is you don't have to deal with my scribble scrabble and you should not thank paper for that. At least with a mouse I'd honestly put the effort being able to undo.

Yes yes I get it, drawing and writing on paper, or anything, is eternal, writing or drawing on rocks, on canvas. Even using a typewriter is considered okay. In fact, our books use the same font we use on digital hardware.

The ability to write and draw will never go away, so let's just make starting to learn to draw, even write, be seen as encouraged on a digital format, and stop treating it like the devil of learning. You will learn faster on computers than your damn scrolls. And the transition won't be degenerative, it'll be progressive.

You can learn perspective and shading on paper, and you can on digital, but most people Are Not Going To Try when their second line fucks up and their eraser smudged the fuck out of the entire thing.

I only finally started trying to draw again since I switched to a drawing tablet, and I can say with no doubt, going from shitty no color lines on paper with these mistakes I could never undo at my level or resources, to being able to press 2 buttons, and have not just a pencil and paper, but the entire world of Google at my disposal to actually get a feel for perspective practice pieces without having to print it out and put a light underneath a glass table to just barely see what the hell I'm doing, to being able to adjust transparency at a few clicks, like, there's no good god damned reason everyone thinks you should start with pencil and paper and just suck it up.

People act like convenience is a bratty tool to be exploited by no talent artists, but the reality is you see so many "no talent" artists because they're learning at a faster, more socially diverse, and socially widerspread, thus monetarily feasible, rate, than your shitty tree parts and that stuff my grandma told me to stop sniffing in the basement as a kid. Bread? Idunno.

I got a Part 2 to this now:

And you know what? Fuck plagiarisers. People that steal people's art and claim it as their own. There's no point. You feel cool for a brief moment at best, but you have learned nothing. The only thing you proved is you wish you learned to draw at some point, but don't because you don't believe in yourself.

Art, is everything. Creation is art. Your house is art, the phone you hold is a creation, and thus art. Humanity is art. Your feelings towards your animals is art. Everything is a perspective. Everything is made by someone for another. In my opinion, The Meaning of Life is Other Life. This post is built off humanity and the time they put in to get us here. Undeniably.

Your opinion is yet another creation thats art inspires another to create their opinion and thus, the circle of creation completes. We create for others, breed for ot- bleck EC-

The meaning of life is other life. It's why we fucking hate the rich.

So I say we stop stigmatising tracing as practice. Don't claim it as your own, but claim the work put ontop as yours. Because plagiarism is the highest form of flattery. And further than that, you're learning. It may be training wheels and everyone is laughing at you, but I'm not. I see you trying, not even, I see you innovating in some ways. At least for yourself personally.

Just don't claim the art you brushed over as your own, just the brushwork you did. Otherwise, tracing is not bad. Theft is, but learning is not. Growth is not. You will learn faster from others than on your own.

In my opinion, paper and pencil and disdain for tracing for learning mentalities comes from the egotistical mentality that you should learn everything on your own, and fuck you for "trying to take a shortcut", even though 3 years from now you'll be further ahead of them in multitudes of aspects.

Now don't think I'm going to be an example, I thankfully don't need to be. I kindly refer you to *Gestures at the entire internet* and then ask you to name an artist that anyone will know off the top of their heads that doesn't primarily and if not entirely do everything digitally. Or if you need some help, I refer to you the animation creators on youtube and various other sites.

Oh I'm sure most if not all of them started with pencil and paper. Even sell specifically pen and paper for that audience who wants physical personal copies. Completely understandable, as I said, pen and paper is it's own art form. But I can safely and loosely say they sure as shit ain't primarily pen and paper these days. And didn't get better by sticking to physical format as fast and as monetarily as now.

All I'm saying is, digital media is king in learning. If you want to create on paper, go for it, but the stigma some have is ridiculous. Try googling various topics and all you see is the repeated mentality that they shouldn't invest in a drawing tablet. Shit they can go from 150-300, I get it, but we're talking people actually interested in growing a healthy talent and hobby, potentially one that can make some money at a faster rate.

I get it too, I'm definitely leaning on the 2 subjects of learning and monetary reasoning, but genuinely I couldn't name an artist that doesn't use social media, doesn't get inspired by other creator's and make a fan edit, doesn't use some form of digital editing even for physical media to be posted online.

All I'm really trying to stress is this: If it does become a bigger thing, you're going to use some form of digital format eventually. Might as well get a headstart?

#art #opinions that will upset someone #probably

[heuffopla]

He found out the scarf wasn't *actually* a gift from his father. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

--

NEXT PART

(warning if you want to read through it, it is unfinished and will most likely remain unfinished, I tried not to leave it on too much of a cliffhanger but. Yeah :'))

#Me? Writing and drawing this whole thing in less than two days? Yes. #On shitty paper that smudges everything? Yes to that too. But hey. Evil Adrien ftw yknow #Mlb #Ml #Miraculous ladybug #Adrien Agreste #Gabriel agreste #Hawkmoth #Limelight #Ask me questions about it if you want yooooo #MLB au #Ml au

[chasingpj]

𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

pairing: leo valdez x gn reader

summary: five ways he says i love you through his actions

warnings: implied nudity and s*x, discusses food and eating and nothing else, i think. oh, and maybe some typos

category: headcanons

love letters/notes

leo is a busy boy

he's always picking up new projects so he can spend all day in his workshop or the forges with his siblings

when you guys live together, he leaves small notes on the refrigerator for you

they're always short, saying simple things like "i love you" and "i miss you already"

for the love letters, he'll leave them in random places for you to find

if you're a big reader, i can see him hiding it between the pages of your book

one day, you pick up your book to read, and the note falls on your lap

it's a love letter written on a piece of blueprint paper; there’s a little bit of oil smudged on the side of it

he got distracted while he was working on something because you were the only thing he could think about

his love letters never fail to make your heart flutter

sometimes they make you cry

he's quite sentimental

leo always tells you he does better writing down his feelings than he is saying it out loud because he can organize his thoughts better

you know that leo has a hard time with that because of how he grew up

when you guys have an argument, which isn't very often, he writes his feelings down on paper

he's always quick to apologize if he did something wrong, and the notes help him form the apology that you deserve, and you're quick to forgive him

once, you were super angry after an argument, so you locked yourself in your shared bedroom

you needed to calm yourself down

the both of you much too angry and stubborn to make a compromise

as your recollecting yourself, 40 minutes in, a folded piece of paper slips from under the door

the letter has teardrop stains, and the ink is slightly smudged

on the paper, it's all his thoughts written out in the best way he can explain them

after reading what he wrote, you quickly deemed that whatever you were fighting about was silly, and you guys made up

you love his spontaneous notes so much that you do them back

you guys have a game of who can find the most creative hiding spot for your notes

one time you found one tapped to the inside of the toilet cover

you found it hilarious

you throw folded post-its with messages in his tool belt

he finds them during the day while he's working on something

after you joined in on the fun, he scatters notes in random places, and every few days, you find a new message hidden somewhere randomly

they're just so sweet; there’s never a time where they don't make you smile

gifts

this is a given

it's not a leo headcanon if gift-giving isn't included

he would make you things like roses from scrap metal to literal furniture

if you have a lot of jewelry, he will make you a cute jewelry box

if you're a big book reader, he'll make you bookcases to support your book collection

he's always giving you little trinkets that he made with leftover materials from projects

he loves making things for you and gets upset when you decide to buy something from ikea instead of asking him

"babe, why would you buy that? I could have just made it for you!"

when he's on his way from returning on his quest, sometimes he'll find something that reminds him of you in a store, and he'll buy it

when he has the money for it, he'd buy you a star :(

says that he spent even more money to buy an extra bright star

because "you're the sun in my universe"

brb gonna cry

also, he'd gift you a bond bracelet

you know, those bracelets where every time you tap on it, it makes the other person's bracelet vibrate

the both of you get anxious when one of you goes on quests, so the bracelets bring the other person who's at home comfort

because when you tap back, at least he knows you're alive and vice versa

one of the best gifts you've ever received from him was your engagement ring

he made it himself

he took so much care and effort into making it

imagine leo forging your wedding ring himself??? i'm in spain with no s

he was so nervous that you wouldn't like the style, so he had piper casually bring it up to you

piper was so nonchalant about it that you didn't even think twice about the question

the ring has the prettiest gemstone or diamond (whatever you prefer)

you cried so hard when he told you he made it himself that you couldn't even say yes to his proposal clearly

he makes both of your wedding bands too

he carves a saying that's dear to the both of you on the inside

this is nothing to do with anything but imagine when you guys have kids, he makes animals out of pipe cleaners for them i'm gonna cry, brb pt 2

overall, whether he makes the present himself or not, he puts a lot of effort and care into it

every gift has a meaning and a place dear to your heart

cooking for you

leo is canoningly a good cook

he loves cooking for you

and you love eating what he makes

he's usually busy on the weekdays, so he cooks on the weekends

you guys always joke that he'd be the cutest househusband

you got him an apron for Christmas as a joke gift one year, and he wears it all the time

there's something so charming about him wearing an apron with a funny saying like "Mr. Good Lookin is Cookin" or with like a ripped out shirtless guy in front of it

you giggle every time you see him wearing it

oh, no matter how many times you've seen it, it's still so bizarre when he takes out hot trays from the oven with his BARE hands

everything he makes tastes amazing

he makes all kinds of food and is always trying something new

if you tell him what you’re craving, he’ll cook it for you

once he woke you up to ask if you wanted ribs… it was 3 am but like, of course, you wanted some

unless you're vegetarian or vegan, sorry, HAHA

often though, he does make Mexican food

it reminds him of when his mom was alive

he always has some story to share

every time he makes caldo de pollo (chicken soup), he always talks about how his mother would make it in the summer and that when he was little, he would always complain about eating hot soup in hot weather

you know he doesn't notice his constant telling of this story, but you don't mind

it's so bittersweet when he talks about his mom

through the cooking of his traditional food, you feel closer to him and his late mother

the memories he shares with you makes your eyes sting with tears

especially when leo says how much he wishes that esperanza could have met you

sorry, that was a little emo

also, leo usually wakes up earlier than you

he knows you're a sleepyhead, so he'll cook breakfast for you

so that when you're running around in the morning trying to get dressed and your things together

you never leave the house hungry because there's always a tupperware filled with breakfast, and if he has enough time, he'll fix you something to take for lunch too

if you come home late from work or school, he'll make dinner even if he's tired to surprise you

so many times you've come home from a shitty day at work or school, and the small table where you guys eat your meals is all set up with your favorite food

leo greets you by peeking his head into the hallway from the kitchen, tossed curls, cheerful brown eyes, and a bright grin

"I hope you're hungry," he says, despite knowing that you are hungry

and then you guys talk and laugh together over a delicious meal

compliments

leo's really observant

he notices when you’re in a bad mood, even if you try not to show it

he also notices when you change little things about your appearance

if you get a haircut or you get your nails done, he'll comment on it right away

especially outfits

if you buy something new, he'll complement it

imagine standing in front of the mirror, looking at yourself in your new outfit

leo comes behind you, his hands coming around your waist

he'll pepper kisses on your neck, a soft hum leaving his lips as he meets your eyes in the mirror

"is this new, mi amor?" he asks, hands running up your sides

once you affirm that it is a new dress or shirt, he'll smile and tell you how beautiful you look in it

maybe says he'd rather see it off of you wink wink

there's never a day where he doesn't compliment you

he thinks you're the prettiest person in the world

you've caught him staring at you lovingly plenty of times

he's just asking himself how did he manage to get someone as beautiful and amazing as you

you always squirm under his gaze and playfully ask what is he looking at

"you're so pretty, mi amor. I can't help it."

AHHH!!!!

alongside the endearment of mi amor, he'd always call you bonita and hermosa

you're so sweet to him, and he can't help but tell you how much you mean to him every chance he gets

surprises

leo is an acts of service kind of guy

i think he'll spontaneously do things to make you happy

if you've been busy studying for finals or just beat up from a day at work

he'll draw you a bath

or he'll cut up some fruit for you and leave it at your desk

he randomly buys you flowers

he never needs an occasion to buy your flowers

it'll be a regular tuesday, leo just happened to walk past a store with flowers displayed in the front, and he thought about how bright your smile would be if he showed up with a bouquet

I feel like he's pretty introverted, enjoys being at home with you

the both of you are pretty broke for a while, so a lot of dates were at home

leo made the most of it

you guys will have nice dinners at home

he'll set the table nicely, set the mood with candles

he'll redecorate the space so well you feel like you're at an actual restaurant

and of course, his food is amazing

breakfast in bed is another thing he'd do for you unsolicited

especially if you guys had a looong night wink wink

you're woken up by his still groggy voice, fluttering kisses on your cheeks

you open your eyes to see he's set a tray with your favorite breakfast on top of the bed

the two of you will eat breakfast together, which usually leads to you staying in bed for the rest of the day

just enjoying the warm cocoon your sheets create around the both of you

overall, he's super observant and caring, and he goes the extra mile to make sure you're happy because he knows you do the same

anyways, does anyone know where I can get a leo?

masterlists taglist: @nct127bee @minamisulemisa @yanfeisluvr @cartocns @Slytherclaw-kitten @idk-bye-no @percysbluehairbrush @Hermioneswifeee @quteez @drayshadow @ashookykooky

#my writing #leo valdez #leo valdez x reader #leo valdez x you #heroes of olympus #heroes of olympus fanfic #heroes of olympus fanfiction #leo valdez imagine #leo valdez one shot #leo valdez fanfic #leo valdez fluff #leo valdez drabble #leo valdez headcanon

[waybrights]

Sats au

Marcy, after a whole day of nonstop writing: *sleepily/aimlessly walks around the studio*

Sasha, sipping her her coffee in the dark: "You know it's midnight, right?"

Marcy, going completely still: *looks around confused*

okay i wrote smth for this and ik it doesn't fit the prompt exactly i hope u enjoy it anyway!!!

There was something strangely comforting about the studio, especially when the only sound was the hum of the air conditioner and there was no one around. Well, no one but Marcy. Technically, she wasn't allowed to be there, but it's not like anyone was going to kick them out. Besides, she was certain no one knew she was still there. And if they did, no one had come for them yet, so they couldn't get mad when they found her asleep on the couch in the morning.

Besides, the studio was probably one of the only places Marcy could actually focus on what she was doing. Their house was too noisy, especially since Sprig and Polly were over for the week whilst Hop Pop was away on some important trip, and her phone and laptop were there too, all easy distractions from the music she was meant to be going over. So she stayed behind, in the dark studio that had really, really, shitty wifi and an air-con that was stuck blowing cold wind into the building.

Sure, it wasn't the best and they could afford to rent out a new one, but all three of them liked the studio enough to stay, even if the couch was starting to fall apart and it was constantly just above freezing.

On one particular night, Marcy was sitting on the cold floor, one of Sasha's guitars in her lap as she tried to figure out a chord progression. No matter how many combinations she tried, it never sounded right. Sure, they could always just ask Sasha to play something for her, but Marcy knew how tired she'd been recently, and didn't want to bother her with something as trivial as a chord progression. Plus, figuring out herself might make Sasha less stressed about having to do a whole tour after not playing for months due to an injury.

She hadn't meant to stay up so late, but then again, this stupid chord progression was meant to be easy. Luckily, the coffee machine had been fixed just the day before and restocked with just about everything Marcy needed to keep her awake for an extra ten hours and she was absolutely going to take full advantage of it.

---

Marcy wasn't sure how long she'd been sat there, staring down at those stupid lines, but the notes were starting to blur together, making it all the more harder to actually figure out what they were supposed to be doing. Their fingers hurt from playing and the song was rattling around in her head, the same three lines playing on a loop, bringing Marcy closer and closer to just tearing up the sheets surrounding her.

She hadn't realised she'd been crying until a single tear fell onto the paper, it only smudged one note, but it was enough for the frustration that had been building up for the past however long to boil over.

Biting her lip to stop herself crying even more, she stood up and made a beeline for the door, because if she stayed in this stupid recording booth for any longer, Sasha would come in finding her guitar in pieces.

Swiping up the half finished coffee, Marcy stomped out of the room, blinking quickly to get rid of the tears pooling in their eyes. God this is so stupid, she thought to herself as she slammed the door open. In the back of her mind, she knew it would mark the wall, but she didn't have it in her to care. She'd probably just let everyone down. It was a simple chord progression and she couldn't even figure it out. So much for one of the best songwriters, she huffed, practically slamming the cup onto the desk.

Only, she slammed it too hard and the handle came clean off. Marcy stared at it for a few seconds, their eyes flitting between the handle closed in their fist and the mug Anne had got for her birthday on the table. "Fuck," she mumbled, pressing the handle back onto the mug as if that would magically mend it. For a moment, it looked like it was balanced, and Marcy slowly pulled her hand away, only for the handle to clatter against the desk a second later.

For the next ten minutes, Marcy tried to reattach the handle, each with less success than the last. It was pathetic really, but she was so caught up in the fact that she broke Anne's gift to her, that she didn't really have the mental capacity to care about it. So what if everyone saw her breakdown the next time they checked the security footage? That didn't matter when she'd just ruined something Anne gave her.

It was the feeling of warm hands on her own that finally got Marcy to stop. Everything seemed to drain out of her as the mug and handle were pried away from her. Vaguely, she wondered who was in the studio so late, although there was a chance she'd just spent several hours trying to force a cup back together and everyone had arrived for their final session. Either way, they didn't object as someone wrapped their arms around her waist and picked them up.

"I'm sorry," Marcy mumbled after a few minutes. It hadn't been part of her plan when she opted to stay behind to have some sort of breakdown and then cry in someone's arms, and she couldn't help feeling like she should apologise.

"Don't worry 'bout it, you looked like you needed this," Sasha's voice was a mere whisper in her ear, but it still sent Marcy's heart racing.

"Sasha?" Marcy asked, her eyes snapping open as she stared up into her band-mate's face. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Sasha said, a small frown on her face.

"I was," they paused and looked down, resting their head against Sasha's chest. "I was trying to figure out that chord progression you were complaining about. You've been so stressed recently, and it doesn't help we're going back on tour soon and you haven't played in a while, so I thought that, maybe, if I fixed it for you, it would make you slightly less stressed," saying it out loud, she realised that maybe it wasn't her best idea, but she wanted to do something for her friends. They both did so much for her, it was high time she did something for them.

“You… you didn’t have to do that, mar-mar,” Sasha said gently, and even though she wasn’t looking, Marcy could see the smile on her face. The way Sasha’s lips twitched up and her eyes would crinkle ever so slightly, because she didn’t usually smile and when she did it was a sight to behold. “But if that’s what got you so upset…”

“No, it wasn’t that,” well, not entirely, “I just got stressed.”

“That, or you haven’t slept properly in about a week and keep sneaking off here when you think Anne and I are asleep,” Sasha said, though her voice held no anger.

Marcy felt themself go still as Sasha spoke. How did she know? Were they that obvious? No, no she couldn’t be because no one had even asked her about it before! “That’s stupid,” Marcy scoffed instead, “I’ve been sleeping perfectly fine.”

“Marce…” Sasha mumbled, her arms coming up to gently squeeze their shoulders. “You don’t have to lie to me. I won’t force you to tell me, but if you think it’ll help to get it off your shoulders I’m-” she swallowed, almost like it was hard to admit that she was there for Marcy. “I’m always here, whenever you need. Even if it is 1 am on the shitty studio couch,” she ended lightly. Marcy giggled and moved slightly to bring a hand up to where Sasha was drawing random shapes on their bicep.

“Thank you, Sash, seriously,” they said, threading their fingers together. “And I will tell you, both of you, just not right now.”

“It’s okay,” Sasha whispered, very obviously trying to hold back a yawn, “I’ll wait for as long as you need.”

Marcy smiled and pressed the pad of her thumb against Sasha’s. “Are you excited? For next week?”

“Hmm?” Sasha hummed, her body jerking ever so slightly as she woke up. “Yeah, but I’m also nervous, y’know?” she mumbled, slowly waving her lightly bandaged hand around. “I haven’t played in a while, so I don’t want to mess up or anything.”

“You won’t,” Marcy mumbled, her eyes growing heavy as they sat there, Sasha’s warmth creating a bubble of sorts, where nothing could get to her. “You’re really great, Sash, you’ll be amazing.”

When no response came, Marcy slowly lifted her head, only to find Sasha fast asleep against the arm of the couch. It looked uncomfortable, and they knew she would complain in the morning, but she looked so relaxed and Marcy didn’t want to ruin that for anything. So she slowly shifted so she was laying down, their head on Sasha’s lap and her arms wrapped tightly around Sasha’s waist. “Night, Sash.”

#sasharcy brainrot coming back fast <333 #I JUST THINK THEY GET RLLY CLOSE OKAY!!! #and yh maybe this is slightly angsty but it ends in cuddles so <33 #amphibia #amphibia fic #sasha and the sharps au #sasha waybright #marcy wu #sasharcy #anon #you ask i answer #marie.txt

[osha-embroidery-department]

Embroidery.

I do not think this letter will mean anything to you. But I only have until New Years. And then I can't write it.

I am sorry for everything. I am sorry for agreeing to your test and attacking you. I am sorry about Merlyn and Janitor. I am sorry about Rep. I am sorry for everything. I was scared. You scared me. But that is not an excuse. I hurt you. This is all my fault. I am sorry.

I am sorry that I am not giving it to you in person. You do not want to see me. I get it. It is easier. I can think. I have a moment of clarity now. I am in a proper state of mind. But I know you do not want to hear about that. I will end this letter here, in that case.

Regards,

@offical-osha

[The letter is written in cursive that is somewhat difficult to decipher due to Offy's shitty handwriting. The paper is smudged somewhat with small darker spots. There is a small rip in one corner, where the paper is crumpled. It is left on Embroidery's desk for her to read.]

Embroidery reads the letter with careful regard, surprisingly being able to read it all. Something inside the shadow being boils as embroidery carefully folds the letter and puts it into their Pocket.

Tch..Embroidery let’s out air they don’t need and walks off to find Offy.

#osha

[sunlightandsuffering]

Inspired by the emails I get every semester to be a note taker for the accessible learning centre!! I was wondering what happened if someone took shitty notes 😂😂 and of course it would be Eren, Mikasa's would be neat as fuck.

Mikasa takes deep breaths, trying to calm herself as she looks at the mess of printing scrawled onto the paper in front of her. Deep breaths Mikasa, she can do this, she will not erupt into sobs yet again because this idiot's notes are barely legible.

God how she wished she could just take her own notes.

Mikasa was unable to take notes because of her poor eyesight, she had glasses sure, and sitting at the front of the room helped, but overall, it was just really difficult for her to take proper notes so quickly during her morning political science class, especially when there were just so many. The sheer volume of information her professor presented on the slides and her refusal to make the slides available to students wasn't helpful. Mikasa could barely keep up, struggling to work through what all the words said, squinting up at the projector despite her insanely high perscription glasses. She wasn't blind, but she definitely didn't have the greatest vision either.

So, Mikasa had decided to apply to the student accessibility centre in hopes of enjoying the benefits of the peer-note-taking program, in which another student in her class would take notes for a small monetary credit on their student account.

She'd thought it would help supplement her own class notes, and include things that she missed.

What a load of crap that had been. Mikasa had no idea how they even chose the idiot taking her notes, every week after class she'd get an email from [email protected] with an upload of his written notes. Every time they were an absolute mess. The first time the notes had basically been illegible, pen smudges, 'a's that looked like 'u's and half cursive, half printing, she hadn't even known where to start.

She'd sent a very polite but curt email back asking if maybe next week he could type his notes as she was having difficulty reading his handwriting.

He'd sent her a happy faced emoji she could only assume meant he would fix it.

And he had, the next week she'd recieved typed up notes, only to find somehow they were still no better, he'd typed everything in comic sans, who uses comic sans to type notes???? Not to mention his lack of bullet points, it was just literal paragraphs of lecture notes, like he hadn't even taken the time to think critically about what he was actually taking notes on. She could have gotten the same notes by just using the voice to text function on her computer.

She'd sent yet another email and gotten yet another happy face in response but to no avail because the week after it was a new problem.

To his credit, he did try and fix whatever she had difficulty with, but every week it was a new issue, this week he was having difficulty categorizing the notes and different lecture topics were smushed together, sentences that started on one page and ended on another, it was a mess. He'd even added diagrams, probably thinking he was helpful, but it only made it more confusing.

She wanted to give up on it all entirely, this was not helping.

But she couldn't do poorly in this class, it was supposed to be a GPA booster for her. So Mikasa had headed towards the centre for accessible learning in hopes of talking to someone about the issue, maybe she could request another note-taker?

She arrives a few minutes after twelve, a pretty dead time as most people were either in class or eating lunch, so it was just her and another student loitering in the main lobby space, waiting to be helped by the desk clerk who was currently on the phone.

Mikasa couldn't help how her eyes slid to observe the boy, he was cute. She was a little blind, but not that blind, it was more words on glowing screens she had trouble with than attractive boys.

He's cute, very cute. Wavy chestnut tucked into a bun at the nape of his neck, the prettiest green eyes she'd ever seen, more intense than emeralds, and a killer body. He was so pretty.

He looked back at her in line briefly before turning back to the front of the line. To her immense amusement though he does a double take, turning back around fully to see her, and oh she knows that look, it's the look of mutual interest in his eyes as he turns his entire body towards her. "Hi." "Hi," she responds quietly because even his voice is attractive, deep and rich.

He grins, flashing white teeth and even his smile is perfect. "We might be here for a while, she's been on the phone for ten minutes already," the boy gestures towards the desk clerk who is angrily speaking into the phone and Mikasa giggles. "I don't think I'll mind too much." Not with him around at least, but she doesn't say that. "So what's your name, I'm Eren," He holds out a hand to shake and Mikasa takes is gracefully. His palms are so much bigger than her own, so much warmer. "I'm Mikasa." His eyebrows quirk a little as she says her name but he shakes it off, not saying anything, "Pretty name for a pretty girl." She blushes, "Thank you."

"So Mikasa what are you here for?" "Umm," she doesn't want to sound like a dick, but she doesn't want to lie either, so she sighs deeply, choosing the messy truth. "My eyesight isn't the best so I need accomodations for lecture notes. Unfortunately, whoever is doing my notes isn't the best at it." Eren barks out a laugh, "I see, can I ask just what about them is so terrible?" Nothing gets Mikasa more riled up than poorly written notes, so without even considering why Eren might be so interested she launches into a heated discussion about lecture notes. "Where do I even start, he uses comic sans to type notes! Why would he do that, everyone knows comic sans is the hallmark of unprofessionalism."

Eren chuckles, "Maybe he just likes the look of it." She shoots him an unimpressed look, "It drives me nuts." "What else?" "His printing is illegible and he doesn't organize his notes at all, he just slaps them all over the page! There's no discernible order to it at all!"

She's breathing hard as she continues to roast this poor boy and then immediately feels bad, he's doing her a favour. "He's not all bad though, he seems like a really great guy, I'm just really picky about my lecture notes. I'd love nothing more than to sit him down and teach him how to properly take notes, I don't even think he's learning anything."

That small grin is still on Eren's pretty face as he watches her, eyes sparkling with mirth, "How about right now then?" "What?" Mikasa looks up at him in confusion, what is he talking about. "How about you teach me right now how I should be taking notes Mikasa, if they're not up to your standard as you say." Mikasa sputters in shock, unsure whether to apologize or ask him why he writes such terrible notes.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry Eren, I didn't know, you're really not that bad I promise I'm just really picky, I'm so sorry-"

Eren cuts her off with a finger to her lips, warm against her and she shuts up, that pretty gleam still in his eyes, "Don't worry about it Mikasa, you can make it up to me." "How?" She whispers as he pulls his index finger away.

"Take me out for lunch and we can talk. I think you should teach me how you want me to take notes, you seem to have a very specific vision."

"I do," She nods as Eren grabs her hand, dragging her out of the student accessibility centre and towards the campus restaurant.

"Perfect, it's a date." Mikasa nods mutely as Eren tugs her along by the hand, fingers interlacing with her own and she struggles to figure out how her obsession with good class notes got her here.

"Another thing, I think we should start sitting together in class."

How did she get this lucky ??

#lys's drabbles

[jaskierswolf]

I do, I don't

A continuation of this AU - Written for @thewitcherbog Hallmark Weddings June event. Yes, I know it's July. Life happened.

Ship: Lambden

CW: none?

_______

It should have been the happiest day of Lambert’s life. That’s what everyone said, and honestly he wanted to be happy. He loved Aiden, more than he thought was possible when the idiot had walked into his garage in his hipster clothes and pretty boy motorbike. That had been almost two years ago now and they’d been dating ever since. Aiden was good for Lambert. He not only tolerated Lambert’s shittier moods, but also seemed to love him through the worst of it. It was a fucking miracle.

And they’d been happy.

The happiest they’d ever been.

Then Yennefer and Renfri had gotten married, and then Geralt and Jaskier got engaged, followed by Triss and Eskel. It seemed like everyone was getting married because that’s just what people did when they grew up. So, Lambert had proposed to Aiden and his boyfriend-turned-fiancé had said yes.

That had been a month ago. They’d both agreed that they didn’t want a big wedding, and so Lambert was standing in Eskel’s bedroom in a suit that was far too expensive and still didn’t fit right waiting to marry the love of his god damn life. The sun was shining. Everyone seemed to be excited; everyone except him. Lambert was fucking miserable. He didn’t even know why. There was no reason not to marry Aiden. They loved each other, through thick and thin, for better or for worse… usually for worse, but they made it work even though no one else really understood how.

“Hey?” Eskel’s hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. It wasn’t enough to completely stop his spiral but it helped. “I know you don’t have a lot of brain cells, but what’s going on up there?”

Lambert punched his brother on the arm and rolled his eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Fuck that,” Eskel scoffed. “I know you, Lamb. You’re not fine.”

“Cold feet,” Lambert muttered, running his hands through his hair. Eskel had helped him try and tame the mess of his hair that morning, but it was no use. Luckily Aiden seemed to like his hair even when it did resemble a bird’s nest. His boyfriend, no... fiancé, saw the beauty in everything. Lambert’s red hair was apparently some kind of metaphor or whatever for the rage that burned within him. Some shitty imagery that Aiden loved to play with in his photography.

“This isn’t cold feet.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Lambert snapped and marched out of the room. He couldn’t go far. He was travelling with Eskel to the hall where the ceremony was being held. Pinching his nose, Lambert cursed and slunk back into the room. “I need to call him.”

“Is that a good idea?” Eskel asked, being annoyingly concerned in the way only big brothers could manage. Deep down Lambert loved it, but he wasn’t in the mood for it today he just wanted to curl up to his… to Aiden and forget this whole damn thing.

But Aiden would be devastated, and Lambert could never do that to him. Aiden deserved better, he’d always deserved better but for some godforsaken reason, Aiden wanted him.

Lambert would do anything to keep him, even if that meant getting married when really he couldn’t think of anything worse.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of the commitment. He knew he couldn’t be more committed to Aiden if he tried it was just… marriage. It was a load of fucking bullshit. He didn’t understand it. Why did he need some stupid piece of paper to tell the world he was in love with Aiden? He could do that just fine on his own, but he’d proposed. It had been his choice. He couldn’t back out now.

Could he?

“Fuck it!” Lambert growled, running for the front door. He grabbed the keys to Eskel’s car before his brother could realise what was happening, and then made his escape.

He knew that he should probably tell Eskel what was going on, but Lambert had always struggled trusting people. It had taken Aiden months to break through his walls, and right now the only person Lambert did trust was his kitten. If anyone was going to understand it would be Aiden. Otherwise then… well… Lambert really shouldn’t be marrying him anyway.

“Lambert! Come back here, you bastard!” Eskel yelled from behind him, but it was too late.

He put his foot down and drove through the familiar streets until he was outside Aiden’s apartment. Jaskier and Geralt were waiting in the driveway when he arrived, ready to stop him, but something about Lambert’s death glare actually gave them pause. Geralt put his hand on Lambert’s arm and peered at him, stoic and silent, before nodding and letting him pass.

“Oi! Geralt! What are you doing?! They are not supposed to see each other!”

“It’s okay, Jask.”

Lambert ignored them as he passed through the door and finally, fucking finally, there was Aiden.

Looking absolutely stunning.

Aiden’s suit was a dark navy blue. His long hair was swept up off his face with intricate braiding on either side of his head, Jaskier’s handiwork probably, and there were dark smudges of eyeliner around his eyes. Honestly, Aiden had no right to be that handsome during Lambert’s breakdown.

“Hey darling,” Aiden said softly, already reaching out a hand. Lambert barrelled into him, pressing his face into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck and sighing as he let the scent of Aiden’s cologne wash over him.

“Hi,” he grumbled.

“So, I’ve been thinking…”

Lambert scowled as he pulled back, but Aiden’s hand was already on his cheek before he could spiral any further. “Yeah?”

“Marriage seems rather arbitrary, doesn’t it?”

Relief flooded through him. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry… perhaps both. There was no way this was real. It had to be some kind of dream, maybe he hadn’t even woken up yet and this was all some pre-wedding nightmare. Sure Aiden hadn’t been as big into the wedding planning as he’d expected but he’d been invested enough…

Unless Aiden was doing it because he thought Lambert had wanted it.

“Wolf?”

Lambert spluttered nonsensically, and then pulled his boyfriend into a kiss, one hand cupping the back of Aiden’s neck to hold him closer. If he was crying by the end of the kiss then neither of them mentioned it, and Lambert just wiped away his tears before burying his face in Aiden’s shoulder. “I love you, kitten,” he mumbled.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Aiden whispered, running a hand down Lambert’s back. “Why on earth did you ask, wolf?”

“Why did you say yes?!” he grumbled, pouting even though his boyfriend couldn’t see him.

“I thought it was what you wanted.”

“I thought it was what you wanted!” Lamber shot back, pulling away to glare at Aiden.

“I would have asked,” Aiden laughed and crashed their lips together once more.

They were idiots, both of them, but Lambert could finally say it was the happiest day of his life. Marriage, as it turned out, just wasn’t for them, and that was okay.

#the witcher #lambden #laiden #lambert/aiden #wolfie's witcher writing

[wincore]

vixen | nakamoto yuta

pairing: kitsune!yuta x female!reader

words: 5.1k 

summary: every year, you visit the fox who claims to know everything about you. 

genre: fantasy/folklore, fluff, angst(?)

warnings: suggestive, mention of past bullying, one excessively flirty nakamoto yuta

song rec(s): clear and sunny - sou (cover)

a/n: this is for all you furries who aren’t quite furries yet muah (im joking) but aaaa love exploring folklore and also i should put in a disclaimer that not every aspect adheres to the original tales of the kitsune <3 i did not proofread btw and i am very sorry

Some things never change.

Examples: boys, shitty friends, death, and the scent of nostalgia. To you, that very scent happens to be the earthy smell of chrysanthemums and a faint waft of spices from the kitchen in your parents’ house. To you, October is not just another month. To you, there is one more thing that never changes and it is not your belief in old ghost stories. 

Around this time of the year, the autumn festival begins in a flurry of vibrant red smudges and a whiff of excitement, in streets suddenly brought alive. The skies are candied orange, and it’s the only time you aren’t tired of home. This time is also when you find yourself right in the clutches of the one demon you swore you’d avoid for the rest of your life. You swore. It’s not your fault that said demon is a little, let’s say, tempting. 

Tempting in the most vexing, infuriating way possible. Bewitching, cruel, seducing—all that foxes are and all that you’ve heard of them could not have prepared you for an encounter. Folklore runs deep through you. The memories of a certain fox-boy run deeper. 

It is not the festival you are here for. 

You yawn, leaning against the wooden door frame of the shop. It would be inappropriate to fall asleep on the job, especially since there are a bunch of children staring idly at you. You close your mouth quickly, resting the back of your hand against your lips. Late afternoon is an easy time to fall asleep. You have half the mind to snarl at the kids to scare them off, their gaze getting on your nerves and when you think you will, you turn the other way. Manners come first to you, no matter how temperamental you get. 

The procession has gathered a crowd. Some shouts and squeals from the children make you slump further. At least they’re having fun with whatever stupid game they’re playing. You breathe in the autumn air. A part of you wonders if you simply let your feet lead you down the stairs, you’d be free of this entire ordeal. You shake your head. Temptation has always been hard to resist—never meant to be resisted but you’re much older now. There is dignity to be answered.

October is mild—your grandmother’s shop is still on the verge of collapse, your mother still yells at you for misplacing kitchen utensils and your old friends from school still gossip about who you’re dating. It’s like the script never changes; people change the meaning, twist their words in the same old pattern. If you were a little less behaved, you would have poured your drink over their heads yesterday. 

You clench your jaw. It’s always an ‘Oh, you’re so attractive’ and an ‘I wish I could date as many men as you do but I’m loyal to my boyfriend’, or even a ‘Must be nice being surrounded by boys all the time’. You know what they mean. It’s not the first time you’ve been called a fox, and you don’t think it’ll be the last—at least until you decide to stop letting your hometown suffocate you. Maybe you’ll accept what they say. You have heard of what hatred left unchecked can do.

If you’re honest, you haven’t been with too many men. If you’re a little more honest, none of them have ever made your heart race.

You watch the children play with a keen eye, their painted masks ridiculously large for their faces and in brightly coloured clothes contrasting well with the town. You might not be allowed to fall asleep, but there’s nothing against closing your eyes for a second or two.

The image of glinting yellow eyes and a fanged smile pop up and you quickly open your eyes. You don’t know why your heart beats so loud at the mere thought of him, thoughts in which his lips are full and painted red, and his bright smile is stretched upon them. Sometimes, the thought of him is in gentle washes, his hand fixing your hair, or a flirty smile when you dare stumble upon him on a particularly sleepless night. You shake your head to get rid of the thought. That is not love. Some sort of embarrassing attraction, maybe. However, the friendship you have is worse.

“I see you’re a slacker as always.”

Your grandmother’s voice breaks you out of your cycle of thoughts and you’re almost grateful.

“I sold approximately zero sweets,” you snort. “Why can’t we just do away with the shop?”

“You’re starting to sound like your mother,” your grandma calls from behind one of the counters, distaste ringing clear in her voice. 

You sigh. “Fine, but… you work way too hard to make these for them to not sell.”

“Maybe they would sell if a certain little lady would stay and help.”

You groan, leaning your head back. “You know I have work in the city.”

Your grandmother waves her hand about, dismissing your reasoning. She fiddles around in the shadows for a bit before coming forward with more boxes than she should be able to hold.

“You don’t have to feel too guilty. Yuta’s been helping out,” your grandmother informs fondly. “You could learn a thing or two from him.”

You’re not the superstitious sort and yet still, your heart beats faster. For him, or for the bad omens foxes bring to a household—you don’t know.

You scoff instead. “He’s not as great a guy as you think, grandma. He can be really mean too!”

“Oh, I doubt that. Have you seen his smile? Impossible.” Your grandmother waves it off before drawing nearer, voice hushed without reason. “Have you thought about it then? He is handsome, isn’t he?”

“Grandma.”

You’re not sure what old women go through in their youth that makes them something of a matchmaker in their later years. You think the whole ordeal is messed up. There is no way you’re going to stick your nose into your grandchildren’s love life; it’s gross.

“These should be enough for the children, no?” Your grandmother asks and you look up.

“You’re giving them away for free?” you question, furrowing your eyebrows. “And you talk about bad business.”

She places her hand on her hip, pointing an accusatory finger. “You’re going to lecture your grandmother?”

You raise your hands up in defeat, standing up to help her with the red boxes of acorn candy and paper wraps of roasted chestnuts. You end up with the entire load in your arms, your grandmother happily shuffling about as she locks up the store.

You turn sharply at the surprised sound behind you. The evening has settled in and glowing lanterns bring forward the evidence, the darkening streets flooding with round droplets of light.

But it is not the festival you are looking at.

Yuta looks somewhat serene, your cheeks heating up despite yourself. You look at him with bated breath, hoping the boxes obscure your face enough to make the vaguely positive emotions less evident. The dark red jacket draped over his shoulder does not look out of place—in fact, he fits in so well you would’ve mistaken him for another face in the crowd if he weren’t stupidly gorgeous. He looks at you with no strong emotion in the eyes before breaking into a smile; and when his hand strokes the top of your head as a greeting, he seems fond. He always does.

“Grandma,” he calls with his best smile, turning to the old woman.

Your grandmother doesn’t need any more convincing of his character. 

“Oh, there you are! Did I tell you (name)’s back? I wanted to break the news to you earlier. Ah…I must have forgotten.”

You glance from Yuta to her. Is this another one of her tricks and tests?

“She’s always here this time of the year,” he responds, laughing politely.

“Ah, you remembered,” she says, eyes crescent as she smiles back. “Help her with the boxes. The city has made her so frail.”

“I’m good,” you choke on the words, hurriedly moving away and almost dropping one of the boxes.

You slip on your sandals and scurry off faster, wishing he’d just stay behind. He always has. The air makes you shiver but you’re adamant; and it’s not the only trait of yours to make relationships fail.

“You know, you should be nicer to old friends.”

You try not to react when Yuta takes the boxes from you, matching your pace almost effortlessly.

“I thought foxes ran away once they’re found out,” you snap, reluctantly letting him take the packages.

Yuta rolls his eyes. “I see you still aren’t very fond of me.”

“Not when you’re tricking my grandmother like this,” you hiss.

“You call helping trickery?” he retaliates.

“Foxes bring bad business,” you mutter.

“I’m the reason your grandmother’s business is somewhat above the water.”

You sigh, exasperated. There’s no point in wasting your breath. You look away, crossing your arms as you walk, the silence between the two of you suddenly awkward. Even so, you’re not going to open your mouth for him.

“Would you two slow down?” your grandmother calls, voice weary. “We’re already there.”

The two of you halt in your tracks immediately, taking mellow steps back to her. She looks over the two of you with furrowed eyebrows and you try to think of an explanation when she starts laughing.

“Oh, I don’t mind the two of you flirting,” she says, littered with slow laughter. “Just make sure the food is where it’s supposed to be.”

You’re about to refute when Yuta laughs, the sound still boyish and lively. “Of course. (name) missed me so much this year, she couldn’t help herself.”

You give him a pointed look which he ignores, deliberately or not. “We- I wasn’t—”

“Grandmother, if you’ll give us permission,” he interrupts, settling the packages on the table by the food stall and smiling wide. “We’ll go enjoy the festival now.”

She bobs her head in affirmation and Yuta grabs your hand to pull you into the bustling street, your silent plea for help ignored by your smug grandmother.

“What are you doing?” you ask, slipping your hand from his. “You aren’t- You aren’t trying to eat my liver, are you?”

“Why the liver? Can’t I have the rest of you too?”

It’s not like you were particularly alarmed but his response makes you feel a flush of embarrassment.

“It’s been a year since I last saw you,” he says before his voice turns a shade cooler. “Have you thought about my proposal?”

You fall silent. The overthinking started last year too. Your thoughts and dreams, so easily pervaded by him and all it took was one sentence. 

“We should get married.”

“Why did you even think I’d agree to that?” You try not to get too flustered. He knows all your petty weaknesses and you’d rather not have them on display for him to stare and pick at. “What the fuck would I get out of marrying you?”

Yuta whistles. “I like your tongue. But—yes, to answer your question, you’d get a very handsome and capable husband. Your bed will always be warm and oh, speaking of beds—”

You clamp your hand over his mouth at the suggestive look he sends, worried about being spotted by one of your school friends. Ah, right—friends, the very same people that smell of jealousy and won’t miss any opportunity to throw a jab your way. Friends. You can’t believe you’re still afraid of their judgement.

“And why do you want to get married to me?” you ask, looking into his eyes.

There’s a pause, filled with the chatter of the crowd.

“You look like you’re afraid of finding someone,” he speaks finally, ignoring your question. “Or is it the other way around?”

You roll your eyes, ready to walk off when he grabs your wrist to pull you closer to his chest. It draws some looks from nearby people, your eyes darting from face to face in fear. You take a deep breath and look at Yuta again, almond eyes distracting. 

“People will think we’re lovers,” you whisper, almost a hiss.

“What’s wrong with that?”

You breathe out in disbelief. “You’re really something.”

“What? Why did you always come to meet me then? Behind the keyaki tree?”

“It wasn’t for you,” you lie quickly. “I had nothing better to do.”

Pining after a fox? You could never have feelings for him. Even so, your answer comes off childish and silly, and somehow he’s the only one to be able to draw that side of you—the you that is messy and unprepared.

Yuta smiles in return. “You think people can’t fall in love with us the same way they fall in love with most everything.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

“How conservative of you,” he leaves with an airy remark, but not before urging you to follow him.

The sizzling sound of food being fried and the knocking, clicking sound of children playing games, all these forgotten sounds grow louder and for a second, if only you let yourself, you could close your eyes and it would be just like your first date. 

No. It’s different. You look up, eyes trailing over Yuta’s back, his golden hair, how his figure moves with ease and confidence.

It is different.

You raise an eyebrow at the box of takoyaki Yuta shoves towards you, an expecting look across his face.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks, an uncharacteristic hesitation in his voice.

You hum in response, taking the box from him and saving yourself the trouble of asking whether he paid for it or simply charmed his way through. 

“Eh, no thank you?” he complains. “How polite.”

You scrunch your nose to accompany an exaggerated smile and he laughs, the two of wandering over the asphalt streets. Your hands are close enough to brush—and if a twenty-something year-old woman can feel jittery because of it, hands truly are meant to share warmth. The smell of candy and caramel fills the air, making you smile. You’ve saved enough for the taste of home, you think. 

The taste of home. 

Inevitably, the thought of kissing your companion crosses your mind and you stop in your tracks. Whatever. It must be natural when someone as attractive is beside you. Those aren’t feelings. You curse yourself for feeling like a teenager again.

The festival grounds aren’t as shabby as you expect them to be. The city,—if you could call this one—stops here and the earth spreads out to the forest behind. The crowd also thins, and you take a fresh breath. They’re selling old books in the corner, but no one seems to be there.

“The raccoon dogs,” Yuta whispers in your ear, with an arcane smile. “Want to visit those rascals?”

You roll your eyes. He knows you’ve heard one too many folktales for a lifetime, seen one too many. It’s time to go home, especially now that the thought of thanking him crosses your mind. You’re about to turn when your shoulder crashes into someone else’s. A surprised, syrupy smile greets you, which you cannot return for the first few moments. Yui’s smile wavers and you flash her a quick smile. A friend. Her arm is looped through her lover’s, the one she never shuts up about and suddenly the urge to pour water over her head returns.

Yuta glances from you to her before pressing his lips together, as if suppressing laughter. You’re almost offended when Yui laughs flippantly.

“You’re on a date too? I knew you couldn’t stand spending the festival alone,” she says, tugging her lover closer. 

People have always told you who you are and what you do. As if they know better.

You smile awkwardly. “It’s… actually not—”

“Oh, don’t be shy.” She gently pats your shoulder before leaning in. “He’s a real catch. As expected from you. You can never leave the boys alone.”

You know what she really means. You’ve heard the same words in high school when she was shoving you into a wall behind the school. The sickening smile is still on her face.

You gulp, feeling sixteen again. The lack of people around somehow makes it more awkward and you’re about to excuse yourself when suddenly, Yuta bumps into Yui and his warm drink spills over her left shoulder. Your eyes widen, more in confusion. When did he leave? You don’t doubt his ability to sneak past people, but surely you couldn’t have been so enraptured in your own feelings that you barely noticed.

“I’m so sorry,” Yuta says, voice honeyed with surprise.

Yui looks like she’s about to explode when she looks at him, her expression dropping to a calmer one almost immediately.

It’s an easy look to recognize. They always have it when they first meet Yuta, whether it’s the smile that’s too dazzling or the pretty round eyes. 

How persuasive, those eyes.

“Ah… I must have not seen you,” she says faintly, and Yuta’s smile widens.

Before he can stir up more trouble, you slip your arm into his and pull him away, not caring for another polite apology to an old, almost nameless face.

“I was having fun,” Yuta complains, voice still smug and calm.

You glare at him and it only seems to add fuel to the fire, to whatever cold fire dances at his fingertips. 

“You’re happy, right? Don’t look at me like that. You should reward me.”

You don’t respond, looking away and hoping to get at least a word in about how troublesome he is every single time you visit. Yuta has other plans, however. Leaning his head to look you in the eye, he maintains a distance which looks perfectly decent but feels less than so.

“How about a kiss? I deserve one, don’t I?” He moves his head closer to yours, making you shy away.

You grab him by the belt and pretend to not catch a glimpse of the pleased look on his face as you drag him into a secluded part by the forest.

It’s quieter here, so much that you can almost hear your own heart drumming in your chest, and the faint light of the distant festival grounds doesn’t help much at all. It’s dark as dusk, and you can only make out Yuta’s jawline and a faint smirk over his lips. You think that if a fox ever wanted to eat your liver, this would be the perfect spot.

“You did something,” you finally utter the words. “You did something to me.”

“Why do you think I did something? Do you mean love?” he responds with a cheeky smile. “This means you’ve been thinking about me? How cute—”

“Yuta, stop it,” you warn. 

“Or what? You should stop me yourself.”

You grab the lapels of his jacket, the cloth bunching as your knuckles turn white. The anger you feel isn’t the first of its kind—it’s just a little funny how it’s always Yuta every time, making you remember the burning feeling time and time again. You find yourself unable to respond. 

“Oh, don’t hold back,” he provokes, leaning in.

You push at his chest in exasperation, but he grabs your wrists before you can retract your hands.

“Scared?” he whispers.

You pull apart anyway, a scowl over your lips. “You’re as annoying as ever. Don’t you have anyone else to bother?”

“Ooh! Sharp claws. You’d be lovely as my fox-bride.” he teases. 

Your face flares with heat. “I’m not your… I’m not a fox.”

“I didn’t say a fox, I said—”

“I know what you said,” you snap, massaging your wrist so you don’t have to look at him.

Yuta falls quiet for a moment, voice lower when he speaks again.

“Is it so nasty to be called a fox? There are worse things, you know.”

You scoff, growing increasingly annoyed. “Of course you’d say that. I hate it. I hate this town. I hate foxes and I hate you.”

Yuta places a hand over his chest, gasping with no emotion. Your eyes linger over his long, painted nails a little longer before you meet his eyes. A part of you regrets saying the words but you couldn’t help it. The shroud choking your hometown makes you want to scream at the top of your lungs every time you’re here. You hate this place.

But you don’t hate him, after all. 

You try to clear yourself of the thought. A gentle gust of wind brings you back to the present, Yuta still glancing at you with no giveaway to what he’s feeling.

“You wouldn’t make a terrible fox though,” he says, eyes sharp. “Don’t they know you’re a vixen already? How many livers will you eat?”

You suck in a breath, tears stinging at your eyes. However, it’s not like you to get so easily affected by him. No. No, somehow that doesn’t make sense either. Those words do hurt from Yuta and you’re not sure if it’s just because he's the only one you didn’t expect them from.

“You…”

“What? Aren’t you going to lash at me again? You’re so predictable.”

His voice is calm despite your obvious annoyance and you feel flames lick at your heart. Your hand moves before you can think, about to meet his cheek when he grabs your wrist. You struggle, trying to pull free but to no avail and you use the other hand to hit him in the chest. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t bother him and that same feline smile curves up his lips.

You feel something you haven’t before, a warm growl at the pit of your stomach.

You push with all your strength, catching Yuta off guard and he stumbles backward but not before pulling you into him. Consequently, either of you lose footing and land on the grass with a sudden thud, Yuta’s side pressed against yours. His hands still clutch your wrist, and he shifts to hover over you.

“We used to wrestle like this as a litter,” he says, erupting into full laughter. “Ah, memories. I don’t even know if they’re alive or dead now.”

Yuta is much stronger than he looks, and he’s taken your tantrum as a source of amusement much to your infuriation. He has your hands pinned back, eyes unaffected as he scans over your face. You try to shift but there’s just too much weight on you. You breathe slowly, chest rising and falling in time with his. His earrings sway gently in the wind, dangling a few inches above you—he’s pretty, so pretty. Admitting defeat has never been your forte but now that your senses are gathering again, you feel a flush of embarrassment for losing your temper. 

Or perhaps, it is something else when you register the lack of distance between your noses.

“Playtime’s over,” Yuta coos. “You’re kinda cute when you’re losing.”

He tilts his head, an adoring smile over his lips. For a moment, they’re all you see.

Can a fox comfort you? Can a fox make you feel loved on the darkest of nights? Your mind races with questions your heart does not want to answer. 

Yuta leans in to close the distance and despite every nerve in your body, you turn your head away. You can hear him gulp, the following moments painfully quiet before he gets up. Your breath is soft and shallow, lying on the ground till you get enough courage to sit up. 

You almost gasp. His tails are clearer under the dim moonlight, all nine of them golden and luxurious. The light hitting his face isn’t any less flattering and once again you are reminded of how handsome he is, fairytale or not. 

Yuta looks uncomfortable, and that’s a first for you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, though you don’t know why.

He waves his hand dismissively, annoyed.

“Yuta,” you take a step forward.

“I see the way you look at me,” he says quietly, “Is it not want?”

You fall silent, biting your lip so you don’t retort violently. He doesn’t look particularly malicious when he says that but you do not want to give him the satisfaction of an answer yet.

He quietens for a moment before a look of curiosity flashes across his features.

“What is it then?” he asks. “Is it a secret? Foxes love secrets. Tell me.”

Despite every bone in your body burning up, you find it in yourself to laugh.

“I don’t think I could keep a secret from you if I tried,” you finally say, before bursting into soft laughter again.

Yuta looks at you puzzled, lips parted while he stands frozen as if he were a painting. A daunting, reckless, heavenly painting.

“It’s not want,” you answer quietly. “It’s more than that. Even if I hated it. I like you.”

Yuta’s ears perk up at your confession. “So- so you admit, then? You are interested?”

“I could blame you for this, you know?” You shrug, hugging yourself once the night starts to feel cold again. Yuta begins to take off his jacket when you stop him, gently pressing your palm against his chest. 

“You’re a fox, after all,” you whisper. “Like me. What they think of me.”

Yuta purses his lips. “Does it really hurt you? No, wait. Did they- did they—”

“Now, you tell me,” you cut him off. “Why do you insist on getting married—to me?”

There’s a pause. The crickets chirp a merry tune despite the leisurely darkness of the night.

“You’re not terrible,” he says, nonchalantly.

You glare at him and he raises his hands in defeat. He looks wearier the more you look at him.

“I want to grow old,” he mumbles after a long pause. “Properly.”

You hold your breath.

“And you want to do it with me?”

Another flower blooms in your chest, as if he hasn’t planted a garden in there already. The lights from the festival flicker down, the lanterns burning brighter in the distance. He glances at them for a moment, your eyes still fixated on him. 

The tails glow even brighter in the dark, as if gold in broad daylight. You’ve always been curious about him and his kind, all the stories; but he says he’s too old to remember if you ask.

You reach out to touch one of the tails, wondering if the fur is as warm as it looks. They’re pale and captivating, but they look so soft—they shouldn’t belong to an animal so vicious. Is he, though? Is he all that you think he is or have all these years failed you? If anything, he’s quite probably not as much a fox as you are, you think bitterly.

The fur is warm, but the realization is short-lived.

A short growl leaves the corner of his mouth. Yuta glares at you like he was stolen from and yet, you do not move your hand. Some part of you wants to aggravate him further.

“I’m not a pet,” he snaps. “Stop that.”

“You should stop me yourself,” you mimic his voice.

Yuta’s shoulders relax, and he looks down but you can still see the trembling smile on his face. It’s the way he looks at you, you think to yourself, maybe that's the reason after all.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, feeling warmer than the autumn night should allow.

“Like what?” he asks, still smiling.

You look away. 

“You’re not too fox-like, you know?” you mumble. “You’re just annoying. And flirty. And annoying.”

Yuta chuckles, before pressing his palm to the top of your head. 

“And you’re lovely.”

You give in to the gesture of affection, leaning your head to press against his shoulder.

“Why do you even do all this? What do you get out of it?” you say, voice muffled. He hears you clearly, however.

“Because I love you,” he responds, as if coming to terms with it himself. “More than you think.”

There is no joke, no flirtation to his tone, no decoration upon his words. It’s plain, and laid bare. And sometimes, simplicity is scariest. 

You pull back, lips pulled into a frown. The air is cold once more; the longing for warmth flowing into you. The silence is worse.

“You don't believe foxes can fall in love,” he states softly upon a wavering smile. “I knew that. Of course.”

A part of him believes it too.

“I…” you begin, and for the first time, you are afraid of promises in the name of love. You are the one making them now.

“I’ll believe you,” you whisper, “I’ll believe you so please… please take care of me.”

You place your palm against his cheek, his skin bewitchingly warm. 

“Only if you take care of me,” he whispers back, leaning in.

This time, you do not move.

The lovers’ kiss you’d been searching for—lovers’ warmth, lovers’ comfort—all of it comes crashing down once Yuta tightens his arm around your waist, the other hand resting gently at the base of your neck. He kisses with the right amount of pressure, the vague taste of sweet berries in his mouth.

You used to fear his touch, like he would eat you whole; even if they have been gentle, always. This time, you might as well let him. He presses his lips from your cheek to jaw to neck, lingering at each spot enough to make you clutch at his shirt tighter, taking in short gasps of breath. You kiss for a little longer, like time means nothing.

“We should go back,” you whisper, pulling apart.

Yuta kisses you again, the distance unacceptable. 

“Yuta—”

He kisses you once more, your calls falling on deaf ears.

Finally, after another long kiss, he pulls apart enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

“It must have been hard for you,” he mumbles.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” you scoff.

“Foxes are faithful lovers, you know?” he insists.

You laugh. “What do you mean?”

“It means I’ll follow you everywhere.”

He stands up straight, his thumb stroking your cheek as he bites back a smile.

“I don’t think we should get back tonight,” he suggests all of a sudden. “We could book a hotel. That’s the place you use these days, right? I’m sure your grandmother will understand your absence—”

You groan, resting your forehead against his shoulder and he presents a delighted laugh in return. It is warm by his side; he is warm. You find it easy to forget the failures in love, the loneliness of a lover that isn’t meant to be yours. Folktales are just long tales, after all. You smile to yourself. 

You should’ve known—it was the fox all along. 

#yuta x reader #nct x reader #cznnet #nct 127 x reader #nct imagines #yuta imagines #yuta fluff #nct yuta #nakamoto yuta #nct au #nct 127 au #yuta scenarios #nct scenarios #nct 127 scenarios #nct fluff #nct 127 fluff #nct yuta x reader #moonwrites #i literally dont even know anymore </3 #the dialogue is so cheesy if you want to find me and complain ill be lying face down on the floor in my room #posting this before im too embarrassed to <3333

[yangsbandana]

hey! maybe consider unfollowing me!

this is kind of a joke, but i do want to address the fact that i gained fair amount of followers after posting that bumbleby hadestown art COMMISSION the other day, and i just wanted to make very clear that it was a COMMISSION that I DID NOT DRAW and that the very talented @frankielucky​ might be the person you meant to follow instead.

of course, i’d love to have you stick around if you would like to, but i don’t want you to be disappointed the next time i post a shitty photo i took of a pencil-paper drawing i drew where everything is smudged and the head isn’t the right size, and the eyes are uneven, and the hands are weird-looking and small.

and, idk, if you’re seeing this and you’ve been following me for a while, who knows! maybe you should also consider unfollowing me, too! do my posts and tags spark joy? if not, marie kondo me off of your dash i guess! now is the time!

#i hope my little posts on my little blog do spark joy tho 🥺 #yes i do recognize the futility of this the people who think i drew that art did not read the description beneath it #which means that they will probably not read this either #still figure it's worth a shot to clarify tho #anyway just a psa #don't reblog #i mean #i guess you can lmao live your life #might be a weird look for you but idk your life

[shenzuns]

@chiheru​​​  sought:   “  Why  are  you  here  ?  Truly  ?  ”  awwiee  sum  daughter  and  papa  moments  .  🥺

𝙳𝙴𝙵𝚃  𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳𝚂  𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚝  𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛  𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋  𝚊𝚗𝚍  𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑  thru  worn  scrolls,  scattered  papers  and  smudged  ink  lay  in  a  messy  array  before  him  just  as  he  liked,  with  sunlit  greens  shifting  to  regard  his  young  one  with  a  curious  look.  it  wasn’t  the  first  time  she’d  asked  such  a  question,  she  had  a  familiar  kind  of  inquisitiveness  that  wasn’t  lost  on  him,  a  trait  he  very  much  hoped  he’d  be  able  to  foster  and  nurture  as  he  did  himself  during  his  childhood  years  —  albeit  much  lonelier  than  hers,  but  that  too  was  something  he  sought  to  remedy  (  what  good  was  it  for  a  child  to  spend  their  years  lonely  ?  isolated  from  everything  ?  ),  he  knew  all  too  well  the  kind  of  damage  that  bone  -  deep  abandonment  caused,  both  in  him  &  the  people  he’d  now  come  to  care  deeply  for.  it  was  something  he  hoped  she’d  never  have  to  experience  here,  on  the  peak,  with  him  as  her  guardian  and  the  warm  care  each  disciple  sought  to  offer  (  a  point  of  pride  for  him  /  if  nothing  else,  his  disciples  ...  they  were  wonderful,  flourished  regardless  of  his  absences  and  ...  they  were  his  family  ).

𝙷𝙴  𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝚁𝚂  𝚑𝚎𝚛  𝚏𝚘𝚛  𝚊  𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎,  stilling  the  brush  in  his  hand  to  set  aside  with  a  dull  clack  and  hums.  he  wants  to  ask  her  what  the  problem  is,  if  there’s  a  problem  (  he  did  NOT  tolerate  bullying  ),  and  falls  short  of  speaking  it  /  he  knows  that  isn’t  what  she  wants,  knows  that  if  he  were  in  her  position  at  that  age,  he’d  feel  affronted  by  his  teacher  —  guardian  in  this  case  brushing  off  such  an  important  question,  or,  well,  he  assumes  its  an  important  question.  its  one  that  has  him  stopping  in  his  tracks  that’s  for  sure  !

❝   because  ...   ❞    

𝙷𝙴  𝚁𝚄𝚂𝙷𝙴𝚂  𝚝𝚘  𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝  𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢  and  finds  out  too  quickly  that  he  ...  actually  doesn’t  know.  sarcasm  broils  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  a  snarky,  that’s  what  sudden  food  poisoning  and  shitty  novel  transmigration  gets  you,  is  what  he  wants  to  say  but  that  wouldn’t  be  suitable  to  tell  her,  true  as  it  was.  his  mouth  closes  and  he  fiddles  with  the  hems  of  his  sleeves,  doing  as  he  always  does  and  trying  to  find  better  ways  to  bullshit  each  and  every  answer  he  gives  ...  yes,  this  one  had  to  be  inspiring  like  the  same  ones  he  gave  every  wide  eyed  disciple  he’d  first  met  ‘pon  transmigrating,  seeking  to  look  every  bit  the  cool  and  level  -  headed  icy  xiu  ya  sword  that  the  world  seemed  to  know  (  he  much  preferred  though  to  be  the  —  still  cool  and  level  -  headed  !!!  —  lazy  teacher  who  bummed  around  all  day  and  dazzled  his  students  with  off  hand  reddit  advice  or  anime  quotes  he’d  remembered  from  his  old  life  ).

𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝚈𝙴𝚃,  𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎  𝚊𝚕𝚕  𝚝𝚑𝚎  random  tropical  answers  he  thinks  to  give,  none  of  them  seem  to  slip  out.  like  he  doesn’t  want  them  to  slip  out,  like  there’s  a  block  there,  like  ...  like  ...  he  can  do  better  for  her;  something  genuine,  not  so  copy  pasta’d,  and  something  that  might  actually  help  her  more  than  any  old  inspirational  live,  laugh,  love  quote  would  do  (  fuck,  he  hated  that  quote  /  live,  laugh,  love  ???  try  die,  cry,  hate  !!!!  emphasis  on  the  die  part,  fucking  system  !!!!!  ).

𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝚂𝙾  𝚑𝚎’𝚜  𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔  𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎,  at  an  impasse,  caught  between  himself  helplessly  wracking  his  overwrought  brain  for  an  answer  to  give  and  her  innocent  stare  which  silently  pleaded  for  some  unknown  truth  he’d  be  able  to  offer.  ahhh,  why  was  he  always  placed  in  situations  like  this  !!!!  such  a  blessing  and  curse  upon  his  existence,  don’t  you  know  how  stupid  he  is  ???  he  can’t  give  you  world  changing  answers  !!!!  —  there’s  a  fumble,  arm  brushing  against  his  table  to  knock  him  out  from  his  mind  enough  to  cause  that  ever  typical  gesture  of  fan  flashing  across  his  face,  and  he  rushes  to  speak,  to  school  his  expression  before  she  notices  anything’s  off.

❝   well,  this  one  could  ask  the  same  question.  why  are  you  here  ?   ❞,  he  pauses,  his  line  of  question  an  unintentional  hook,  all  he  needs  to  do  is  reel  it  in  and...  fuck,  he  doesn’t  know  fishing  terminology  !  he  was  a  deadbeat  shut  in  !

❝   we  ...  all  have  purposes  in  this  world,  but  that  doesn’t  mean  we  have  to  be  defined  by  a  purpose.  does  that  make  sense  ?  sort  of  like,  hm  ...  once  upon  a  time,  this  one  had  no  purpose,  but  now  i  ...   ❞

𝙸𝚃  𝙷𝙸𝚃𝚂  𝚑𝚒𝚖  𝚒𝚗  𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝  𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝  𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎  𝚘𝚏  𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜,  fan  squeezed  a  tad  too  tight  in  his  grip  (  ah,  if  he  broke  this  one  he’d  just  ask  his  shixiong  for  a  new  one  )  as  he  realizes.  because,  because,  because  ...  because  he  cared.  was  that  what  it  was  ?  deep  down  he’d  always  had  a  fondness  for  the  novel,  its  world  and  characters,  far  beyond  the  average  reader.  he  probably  paid  for  airplane  bro’s  rent  alone  with  how  much  he  dished  out  for  merch,  but  ...  was  it  care  ?  he  was  selfish,  he  understood  this,  a  flaw  of  his  he  wasn’t  immune  to.  everyone  was  a  little  selfish,  so  it  only  made  sense  he  too  was  built  from  the  same  cloth,  but  ...  his  reason  for  being  here  ...  (  he  cared  more  than  he  could  ever  hope  to  verbalize,  cried  much  too  often  in  the  sanctity  of  his  own  room,  body  and  mind  over  those  who’d  wormed  such  a  deep  enclosure  into  the  soft  warmth  of  his  heart  and  yet  ---  )

𝚆𝙰𝚂𝙽’𝚃  𝙷𝙴  𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚝𝚘𝚘  𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕  ?  to  think  that  simply  caring  was  enough  for  him  to  be  there.  to  think  it  changed  anything,  though  he  knew  that  people  had  changed  since  the  disappearance  of  shen  jiu  but  ...  what  did  he  offer  really  ?  truly  ?  an  occasional  smile,  a  funny  joke  that  came  from  a  cold  person,  the  hope  of  ...  change  /  that  no  one  deserved  to  be  alone,  feel  that  cold  looming  isolation  he’d  once  felt  (  the  same  they’d  all  felt  in  the  original,  one  he’d  lamented,  understood  ),  that  no  child  nor  adult  alike  should  have  to  tolerate  anything  less  than  human  decency.  that’s  all  it  was,  right  ?  human  decency  ...  he  really  didn’t  do  anything  here  at  all.  he  just  wanted  ...  wanted  to  see  those  he  loved,  and  those  who  didn’t  deserve  the  cruelness  this  world  brought,  smile.  life  was  too  short  to  be  left  in  agony,  why  would  he  offer  the  same  blows  he’d  been  dealt  himself  ?  it  was  monstrous.  he  was  just  being  human.  that’s  it  ...

❝   ...  i  think  my  purpose  here,  now,  is  to  care  for   —   offer  support  to  those  who  haven’t  been  cared  for.  this  world  is  too  harsh  for  one  to  be  left  without  someone  to  hold  onto.  you’ll  find  your  purpose  in  time  too,  little  chi,  we  all  do.  but  this  one  is  happy  to  help  guide  you  until  you  do.   ❞

#chiheru #tbt. #THIS IS SO...... BITTERSWEET #IT'S LIKE VERY CUTE #UNTIL U LOOK AT HIS MENTAL THOUGHT PROCESSES #AND REALIZE LIKE #he doesn't actually.... know. acknowledge. his influence on everyone else's life #he just doesn't get it. his deep running empathy and care and love #changed so much! for so many ppl #but for him it's just.... why wouldnt you be kind? #why would you choose to feed into the bullshit system we have and keep biting at hands that were once soft? #LIKE!!!!!! #it's also the way he sees it as an egotistical and selfish act too #as if his love isn't entirely unconditional. like he can't allow himself to think that him caring and being kind #is a good thing #bc his mental image of himself is soooooo Not Healthy #im sad <3 thank u for this #these 2 give me such a good outlet to explore s.qq bc like #chi reminds him of himself and his family back at home a lot which is smth he stopped thinking abt a long time ago

[asphalt-cocktail]

Finding my way back

Summary: Nearly a decade after you and John break up you manage to find your way back to him.

A/N: Hello my dears! So I wrote this for Beatle and Queen secret santa exchange! Apologies it’s not heavily Christmas/holiday themed; it does take place during winter so I hope that counts for something. I hope you enjoy your fic as much as i enjoyed writing it @sweetrosetta-martin​! I wrote this after I heard the song Green Papaya by Lianne La Havas which makes me feel some type of way. Also shout out to @casafrass​ and @moodysunflowergirl​ for putting this together! Thank you for all your hard work and organization for this! 

Pairing: John Lennon x Female!Reader

Warnings: Okay friends, we’ve got a bit of everything in here! It’s got some mild illusions to smut and steamy smooches, some angst, some fluff, pinning, longing, break ups, cigarettes, alcohol (I think), swearing, we’ve got Teddy boy!John and 70s!John. But no actual smut. 

Word Count: 5.4k

Your heart ached in your chest as you sat in front of John, “What do you mean we can’t see each other anymore?” Your voice cracked with emotion.

John watched your watery eyes from behind his glasses and let out a deep sigh, “I’m going to be touring a lot and Brian wants us to move to London, so I just…” His own voice cracked with emotion, “So I just don’t think we should keep seeing each other.” He looked away unable to maintain eye contact with you.

“But we survived Germany!” You protested back, “It will be okay, I can visit you when you have shows nearby,” You wanted this to work, being with John felt like home. You sniffed, “You know like wait backstage with flowers and everything.” You said and began to rub your stinging eyes.

You were right, the two of you had survived Germany, but it was only because it lasted a few short months and your relationship was open out of respect for the two of you; John didn’t know how long this Beatles thing was going to last and from the looks of it, it was going to last quite a while. John rubbed the tears from behind his glasses, smudging his finger along the lenses and clouding the vision of your perfect face. He squeezed your hand tightly in his own, “It’ll be fine I promise,” He said pausing to kiss your knuckles, “I love you [Y/N] I really do, and if it’s meant to be we will be together again.” He gave you one last chaste kiss; your faces were wet from tear and it was sad and short lived. You embraced him tightly inhaling the scent of cigarettes, mint gun, and a smell that was so distinctly John before finally letting him go to part ways.

The two of you exchanged letters for the first few months of his first tour, but at this point it has been so long that you didn’t remember who stopped writing who and honestly, why did it matter? John was constantly an aching thought in the back of your mind, and you had constant reminders of him from posters to news articles, to full size cardboard cut outs that sat in record stores. It seemed everywhere you turned you saw him which only increased the yearning.

It took several months but you finally found yourself back in a routine that didn’t include John, it was almost like when he went to Germany except this time he wasn’t coming back for good. You finished up school, found a job working in marketing, and had several shitty boyfriends before you found yourself in New York city working in the marketing division of a fashion brand and met Noah. He was nice, but he wasn’t John.

He didn’t smoke cigarettes, or wear glasses, and couldn’t understand art. But he was here, and the sex was pretty okay.

Noah was nice and he made you a pot of coffee every morning he slept over and didn’t try to pry too far into your personal life. All around you didn’t have any qualms with him; it just didn’t feel complete.

The scent of freshly roasted coffee drifted through your home as you woke up with your alarm clock blaring in your ears. You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and rolled out of bed. Noah was busying himself in the kitchen, you should just ask him to move in at this point. “Did you get the paper?” You asked sitting down at the table.

“On the counter, love.” He answered before grabbing it and sliding it across the table towards you. Much to your surprise in big bold letters on the front page “PAUL SPLITS THE BEATLES” were plastered across it. Naturally a picture of the doe-eyed man you once called a friend accompanied it as well as a smaller picture of the group.

“Fucking Christ.” You mumbled to yourself and turned the page, hoping to find something else to read, some couple getting married or some advice column, but no, your eyes continued to draw themselves back to the fab four and specifically John. He looked wildly different now; long hair, glasses, eccentric wardrobe all made him look almost unfamiliar

You finally gave in and read the article; from what you observed in the news and on television tensions were high between the four and it seemed as though fame had gotten the best of them, “Crazy, right?” Noah asked handing you a cup of coffee, “Who would have thought? It looked like they were going to be together forever. But get your riches and split I guess, yeah?”

A sour feeling filled your belly, John and Paul cared more about the Beatles than Noah could ever know. The idea of get rich and dip was ridiculous, wasn’t it? “I don’t think that is the case.” You mumbled before abruptly getting up to get ready for work, forgetting your morning coffee.

It had been almost a decade since you had last seen John, and a lot could have changed. He was no longer the tough teddy boy you had grown to love. His hair had grown out and he was with Yoko Ono now, from the looks of if they were essentially attached at the hip. A part of you hoped you and Noah would never achieve that level of need in your relationship.

Unfortunately, as months passed there seemed to be no other way to progress your and Noah’s relationship and one day he slept over and never left. You no longer had your own space to escape to or much alone time aside from when Noah came home an hour after you from work. You felt throttled and frankly didn’t like it, nor did you like Noah much anymore. It seemed like the right step though, after three years of dating; you could tell Noah craved monogamy.  

Your day at work was long and exhausting. All you could think of was your hour of peace and quiet before Noah came home and talked about his boring life at work. If you had to use a color to describe your life it would be grey, dull, boring, no vibrancy or excitement.

New York was full of bright vibrant colors and never slept; it was much livelier that than the cloudy northern United Kingdom city you once called home, but in the small apartment that you lived in there was constant monotony. Waking up, making coffee, going to work, coming home, reading and making dinner, going to sleep; only to repeat that for five days in a row and then sit around the house during the weekend, or leave to get groceries if you were lucky. If you were unlucky, Noah’s accountant friends would come over and talk your ear off about their corporate work life you just couldn’t wrap your head around.

Your mind was swimming with thoughts, mostly about your stagnant life as you navigated your way off the subway once you reached your stop and walked off. It was loud and cramped as everyone flooded off; you kept your head low and pushed your way through the crowd. A firm, but boney shoulder pushed into you causing your thoughts to flee and your brows furrowed as you looked up, “Watch it, asshole.” You mumbled under your breath and looked up before you froze.

Your eyes locked with a pair of eyes that were all too familiar and all the breath in your body seemed to leave, “[Y/N]?” John asked you, seemingly just as shocked as you were.

Despite being in the subway station the world around you stopped. A few sputtering words came out to form an incoherent sentence as you were consumed with shock. Your body became ridged and you sharply exhaled before turning and continuing your short jaunt home.

That night you laid on your side and your mind was consumed with so many thoughts, mostly John if you were being honest. You’d thought you had long since blocked the ghost from your memory, but it appeared that seeing him caused a number of memories to rouse from the depths of your consciousness. You hated it. John Lennon was once again living in your head rent free.

Noah gripped your side and kissed along your shoulders and neck while his hand rubbed your hips and slowly began to wander upwards towards your breasts. The sudden touch caused you to jump, “Not tonight,” You mumbled trying to sound tired.

Noah let out a soft sigh before giving your shoulder one last kiss, “Sorry, you had a long day, love.” He said pulling you close against him and resting his head on your shoulder. As you pretended to sleep you laid in your bed and stared at the wall of darkness in your room.

When the hell did John come to New York?

Did he live nearby?

Was Yoko with him?

Questions swirled around in your mind; questions that would not get answered unless you actively sought out an answer.

As sleep consumed you, you dreamt of John.

The Reeperbahn had a smell you would never forget. You didn’t know cities could have distinct smells until you traveled to Germany to visit John for the first time since he had left Liverpool. It was a combination of pollution, beer, and a smell you had hoped to never figure out what caused it. From his letters this place seemed larger than life, and when you took your first steps off the train you saw it was.

John tackled you with a warm hug, he smelled like sweat, beer, and cigarettes, “You stink.” You grinned and laughed as he kissed your face all over.

“Our options are kind of limited, love.” He grinned and wrapped his arm around your waist keeping you close to him as the two of you walked down the busy street.

He took you to a restaurant, you honestly hadn’t expected him to take you on a date especially with where you were and how little money he had. “Come on, I’ve got a show in two hours,” He grinned, excited to have you watch him play.

“And then we met this group of Germans, they’ll be at the show tonight. I know you’ll love them.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled at you, “Stu is going with one of them, Astrid. She’s great too, her ma lets us shower at her place and makes us dinner sometimes.” You soaked in all the stories John had to share.

His life seemed so exciting here in Germany, but you could see how exhausted he was beginning to get, “You’ve got to hear how we sound now, Pete’s still shit, but Paul, George and I are really getting better.” He shifted in his seat and poked at his food, “I don’t know if Stu is going to stick with us much longer though; he’s been talking about going back to art school.”

That night you and John slept cramped together in his little bunk bed in the back room. You woke up to him rubbing your arm with the tips of his calloused fingers and he kissed your shoulder.

Rolling over you captured his lips in a soft kiss, he tasted of beer and cigarettes and he clung to you, holding you so close it almost hurt. Breaking the kiss, he began to pepper soft kisses along your jaw and neck, “I love you so much,” He said between heavy breaths.

“I love you too John.” You responded letting out a soft whimper as his fingers began to rub you through the cloth short wore to sleep.

With a gasp you shot up in bed, coated in a layer of sweat and looked around the still dark room, wide eyed. Noah rubbed his sleepy eyes as he woke up, “What’s wrong, hun?” He asked.

You gained control of your breathing once more and laid back down, still uncomfortably sweaty; “Nothing, just a nightmare.” You answered and swallowed thickly.

---

For weeks, John plagued your mind and you were starting to convince yourself that you hadn’t truly seen him and that you were just going crazy. Your sleep was becoming more and more restless as time went on. It got so noticeable that even Noah questioned it.

“Take some time off, hun, you work too much.” He said.

So that was what you did. You finally had a week off after what felt like ages.

It was nice, but you were barely half a day into your vacation, and you began to feel restless. What could you possibly do to fill your time?

Your mind began to wander and drift off to thoughts of John; a wave of nausea immediately washed over you. “I need to leave.” You abruptly said and grabbed your purse and house keys before leaving your flat.

You soon found yourself at Central Park. Despite it being autumn, the weather was nice, the kind of nice where you look outside, and it seems warmer than it is. The breeze was soft but brisk you walked through the park enjoying the breath of fresh air. As you walked through the running paths you admired the changing leaves and the crunching sound they made under your feet.

You eyed a bench that overlooked The Lake, so cleverly named, and brushed the fallen leaves that covered it before you sat down. For once you felt like your mind was free from worry and the anxieties that had been consuming you the last several weeks.

That was until you got up and saw a familiar figure walking down the path that would directly cause yours. A shot of adrenaline shot through you and your heart began to race. It was as though your fight or flight responses had kicked in and they were telling you to get the fuck out of there. You frantically looked around and it felt like a lose-lose situation with whatever option you chose. So, you stayed; how bad was it going to be? Maybe he wouldn’t even notice?

John walked past your little out cove and glanced at you and then looked again, “Fucking hell.” He mumbled stopping in his tracks.

The two of you stood frozen, staring at each other for what seemed like a lifetime before John finally broke the silence, “I thought I saw you at the subway station.” He said bluntly, his familiar voice causing a warm feeling to erupt in your belly and spread to the tips of your fingers.

You opened your mouth and closed it, trying to think of something to say, “You did.” Was what you finally spoke.

“Right,” He sighed, looking down in defeat.

You stuffed your hands in your pockets and shifted the weight on your feet, “Do you want to sit?” You asked abruptly.

John looked at you through his round lenses and nodded, “Sure, I could sit for a while.” He answered.

The two of you sat across from each other on your respective benches, “So, how long have you lived here for?” John asked watching you nervously pick at your fingers.

You looked up from your hands, “About 6 years now.” You leaned back, now feeling confident enough to study his features. His face was thinner, age lines had begun to map themselves out on his face, and his hair was messily layered and framed the sides of his face nicely. He was still as handsome as ever, “How long have you lived here for?”

John cleared his throat and pulled out his cigarettes, placing one in his mouth, “About two years now,” the conversation was weird, like the two of you didn’t know what to talk about. You watched as John’s long fingers light his cigarette, the spicy smell filling the space between the two of you and the smoke delicately curling up towards the sky, “So do you work near by or something?” He asked casually crossing his legs and resting his arm on the back of the bench.

You shook your head, “No, I don’t I just needed to get out of the house.” You said, staring at the reason you felt urged to leave your home in the first place, “I only live about six blocks away. It’s a nice walk.” You added, your stomach suddenly feeling sour as you remembered Noah.

John hummed, inhaling deeply on the cigarette the ember burning a bright red before dimming ever so slightly, “Do you work at all?” His tone came off ruder than expected, but you knew he didn’t intend for it to.

“Marketing.” You answered simply. Your brain swam with question you had for your former lover, “Do you live nearby?” You asked returning the question back to him.

John nodded behind him, “The Dakotas.” He mimicked your shortness. You looked and could see the large building peaking out from the tops of the trees.

You hummed, “Must be nice.” You said flashing him a closed mouth smile.

“It is.” He added and stood up, taking one last deep inhale before stubbing out his half-smoked cigarette in the snow and putting it in his pocket, “You look good, you know.” He said, his eyes studying your seated form before settling on your face.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious and very aware of your existence you crossed pulled your winter coat tighter around you, “So do you John.” You responded, “You’ll have to show me your place sometime.” You boldly suggested.

John flashed you a crooked smile before fishing around in his pocket, “Call me and I’ll see if I can fit you into my schedule.” He said before handing you a business card. Of course, he had business cards.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as you took the thick and expensive paper and pocketed it, “I’ll have my people call your people.” You allowed a smile to break your nervous features.

That night your mind saw no peace. You sat in the bathroom staring at the business card in your hand. It was nearly 3 am and the delicate gold letters reflected in the shitty florescent lights that made your eyes ache as you repeatedly read the phone number and name.

The rest of your vacation it seemed as though you were not going to get the mental break you so desperately craved. You watched as Noah left for work and felt a pang of guilt rising in your chest; a pice of you felt greedy for wanting to see John again. So, you figured it would be best to tuck it away in the back of your mind to the place where your other thoughts of John lived and put the card away in a shoe box and tried to forget.

---

Forgetting about your interaction with John seemed to work well, that is until you and Noah broke up.

He stood in the doorway with the boxes of his things. You could tell he didn’t feel great, and neither did you. But a piece of you felt thankful that he was finally moving out. After seeing John your body craved the spontaneity that he used to give you, and the spontaneity that Noah had lacked.

Once the last of his things were moved from your apartment you felt as though a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You felt good, like a breath of fresh air. You busied yourself by rearranging your home and filling the empty spaces that Noah left after he and his belongings vacated your space.

As you moved your shoe boxes and rearranged your closet a business card slipped from the tear in one of them. It was the one that John had given you only a few months ago.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you stared at the intricate gold letters you familiarized yourself with that night that seemed so long ago. You looked at the clock, it was only 4 PM and you had hoped he wasn’t busy.

You curled up on your couch and held the phone receiver against your ear listening to it ring as you absentmindedly played with the stiff card in your hand.

“Hello?” You instantly recognized John’s voice.

“John?” You responded back, “It’s, um, it’s [Y/N]” You felt a surge of nerves pulse through you.

“You know, I expected you to call sooner.” John skipped the formal greetings.

You couldn’t help but let out a nervous laugh, “Yeah, sorry about that. I suppose nerves got the best of me.” It wasn’t a whole truth, but a half truth, “Do you think you’d be interested in showing me your place sometime?” you asked remembering back to the conversation the two of you had several months prior.

John hummed and you could hear the soft rustle of paper in the background before he cleared his throat, “Yeah, I suppose I could fit you in. Did you want to stay for dinner?”

Your heart thudded in your chest, “Dinner?” You question out loud and let out a puff of air, “Yeah, I suppose I could.”

“Right, so 6 o’clock sound good?” John asked, “I can send a car for you.”

“A car?” You asked, not accustom to the luxuries of being a Beatle, “I can walk it’ll be fine.”

John let out a sigh, “It’s freezing outside and nearly pitch black. You aren’t walking.” He said firmly.

“Fine.” You answered in defeat and gave him your address to send the car.

“Right, be ready by 5:30.” He said  

“Shit, okay.” You said before bidding him farewell and scrambling to get ready. The sleek black car arrived and drove you to the Dakotas. It was nice, far nicer than any building you had ever been in before. The driver walked you up to John’s apartment and let you in.

The room was decorated in a hodgepodge of John’s interests, from music to art to antiques; with everything tastefully on display. John walked out, dressed casually in a shirt, jeans, and no shoes and drank in your figure as you stripped off your jacket. You shifted nervously under his intense gaze, “So, you wanted a tour, yeah?” John asked.

You nodded and watched as he crossed his arms over his chest, admiring how his biceps flexed and bulged when his hands rested in position, “Yeah, a tour.” You said secretly hoping this would amount to much more than a tour.

John stretched his arms out, “Well welcome to my humble home.” He greeted in a grandiose manor.

Humble, right.

John’s home was more extravagant than you could have imagined. It was much better than the apartment he lived in with Stu or the back room they had in Hamburg and even better than when he lived with Mimi. He had several cats that roamed around his home; it made you smile and remember the time he brought a stray home and convinced Mimi to keep him. It seemed as though old habits died hard when it came to John.

The two of you made your way back to his living room and he sat down on his couch, “Come on, sit.” He said patting the spot next to him.

“Oh,” You abruptly said, not noticing you had been standing in the middle of the room studying the various things on the wall, “Right.” You quickly sat on the couch uncomfortably stiff, “So… dinner?” You asked.

John nodded his head, not having forgotten the food and pulled out a box of take out menus, “Do you want to order something, I haven’t gotten much for groceries this week.” He admitted sheepishly.

You rifled through the various menus in his collection, “So,” You started, “Where is Yoko?” You asked honestly wondering where his other half was.

“We’re separated right now.” He said sounding uncomfortable.

You glanced over at John and noted his somber expression, this was obviously a topic he didn’t want to talk about. “Sorry to pry.” You said before sliding him the menu of one of your favorite Chinese restaurants in the area.

“It’s a valid question.” He stated, now intently focused on the menu, “What about you?” He asked, peaking up to glance at you before quickly looking away.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, your love life and what not.” He followed up quickly.

You shifted uncomfortably, “Oh, well my ex just moved out today.”

John arched one of his thick brows, “Hm,” He grunted, “Nice lad?” He questioned.

You shrugged, “Yeah, I suppose. Just boring.” You answered thinking back to the stale and stagnant version of your life that was your reality only a week ago.

John watched you frown in distain before he got up to place your orders, “What did you want again?” He asked.

“The number 23 dinner special with an eggroll.” You had your order memorized.

As John placed the order on his telephone, you listened to the sound of his muffled voice and leaned back on the couch. It was interesting how despite not seeing each other for nearly a decade, you still found your way back to him. One of his cats climbed their way on your lap and purred as you scratched behind its ears.

“She likes you.” John said as he walked back into the room, “Food should be here in 45 minutes.” He said plopping back down. The black cat nuzzled its head into your head and let out a soft meow.

“What’s her name?” You asked enjoying the attention your newfound friend was giving you.

“Salt.” He said, a smile cracking his features.

“Salt?” You asked letting out a small huff of laughter.

“Her sister, Pepper is somewhere around here.” He said reaching over and petting Salt, scratching her behind the ears.

Your 45 minutes with John was spent chatting and catching up, he talked about Mimi and told you that she asked about you often and he never knew how to respond, and you talked to him about how you finished college and began your marketing job.

It was interesting how the two of you were able to smooth over the awkwardness of your conversation in just a few short hours, unlike your previous run ins. The familiar warm feeling you would get every time you’d talk to him quickly returned. When your food arrived the doorman from the front of the building brought it up and the two of you laid out your spread on the coffee table.

John walked over to a shelf of movies and pulled one out. He turned towards you, flashing you the box. It didn’t surprise you when he showed you Clockwork Orange. It was a very John movie, “Want to watch it?” He asked smiling softly.

You nodded your head, “Pop it in.” You said waving your hand towards his television.

The movie played in the background as the two of you continued to talk and eat your takeaway, “How are you doing?” You asked.

“I’m fine, how are you?” He responded a confused expression plastered on his face.

You shook your head, “No, John I really mean it; how are you?” You said giving him a sympathetic expression.

Putting his chopsticks down, John sighed, “I don’t know.” He pursed his lips deep in thought, “I mean I suppose I’ve been better.” He answered honestly, “I mean, my wife left me, my friends I’ve known for the last two decades don’t really want much to do with me.” John shrugged his should and looked away from you.

You nodded your head reaching over and grabbing his hand, rubbing it with your thumb before you patted it lightly and pulled it away. John chased your hand with his own and laced his fingers with yours. The rough underside of his palm brushed against your soft ones. The contrasting touch made you shiver, “I missed you.” He said and squeezed your hand.

John brought your hand to the side of his face and pressed your palm to his cheek, leaning into the warmth of your hand, “I missed you too.” You said as you thumb stroked his cheek bone. He turned his face and kissed your skin.

Your breath hitched in the back of your throat and the feeling of John’s lips burned into your palm. You watched him, his eyes closed and a calm expression taking over his tense body. Slowly you slid closer to him, closing what little space was between the two of you, “John,” You said breaking the soft silence that had settled between the two of you. He hummed and looked up at you urging you to continue, “You know what you told me when we broke up?”

John looked down, you could tell that the topic hurt him as much as it hurt you, “If it’s meant to be, we’ll find each other.” He said softly now looking at your fingers as he played with them.

In this moment he just looked like John, you’re John you had last seen nearly a decade ago. You pulled your fingers away from him and cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. Hesitantly you moved closer to him, feeling the warmth of John’s body radiating off him. Your heart thumped loudly in your ears as your noses touched, lightly brushing against each other.

A soft whimper manifested itself in the back of your throat and trickled out when you felt John press his lips against yours. He pulled your close against his chest and held you against him tightly craving your warmth and body. Your mouths moved with a familiar synchronicity, so familiar it caused your stomach to ache as you frantically clung to John. Your hand managed to fall from his face and tangle itself in his shirt as you tried to pull him closer.

The way your nose bumped against his glasses reminded you of when you were 18 and sneaking into Mimi’s house, giggling as he told you to quiet down while the two of you kissed. You couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

John pulled away and left open mouth kisses on your chin and jaw and finally on your kiss. He immediately went to his favorite spot placing a wet open-mouthed kiss on it. You gasped at the feeling and craned your neck urging him for more.

Which he gladly gave you, pulling more sweet sounds from your mouth. He pulled back and studied your face through hooded eyes. John’s hand came up and he stroked the side of your face with the back of his hand. His touch was light and the back of his hand soft. You let out a sigh and leaned into his touch before looking back at him.

You laid back and pulled John against your chest. He responded by wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling his head into you, “I’m sorry for what’s happened John,” You said and admired the weight of his body against yours.

John rubbed his face into your chest and didn’t look at you, “Stay the night, please.” He pleaded with you.

You rubbed his back as he clung to you, your heart ached hearing the loneliness in his voice, “Of course.” You said and kissed the top of his hair. John hummed with content feeling your fingers tracing patterns against his back.

The following morning you woke up next to John, his arm firmly wrapped around you and hair buried in the back of your neck. You turned around and wrapped your free arm him while your other remained pinned on your side. John let out a soft sigh and pulled you close against his chest and kissed the top of your head. You’d forgotten how much you missed and craved affection. You moved to leave, and John pulled you back, “Don’t leave me,” He said softly.

“I have to use the bathroom.” You said smiling and turning towards John.

He let out a playful groan, “Fine.” He said rolling over and sprawling out on his bed like a starfish.

When you returned John was still in the same position, you’d left him in. As you crawled back into the bed John’s arms slithered around you like a snake and pulled you into his chest. You inhaled deeply, missing his smell and smiled against the thin shirt he wore to bed.

In just a short amount of time the life that had once felt so grey and strange was now beginning to once again feel like home.

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